Eyes tightly closed, she gasped; with one hand at her waist, he bent her back. Then his lips pressed hotly to the upper swell of her breast and she shuddered. Lost all touch with the world as with lips, tongue and teeth, with the hot wetness of his mouth, he tasted and learned.
And taught her. The sensations he evoked, that he sent whirling through her, that speared her, that wracked her, were more, far more intense than she’d imagined they might be. With his mouth on her breasts, he waltzed her into a new landscape of heat, hovering passion, and a deeper, sharper, more powerful yearning.
Not good, she knew, but oh so addictive. Her senses unfurled; parched, denied for so long, they gloried and wallowed in the bounty of delight he pressed on her.
He gripped, lifted her, then she was on the desk, lying back amid her ledgers and accounts, her knees and thighs spread with his hips between. And he was leaning over her; one of her hands had risen to his head, holding him to her as he devoured.
As he unhurriedly pursued the answer to his question, and flooded her mind with pleasure.
Pleasure that swelled, grew, built, until she was squirming, arching lightly as the heat rose, as passion took hold, and that nameless yearning grew ever more insistent.
He paused; she felt his breath, as ragged and shallow as hers, wash over her swollen flesh, over her sensitized skin. Then his hand closed over her breast, his touch harder, more driven; his head rose and he found her lips—and whirled her into a more heated kiss.
This she knew, this she recognized; she opened her senses and embraced the moment—gathered to her all the sensations he offered—and felt her world quake.
He growled something through the increasingly ravenous kiss, then his hand left her breast, but to her relief not her body, moving lower, possessively claiming midriff and waist, hip and belly and upper thigh. He gripped briefly, then released the taut muscle and moved his hand to the juncture of her thighs.
He touched her through the thin material of her gown, sliding the silk of her chemise against her most sensitive flesh. She shuddered, held him more tightly to the kiss, tempted and challenged with her tongue—sensually reeled when he responded with a devastating invasion that left her trapped, caught, driven to some indefinable peak.
Then she realized it was his fingers, cleverly, expertly caressing between her thighs that were making her feel so. Making her feel as if her world—the one he’d swept her into—was about to end.
To erupt, to shatter.
Then it did.
Gervase knew the instant her climax overcame her, so powerful, so dramatic that his head reeled. Drawing back from their kiss, he watched her—watched passion tighten her features, peak, then fracture, to be erased by a sweeping wave of satiation.
He continued to drink in the sight of her, of the lovely lines of her face as they eased—inwardly victorious at being the first to evoke that particular expression.
Inwardly affirmed that he would also be the only.
He hadn’t intended this interlude—this latest step in his campaign—to progress quite so far, yet he was in no way sorry that it had. Her curiosity, her willingness, were the defining aspects; he’d had to adjust his pace to suit.
Which, thank Heaven, meant he was closer to success—and therefore to relief—than he’d been an hour ago.
Her lashes fluttered, then rose. For a long moment, she simply stared, dazed, into his eyes. He hid a self-satisfied smile, but couldn’t stop his gaze from lowering, lingering first on her lips—swollen from their passionate kisses—then lowering still further over the expanse of creamy, now pinked skin to her bare breasts, full and bearing the telltale marks of his possession.
It took effort not to allow what he felt at the sight to show in his face. With a sigh he let her hear, he moved back, straightened; taking her hands, he drew her up, until she slid from the desk to her feet.
They both looked at the desk, at the ledgers and papers now scattered in disarray across its surface.
Raising one hand, cupping her nape, his thumb beneath her jaw, he drew her face to his. Met her eyes for a finite moment, then bent and kissed her—long, slow, deeply but with passion well banked, restrained.
Lifting his head, he released her, then brushed his thumb over her glistening lower lip. “We’ll meet again tomorrow evening. For now, I’d better leave you to your business.”
She stared at him, but he only smiled, then turned and crossed to the door. He felt the distracted confusion in her gaze as, transparently struck dumb, she watched him leave.
As he closed the door, his smile took on a grim edge.
Riding when aroused wasn’t his idea of pleasure, but with any luck at all, the end of his campaign was nigh.
She wasn’t a wanton.
Late that night, when all the rest of the household were long abed, Madeline sat before her dressing table, restlessly, idly, brushing her hair.
Unbidden, her gaze lowered to her breasts, decorously concealed beneath her fine linen nightgown. She’d never thought much of them before, but he’d seemed fascinated…he’d certainly been thorough in his studies…
She blinked, sucked in a breath—stared at the evidence that just thought, just the memory of what she’d experienced that afternoon courtesy of his expertise was enough to stir her. Again. To make her breasts swell, her nipples pucker.
As for the rest of her….
She pressed her thighs together, and determinedly refocused on the mirror. She might not be a wanton, but when in his arms, she became abandoned, lost to all good sense.
A creature of her senses.
She’d never been that before.
She didn’t know what that side of her was like, and didn’t know where learning more of it might lead her. But now she knew that part of her existed—an undeniably female, womanly side of her nature that she’d never explored…she couldn’t imagine not learning more.
Knew in her heart, and in her head, too, that she wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d learned more.
Much as falling in with Gervase’s stated aim went against her grain, she had no doubt whatever that warming his bed would answer her every question.
“Much as I would prefer not to pander to his arrogance”—she fixed her gaze on her reflection and spoke to it—“who else is there with whom I might learn?”
A telling point. Quite aside from the fact that in her nearly twenty-nine years he was the only male to stir her in that way—to evoke the sensual female inside her—he was also the only man she could imagine trusting enough to venture further. Quite why she trusted him so implicitly she wasn’t entirely sure, but that trust went bone-deep, beyond thought or question.
Her brush strokes slowed, halted. She stared into her eyes, then narrowed them. “I’ve never been missish in my life.”
Setting down the brush, she rose. She looked at her reflection, at the long length of her, the rippling mass of her hair, the lush curves of breasts and hips imperfectly concealed beneath the thin nightgown.
She studied the vision, then raised her chin. “Very well, my lord. Tomorrow evening it is.”
Bending forward, she blew out her candle, then retreated to her bed.
They’d known they would meet at Caterham House. Madeline arrived first. Garbed in a gown of chartreuse silk, she prowled the drawing room, impatient and restless. Having made up her mind, she wanted to get on. Lady Caterham’s party was an annual event, no dancing but with every local family of note summoned to fill her ladyship’s drawing room, overflowing onto the terrace, with conversation on every side and supper to look forward to later.
While accustomed to attending such entertainments and chatting with her neighbors with good grace, tonight Madeline felt too keyed up to relax into her usual routine; tonight, discussing tin mining held no allure.
Luckily, with such a crowd, no one was likely to notice such aberrant behavior.
“Miss Gascoigne—we meet again.”
Madeline whirled and discovered Mr. Courtland bowing before he
r. She gave him her hand, suffered him to press her fingers a trifle more meaningfully than she considered appropriate. “Good evening, sir. I take it Lady Hardesty’s company is gracing Caterham House tonight?”
Courtland blinked; unsure if there was a barb in the comment, he replied rather carefully, “Lady Caterham was kind enough to invite Lady Hardesty and extended the invitation to her guests.”
“Lady Caterham always invites everyone who is anyone around about, and naturally she includes any guests they have staying.” Of course. “However, my comment was occasioned by surprise that the invitation was accepted. This”—with a wave Madeline indicated the crowded room—“can hardly compare with London events.”
More certain now that she was censoriously inclined, Courtland paused, then said, “We found ourselves growing rather dull, so…” He shrugged.
So they’d come to see what excitement they could stir up among the locals. Madeline inwardly sniffed, then remembered Lady Hardesty, and her view of Madeline herself, one of said locals.
Sheer devilment prompted her to smile on Mr. Courtland, making him blink. “Perhaps we might join her ladyship? I haven’t had much chance to speak with her.”
Although still wary, Courtland readily offered his arm. She took it and let him guide her through the throng to where Lady Hardesty was holding court in one corner of the room.
She was, Madeline inwardly admitted, a handsome woman, her sleek dark hair piled in artful curls on her head, her gown of blue satin in the very latest style. She was about Madeline’s age, perhaps a year or so older, yet when Madeline joined their circle and Lady Hardesty smiled in polite welcome, Madeline saw that her face was a trifle hard, as if despite the creams and potions doubtless employed to keep her skin supple, despite the fine sapphires about her throat, life had treated her harshly.
But she greeted Madeline sincerely, and reacquainted her with the rest of the circle; all were Londoners, all Lady Hardesty’s guests. Robert Hardesty was nowhere to be seen.
At the end of the greetings, Lady Hardesty bent a rueful look on Madeline. “I confess I’m grateful to you, Miss Gascoigne, for breaking the ice, as it were.” She gave a little laugh. “I’m starting to think I’ll have to live here for years before the locals thaw toward me.”
Madeline refrained from suggesting that surrounding herself with her London friends was hardly conducive to encouraging locals to approach her. “Not so long. They’ll come around.” She met Lady Hardesty’s eyes. “Once they take your measure.” She paused, holding her ladyship’s blue gaze, then added, “And once you’ve taken ours.”
Correctly hung in the air.
Lady Hardesty blinked, then Mr. Courtland made a comment and Madeline turned to listen—and was immediately distracted by the sight of a curly dark head across the room. Tall enough to see over the crowd, she saw Gervase spot her and start the long process of winning through to her side.
Chatting politely, she waited. Very aware of his approach, she knew when he realized who she was with—and hesitated. She nearly looked his way, but he’d tacked to come up beside her and she didn’t want to appear so conscious of his presence. So on tenterhooks, so eager.
But then he was there, taking her hand, smoothly insinuating himself beside her, greeting the others with a chilly, aloof civility so unlike his customary ease that she nearly turned to stare at him.
“I’m so glad you joined us, my lord.” Her welcoming smile far brighter than it had been for Madeline, Lady Hardesty spoke across her. “As I was saying to Miss Gascoigne, I’m eager to get to know those who live in the area a great deal better.”
“Indeed?” Gervase read the open invitation in Lady Hardesty’s eyes, and felt nothing but irritation. Why in such a crowded room had Madeline paused there?
“I understand you live in a real castle, my lord.” Miss Bildwell leaned across the circle, all but batting her lashes. “It must be utterly romantic.”
“Many suppose so but the reality is regrettably mundane.” His tone was designed to depress all inclination to ask to visit said castle, and more, to make it plain he’d joined their circle for one reason only; he turned to Madeline. “My dear, Sybil wishes to speak with you, if you can spare her a moment.”
Madeline blinked at him, but what she saw in his eyes must have made his underlying temper clear. “Of course.” Allowing him to tuck her hand—which he hadn’t relinquished—into the crook of his arm, she turned to Lady Hardesty and inclined her head gracefully. “If you’ll excuse us?”
To Gervase’s surprise, Lady Hardesty stared at Madeline as if she’d only just noticed her—all close to six feet of delectable curves sheathed in jewel-hued silk. How anyone could overlook his Valkyrie he had no idea, but after that stunned minute, Lady Hardesty managed a smile and nodded, sufficiently graciously, in return.
With a general glance at the others, the barest minimum to be polite, he drew Madeline away.
As he steered her diagonally across the room, she glanced at him. “I assume Sybil has no idea she wishes to speak with me?”
“None whatever.” Over the sea of heads, he surveyed the room. “I simply saw no reason to waste my time or yours in that company.”
Entirely in accord, Madeline smiled and looked ahead. “Where are you taking me?”
He glanced at her, slowed. “Where would you like to go?”
She met his eyes, then succinctly replied, “Somewhere private.”
He studied her eyes, confirming she was serious, then looked ahead. “An excellent notion.”
The note of intent rippling through his deep voice sent a quiver of anticipation sliding through her.
“The terrace, I think.”
“There’s lots of others out there.”
“Not where I’m thinking of.”
Convinced he’d be proved wrong, with an inward sigh she acquiesced and let him guide her toward the open doors giving onto the long terrace.
Their progress was interrupted, numerous acquaintances hailing them to exchange greetings and the latest local gossip. It took half an hour to gain the terrace flags, and another fifteen minutes before they won free of the knot of guests congregated just outside the doors, enjoying the balmy night.
At last Gervase drew her away; tucking her hand in his arm again, he strolled down the terrace away from the drawing room. The terrace ran the length of one side of the house; while she’d attended any number of Lady Caterham’s events, Madeline had never walked to the far end—let alone around it.
When, after one swift glance back, Gervase whisked her around the corner, she halted in surprise. The terrace appeared to terminate in a curve at the end of its long length, but in reality the curve extended around the corner to form a landing above another set of steps leading down.
They now stood on the landing out of sight of those gathered near the drawing room, and were also screened from those guests who’d ventured down onto the lawns.
She smiled. “Perfect.”
Turning to Gervase, she walked into his arms.
They were waiting, very ready to receive her, just as his lips were waiting to meet hers. Surrendering her mouth, she stepped into him, into the kiss, and was instantly swept into the now-familiar landscape, increasingly turbulent, fraught with suppressed hunger, with simmering passion barely restrained. She gave herself up to it, to the heat, to the moment, to what would come.
To what she wanted.
Like a searing wind, desire rose and took her. Caught her, engulfed her, overwhelmed her. Tossed on a sea of uncomprehending need, she gave in to the urgency, speared her hands through his hair, clung to him and kissed him back.
With all the fire she suddenly discovered she had in her.
Gervase mentally staggered under the onslaught, abruptly finding himself awash in a sea of heat, of flames that licked greedily over his body—following her hands.
He inwardly cursed; he wanted to catch them, end the torture before it had begun—but that would mean releasing her, dragg
ing his arms from about her, his hands from her lush curves, from the avid, heated exploration that had suddenly, unexpectedly, turned mutual.
He couldn’t do it.
Couldn’t not respond to her flagrant invitation. To the blatant enticement she pressed upon him, with her lips, her tongue, with her fabulous body. She shifted, pressed into him, and his control—what was left of it—quaked.
He’d expected to have to persuade, to exert his talents to convince her, that she would still be wary, hesitant at best, that he’d have to cajole…instead, he was left reeling in her wake.
He hadn’t expected her to surrender so easily, to give way…but as her tongue boldly tangled with his, as he felt her hands beneath his coat spread over his chest, he realized that wasn’t the case. She hadn’t given in—she’d changed her mind. She wasn’t going along with his tack—she was pursuing her own.
She’d decided she wanted him.
Something akin to the angel’s chorus rang triumphantly in his head. But he had no time to savor the triumph, not yet.
Because having decided what she wanted, she was intent on getting it.
Which would normally pose no problem whatsoever, except…
Thoughts whirled in his head, fragmented, disjointed, but clear enough for him to see the danger. She wasn’t destined to be—hadn’t been created to be—a woman lightly taken.
Unfortunately, as her present actions were most effectively demonstrating, she didn’t know that. Every wanton movement only underscored her direction; she was hell-bent on having him take her.
Trying to battle his reaction to that realization as well as battle her was all but impossible.
He broke the kiss, dragged in a desperate breath—only to hear her hum in her throat, a purring, determined warning, then she bore him back until his shoulders hit the wall.
She was on him, using her weight to pin him; he could easily have thrown her off, resisted her, if he’d been able to summon the slightest will. Instead, he merely gasped, then inwardly groaned as she framed his face and kissed him.
Wild, unrestrained—as abandoned as he’d known she would be.
Beyond Seduction Page 15
