And braver.
You’re doing it again.
He shook himself slightly, trying to dislodge this strange sensation that was forming. She was a mouthy, bloody-minded female with a blackened reputation and vengeful heart. He could not possible admire such a woman.
Yet he could not forget the bleak sadness in her eyes as she’d turned his way tonight—nor could he deny that it had sliced right through him to see her thus. Her bright smile had been doused, her light dimmed, her lovely eyes lost.
Still, she’d held her head high and won the day. If he could not admire her, he could at least stop denying that there was more to her than he’d first believed.
Except that he had no idea what to believe.
He found himself unable to take his eyes off her. He watched her constantly, perhaps afraid that the one moment he wasn’t watching would be the moment when she showed the truth—or lies—within her.
Or perhaps it was because she was so very pleasing to look upon. He watched her dance.
She certainly appeared to be enjoying herself. Perhaps she truly was, or perhaps she was only projecting the illusion of enjoyment so as to appear as charming and adorable as possible.
Or perhaps she was truly enjoying projecting the illusion—
Stanton closed his eyes again in self-induced exhaustion. He felt very much like plowing his fist into his own head if it would only stop the circling and second-guessing going on within.
How did others do it? How did they survive the lifetime of never truly knowing what another’s intentions might be? The spinning doubt that one woman could cause was nearly enough to send Wyndham to Bedlam—how much worse would it be to exist blind and oblivious to the rest of the world?
She was mad—entirely, completely, and utterly mad. He very much feared he was going to go mad from sheer proximity to her insanity.
Because he liked her. More than once over the last few days, he’d found himself smiling when thinking of some outlandish thing she’d said or done.
Hence the contagion. He pressed his fingertips to his temples, forcing away the invasive influence of Lady Alicia Lawrence and her rebellion.
Rebellion? ’Twas more of a revolution! She was determined to flout every convention and grind every social standard beneath the toe of her tiny slipper.
He realized he was smiling again.
Mad. Stark, staring mad . . .
The ballroom was draped with lengths of rich fabrics, arranged to provide several nooks of semi-privacy, most filled with cushions and the odd fainting couch.
Weary and breathless, Alicia fled to one of these to repair her fallen hair, hoping to catch her breath. It had been a very long time since she had been around so many people. The constant noise and the feeling of being watched and judged had scraped her nerves a bit raw.
Not that she wasn’t having the time of her life, of course. It was precisely what she had wanted—to be in the center of things, to feel the excitement of the crowd, to dance and be danced with.
At the moment, however, her feet ached and her head pounded. She’d had more wine in the last hours than she’d had in five years altogether. She pressed her fingertips to her temples as she relaxed slowly onto a luridly violet fainting couch. Just a moment of quiet, even if the noise had not truly abated and the little enclosure was no cooler than the overheated ballroom itself.
Or perhaps it is Wyndham who is overheating you?
Not that she cared one little bit what the mighty Lord Wyndham thought, of course. He was being an idiot, standing out there watching her every move with those eagle eyes, looming threateningly on the outskirts of her vicinity, probably frightening away the very man he sought.
Didn’t he look smashing in his evening coat and tails, though? He made every other man in the room, even handsome Lord Farrington, look like badly put together copies of the original. She still found herself surprised to find herself in the company of a man like that.
You mean sharing a chamber with a man like that?
That, too.
Suddenly she was no longer weary. No, really, she had hours left in her—hours before she would be alone with him in that dark room, pretending to sleep—
She stood to leave, determined to spend as gay an evening as possible, even until dawn if necessary. Just as she reached for the drape over the “entry,” it was swept back before her. She moved back, startled. Two bodies, entangled in each other, stumbled past her to land upon the small chaise. Alicia took three steps aside to avoid them, then found herself in the corner—the real corner, with real walls—as clothing flew and cries of passion escalated before her.
She held up one hand. “Ah—”
Something white and linen and warm landed in her hand. She dropped it quickly. “Ew.”
The gentleman—for it was a lady and a gentleman, which she could see quite well now—was making heated, heartfelt demands. “More, darling, oh yes, my love, that’s it, that’s so good—”
Well, it certainly looked good. He was a firm, handsome specimen and his “darling” was a curvaceous person herself. As the clothing diminished, Alicia’s fascination grew. Would they really become naked here, in the ballroom, right in front of her?
Would they truly go so far as to—
She shut her eyes tight. Oh, my. Apparently, they would.
She opened one eye—just to find her way out!—and caught sight of something she’d no idea existed. The lady was on her knees, clad in nothing but a lacy pair of pantaloons, while the gentleman stood before her, clad in boots with the remains of his breeches and drawers still tangled about his ankles.
He really was a handsome fellow, nearly as ornamental as Lord Farrington. She hadn’t met him earlier, but she was quite able to disqualify him from Wyndham’s search on the basis of his cries of rapture as the lady took his rigid organ into her mouth.
This was new. Almont hadn’t mentioned it and it wasn’t the sort of thing one ran across in one’s reading . . .
Alicia tilted her head, trying to figure out how the lady was managing to encompass the entire . . . matter. Her interest was purely curious, until the gentleman buried his large hands in his lady’s fallen hair and threw back his head, letting out such a visceral groan that Alicia felt it resonate deep inside her.
If she did that, could she make Wyndham surrender so?
Wyndham standing before her, the tip of his thickened rod at her lips.
Wyndham with his hands buried in her hair, lost in ecstasy while she—
Arousal swept her, drowning out her embarrassment, or feeding on it, she wasn’t truly sure.
She was watching something she shouldn’t—and that made it all the more exciting. Like this ball, she shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be standing here, half-hidden in the purple draperies, watching this woman pleasure this man.
I could do that. I could make him quiver and moan like that . . .
Then the gentleman pushed his lover away and breathlessly swept her up to lie on the sofa, then knelt to . . . ah, return the favor.
Oh, my.
This, Alicia remembered well. This was what had led her to her ruined state, this was what had made her throw caution to the wind, this was what she thought of when she found her gaze lingering on Wyndham’s expressive mouth—
This was what had made the whole thing very nearly worthwhile.
She stood there, frozen in memory and tantalized arousal, as the man drew his tongue through the lady’s dark nether curls. To watch these two attractive bodies, people she didn’t know, strangers who embodied nothing but passion and reckless abandon—she felt as if she stole from them. Oh, she was wicked!
Then the woman rolled her head in Alicia’s direction and opened her eyes. Alicia froze. For a moment, the lady’s passion-glazed eyes registered nothing. Then, with a slight surprised widening, she focused on Alicia.
Alicia was horrified. She’d not meant to intrude—not meant to steal—
“I’m sorry—”
The woman smiled slowly, her eyes glinting wickedly. She reached one hand upward to Alicia. “Won’t you join us, pretty one?”
Eek! Alicia sidled quickly out of reach. “Ah . . . thank you, really, but . . .”
She fled, pushing aside the drape so violently she heard threads pop. The party raged on outside, and the stench of mingled perfumes and overheated bodies struck her in the face. Blushing furiously, although no one had noticed her, she pushed through the crowd toward the hall doors.
She wasn’t simply shocked and dismayed. She was wicked—bad and wicked and out of control. One scalding thought raged through her brain as she scurried far from the wild throng.
If that man had been Wyndham, what would my answer have been?
Across the ballroom, Stanton opened his eyes to spot Lady Alicia making her way from the hall at great speed.
Lady Alicia, turned loose upon the house where every room would be occupied by half-dressed couples—and not a few trios as well?
God help them all.
13
Stanton caught up with Lady Alicia as she passed from the great hall to the passageway beyond. She was leaving the room at great speed, her skirts fluttering about her ankles.
“Are you perhaps fleeing the scene of a crime?” he asked dryly.
She grabbed his hand. “Absolutely. Come quickly.”
He went willingly, for now he was curious. “And whom have we sinned against this time? Our host? Our hostess? The Prince Regent?”
“I don’t know them.” She glanced up at him. “They’ll recover.”
That boded ill for them all. Unfortunately, Stanton couldn’t bring himself to care. “Will they recover? I wonder. The rest of us are still a bit bemused by you.”
Alicia entwined her fingers with his as she tugged him along the hall. Did she realize how perfectly their gloved hands fit together? She made no sign of it.
“The rest of you are entirely flummoxed by me, you mean.” She sighed without much real regret. “It is always thus.”
“Always that you are fleeing certain retribution, or always that you remain misunderstood?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him admonishingly. “Is now really the time to consider my inner clockworks?”
“That depends. Do we face a lynching, or mere arrest and trial?”
She stopped, cast a worried glance back toward the thankfully inactive door to the ballroom, then crossed her arms and glared up at him.
“I didn’t do anything illegal. I never do.”
He thought about that for a moment. “That’s true. Very well, then. What sort of doom is it that we’re fleeing like a pair of parlor thieves on the run?”
She glanced away. “You weren’t entirely wrong about the people here.”
Stanton crossed his own arms, mocking her stance. “So you teased the lion and the lion didn’t like it?”
A tiny curl appeared at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, they liked it all right.”
Stanton resisted the urge to clench his fists. “You’re fleeing an amorous ‘they’?”
She dropped her hands in a helpless shrug.
“They . . . it wasn’t . . .” She threw out her hands in frustration. “They . . . they propositioned me!”
A bark of rusty laughter erupted from Stanton’s throat. Astonishingly, it was followed by another, and another. At last he was forced to lean against the wall as he was made helpless with it.
Finally it subsided. About bloody time. Still chuckling, he dabbed at his eyes before raising his gaze to see Alicia standing before him with her eyes wide.
“Are you unwell?”
He heaved a great sigh. For some reason, he felt lighter, as if he’d given up some burden. “I am quite well, thank you.”
She still gazed at him warily. “The reason I asked is that I thought you didn’t have the capacity for gaiety. Are you sure you aren’t suffering a fever?”
He took her hand and stripped the glove from it in one motion. Then he placed it on his forehead. “I am quite without fever, as you can see.”
His grin faded as he watched a transformation come over her. Her eyes went wide. Two pink spots appeared on her cheeks. Her fingers began to tremble on his brow and the tip of her tongue flicked over her lower lip.
Stanton was about to remark on that when he found himself caught by the hungry golden gleam in her green eyes. He went very still under her touch. Had she ever been so lovely?
Her hand slipped down slightly as her fingertips began to trace the arch of his brow, ending at the pulse point of his temple. Then her fingers curled and it was the back of her knuckles that brushed down over his cheekbone.
She was mimicking the way he’d touched her earlier. A strange sensation was seeping through Stanton. The thought that she’d so perfectly recall a mere touch sent a jolt of something unfamiliar through him.
She let her hand trail down until she traced his jaw to the point of his chin. Only then did she depart from their earlier encounter.
She let her index finger uncurl to lightly brush its tip along the corner of his mouth, then inward to outline his lower lip.
Stanton couldn’t believe the amount of sensation a single fingertip could generate within a man. From that one point of skin-to-skin heat, it was as if lava poured through his veins. His heart began to pound even as his breath seemed to leave him.
Her gaze was intent upon his mouth and he was free to look at her, to see the hungry shimmer in her eyes, to drink in the beauty of the way her opulent breasts threatened the safety of her décolletage, to see the way the tip of her tongue followed the path of her finger upon her own lips.
She was flame and cream and wicked shimmering wood-goddess green and hot enveloping silk, all at once.
To top it all off—and for him it very nearly did, as he’d been celibate for most of his life—she smelled like spice and roses and warmly aroused woman.
He felt himself begin to fall, slipping freely and unresistingly, even longingly, from his lonely, watchful aerie. This woman was more than intriguing, more than desirable, more than a mere sexual distraction. No, he was becoming increasingly aware that Alicia was the answer. She was the fiery, delightful, contagious cure for the chill of isolation that had always lived within him.
And as such, she was entirely dangerous.
He cleared his dry throat, desperate to break the spell before it broke him. “Alicia, what are you doing?”
To his dismay, his words didn’t jolt her out of her fascinated exploration. “What?” she said, her tone distant. “Did you say something?”
He raised his hands to her shoulders, intending to move her away, to put some space and chill air between them. All that resulted was that he felt the heat of her pale, bare skin sear right through his gray silk gloves.
As if in a dream, he saw his hands leave her flesh to move together. One hand stripped the other in a motion as automatic as breathing—not that his breath was altogether automatic at the moment.
Then his mutinous hands returned to her bare shoulders, where his fingers sank into the soft, sweet creamy flesh there like a parched man who has finally reached an oasis. Her heat pierced through him, melting away the ice.
He watched his fingers slide over her smooth silken warmth with betrayed disbelief and anticipation. They spread across her bare back, then slid upward to bury themselves in her hair.
Pins plinked to the floor and the heavy mass of fiery silk fell into his wayward hands, a fitting reward for such rebellion.
She let her head fall back, shutting her eyes and exposing her throat for him to devour should he so choose. The soft sound that left her parted lips struck him as hard and sharply as a sword. He willed himself to ignore the blow.
Thankfully, it seemed the only part of him that outpaced his control were his hands.
Well, perhaps not the only parts. His erection swelled painfully against the restriction of his trousers. He welcomed the pain, welcomed the throbbing beat of trapped arou
sal, like drums in the jungle, for it would lead him out of the tangle, back to sanity.
Then she moved into him, pressing her soft breasts to his chest, her rounded belly to his throbbing, barely restrained cock.
Then she whispered his name. “Stanton.”
Never had he heard it uttered thus. He was Wyndham to everyone who mattered, and Lord Wyndham to everyone else. Even his mother called him Wyndham.
Her husky, hot-buttered voice called to another man altogether—one who was not as disciplined as Wyndham. That man welled up from beneath, answering her siren’s summons, tearing through Wyndham’s legendary control like paper before talons.
Stanton’s hands clenched in her hair and brought her mouth to his, raising her cruelly to her tiptoes to meet the eruption of his dark and voracious need.
She came easily and willingly, wrapping her arms about his neck in equal urgency.
Her eager generosity was the end for Stanton. He was quite completely and thoroughly lost at that moment.
And by God, he hoped never to be found!
Alicia struggled in the midst of a whirlwind. Cross’s house and guests disappeared from her awareness, obscured by the storm of this unpredictable man. Wyndham’s mouth was hot and angry and achingly hungry on hers. She felt herself absorbing his heat and fury and need like a sponge. This man—this hard, cold, solitary man needed her, she could feel it.
He needed her.
So she gave over to his hard hands and punishing mouth, pressing herself to him, offering her softness and herself in a primeval answer to the howling, spiraling solitude she felt in his kiss.
His fists pulled at her hair, but she willed the pain away, only allowing a slight sting past her guard to add to the pleasure of being caught up so urgently in his arms.
The more she gave, the more avidly he took. His mouth moved from hers to suck urgently on her neck, to scrape teeth over her shoulder, to explore her ear with a hot tongue.
One hand slipped from her hair to pull urgently at her bodice. Before she could realize what he was about, he’d tugged her tiny cap sleeve down to her elbow and released her bare breast to his voracious mouth.
Celeste Bradley - [Royal Four 04] Page 12
