The Accidental Mistress (12 page)

Still, when he'd passed through the empty rear hallway that led to the garden, the hands on the casement clock had read five minutes to one. That had been fifteen minutes ago. Maybe he should give up and admit defeat.

For this evening, anyway.

Ten minutes later he was seriously considering drinking the Champagne—both glasses—when the nearly silent whisper of slippered feet reached his ears. And suddenly she was there—the dark blue of her gown nearly black in the pale moonlight, her coppery curls gleaming with a luminous sheen. He could tell she didn't see him, her eyes still adjusting to the heavy shadows that pooled in a small lake across the ground-floor balcony.

Then, abruptly, she stopped and gazed straight at him. "Oh, you
are
still here."

"Yes, and you are late. But I shall forgive you, since I am sure you were unavoidably detained," he stated, slowly gaining his feet. Reaching out, he picked up one of the Champagne flutes and passed it to her.

Stepping closer, she accepted the wine.

Lifting his own glass, he took a sip. She joined him, swallowing a long drink as though she needed a dose of mock courage.

"Actually I was not going to come at all, as I told you earlier. But I … I did not like to think of you waiting out here alone."

"My thanks for your kindness." He made her an elegant bow. "Though now that I hear your tardiness was deliberate, I may decide to demand a boon."

Her lips parted. "A boon? You, my lord, are outrageous."

"So some would claim."

Putting her glass to her lips, she drank another sip. "Not that I am in any way agreeing to your suggestion, but what sort of
boon
are you envisioning?"

"Well now, that would be for me to decide and you to grant." He held out a hand. "Come now and join me, so we may talk."

"Oh? Is that what you wish to do? Talk?"

He met her look with an expression of deliberate innocence. "Of course. What else have you in mind?"

Slowly, like a rising sun, she smiled.

A moment later, however, the reaction faded, her earlier doubts obviously having returned. Hurrying forward on a quick swirl of skirts, she set down her Champagne. "No, I am afraid I really must go."

Reaching out, he caught her wrist in his hand. "But you cannot leave, not when you have only just arrived. Stay and share a dish of ice cream. Strawberry, exactly as promised."

Her breasts rose on an indecisive inhale, her inward struggle clear. "Has it not melted by now?"

He shook his head. "No, I've had it chilling on ice so every spoonful would stay creamy and delicious. Shall we see how our dessert has fared?"

Tugging her gently forward, he positioned her on his far side so she couldn't easily flee, then reached for the dish. Resuming his seat, he took up a spoon, then dipped the utensil into the frozen confection.

"Here," he encouraged, holding the spoon steady for her. "Have a taste."

At first, Lily did not move, staring at the bite of ice cream and the large, beautiful man who was offering her the sweet.

Whatever possessed me to come out here?
she wondered, her heart racing like a fox escaping from a hound.
'Twas an idiotic decision, risky and imprudent.
Before she'd made her way here, she'd wavered for many long minutes, turning down more than one potential dance partner as she fought a silent, internal war. All through supper, her thoughts had centered upon one man, and her decision.

Go to him in the garden, or stay where it was safe, but dull? Take the prudent course, or the one filled with excitement and danger and the devastating Lord Vessey?

As she'd made her way downstairs and through the house to the garden, she'd told herself she was only going to check on him. No more, no less. But then he spoke to her and like a moth drawn to a particularly enticing flame, she had drifted closer.

Too close.

Once more, she considered the dessert.

Should I take the bite or walk away? Then again, it is only ice cream, is it not? Where is the harm?

Yet when she leaned forward and placed her lips around the spoon, the act seemed forbidden somehow, almost sinful. Though perhaps that was not because of the ice cream itself but because of the man who offered it. Cold and velvety, the sweet melted over her tongue, heightening her senses in a burst of flavor and scent.

"Good?" he questioned, drawing back the spoon.

Humming with pleasure, she nodded and swallowed.

Dipping out a bite for himself, he ate.

Unable to look away, she watched as he slid the spoon past his sensual lips, taking his time as he savored the confection.

"Hmm, you are right," he said. "Here, have another."

Feeling reckless and decadent, she let him feed her another spoonful, knowing she shouldn't be enjoying the act so much.

"Champagne?" he suggested in a husky voice. Taking a moment to set down the ice-cream dish, he leaned back to retrieve her glass.

A fresh set of warning bells pealed inside her head. Ignoring them, she drank again, the wine sharp but playful as it bubbled against her tongue.

Bending toward the ground, he retrieved a bottle, then moved to refill her glass.

Just barely, she stopped him. "Enough, my lord, otherwise I might wonder if you are trying to get me foxed."

He arched one golden brow. "Do not be absurd. You've only had one glass."

Sliding her fingers off the top of her champagne flute, he poured more wine, froth racing toward the rim. With a laugh, she brought the glass to her lips, sipping just enough to keep the wine from overflowing.

"So tell me, Mrs. Smythe, how have you been occupying yourself these past two weeks? Hopefully you have not been masquerading in male attire again in an attempt to win yet another bet."

Her eyes flashed to his, momentarily taken off guard by his question. "Actually, if you must know, I am not ordinarily in the habit of making wagers. That occasion arose from an … unanticipated whim … one that shall not be repeated."

"For your continued safety, I am relieved to hear that you have decided to cease such madcap activities. I hope you haven't discarded the outfit, however." He leaned toward her as if to impart a confidence. "Since I must say I rather fancied you in those breeches. Mayhap you'll put them on for me again sometime."

Warmth surged into her cheeks like a rising tide, making her glad for the concealing darkness. "And mayhap, if you wish hard enough, a fairy will appear and sprinkle gold dust over your head, my lord."

Silence fell, making her wonder for an instant if she had gone too far. Then abruptly he tossed back his head and released a hearty laugh.

"You know, madam, I never tire of that nimble tongue of yours, nor that pretty mouth. What—I find myself waiting to discover—shall the pair of them say or do next?"

"If you promise to behave, my lord, I just might stay long enough for you to find out."

Dear heavens,
she thought,
listen to me flirt—when I don't even know how to flirt! Then again, I say and do things around this man I otherwise would never dream of saying or doing, all the while pretending to be a woman I am not. If only he knew who I truly am, what would he think?

Knowing she didn't dare let him ever find out, she once again set down her glass of Champagne. "The hour grows late and Lord Ottwell is expecting to escort me home. I should be going."

A muscle tightened in his jaw. "Ottwell can wait. And if he doesn't care to do so, I shall be happy to provide you escort. I have before."

Yes, you have,
she mused,
and I well remember what passed between us during the journey.

She gave him a sweet smile. "Good night, my lord."

"But we haven't finished the ice cream. Surely you can stay for another bite or two."

"You want to eat dessert?" she questioned with obvious skepticism.

"Is that not what I pledged? Ice cream, Champagne, and conversation?"

He was correct, that was what he had promised and delivered—so far at least. Caution vied with temptation, sensible retreat battling once again against the opportunity to stay and spend another few minutes in the marquis's indisputably divine company. 'Twas said that Satan often assumed a pleasing shape. Was Lord Vessey the Devil? If so, then he had chosen a most excellent disguise. For what woman, she mused, would not sell her soul to have him—even for something as simple as a shared dish of ice cream?

Before she knew what she meant to do, she found herself giving her consent. "All right, but only long enough for a bite."

"Or two," he added, flashing his gorgeous white teeth in a smile that made her toes curl inside her slippers. Picking up the bowl, he dipped in the spoon.

"Come closer," he urged in a silky purr. "I cannot very well feed you from there."

Despite knowing she ought to take the spoon in hand and feed herself, she inched nearer and let him serve her the confection for yet another time that night. Sugary sweetness flooded her mouth as she accepted the bite, the combination of cream and strawberries as velvety and cold as it had been earlier.

Still, something essential had changed. For when the marquis gently eased the spoon from between her lips, he paused to rub the cool underside of the utensil against her lower lip in a movement very much like a caress. Only then did he withdraw.

Instinctively, she swallowed, her tongue darting out to lick away the sticky residue he'd painted over her mouth. His eyes followed, glittering with a hunger she could detect even in the low light—a hunger, she suspected, that had nothing whatsoever to do with food.

A deep quiver fluttered in her belly, her breath growing shallow and fast.

He extended another spoonful, the swirl of frozen cream poised for her delectation. But as she bent forward to receive the bounty, his hand shook, a few cold droplets landing on the exposed flesh of one breast.

On a gasp, she reached to brush them away, but he stopped her.

"Let me," he enjoined, quickly setting aside the dish and spoon to pull her to him. With a strong arm locked around her waist, he buried his face against her breasts. A fresh gasp escaped her throat as he set his warm tongue against her flesh to lave away the treat.

"Delicious," he murmured as he captured the first droplet and then the next, gliding from one to the other with his lips and tongue. On a shaky sigh, she let her eyes fall closed as sizzling pleasure crashed through her.

Spreading his muscled thighs apart, he drew her between them, settling her there so he could have full access to her curves. With a series of heated kisses and languorous licks, he began to rove, wandering over her breasts with the movements of a skilled explorer. Using a maneuver she had no idea how he performed, he freed one of her breasts from her stays and bodice, then closed his mouth over an already hardened nipple to suckle upon her. Her knees buckled but he caught her, clasping her buttocks inside a wide, steady hand.

She shuddered, a moan escaping her parted lips.

Bending toward him, she threaded one hand into his hair, then kissed the side of his cheek, finding it faintly rough from a full evening's growth of whiskers.

He was the one to moan this time, shivering faintly beneath her touch. Lifting his head from her breast, he sought her lips, taking them in a wild, plundering kiss that demanded everything she had to give and more.

Drowning in a dark lake of need, she yielded, returning his kisses with an urgency she would never have thought she could feel. But with this man anything seemed possible, pleasure a quotient that appeared to have limitless boundaries.

In those moments, her senses narrowed down to only the two of them, her focus locked on the warm, wet silk of his mouth, the gliding bliss of his touch, the heady richness of his clean, male scent turning her drunk and drowsy. Breathing him deeper, tasting him more, she clutched her fists into the fabric of his coat, breath panting in ragged gasps from her lips as she tangled her tongue with his own in an untamed dance. With only a vague awareness of her surroundings, she let him draw her down to perch atop one of his strong thighs, a single powerful arm nestled securely at her back. Something hard and thick prodded her hip, a something nestled right between his legs.

Oh my,
she thought,
is that his arousal?

From somewhere deep, her conscience warned that matters were moving much too far, much too fast—leagues beyond her ability to control. Even so, she ignored the mental alert, too lost in the sensations he was evoking to stop. She shuddered as he stroked her back and over her bottom, caressing her through her clothes as she'd sensed he'd wanted to do earlier out on the ballroom floor. Scattering kisses over her cheek and chin, he ran his lips along her throat to its base, pausing to draw upon the spot with a delicate suction that made her pulse flutter like the wings of a trapped bird.

Seconds after, his free hand slipped beneath her skirt and covered her knee. For long, long moments, he teased her there before sliding ever so slowly upward, beyond the top of her stocking, to find the bare skin of her thigh. Heat ignited inside her, spreading with the force of a wildfire, a demanding ache centering low between her legs. Shifting her slightly, he ravished her mouth anew, drawing her into an intense by-play of lips and tongues. Caught in the glory of his kiss, she didn't notice that his hand had moved again until he lay his palm over the place where she ached the most.

Her closed eyelids sprang open at the unexpected touch, pulling free of his kiss. "Oh! What are you …" Without thinking, her hand swept down from his shoulder and caught hold of his wrist through the cloth of her gown. "Stop."

"Stop?" he panted, meeting her gaze, barely banked passion mixing with confusion in his eyes. "Why?"

"Because I …" She broke off, not knowing how to answer, nor even how she truly felt. His every touch until now had been bliss and would surely continue to be. Yet she shouldn't be doing this, should she?

His eyes narrowed suddenly. "Surely he touched you here before?"

He who?