Once Upon a Wager (23 page)

His eyes seemed to spark in the candlelight as he tilted his head to one side. He did a slow perusal of her attire, as if noticing for the first time that she was wearing a nightgown and little else. “I kissed you because I could not stop myself,” he whispered. “Because I couldn't sit beside you any longer and not touch you.” He used one hand to slowly caress her cheek, and then trailed it down her neck to finger a curl of hair that had fallen over the top of one breast. His eyes never left hers. “Because I have thought about kissing you, so often and in so many ways, that the sheer volume of instances would shock you.”

Because she couldn't seem to stop herself either, she kissed him.

• • •

When Alec had opened his eyes to see her leaning over him, her unbound hair falling past her shoulder like a gold curtain in the candlelight, it had been all he could do not to pull her against him. Because he'd known then and there. He'd seen it in her eyes, tender and trusting. She believed him.

But he had not expected her kiss, and he was utterly bewitched by the feel of her lips. She tasted faintly of brandy, intoxicating and sweet, as she teased his tongue with her own. Slowly, she brought her hands up, placing them on either side of his head, so she could pull him closer, and he moaned with longing when she edged her mouth from his, tracing soft kisses along his jawline and neck in a tentative exploration, flicking her tongue at the base of his throat.

He moved his hands toward her shoulders to steady himself, only to find that while one hand touched gossamer fabric, the other fell upon bare skin, soft and warm. Her wrap had fallen partly away. A gentleman would pull it closed or avert his eyes, but God in Heaven, that was beyond him. Instead, he pulled back and took in the sight of her, the smooth expanse of her skin, her tousled hair and wet lips. Those incredible eyes watching him.

She slowly stood up and stepped away, but she made no move to leave. It would have broken his heart if she had. Instead, eyes wide, she eased the wrap from both shoulders, letting it fall to the ground, stealing his breath. In the moonlight, she was a goddess. The gown she wore was a filmy thing, a wisp of satin and lace held up by thin straps. It curved smoothly over her high breasts and her waist, caressing her long legs and skimming the tops of her bare feet.

“You are impossibly beautiful, Annabelle,” he said quietly. “And that is no debutante's nightgown.”

“It was a gift from Aunt Sophia.”

“I should have guessed.” He hardly recognized his own voice, low and tight with desire. “You can't possibly know what you're doing to me.”

“I know one thing,” she answered softly. “I want you to touch me again.”

She couldn't understand what she was asking. But Alec could no more stop himself than he could stop the sunrise. He pulled her body against his, breathless with wanting, and claimed her mouth beneath his own. She melted into him, her hands reaching around his waist, fingers and palms splayed against his back. Through the fine linen of his shirt, he could feel her breasts push against his chest, loose and unbound, and she moved her hips instinctively against his. Unthinking, he rubbed his hands down her back, running them over the curve of her buttocks and pulling her closer still.

He heard her sharp intake of breath and knew she could feel his arousal. He should loosen his hold, but he'd never felt anything so exquisite. He was almost delirious from the pleasure of it. And then he felt her hands at the small of his back, pulling at the fabric there. With a shudder, he leaned back as she reached up to unbutton his shirt. “I just want to touch you,” she said. “Please, don't pull away.”

“I couldn't move if a carriage was hurtling toward me.”

She glanced at him from beneath her lashes, smiling as if she were just beginning to understand her power over him, and then pulled his shirt from his shoulders, exposing his bare chest to her gaze. She ran her fingers over it, flicking away the wax that had settled, seemingly absorbed in every curve and indentation of muscle. When she found his scars from the war—two larger ones from Badajoz, another from Sabugal, and a network of smaller ridges—she leaned down, kissing each one.

“I worried about you when you were gone,” she murmured. Still, she didn't stop, continuing to caress him, smoothing across the swell of his chest. When she ran her thumbs over each nipple, he groaned, reaching up to clasp her hands.

“Annabelle, I am no saint.” His breathing was harsh now. “Much more of this, and I don't know if I'll be able to control my responses.”

“But I don't want you to control anything.”

God above. He felt as if all the blood in his body rushed to his groin, to the hard throbbing there, insistent and urgent. This was impossible. He had no right to her, but neither could he turn away. Just a bit more, for a little while longer. Letting go of her hands, he reached up and gently tugged on the straps of her gown, pulling them over her shoulders until her breasts, creamy white and rose-tipped, were exposed in the moonlight. Then he could no longer think at all, only act.

He dipped his head down and took one breast into his mouth, licking her gently, moaning when her nipple puckered in response. He moved his tongue along the valley between her breasts, and trailed it up to the other one, suckling at it, entranced by the shape and weight of it in his hand. She cried out softly, and just as he worried he had hurt her, she grasped his head with her hands, pulling him closer.

“Alec,” she whimpered. “I've never felt anything …”

So often he'd dreamed of seeing her like this, of feeling her like this. He continued to trail his mouth down her body, falling to his knees so he could kiss along the flat of her belly through the fabric of her gown. He was dazed with need. There was nothing between that fabric and her skin. No underclothes to mask the curve of her body. Just one pull, and all of that beautiful skin was his to touch and taste. The heat of her, so close, just beyond the reach of his lips.

Her breath was coming in short, quick pants above him. And her gown was the only barrier, the only thing stopping him from settling his head between her thighs and taking her with his tongue. Somehow, through the haze of his desire, he knew it was also the last thing saving her from utter ruin.

So he used his hands. He laid his head against her, and bracing her with one arm, he brought a hand to the apex of her thighs, caressing the folds there, using the pressure of one long finger and the soft satin of her gown to rub against the nub between them. Back and forth, in rhythm with the pounding of his heart, until his finger and the fabric were slick with moisture.

When he tucked his finger into the heart of her, tight and warm through the fabric of her gown, she writhed above him, and he imagined spreading her legs, pushing all the way into her, filling her body with the length of him. He was nearly consumed with his need.

But she was so close, and even more than he wanted his own pleasure, he wanted her to come to completion at his hands. His finger moved back to her folds, first one and then two, back and forth, varying in pressure. She was increasingly desperate, arching her hips against his hand. Looking up, he could see her breasts moving with her body, the satin of her gown framing them from below. Her eyes were closed, her face flushed with desire.

Suddenly, she cried out his name, and he could not stop himself from cupping her mound with his mouth, sucking at the wet fabric there, breathing in the heady scent of her. He was desperate to put his tongue inside of her, but it would be too much for him. He'd already gone too far, and was so close himself.

Hands shaking, he lifted her wrap from the floor, and stood up, slowly pulling it over her shoulders. She was watching him with a wonderstruck expression, eyes soft as he gathered her in his arms and held her tight. His heart was pounding so painfully that he worried it would bruise her. If he didn't put more distance between them, he would disgrace himself. So he set her apart from him and fell back upon the couch, breathing heavily, head in his hands so that he could not see the temptation before him.

“Alec, I never knew such a thing could happen.”

He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

“Please look at me,” she whispered.

“Annabelle, sweetheart. If I look at you, I'll tear those scraps of clothing off your body and deflower you right here in your aunt's library.”

She was silent for a moment, as if considering something. “I rather like the sound of that.”

He gave a short, pained laugh, even though he was in agony. “I don't suppose you could sprout a facial wart? Or take on a sudden and marked resemblance to the Prince of Wales? It would make things easier.”

“I don't believe so.”

“Perhaps we could discuss crop rotation, or algebraic equations, or even lunar cycles.”

She laughed. “Well, the sun is just coming up, so that last topic is no longer appropriate.”

He looked up, horrified to see its first rays peering through the windows. Hell and damnation. “Annabelle, you have to leave right this moment.” He risked a glance at her, his heart constricting at the sight, filling with emotion. She was the most glorious thing he'd ever seen.

“You're probably right,” she smiled mischievously. “Even Aunt Sophia might be shocked.”

“Quick. Out you go. I'm not yet in a condition to be seen by anyone, and that won't change as long as you are close by.”

She looked down at his body, to his arousal. “You will have to show me what that's all about, you know.”

“God, Annabelle. Have pity!” he said through clenched teeth.

“Very well, then. But there is one more thing I must tell you.”

“What is that?” he asked, keeping his eyes averted.

“That was the most marvelous thing. If I'd known you could do that, I might never have been angry with you.” Then she slipped from the room.

Leaving him to the dark realization that he was completely besotted.

“I'm glad to know you are mortal, after all,” Benjamin said as he watched Alec toss back another glass of port. “Something has caused you to abandon your rectitude, and I must applaud it.”

“Not something,” he said distractedly. “Someone.”

He'd slipped quietly from Sophia Middleton's home, walking back to his lodgings on St. James Street in an effort to clear his head. A futile exercise, as it turned out. After changing from last evening's attire and cleaning himself up, he had ridden over to ask Benjamin for advice. Marworth, however, was far more interested in being obnoxious.

“Someone, you say? That's even better.” Sipping his own glass of port, Benjamin was still dressed in a brocade morning robe and pajamas. It was barely noon, after all, and he wasn't known to be an early riser. They sat in the privacy of his study, a dark, wood-paneled room choked with ephemera from his extensive travels. Not for the first time, he wondered how any substantive work could be done there.

“I'm going to use my deductive powers, and assume that Annabelle Layton is the root cause of your distress. How did your conversation with her go?”

“I believe we have resolved our differences,” Alec said evasively.

“Are you blushing? I hesitate to say so, because it is an unmanly thing, but the proof of it is right there, spreading across your cheeks.”

“Benjamin, please!” he interrupted. “I have a difficult situation to resolve, and I don't have the slightest clue about how to proceed.”

“And that situation is?”

“Jane Fitzsimmons. I believe her father expects me to ask for her hand.”

“Surely, it has not become as serious as that,” Marworth said, no longer amused.

“Well, I had resolved to court her—”

“Why didn't you speak to me first? I have seen the bets, of course, in the books at White's. Odds are running three to one you'll make a match of it, but I have placed quite a large wager on the opposite outcome, because it's a preposterous notion.”

“Why preposterous?” Alec asked, momentarily taken aback.

“Well, for one, you are not attracted to her.”

“Miss Fitzsimmons is a lovely woman.”

“I'm the last person who would contradict that.”

“And she is intelligent, as well. I value her common sense. She's very knowledgeable about the workings of Parliament.”

“Then hire her as your personal secretary. Don't make her your wife.”

“That's going too far, Benjamin. We are discussing a lady.”

“I am well aware of that.”

“Then what are you trying to say?”

“You are too much alike, too serious. Were you to marry, you'd never raise your voices to each other. You'd never have passionate disputes of opinion. And your bed would be as cold and impersonal as your relationship. You need a counterpoint, a spark. I think we both know you've found that in someone else.”

“I take it you're referring to Miss Layton?”

Moments ticked by without a response.

“I suppose there's no need to answer that,” Alec said, dropping his head into his hands. “But therein lies my problem. The vote on the soldiers' bill is just days away, and that means I will be spending even more time in the company of Jane and her father.”

“Go on.”

“That will lead to even more speculation about a relationship between us.”

“And you worry if you claim a change of heart, Fitzsimmons will think you've been toying with his daughter.”

“Perhaps.”

“And he will withdraw his support of your bill.”

“I hope not, but it is a possibility I can't ignore.”

“Are Miss Fitzsimmons's feelings involved?”

Alec stared into his empty port glass. “I can't answer that. Certainly, she has been all that is pleasant during our conversations together.”

“Lord above, Alec. One is pleasant to the barest acquaintance, until given a reason not to be so. That tells me nothing.”