St. Raven (22 page)

“Men are men. We’re animals. Here, now, this is you.”

“Or massage.”

“I’ve been massaged by professionals, love, and not reacted like this.”

Love
. Their eyes met, then shifted. He probably addressed all women in his bed as
love
. Men addressed women as “dear lady” without holding them dear, and vowed themselves to be “humble servants” without being either.

She shifted to what truth they had. Here, now, he desired her. The proof was in her hand—in custody of her palm and fingers. She moved, sliding up and then down, glancing to see any reaction.

His lips parted again. That was what she wanted, but oh, it was dangerous to look. He was such a handsome man, but now, aroused, lids lowered, hair tousled, he could break her heart.

Here be dragons, indeed. Dragons, serpents, and cockadrills, according to that ancient explorer, Sir John Mandeville.

Here be perils she had not considered when setting out on this journey. She had been prepared to sacrifice her virtue if she had to, but she’d never thought to lose her heart.

Not because of a man’s good looks, or his charm, nor because of his wealth and rank. Not even because of his skill and mastery over sexual matters.

But because she liked him, ached for his sorrows, and loved his free response to her touch.

His lids fluttered open, and she saw the beginnings of alertness, of concern. She smiled and moved her hand again.

What to do? She knew he would tell her if she did anything she shouldn’t.

It seemed natural to use both hands, to stroke up with one, then the other. It became a soothing, slow rhythm; then she let one hand continue up and over the top, gingerly. It looked sensitive.

As sensitive as she was between her thighs, where she wanted to rub herself against him?

She heard him gasp, felt his sudden movement.

“Clever Cressida,” he murmured. “But are you willing to deal with a little mess?”

She knew what he meant. A drop of fluid already glistened on the tip. “Yes.”

“Drape the sash over the top.”

She heated with embarrassment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable and it didn’t make her want to retreat. It was a hot, prickling excitement at this new mystery.

Heart thundering, she picked up the black silk sash. But then instead of dropping it over him, she trailed it over him, watching his reaction.

He laughed shakily. “Intrepid voyager. But the hands are what I want.”

A straight request. Loving that, she dropped the silk over him, then underneath it she stroked him as before, trying to sense every reaction. And this time she watched his face.

After a moment, his eyes shut and he almost frowned. She hesitated, but she remembered his directness. He’d tell her if she were hurting him.

His hips began moving in time with her hands. His expression became almost pained, but now she recognized the same desperation she’d felt.

Before the fall.

She found herself speeding her action, racing along with her pulse and his breathing, pushing him.

Did everyone need pushing?

Then he stiffened, and a gasping groan broke from him as she felt his seed pump free. She used one hand on the silk to catch it, to hold him as his body tensed again and again.

Then it was over.

She was breathing deeply, too, recognizing where he was and how it felt. Loving having done that for him, but greedy for more for herself. Aching for the thing they couldn’t do.

His lids rose and he smiled. “Thank you.”

“It was truly my pleasure. But…”

He sat up, taking the sash from her and dropping it to the floor. “But?”

She’d almost said what she was thinking, that her life would seem empty after tonight. She scrambled for a substitute. “But are we finished now?”

He broke into laughter. “Oh, no. As long as we can both stay awake, we will not finish. My turn to rub oil all over you. All over…”

Cressida awoke wondering what time she’d fallen asleep, and what time it was now. She couldn’t seem to care. The curtains were drawn and the room dim. Not too dim to see him, to see Tris, to see her lover, asleep on his front, head facing her.

She longed to stroke the dark hair off his forehead, to touch him while he slept. In the night it had become the most natural thing in existence to touch him. Any way and everywhere.

And to be touched.

She smiled in memory of his oiled hands all over her body, of him tracing lazy patterns on her ecstatic back. Then she’d insisted on massaging him again, on the front that time. She’d helped him to his release again. He’d kissed and stroked her into oblivion at least two more times.

She sighed at the delicious memory, but under it all lurked sadness. Sadness that the wild journey was incomplete, yet was over. That she could never return.

She was destined for Matlock, he for a grand marriage.

She had to accept that he would be as good a lover to the high-born lady he married as he had been to her. His kindness and honor would demand it. Doubtless his duchess would learn to pleasure him in turn, to rub him with exotic oils. Poor Cressida Mandeville would be the one barred from the land of delights.

She shook that off. A poor gratitude to show any sadness, and they still had work to do. They still had to retrieve the statue, or at least the jewels, from Miranda Coop.

He opened his eyes. “Good morning. Or is it afternoon? I wouldn’t be surprised.” He rolled onto his back and stretched. The covers fell down to his waist, stirring all kinds of unwise thoughts.

“You have no clock in here.”

“I dislike the ticking. And I have plenty of servants to make sure I rise at the right time.”

She couldn’t help but play her fingers on his abdomen. “Servants not much in evidence.”

“Servants I told not to disturb us until we rang.” He met her eyes“ I wasn’t expecting this, love. Just that we might both need extra sleep.”

Her hand stilled. “Will they know? About me?”

“They’ll know I spent the night in this bed with you.”

The oil. The smells. Hot, sweaty, messy…

Unease crept over her, and for the first time she felt wrong, perhaps soiled. How many women had he massaged on this bed? How many would follow her? An endless parade.

She turned her dismay into starch for her spine. She’d known what he was. He’d never hidden it. He felt no shame. It was why she could never marry him even if it were possible.

“But will anyone know it’s me—Cressida Mandeville?”

He gathered her hand and kissed it. “I don’t see how. No one except Cary knows your name. Harry and his mother are the only ones who’ve had a straight look at you undisguised. I trust their discretion, and in any case, they’ll likely never set eyes on you again.”

So honest. So direct. So brutally blunt.

“You’re safe as long as you can return home without raising questions. You’ll be returning earlier than planned.”

She took back her hand. “I’ll tell my mother there was sickness in the house and I was in the way. But how am I to return? Hardly in your coach.”

“My coach has no markings. It will do.”

He sat up, looking toward the future with no apparent ghosts from the night to trouble him, the insensitive brute.

She blocked that. She was glad. The last thing she wanted for him was a broken heart to match hers.

“What of the statuette?”

“Leave that to me. Miranda will welcome a visit from me. With any luck, I’ll have the chance to empty the statue with her none the wiser.”

A clean cut, then. Once she climbed into the coach it would be over. Unless… “How will you return the jewels to me?”

He frowned at her. “Are you worrying that I’ll do something to ruin you? I hoped for mere trust than that.”

And she’d thought he could read her mind.

“Of course I trust you. I’m just worrying over details. I’m a worrier like that.”

He cradled her head and drew them together for a kiss. “Soon you and your family will be secure. You’ll have your life back as it was before. I promise.”

Cressida wanted to hit him with a large object.

Instead, she said, “Thank you,” and climbed off the bed with a smile on her face. She grabbed her nightdress and pulled it on. “I’ll need help to dress.”

“My privilege.”

She tried to frame an objection, but when she looked at him she saw she’d have to fight him over it. She didn’t want to fight. He’d never lied to her. This had always been a journey of just one night.

“I’ll come as soon as I’m dressed.” He left the bed and pulled on his crumpled silk trousers. Lust stirred all over again as she watched him walk to the door, open it, and look out. “All clear.”

The night wasn’t over yet…

He opened the door wider.

She pushed aside folly and walked forward. Perhaps she should say something significant at this moment, but instead she scurried through the doorway and into the safety of her own room.

How cold it seemed, how empty. The bed was smooth. Though she knew it was pointless in this house, she pulled the covers back and tousled them, and pushed an indentation into the pillow.

The washstand held only the cold water from last night. At least no one had come here and found the bed empty, but it was almost as bad. No one had come because they’d known, or at least suspected, what was going on!

She pressed her hands to her cheeks and smelled the ghost of that oil. Quickly she washed, lathering off all trace of it, but then she was plagued by the flower scent. A scent, she reminded herself, doubtless carried by dozens—hundreds!—of women in this house before.

She rinsed it off her hands, but then found she had to wash all over. She must stink of the oil, the sweat.

Of him.

She turned the key in the lock and then stripped. Why did she feel naked now, when she hadn’t in the night?

Because she was racing back to propriety as in a boat on a raging river. It would eventually pour her into the pool of Dormer Close, Matlock—small, calm…

Stagnant
crept into her mind, but she blocked this, too.

Using cloth, cold water, and soap, she cleaned every inch of her skin, trying not to let her mind remember the way he’d touched her there, and there, and there…

At last it was done and she could put on her simple shift, her stockings, and her drawers. His silk robe still lay on the chest, but she couldn’t bear to put it on. She’d put on her dress so he’d only have to button it—but she needed the corset underneath.

She picked it up from the chair where she’d placed it so long ago, loosened the laces some more, then wriggled into it. She settled it around herself, sturdy and secure, but if she didn’t hold it up at the front, it fell down, looking ridiculous.

What was all this but ridiculous?

With the boned garment hanging, she sat at the dressing table to brush out her hair. Every long stroke reminded her of how he’d played with it, combed his fingers through it, raised it and let it fall, then brushed it off her oiled and sweaty skin.

She remembered him winding his hand in it to bind her, to hold her for deep, powerful kisses…

The brush fell from her fingers, and she closed her eyes.

It wasn’t fair!

A knock!

She sucked in breaths, checking in the mirror to be sure she wasn’t crying. Clutching her corset up, she went smiling to open the door.

He came in fully dressed and shut it behind him, his eyes flicking over her. “I’m sure there’s no alternative, but that clothing isn’t designed to encourage sanity, you know.”

Her mind could leap ahead of that. This bed could be well used, too, and there was no great hurry. Her mother didn’t expect her back for days…

But she wouldn’t survive it. This had to stop or she’d run mad, as Lady Caroline Lamb had for love of the poet Byron. For the first time she had some sympathy for the disturbed lady. She could imagine sending St. Raven embarrassing letters, and haunting his doorstep dressed as a page.

She turned her back on him. “Then we had best get me dressed.”

The first tug on the laces was like the first step back toward propriety. She settled the front and held it in place. “Do it up firmly.”

“I think I know how to lace up a lady.”

Was he deliberately reminding her of what he was? Oh, she wanted this over before she burst into tears.

“What time is it?” she asked in as ordinary a tone as she could manage.

“Nearly noon.”

The cups around her breasts were snug now. She could relax her hold. “We should have pursued Mistress Coop last night.”

“Nonsense. The last thing we want is to stir her curiosity. A visit in the middle of the night would be sure to do that. Even one first thing in the morning would be as bad. Cyprians, like the ton during the season, do not know what morning is.”

Cressida heard an edge in his voice. Too late, she realized that her words could imply that last night had been a waste of time.

Better so.

He continued to tighten the laces with a sharp tug between each set of holes, working his way down her back, sealing her in propriety again. She adjusted her spine, straightening her shoulders, becoming completely the lady again, tug by tug.

At the waist he gave an extra pull, and she felt him tying the knot. If she cut herself out of the corset tonight she could preserve that knot…

Oh, folly!

“Thank you.” She stepped away and drew one of the simple day dresses out of her valise. She shook it out, lifted it over her head, and tugged it down. She checked in the mirror that the pleated bodice was straight to the high neckline—and saw him behind her, watching her.

Caught an expression, of what?

Regret?

Her heart contracted painfully. She was Cressida Mandeville again, the woman who’d been invisible to him during the London season. Of course he regretted becoming entangled with her. He was probably worrying that she might try to use this association to intrude, even to try to force him into marriage.

She wished she could address that and set his mind at ease, but only time would prove it. She smiled at him in the mirror. “Just buttons this time.”