That Scandalous Summer (21 page)

His teeth scraped over her and she gasped. He wore too many clothes now. She felt down his torso, shoving away his jacket, tearing at his waistcoat. She pushed his suspenders off his shoulders and yanked up his shirt. And then—ah. He reared back on his knees to finish the job, and then . . .

God above.

She sat up, jaw agape, to touch him. His clothes had disguised wonders. He was raw-boned but lean, knitted together in taut ropes of muscle and sinew. His shoulders were heavy, dense and smooth beneath her palms.
His upper arms bunched with muscle. There was no give to him: his body might have been chiseled from stone. With one nail, she lightly circled his nipple—and then watched the effect as his flat abdomen contracted, the bands of muscle tightening.

A man’s body could be beautiful. She would never say otherwise. Here was the proof.

He wrapped one of those muscled arms around her and pulled her up against him. The lovely shock of flesh on flesh rendered them both immobile for a moment. Then his mouth nuzzled through her hair, finding her ear. “If you knew how I had imagined this moment, every night since we first kissed—”

“Yes,” she whispered. Slowly they reclined together. But he did not follow her all the way down. Propping himself on one elbow over her, he cupped her face in his broad palm. His expression was strangely grave.

“You are . . .”

But he trailed off, frowning, and when he opened his mouth again, she placed one finger over his lips. This was not the time for pretty speeches. “Come here,” she said, in a voice she had not used in months, sultry with need. Oh, but she felt
aquiver
with anticipation. Sex could be pleasant. It had been pleasant with Nello, at first. But the prospect of it had never made her feel
famished
before. This man’s skin—it had some recipe in it, some spell that awoke an elemental greed that his touch alone could not sate. Her hand traveled down his bare back, across his lean waist to close over his buttocks, and she pulled him hard against her. “Quickly,” she said.

His low laugh caused her stomach to tighten. “Oh, not even soon,” he said.

He slid down her body, kissing her as he went. His hand found the waist of her skirts, working cleverly over buttons, feverishly as his mouth coasted over her belly. With his forearm beneath her back he lifted her, and then she was completely bare. His head sank farther yet, and his mouth opened, hot and wet, on the back of her knee.

Ticklish! She had not known it. What man had an interest in
knees
? Giggling, she tried to roll away, but he pinned her there, untying and sliding off her knickers with one hand, then kissing his way up her bare thighs. Shivering, delicious kisses, like the brushes of butterflies’ wings, only now and then the hot, moist flick of his tongue made her gasp—

His mouth closed on the juncture between her thighs. She nearly bucked off the bed, then shuddered as his low, indecipherable murmur—the tone clearly appreciative—warmed the most sensitive spot in her body.

“Shh,” he said, “be good.” And then he tasted her.

She put her knuckles to her mouth and bit hard. His lips closed around her most sensitive part—somehow he found it instantly, a near miracle, unprecedented—and his tongue flicked, and flicked, and then
pressed
—

She twisted beneath him, sobbing, then gasped as he delivered a long, slow lick—she could not bear it; even when he steadied her hips and held her still she felt as though she must writhe, that perhaps she would twist out of her skin altogether—

“Come here,” she gasped. “Please, I want—”

She wanted to be pressed against him again. She wanted his body hard against hers, inside hers, reminding her in the most frank and physical way that he was
here with her. She caught him beneath the arms and urged him up, attempting and then ceding to him the effort to unfasten his breeches. He sprang free into her hands and he was hard, hot, magnificent; he was
hers
.

“Please,” she said, spreading her legs as she directed the head of his cock through the moisture there. “Please—”

“Yes,” he growled, and then his hips flexed, and he was pushing inside her. Ah, God, such sweetness. She moaned and lifted herself to meet him, the unbearable exquisite stretching of his possession. He was larger than her experience had prepared her to expect. His hands slid up her body, his fingers finding and threading through hers. He lifted her hand and placed it by her head and looked into her eyes as he thrust into her.

She gasped. The sound excited her, and made him lean down and ravish her mouth; she let him swallow her next moan. A thought wanted to rise, words to frame this moment—but there were too many feelings swirling through her. His body moved against and into hers slowly, steadily, and with each stroke something in her seemed to come a small bit more unraveled, an incremental loosening that first felt like pleasure, and then like need, elemental as a firestorm.

His mouth found her ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Look at me,” he whispered.

She opened her eyes. A hot shiver slid through her. He was looking down at her,
seeing her,
as his body took hers. His eyes seemed bottomless; she felt a curious sensation, something in her breaking and falling free, plummeting into his gaze. Wonder stole over her, exhilarating as desire.
I see you.
She saw him so clearly . . .

His hips twisted and she shuddered and moved
against him, lifting her hips to meet his. The last bit was coming loose . . .

“Ah!” The cry exploded from her as she climaxed. She threw her head back, but he caught her by the hair, directed her mouth to his. She took his long kiss and returned it with her lips and teeth and tongue, wanting to devour him. This,
this
was pleasure . . . it rippled through her, causing her to shiver again and again.

“Wait,” he said, “wait—” Her turn now to grip his face, to force his mouth to remain with hers, to swallow his gasp as he thrust into her fiercely. But then, with a groan, he ripped himself off her, his seed spilling as he fell by her side.

Her eyes closed. As they lay together, the aftermath of her satisfaction kept her sated and relaxed.

“Aphrodite, they call you.” He spoke into her ear. “But Rome being in fashion, I think I’ll call you Venus instead.”

She laid her hand to his bare chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart. When her eyes opened, he gave her a slow smile. She heard now the singing of birds outside, the rustle of rattling leaves.

Contentment was a hum in her bones. She felt aglow, fierce and brave, as though she had accomplished something here. She leaned in to kiss him, very softly, on the mouth.

“A very fine beginning,” he said against her lips.

Ah
. She drew back. This had not been a beginning at all, but an event. Yes, more than an incident; so much more than a mere occasion. But an event all the same: profoundly memorable, but singular.

“What is it?” he asked.

He was so attuned to her. She wondered if any man
had ever watched her face so closely. A curious thought, when her face was everywhere. Those stupid photographs.

He was waiting. She smiled at him and slid her hand up his body. His chest hair was sparse, the shape of his muscles translated so clearly by his skin. What a wonder he was to touch.

But her opportunity to do so was drawing to a close.

She took a long breath. She would not regret this. He was lovely, absolutely lovely. And had matters stood . . . differently . . .

No. Don’t think on it
. Fingers curling, she lifted her hand away. “I should dress.”

He sat up, watching as she gathered her linens. From the corner of her eye she gauged the depth of his frown, the likelihood that he was about to say something that would force her into an unpleasant speech. His mouth opened.

She bent over to retrieve her corset. Then hid a smile as she heard him exhale. Yes, it was quite a view she was offering him.

His hands closed on her bare hips, pulling her back onto the bed. Onto
him,
in fact. The intimacy, the sweetness of it, made her eyes close—and then open again in surprise.

“Goodness,” she said. Surely he could not be ready again
already
. Were men so individual in that regard?

His smile was rueful. “No, not yet,” he said. “I fear I’m too old for such feats.” He touched her hair, gently, and then traced the curve of her ear, his eyes following the motion.

The tenderness in his face arrested her—and then lit a flame of panic in her, a strong instinct of self-preservation.
She turned away from him again to hunt for her underclothes. “How old are you, then?”

“All of thirty,” he said.

She froze for a moment. He was younger than her. The news . . . did not please her, which was silly. It made no difference how old he was.

She pulled on her linens, then slipped the corset over her head. “Help me tighten the laces?”

“Such a rush.” She felt his hands at her back. “I’ll try not to take it personally.”

“Don’t,” she said. “It’s only that there’s so much to be done, and—”

“Your guests will be upon you soon. I know.” The corset began to tighten. “I look forward to meeting them. But before I do, I must—”

“About that.” She stared fixedly at the door, steeling herself to correct him. This, too, was a part of playing the merry widow, as much as the pleasure that had come before it. “I know I extended an invitation to you. But after this . . . I think it would be wiser if you did not attend the dinner.”

The laces made a whipping sound as he finished tying them off. His hands fell away, and she turned to face him.

He looked at her, a square look that somehow seemed to delve into her and . . . expose her. She fought the urge to squirm, to glance away.

And then he sat back, putting one palm behind him to brace his weight, a posture that brought the muscles in his arm into stark prominence. “I see,” he said slowly.

She swallowed.
She
saw as well, and he made a splendid sight: long legs, a flat belly, that gorgeous expanse of chest.

“You think I would make you . . . uncomfortable?” he asked.

He was making her uncomfortable right now, for she barely recognized herself. Her body was lighting up again, warming and loosening, as though she had not been sated five minutes before. His lips . . .

She forced herself to focus on the space an inch above his head. He could not come tomorrow. She feared she was not
quite
sophisticated enough to manage herself. If he sat nearby, her very body would vibrate to the sound of his voice. And eligible bachelors did not incline to women clearly in lust with their doctors.

“The company will be fast,” she said. She had no intention of honestly speaking of her marital ambitions. Not at this moment. She did not flatter herself that it would be
cruel
to do so—he had never spoken of love, or even hinted at it to her. But it would be plainly tactless, all the same. “I should not like you to feel uncomfortable.”

His brows rose. “I find it odd that our recent employment here should have given you cause to think me a moralist. If my behavior was not
fast
enough for you, by all means, let us try it again.”

She felt a flicker of panic, which with an effort she twisted into resentment. He was not going to make this easy. But she owed him nothing. “Very well. To speak honestly, I find you . . . alluring, and I should not like others to notice it. Should rumors reach London, it would be awkward for me.”

“But I thought you had no care for what people said.” He rose off the bed, and despite herself, she looked him up and down and felt breathless again.

He gave her a half smile. “Yes. If you do that in public, I suppose there will be talk.”

She went hot. Hot in the face, and hot . . . elsewhere. “But I won’t,” she said. “For I’ve withdrawn my invitation. My friends will not meet you.”

“I do not accept the withdrawal. In fact”—he took a prowling step toward her, one she matched with a quick retreat—“you may be surprised how well I fit in with your friends. I told you I was not who—”

“Madam!”

The call, distant but distinct, made them both spin toward the door.

“Quickly!” Liza cast a frantic glance around for her blouse, then grabbed it and tugged it on. For his part, Michael had spun to grab up her jacket and bonnet.

“
Madam!
Are you out here?”

Closer, much closer now. “That’s Mather,” she said breathlessly.

Michael went to the window, then ducked. “Bloody hell, she’s twenty yards away. What in God’s name—”

“I don’t know. She likes to come looking for me.” She could do nothing for her hair; the pins were scattered everywhere. She crammed it into her bonnet, tying the ribbon with record speed. “Stay here. Don’t leave yet. Give it ten minutes.” She bent to cram her feet into her shoes, and then raced for the door.

She stepped out. Mather saw her instantly. She held up a hand, showing the flat of her palm, and her secretary stopped dead. Liza nodded, then lifted a finger to her lips. If anyone else was in the area—which they should not be—she did not wish her secretary to broadcast these curious circumstances.

Shaking out her skirts, she walked forward. Mather’s curious glance roved over her, and everywhere it paused, it called to Liza’s attention the signs of her guilt:

Her jacket was not buttoned properly.

A great chunk of her hair had fallen out of the bonnet.

She wore no gloves.

Her shoes were not laced.

Joining Mather’s side, she took the girl’s arm in a tight grip and tugged her away from the cottage.

“Silly me,” she said. “I took a nap, and—well, as you see, I’m quite undone.”

“Yes,” said Mather slowly, with no attempt to conceal her skepticism.

Liza would be more to the point, then. “What on
earth
are you doing out there? Roaming the woods and shrieking my name!”

“The Browards sent a slice of cake to the Hall for you. But I knew you intended to go to their party. I was worried.”