The Seduction of Sebastian Trantor

by Stephanie Laurens

  Yet even now he hesitated.

  She growled and narrowed her eyes at him. “If you won’t lie down here, you’ll force me to come over there.” She gripped the covers as if to push them back and rise—clad, as she was quite sure he’d noticed, only in her chemise. She had a prim white nightgown in her bag, but no degree of necessity would move her to don it, not when Sebastian would see her in it.

  As she’d hoped, he held up a hand, staying her. “All right.” He didn’t sound happy about it, but he glanced at the fire, then crossed to the window and hauled the curtains apart; a wide swath of moonlight slanted across the room. Satisfied, he stalked to the lamp, turned it down, then, features tight, set, approached the other side of the bed.

  Satisfied herself, she wriggled down beneath the covers. Steadfastly refused to think of why she’d argued, why, in all truth, she would feel more comfortable with him lying close. Close enough for her to sense his heat, his weight.

  She watched as he shrugged off his coat and slung it over the foot of the bed. Then he sat on the edge and pulled off his boots. She heard the twin thuds as they hit the floor. Standing, he turned, glanced at her as he reached for the counterpane; without meeting his eyes, she shifted to her side, giving him her back.

  He lay down, then stretched out beneath the counterpane, the sheet beneath him. His weight made the mattress dip on that side. Smiling, she snuggled down, locked her hand in the covers and, still smiling, closed her eyes.

  Sleep came swiftly, and claimed her.

  Lying supine beside her, Sebastian heard her breathing slide into the telltale cadence of slumber. Told himself that if him lying beside her was what it took to reassure her enough to sleep, then he could hardly argue against being where he was.

  Indeed, most of him had no argument with his position at all . . . other than to wish it were closer. With fewer layers of cloth between.

  But it was too soon for that. Even if his fantasies had already become ensnared in the possibilities, in the potential she possessed. He, his senses, hadn’t forgotten an iota of the passion he’d detected during that burning kiss in Rothbury’s library, nor in the too-brief repetition in the lane in Covent Garden.

  Most of his senses were preoccupied with the prospect of experiencing that enticing passion again. A good part of his focus remained permanently distracted with plans to make that happen.

  “But,” he murmured, “I have to survive this first.” It was a test. He wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t engineered it purely to see how far she could trust him. Regardless, jaw clenched, he vowed to succeed. To lie there and endure, and not touch her.

  Obviously he wasn’t destined to get any sleep. Closing his eyes, he listened—and was immediately distracted by the soft sigh of her breathing. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to ignore it, and listen instead for any further commotion beyond the room.

  Several incidents occurred, but no boisterous fellow bumbled as far as the door at the end of the corridor.

  Gradually, the inn quieted.

  Contrary to his every expectation, he slept.

  The dream, when it blossomed in his mind, was explicit. He was rolling on a bed half dressed, his partner in passion clad only in an insubstantial chemise. The sheets were a rumpled mass beneath their bodies; a soft cover slung over them kept the night’s chill at bay.

  Her lips were on his, under his. Parted and open, they lured him deeper into a wild, scorching exchange. Tongues tangled, stroked; like a siren she lured and promised a treasure more precious than gold.

  In return, she wanted him.

  The passionate nymph wanted her wicked way with him. He saw no reason to deny her.

  Saw no reason to stop her unfastening his shirt, then pushing her small greedy hands beneath. She spread them and caressed, setting his skin alight, his senses burning. Just that simple touch, and he wanted so much more.

  She pushed and he obliged, rolling onto his back. Hands closing about her waist, he settled her atop him. Lips locked, tongues dueling, she fell on him and claimed him, those wicked, greedy hands possessing with glorious and reckless abandon.

  He sank one hand into her curly hair, all but felt its red fire singe him. That his dream nymph should possess Tabitha’s characteristics was hardly a surprise; she’d been the woman in his dreams ever since he’d kissed her.

  She pressed closer; the firm mounds of her breasts, screened by her chemise, pressed into his chest, the tight buds of her nipples clear evidence of her arousal.

  Of her desire, her need, her transparent wanting.

  He still had his breeches on, but she’d already bared his chest. No doubt she’d attend to the rest of his clothes shortly. He was looking forward to the moment.

  Meanwhile . . . he set his hands to her sleek curves, and set about returning the pleasure she was currently lavishing on him. With hands and fingers, lips and tongue, he caressed; there was no rush, no hurry, only delicious urgency.

  The fires between them built. She trembled and shook with the intensity.

  Caught her breath when he slid his hand between her thighs and touched her there, found her hot and wet.

  Her kiss grew urgently greedy, more needy, more demanding.

  Between them, in a flurry of grasping hands, they stripped off his breeches, freed his throbbing staff.

  He grasped handfuls of her chemise and wrestled it off over her head. Flung it aside as he reached for her.

  And she reached for him. Her fingers closed about his rigid erection.

  His breath hitched, caught.

  Then he froze.

  It wasn’t her touch, but the sheer wonder investing it that sent a tendril of warning sliding into his lust-fogged brain.

  The tendril became a lash as his reeling senses registered the implication behind that tentative touch. Innocence.

  She was innocent. . .

  She was real.

  He returned to the world—the real world—in a rush. A barrage of sensory information confirmed that it was indeed Tabitha lying naked alongside him. That he and she weren’t on some dream plane, but in the here and now.

  Then she tightened her grip, stroked.

  He bit back a groan, then hauled in a strained breath. “Tabitha!”

  He might have been asleep, but she clearly hadn’t been. For the first time in their acquaintance he was shocked.

  The swath of moonlight had strengthened and now beamed across the bed. When she raised her head and looked into his face, in the silvery light he saw her eyes, sultry and seductive beneath heavy lids.

  Her lips curved lightly, more wry than surprised. “I didn’t mean this to happen. I must have rolled in my sleep—I woke up in your arms . . . and it felt right.”

  When he didn’t respond—couldn’t find suitable words—she went on, passion and quiet conviction in her tone, “This feels right. I’m twenty-six and I’ve never known this—never tasted passion, true passion, before.” Her eyes locked on his, her hand still wrapped about his erection, she pressed closer, her breasts to his chest, her firm, sleek, silken thighs sliding over his much harder limbs. “I want you to teach me, to tutor me, to educate me—to show me the wonder I’ve never known.”

  He watched the words, her request, her plea, fall from her kiss-swollen lips.

  Knew he had to resist. “I can’t . . . take advantage of you like this. It’s not right—can’t be right.” He shook his head fractionally. “It’s not honorable.”

  “Even if I wish it?”

  “Even then.” He forced out the words, struggled to gain some distance; even mental distance would help. “We can’t—”

  She silenced him by placing a finger across his lips. “Wait. Before you say anything more, consider this.”

  Her tone remained sultry, alluring, sirenlike. She might be arguing, but he sensed she was confident she’d win.

  Her gaze steady, heated yet sure, she continued, “You can’t seriously imagine that, having come this far, tasted this much, that I’ll be
content to never know, to never savor the rest. But I’m the scandalous Miss Makepeace, on the shelf and unmarriageable, so if not here, now, with you, then with whom? I’ll have to find some other gentleman to satisfy my curiosity.”

  Never. Involuntarily, his jaw clenched.

  He’d heard that she—all her family—were frequently outrageous. His current position was the epitome of that—if he made her his now, there would be no going back, not for either of them, but she didn’t know that.

  She didn’t know that he didn’t consider her unmarriageable, that he was set on taking her off her shelf.

  She didn’t know that this—her and him rolling naked in a bed—had been slated to happen sometime in the not overly distant future. He’d imagined it would occur soon after the completion of their mission.

  Fate—and she—apparently had a different agenda.

  Or was it merely a different timetable?

  Regardless, this one act—this one night of unexpected passion—would shift the campaign he’d been waging onto an entirely different plane.

  A plane he was perfectly happy to further engage on.

  Through the shimmering moonlight, he studied her eyes. Mind racing, considered. Even if he could find some way to resist her, was there any point?

  Any verbal response risked being too revealing.

  Reaching up, he framed her face, slowly drew her down until their lips met, then kissed her.

  Slowly, unhurriedly, increasingly deeply.

  When desire once more beat its heated wings beneath their skins, he drew back enough to murmur against her lips, “All right. But as in any other dance, I lead and you follow.”

  He didn’t wait for her answer, but kissed her again. Took ruthless command of the exchange, then rolled them both over and settled her beneath him.

  And gave her what she’d asked for, all she’d requested, and more.

  He showed her what passion was, how it could flare and fill her, raze her defenses and consume every inhibition. Until it burned at her core, a conflagration hot and needy, until she ached to have him join with her and sate their desperation.

  Caught in the throes, Tabitha gasped, clung, and greedily absorbed every touch, every stroke. Every possessive yet reverent caress. For all that he took, he gave even more. Through every incendiary exchange he strove to please her, to pleasure her.

  To trap her with desire and feed her, appease her, with unstinting passion.

  Until she urged him over her and he came, until he parted her thighs with his and with one powerful thrust joined them. Head bent, he drank her shocked gasp, gave her time only to register the feel of him, hard, hot, and solid at her core, then he moved, withdrew, surged anew, and the instant of pain, all memory of it, drowned beneath a tide of swelling pleasure.

  A tide that built, that buffeted them, rocked them, and swept them up.

  Swept them high.

  Skins slick, fingers twining. Bodies merging to a rhythm older than time, they rode on—harder, higher, hearts pounding, senses spiraling. They crested the peak and raced on into glory, into flames and heat, straight into an implosion of sensation that seared every nerve, that scrambled reality with mind-bending pleasure.

  That at the last left them breathless, hearts thundering, senses awash and drifting, wrapped in the cocoon of covers, safe in each other’s arms.

  Ecstasy receded, leaving a warm glow. Reality slowly seeped back into their minds.

  He hung over her, his weight supported on his elbows, his head bowed as he struggled to catch his breath. She reached up and, smiling softly, laid a hand against his cheek. “Thank you.”

  Sebastian heard the words. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her palm.

  Struggled to take in the reality, its implications.

  He’d been here before, yet it had never been like this. Never before had the moment had this depth, this intensity of feeling. As if after all his years of soldiering he’d finally come home and found safe harbor.

  As if he’d finally found the place he was supposed to be.

  The possessiveness that gripped him, that had already sunk its talons deep, shook him.

  If he wasn’t mistaken—and he knew he wasn’t—his long game had taken an unexpected twist.

  Summoning what remained of his strength, he lifted from her. Inwardly grinned at her sleepy protest, but she made no further demur when he slumped on his back and gathered her in, settled her against him.

  She fell asleep on a sated sigh.

  Later, hovering on the cusp of sleep, an earlier thought resurfaced, and he realized he’d been right. Sleeping beside her had been a test, but not in the way he’d thought.

  All he could do now was hope that he’d passed, and cope with what came next.

  Chapter Five

  “Mr. Trantor, sir?”

  Gifford’s voice, accompanied by a scratching on the door, jerked Sebastian awake.

  Warm silken limbs wrapped him in sensual comfort.

  “Ah—yes, Gifford.” He ran a hand through his hair, gritted his teeth as beneath the covers, Tabitha stirred. “We’ll be down shortly.” He prayed his leaping tension didn’t show in his voice.

  “Aye, sir. I’ll have the horses put to.”

  “Good. Excellent.”

  Straining his ears, Sebastian heard Gifford’s footsteps tracking away down the corridor. He fell back on the pillows. An instant ticked by as the events of the night reeled through his brain. Suppressing a curse, he quickly disentangled himself from Tabitha, forced himself to push back the counterpane and sit up.

  “We have to get dressed and get downstairs quickly.” His back to her, he ignored the sensual frisson evoked by delicate fingers trailing down his spine.

  “Why?” Her voice was all sultry seduction.

  “Because we need to leave early before the hordes from the boxing match bestir themselves—remember?”

  “Hmm . . . vaguely.”

  Having shrugged on his shirt and pulled on his breeches, he stood, tucking in the shirttails, then fastening the waistband.

  When she heaved a heavy sigh, he finally met her eyes.

  She looked deliciously, delightfully rumpled, temptation and outright sin incarnate.

  She pouted, but—thank heaven—moved to get out of the bed. “You’re serious. And here I thought that we’d had a wonderful time.”

  She’d turned away so he couldn’t see her face. Then she bent over to pick up her chemise and gown; his mouth dried, his eyes wouldn’t shift from the perfect, ripely rounded curves of her arse.

  Then she straightened and swung to face him. He swallowed, said, “It was wonderful—better than wonderful.” He finally glimpsed her eyes, read her expression. Frowned. “As you well know. But we really have to be on our way.”

  She smiled softly, as if his acknowledgment was all she’d really wanted. “Very well—but you’ll have to help me with my laces.”

  Once again against all his expectations, they slipped out of the inn a mere five minutes later.

  Five minutes after that, they were in the carriage and bowling down the road to London.

  They reached London just after ten o’clock. Sebastian had Gifford drop him off outside the Coningsby townhouse in Cavendish Square. After promising Tabitha he’d join her in Bedford Square once he was presentable to discuss their next step, he waved the carriage on and went up the steps to his brother’s front door.

  Thomas and Estelle were still in the country, for which he gave thanks. There was no one there to question where he’d been, or to ask awkward questions. Wright met him in the hall and assured him a substantial breakfast could be assembled within minutes.

  An hour later, washed, shaved, dressed in fresh, neatly pressed clothes and fortified by a large breakfast, he set out to walk the few blocks to Bedford Square.

  It was tempting to use the moments alone to dwell on what had occurred during the night, but Tabitha’s need to “do something” about the blackmailer was tangible; he need
ed to deal with that first.

  Before he let himself consider what might come later—after their mission was complete and he had to convince her not to dissolve their charade of an engagement, but rather let it stand.

  The events of the night had only underscored that, for him, that was the right path. His right path. To him, making Tabitha Makepeace his wife had assumed the status of a holy grail.

  He wasn’t sure whether the events of the past night would make his road smoother, or more difficult.

  He wasn’t sure he hadn’t just dug huge potholes along his path.

  But first things first; that had always been his maxim.

  He entered the Makepeace residence to learn that Tabitha’s parents had already left the house for their day’s engagements, and that she awaited him—impatiently, he had not a doubt—in the back parlor.

  Absolving Biggs of the need to announce him, he walked down the corridor, tapped on the door, and entered.

  Tabitha was seated on the sofa. She looked up; expectation glowed in her face. “Well—what now? Clearly we must stop Elaine Mackay, but how should we go about it?”

  She’d washed and dressed, too, and looked distractingly scrumptious in ivory sprigged with spring green.

  He sat in one of the armchairs opposite the sofa. “The first thing I believe we should ensure is the confidentiality of your friends’ situations. Mackay must be stopped, but not at the cost of your friends’ reputations.” Or hers.

  She waved. “That goes without saying. So we cannot threaten Elaine with exposure over her blackmailing of any of the four.” She fixed him with a direct look. “So where does that leave us? What options do we have?”

  He felt insensibly pleased that she was consulting him—truly asking and wanting to know what he thought—rather than just rushing ahead. “The only sure way forward I can see is to trap Mackay—to lure her with blackmail-worthy information about another young lady that is wholly invented and therefore of no real threat to said young lady, and then wait for her to bite. Once she does, we oblige with the payment and watch her receiving it as before, then tax her with it, with the luring, the receiving, and the taxing all done in the presence of a member of the police.”