But was it wrong to share a measure of happiness before he had to disappear? Twenty-four tiny buttons whispered in his mind like the phrase of a song.
Sarah inhaled a ragged breath and shifted in his lap. The movement pressed her rounded derriere into his crotch. A tremor shot through his groin and up his spine. Inwardly he smiled. Was his little wren unfurling her seductive wings?
How he wanted to delve into her silky warmth. But to do it now would take unfair advantage of her vulnerability. Additionally, he didn’t want to be her revenge on a cheating spouse. His body quaked in disagreement. There’d never been reason to resist his urges before. When services were paid for in advance, things progressed in a linear fashion.
Besides caring a great deal for Sarah, he was immensely attracted to her. The unpredictability, the illicitness and possible discovery made this a whole new experience. All of it excited him in a most delicious way.
Damen swept his lips across the downy softness of her cheek and traced his finger down the bridge of her nose to the slightly mischievous, turned-up tip.
Sarah smiled and slowly brushed kisses over his lips. He’d dreamed of her caressing him like this. He loved the way she explored his mouth, nipping, finding the perfect fit and then starting all over again. How sweetly she kissed, so full of heat and passion.
He shuddered, almost drunk on her caresses, and finally could resist no longer. He turned her so that her head rested in the curl of his arm and captured her mouth. The urge to be inside her grew so strong he plunged through her lips to sweep his tongue into her silky warmth.
The heady taste of her sent the room spinning.
Twenty-four tiny buttons trilled in his mind.
He opened and closed his eyes, peering at Sarah’s lovely face in disbelief. He was falling and couldn’t help himself. Her thick lashes fanned out over her now-glowing cheeks. God, she was so lovely. He wanted her so very much, and the conflict between want and honor threatened to tear him apart.
***
Sarah melted against Mr Ravenhill, lost in the pleasure of his stunning caress. His fervor wiped away any doubt their kiss in that foggy doorway had been an act.
Tenderness and delight and an overpowering sense of rightness told her he was what she’d longed for. When all the world seemed to be turning against her, Mr Ravenhill, her knight, had stepped into her life and offered his friendship and help.
Beyond his flash and charm, she’d discovered him to be a most kind and caring man and admired him more than anyone of her acquaintance. Not since she was a little girl had someone rocked her on their knee and tried to make her laugh away her tears.
Her Aunt Eliza had advised her to pursue happiness. Mr Ravenhill was that happiness. And she wanted more. More intimacies with him, and all the private pleasures possible between a man and a woman.
But more without matrimony could only be experienced in stolen moments.
More threatened respectability.
And more did nothing to help prove she didn’t kill Edward.
It came down to a fearsome decision. Should she allow her deep-rooted need for respectability to prevail or should she take a risk on love?
His impassioned kiss blurred her reasoning. He licked the crease between her lips and she opened to him, practically moaning at the strong glide of his tongue as he swept into her mouth. His chest muscles moved against her breasts, and secret places came alive.
She breathed him in – his soap and shaving cream, his spicy citrus and sandalwood cologne, the mint dessert they’d had for dinner, and something totally manly and unique to him.
Her hands roamed about his shoulders and chest exploring the texture of his clothes. They’d the pressed starchiness of fresh laundry, like crisp wrapping paper ready to be torn off; his perfectly tied red cravat – a bow to be ripped from a jeweler’s box.
She sank her fingers into his thick locks and marveled at their glossy texture and natural wave.
He curled his arm around her neck, angling her head for a deeper kiss, his legs adjusting to the change in weight. His hard thigh muscles moved against her bum. She could feel their strength and vigor, and the sudden presence of another erotic reminder of his body’s power.
Sarah was almost beside herself with need. Everything about him made her crave him. He was strong, yet gentle, noble and selfless, and his touch made her come alive. His complex blend of masculinity, empathy, and virility sang to the wildness she’d repressed for so very long.
Chest heaving, Mr Ravenhill suddenly broke the kiss. He shifted to embrace her against his shoulder and rested his head on hers. “I… I can’t… I shouldn’t… you are too precious to…” He paused to draw a ragged breath. Finally, he managed huskily, “My lady, I fear if I stay any longer, I will do something that would not be honorable.”
Light-headed from his drugging kisses, she didn’t understand his words.
He stood and set her on her feet, breaking their warm connection.
Sarah almost moaned at the physical loss.
He tipped her chin up to gaze about her face.
Had his eyes turned as black as her gown?
“Thank you for a splendid meal and for allowing me to help look for the plans.”
He was leaving? Dazed and still not thinking clearly, dismay set in. Had he decided he didn’t like her after all? She needed to know. She needed to say something. “W... will you attend Astley’s with us tomorrow evening?”
“I look forward to it with great pleasure, my lady.”
Cool air hit her skin where he’d been only moments before. She already missed his comforting embrace, his warm body against hers, and his intoxicating caresses.
“Perhaps we should resume our search again when we’re both more… rested.”
The muscles in her face barely responded when she tried to smile up at him. Her voice emerged overly bright, “Yes… yes, of course. I’ll see you out…” Yet, everything inside cried – No! Please don’t go!
CHAPTER 18
The next day, Sarah alighted from her carriage onto busy Bond Street with the bright sun flashing off store windows. Overnight the world had changed. Colors were more vibrant, food more succulent, and music sweeter. The strange limbo she’d been in since Edward’s death had dissipated and in its place were the beginnings of deep affection for Mr Ravenhill.
His leaving had disappointed at the time. Now she saw that it was for the best. He’d made the correct decision, and she adored him all the more for it.
Gracie huffed as she scampered down the carriage steps to her side. “My lady, I know it’s somewhat of a bother, but do you think we have time to look for a bit of lace for your black silk gown?”
“I’ve decided to put away my mourning clothes, Gracie.”
“Truly, my lady?”
“I’m glad Eliza dragged me to her modiste when she did. Later, we’ll pick up one of the new gowns.”
Gracie’s eyes widened in surprise. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
Carriages pulled around theirs to the jingle of harnesses and sharp whistles. Sarah turned to her driver, grinning happily. “I will meet you at this corner in an hour.”
As he pulled away, Sarah gazed about the street. Customers strode up and down the sidewalks. Colorful signs advertised shops and businesses. How lovely they all looked, how inviting.
She strode down the street as if on a cloud and finally spotted the sign for René’s Perfumery, a shop Amelia told her made signature perfumes.
Sarah picked her way through the oncoming shoppers and pushed open the door. Bells tinkled overhead and a parade of fragrances skirted past her as she and Gracie entered. Several women already stood at the counter.
While she waited her turn, she marveled at the crystal perfume bottles lining one shelf.
“Aren’t those lovely, my lady,” Gracie cooed.
The bells above the door tinkled again and Lady Portsmithe entered with a footman loaded down with boxes.
Sarah groaned
under her breath, ducked behind a shelf of perfumed soaps, and pretended to gaze at the window display. The stout matron never missed a chance to give her the cut direct. She’d held a grudge against her since Sarah married Lord Hardington.
At the time, Lady P’s unmarried older sister had been sure of his imminent proposal. When Sarah suddenly married him, the cantankerous old loudmouth started a rumor that Lord Hardington had been made a fool of.
While Sarah pretended to gaze at the colorful boxes, outside the window a woman in a black gown, black hat and heavy black veil strolled by and entered the cobbler’s shop next door. She’d never seen anyone so completely hidden in widow’s attire.
“Mr René!” Lady Portsmithe announced in a voice that would carry a city block.
The heretofore-absent proprietor soon shuffled through the curtain, completely disregarding the two women who’d been waiting at the counter. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, my lady. Both my assistants are ill, and I’m all alone in the shop today. What may I do for you?”
“The perfume you mixed for me yesterday has gone bad,” she declared. “I put it on this morning, and now it smells like vinegar.”
While the proprietor apologized profusely and became obsequiousness itself, Sarah watched the woman in black cross the street and enter another establishment on the other side.
Not long after, a flashy, fast carriage, the same one Sarah had ridden through Hyde Park, pulled to a stop in front of the shop across the street. Mr Ravenhill, resplendent in his gray suit and red-striped vest, gamely tossed the reins to his driver and jumped to the sidewalk.
As if choreographed, the woman in black stepped out of the door directly in front of him, apparently startling him. Sarah couldn’t tell for sure, but she thought Ravenhill’s expression hardened. They exchanged a few words, and the woman placed something in his hand. Both then went their separate ways.
Obviously, the woman in black had been waiting for him. A strange quiver registered in her chest. She didn’t recognize the sensation until annoyance set in. It was ridiculous. It couldn’t be. Jealousy was such an ugly, common reaction. There had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation.
Did the woman slip him a note on how to contact her? Women of a certain class were known to throw themselves at handsome aristocratic men. But who was she? The way she completely covered herself, she could be anyone. Could she be Mary Turner? Now why did that name come to mind?
“I tell you this concoction has gone rancid!” Lady Portsmithe’s voice rose along with her temper.
“My deepest apologies, my lady. Sometimes, with certain soaps, the perfume ingredients do not mix well. I’ll make another combination for you. Come. Let’s choose a new set of scents.”
Sarah wanted to spout that the woman herself could turn flowers to vinegar, but held her tongue so as not to divert the harridan’s attention.
Mr René disappeared behind his curtain, presumably to find her something, while the two other women entertained themselves sniffing perfume samples.
Gracie knew about Lady Portsmithe’s tongue and for once kept as quiet as a dust mote.
Sarah edged to the side of the window, her back to the interior of the shop, hoping the shelving between her and Lady P would keep her and Gracie hidden.
In due time, Mr Ravenhill exited the establishment and replaced his hat. A woman swept by him on the sidewalk, only to wheel around, her face the picture of surprise and horror. Such an expression did nothing to improve Miss Eugenia Lambert, one of the wealthiest heiresses in the city, and a woman who personified peevish and prickly.
Both of an age, Sarah had known Miss Lambert when they were children. Back then Eugenia had already shown the consequences of being the doted-on, spoiled only child.
As the years rolled by and Eugenia remained unmarried, she’d become bitter and hostile. On several occasions, she’d made not-so-subtle jokes about black widows and their strange appetites for octogenarians. The comment used to rankle. After her discoveries about Edward last evening, Sarah wanted to laugh at the absurdity of her marriages.
Odd that Eugenia would speak to Mr Ravenhill. His bruises might startle initially, but it showed poor breeding on her part to show such distaste. Was that what she was commenting on? If so, no wonder she remained unmarried.
Sarah’s good mood had all but disappeared. Why were women stopping Mr Ravenhill on the street? Was he that irresistible?
This was always the way of it. There were plenty of pleasant people in London. Why, today of all days, when she’d started out so happy, did she have to cross paths with the grasping, ill-tempered, barbed-tongued banshees.
***
Damen brought the carriage to a stop, tossed the reins to his driver, and hopped from his father’s fast-racing gig onto the sidewalk. He needed to speak with the Falgate solicitor about the best way to proceed with their rent declines.
Sleep had been impossible after his evening with Lady Strathford. Common sense said he should crave rest; instead, he craved more of Sarah.
She’d wanted him. And, oh, how he’d wanted her. But the part of him that cherished fairness, the part of him that understood responsibility, knew he couldn’t allow it to go any further.
“Vulf.”
Damen’s head whipped around.
Mrs Ivanova stood on the threshold of the shop next door. “You seduce. Now have plans?” Her deep contralto made the words almost sound like a lion’s rumble.
“How do you know…?” He frowned in disgust. “Have you been following me?”
She seemed to gaze at him through her thick veil. “Men attack again…”
He couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement.
“Time short.” She handed him a note and glided away.
Damen pocketed the piece of paper without reading it and climbed the stairs to the offices above. When he’d concluded his business he returned the same way, stepping out onto the sidewalk. He’d just set his hat on his head when he heard a woman choke out his name.
“Mr Ravenhill? Is that you?”
He pivoted.
A rail-thin, bloodless woman of about thirty, wearing an elegant pastel-pink gown, stood shaded from the bright sun by her frilly parasol. Her pointy nose jutted out below an overly beribboned bonnet.
He swept off his hat and bowed.
She made a sharp cry and wheezed, “Good gracious! I’d heard you’d been assaulted, but I’d no idea they’d done such damage.” As she peered about his face, her expression pulled into a wince. “You’ve indeed been savaged!” Then her lips thinned petulantly. “Why haven’t you called on me?”
Damen wracked his memory. Who was this woman? Obviously, she knew Cory. Is this what his brother had to contend with? Every woman he met felt compelled to follow him? It suddenly came to him who she might be. Miss Lambert?”
She sniffed. “For a moment I thought you didn’t know who I was.”
Damen rubbed his jaw. “My apologies, Miss Lambert. It’s questionable which is more damaged, my face or my memory.”
“Do you not remember our wedding is in several weeks? She’d a grating speech pattern and a strange intonation on the word ‘wedding’, making a kind of hitched ‘ung, ung’ sound on the ‘ing’.
“Since you have recovered well enough to go about town, I will assume our wedding will commence in a little over two weeks as previously arranged.” She raised a gloved hand to her cheek. “Oh, dear, I must see to the invitations, and my dress and the flowers. And assemble the breakfast – an enormous undertaking in itself.”
While she reeled off the tasks, her voice picked up speed, rising in pitch with each project. “Why didn’t you at least send me a note regarding your recovery? You’ve put undue stress on an already difficult job.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Lambert. I can truthfully say I have no recollection of any of the details. My father handled matters immediately after my attack. I will get with him and sort this out.”
She pulled herself up in a show
of self-possession and said pointedly, “I will expect you to call on me so that we may discuss the wedding and matters of importance.” She didn’t say goodbye, merely marched off in a swish of starched silk.
Damen watched her retreating form. What an unpleasant woman. He’d intended to quickly go about his business, round up Cory’s assailants and be on his way. Now he realized he might have been overly optimistic. If he weren’t careful, both of Cory’s women could become major setbacks.
And knowing Cory, he’d a feeling they might not be the only snags in his plans.
CHAPTER 19
Later that day, Damen stood with one arm looped around the carved post of Cory’s bed shaking his head. “…most disagreeable harpy I’ve ever met. You certainly got your bollocks in a mangle this time. Of all the women in the world, what possessed you to choose such a frightful harridan. I can’t say your mistress is any more appealing.
“Mrs Ivanova instructed me to seduce Lady Strathford for the plans. But I can’t do it. The truth is, I’m starting to care for Sarah. I know, I know. You’ve warned me it’s never a good idea. Have a little fun, enjoy them as much as you can, love them for a time, and move on. There are too many delights to settle for only one.
“It’s even worse than that, though. I’ve started to imagine making a life with her. She fills me with so many good things – excitement, joy, laughter, contentment, and I’m having trouble keeping my hands off her. I know it can never be. But I can’t seem to help myself.”
He strolled to the other side of the bed. “I need to find your assailants and quickly, damn it! Strathford’s plans are key. If you could point me in the right direction it would help immensely.”
Cory remained still and mute, except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.
Damen gazed down at his brother’s sea trunk. “Could you possibly have left more clues?” He lifted the lid, and started taking things out – Cory’s navigating equipment, newspapers, journal and books. A worn, pocket-sized treatise fell open to one of its dog-eared pages. Air whistled through his teeth. “Cory, you heathen.”
The Trouble With Seduction Page 16
