by Syrie James
“Forgive me.” He stepped back a fraction, releasing her.
She stabbed the cue stick forward, barely nicking the cue ball and completely flubbing the shot. She straightened. Her feet seemed to belong to someone else. “You deliberately distracted me.”
“I was only trying to help.” The look in his eyes was impish, like molten danger.
“Or trying to make me miss. Afraid I might beat you?”
“I have no objection to being beaten. In fact, I’d enjoy it.” He sank numerous additional balls until more than half of the table was clear, and then it was her turn. She’d no sooner lined up a shot than he moved in behind her again, his body pressed against hers, his arms around her once more as he readjusted her aim. “Like this,” he breathed against her neck.
A riot of sensations cascaded through her. Every nerve in her body seemed to be on edge. Kathryn felt dizzy and more incredibly alive than she’d ever felt in her entire life, and yet it was difficult to think straight.
“Your Grace.” Kathryn knew she should remove herself from his grasp but couldn’t bring herself to move a muscle. She wanted to add, Don’t, but she couldn’t form the word; it was the antithesis of what she really wanted.
His arms scooped neatly around her now, pulling her even closer to him as his lips nibbled the side of her neck. “Miss Atherton. You intoxicate me.”
She felt equally inebriated. Probably because she was. “We shouldn’t—” she began.
“I think we should.” He pressed his mouth against her neck, implanting a trail of kisses that made her gasp and her entire body quiver.
A thought from some far-off place cautioned her as to where this might lead. That she ought to call it off at once. But she didn’t want to call it off. Not yet. Everything she was feeling was so wondrous and new.
She had made love to a man once. To Pierre in Paris. But it hadn’t been anything like this. Not even close.
Kathryn knew how to satisfy herself. She’d explored, she’d discovered. But that was a solo act enabled by imagination. This was thrillingly real.
And all he was doing was kissing her neck.
His hands glided up to press against the sides of her silk jacket, molding to the curves of her breasts beneath it. She wished now that she had taken the garment off. She ached to feel his hands against her own flesh. Such thoughts were wrong, totally wrong. She was working for him! But somehow she didn’t care.
One of his hands slid down past her navel, to massage her abdomen through the fabric of her skirt. She gasped at his boldness, but didn’t want him to stop. A glow built in that region within her. Moisture gathered in her most private of places. She knew what it meant: that she wanted him. That her body craved more.
Kathryn was starting to feel even more fuzzy around the edges now as he slowly, with utter gentleness, spun her around in his arms to face him. One hand was on the small of her back as the other came up to caress her chin and tilt it upward. Their eyes met silently. She saw the ache of desire in his.
An identical, answering emotion bloomed throughout her entire body. It must have shown in her eyes. Because without another word, his lips came down on hers to claim them.
Lance hadn’t invited her to play billiards with the intention of seducing her. He had just thought: a simple, friendly game. Then things had started heating up between them. Until he hadn’t been able to help himself.
He didn’t know a thing about this woman, except that she was a talented almost-architect from New York who had studied in London. From the quality and style of her clothing, he guessed she earned a damn good salary.
He liked her. He admired her gumption. And he’d been dying to touch her since the moment they’d met. Every hour in her presence since had only made him want it more.
But she was working for him now, at least for the next few weeks or so. As such, he shouldn’t be kissing her. Or touching her. Especially like this.
Damn it, he couldn’t think about that now. Not with her body and lips crushed against his, returning his kiss with a fervor that matched his own.
Breaking the kiss, he looked down at her. He had noticed her wavering slightly on her feet a while back. She had seemed like a woman who could hold her liquor, and she’d insisted on that shot of whiskey. But they’d both had a lot to drink. He couldn’t be sure she wasn’t intoxicated. If so, he didn’t want to take advantage of her.
She hadn’t offered any resistance, but he needed to make sure she wanted this.
They stood there for a moment, each catching their breath. Her aquamarine eyes glittered as she gazed up at him. He read desire and invitation in their depths. Then she raised up on her tiptoes and planted another firm kiss on his mouth.
Hellcat. He ran his hands up and down her back, slowing his pace with softer kisses, then teased the seam of her lips, urging them apart until he was able to slip his tongue inside her mouth.
She let out a soft whimper as their tongues sparred and tangled. She tasted of wine and whiskey and something else that was delectable and essentially her. His cock was aching hard and he pressed himself against her, wanting her to know what she was doing to him.
Her response was a moan and her arms tightened around him. Her skin and hair smelled like roses, a scent that was an aphrodisiac. They kissed and kissed, running their hands up and down each other’s bodies until he felt he might die from the joy of it.
His mind was a fog of desire. Lance had made love to many women. Even as a lowly sailor, women had fawned over him at every port. Since he became an officer, he’d been able to walk into any public house and have his pick of any female in the room. His chosen companion—or companions—had happily invited him home or followed him on board for a night of steamy sex. They had just as happily left the next morning.
What he was feeling now seemed different, somehow, than what he’d experienced with those women.
This encounter had just barely begun. But there was something about this woman that had kept him off-kilter since he’d first set eyes on her. Something he was feeling to the very core of his soul. She was unlike any woman he had ever met.
And she was kissing him with a passion unlike any woman he had ever kissed before. Every movement of her tongue, every touch of her hands, left him breathless.
He broke off the kiss, gasping for air. Her earlobes invited exploration. Taking one lightly between his lips, he licked and nibbled it, then proceeded down her neck, soon reaching the collar of her blouse. Damnation.
He had hoped that if she changed clothes for dinner, she would don more typical evening attire—a gown with a low-cut bodice that would show off some cleavage. Instead, to his disappointment, she had appeared all high-collared and buttoned-up in yet another businesslike suit that was even more conservative than the one she’d arrived in.
He wanted the jacket and blouse gone. And the skirt. He wanted to see her. All of her.
His hands moved to the top button of her jacket. He paused, meeting her gaze, again waiting for her reaction. Giving her a chance to protest. If he saw even the slightest hesitation, he would stop.
But she didn’t protest. Her breath was coming hard and fast and her eyes were still filled with open invitation. It was all the invitation he needed. Lance made short shrift of the jacket’s buttons and yanked it open. Hastily, she helped him remove her arms from the sleeves. The garment dropped to the floor.
Her blouse was white, probably silk, and looked expensive. Despite his impatience, he didn’t want to ruin it. With nimble fingers, he undid the row of pearl buttons which handily ran up the front of the blouse. He undid the cuffs. In seconds, the blouse was gone.
He stopped to take in the creamy expanse of her neck and décolletage above her corset.
Dear God, she was beautiful.
He kissed her again, urgently, then trailed more kisses across her upper chest. Her skin was hot and moist beneath his mouth. Her head fell back now and her back arched, pushing her upper breasts into view. Her pink nipples p
erched at the edge of her corset, both breasts threatening to burst free of their confines.
His cock was as hard as a rock and straining to burst free of its confines. He kissed every inch of her exposed breasts, kissed the cleft where they met, licked the edge of one pink nipple, then swept his tongue down beneath her corset and chemise to tease the hidden treasure to a pert point. She moaned and made a whimpering sound.
He wanted more.
In one smooth motion, Lance lifted her into his arms and laid her faceup on the billiards table, then nimbly climbed up and settled beside her, shoving errant balls out of the way as he drew her into his arms. Her eyes were closed now and her breathing had grown soft and slow. As he kissed her again, he massaged her breasts through her corset.
Time seemed to have lost all meaning. A tiny voice in the far recesses of his mind warned him that he ought to stop. But he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. All he could think about was the fiery need that threatened to consume him and the astonishing woman in his arms.
Ending the kiss, he yanked down the top edge of her corset until one of her nipples popped fully into view. Her breast was full and white and perfectly round, the coral nipple begging to be suckled.
He obliged, running his tongue around the areola and the hard tip. She didn’t move, just made a slight, soft sound, something between a sigh and a whimper. It excited him all the more.
He wanted to be inside her. He wanted every stitch of their clothing gone.
Something told him that she wasn’t a virgin. He had made love to virgins. They had always been tentative and uncertain. This woman was anything but uncertain. She had met him play for play, every step of the way. Her reactions, though, at certain points in the action, suggested that she didn’t have a great deal of experience. Or perhaps whatever experience she did have hadn’t been particularly good.
He was going to make it good for her. Very, very good.
He didn’t have a French letter on him. But there were other ways to protect her.
Lance raised her skirts until he was able to slip his hand beneath them, then slowly massaged his way up her undergarments toward the part where her legs joined. There was usually a slit in the fabric there. Once he touched her in that spot, once his fingers worked their magic, he knew she’d be his.
As his hand inched in that direction, he suddenly noticed that she had grown very still. He raised up to look at her. Her eyes were closed. She wasn’t moving a muscle. Her face was relaxed and her breathing was slow and deep.
Lance paused, a wave of guilt washing over him. Was she . . . asleep?
She let out a slight snore.
Well, that confirmed it. Lance sighed with regret, then couldn’t help but chuckle. He couldn’t recall ever being in this situation before. Plenty of women had fallen asleep in his bed after sex. But none of them had passed out on him before they had completed the act.
He told himself not to take it personally. It was no mark against his sexual prowess—she’d simply had too much to drink. In truth, it was probably better that things hadn’t progressed any further. She was going to be working for him for a while. They ought to keep things professional. Damn it all to hell.
Rolling off of her, Lance readjusted her corset, smoothed her skirts into place, and slid off the billiards table, pausing until he’d regained mastery of himself.
What now? She made an endearing picture, snoring ever so slightly in between long, even breaths. She looked so relaxed he couldn’t bring himself to wake her—even if he could wake her, which was in serious doubt.
He needed to get her back to her room and put her to bed. He considered calling a servant, but decided against it. Lance had a feeling that, were Miss Atherton to be aware of the situation, she would be mortified. So he’d deal with it himself and hope that nobody was the wiser.
Chapter Five
The swoosh of draperies being pulled open awakened Kathryn with a start. Before she opened her eyes, she was aware of a parched mouth and an insistent pounding in her temple.
“Good mornin’, miss,” announced a cheerful female voice with a Cornish accent.
With difficulty, Kathryn pried open her eyes, squinting against the blast of sunlight that invaded her room. She made out the vague outline of a maid standing a few yards away.
“Would ye care to breakfast in yer room, miss?” the maid inquired. “Or do ye prefer to dine downstairs?”
Kathryn struggled to think. Where was she? Oh yes, St. Gabriel’s Mount. Her stomach felt queasy and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a blinding headache.
A blanket was pulled up to her chin. Rubbing her eyes to free them of grit, Kathryn glanced at the maid again. She recognized her now. It was the redheaded girl who had brought Kathryn down to dinner the evening before. What was her name? Some kind of flower or plant? Ivy, that was it.
“Just tea and dry toast, Ivy. Nothing else. Thanks. If you’d bring it up, I’d be most appreciative.” Kathryn yawned. “I might want to sleep a bit longer.”
“Very well, miss.” The girl bobbed and left the room, shutting the door softly behind her.
Kathryn closed her eyes again and sank back onto the pillow, wondering why she felt so dreadful. Was it something she ate? She recalled a lovely dinner the evening before with Lord Darcy and the dowager duchess. And afterward . . .
The afterward slowly started coming back to her. Kathryn remembered talking with Lord Darcy in the smoking room. Downing a shot of delicious Irish whiskey. He’d looked so handsome in his evening attire. They’d discussed something about tearing down a wall. About opening up the room to include the billiards room.
The billiards room.
Kathryn’s pulse stuttered. Something had happened in that room . . . What? They had started playing a game. The duke had adjusted her aim. And then . . . she remembered his arms around her. His warm breath against her neck. All at once she had been in his embrace and . . . they were kissing. A hot and passionate kiss.
Kathryn gasped at the memory and sat up abruptly in bed, an action that made her stomach lurch and her head pound even harder and the blanket fall to her lap. Oh dear God, she’d kissed him. What happened after that?
She noticed with sudden horror that she was wearing her corset instead of a nightgown. Throwing off the blanket, she confirmed that she was also still wearing her skirt and everything else beneath it. She caught sight of her blouse and jacket lying over the back of a nearby chair, and her boots on the floor.
Why hadn’t she finished undressing for bed? How had she even gotten back to her room? She couldn’t remember.
Panicked, Kathryn held her hands to her forehead. Think. Think. Why was it so hard to think? Why did it feel like her head was splitting open?
Slowly but surely, additional images from the evening before began to fill her mind. That first kiss, she realized with growing humiliation, had just been a precursor to a storm.
She blushed as she recalled Lord Darcy’s mouth on hers, hot and insistent. The way his hands had roved over her body. The way her hands had roved over his body. How he had pressed himself against her and she’d felt the proof of his desire.
More memories came into sharp focus: his fingers working at the buttons on her blouse. His mouth on her breasts. His tongue dipping beneath her corset. If her face had been hot before, now it felt as if it were erupting in flames.
Kathryn had a distinct memory of him laying her on top of the billiards table, then stretching out beside her and scooping her into his arms.
Try as she might, she couldn’t recall anything after that.
What have I done?
Had they made love? She had no idea. Oh God, I hope not.
Staring down at her state of dress, or rather undress, Kathryn tried to persuade herself that they had not actually . . . done the deed. After all, she was still mostly clothed. Had she gotten totally naked, she doubted the duke would have gone to the effort to dress her again.
Leaping out of bed, Ka
thryn freshened up at her pitcher and basin, then slipped on her blouse and jacket. When Ivy returned with the tea, she’d never know Kathryn had fallen asleep with her clothes on.
She wondered again how she’d gotten back to her room. She prayed that the duke hadn’t involved the staff in any way. Were anyone else to find out what she’d done, she’d be even more embarrassed.
Sitting down on the chair, Kathryn put on her shoes. What had happened last night was wrong on so many levels.
It had been one thing to make love with Pierre in Paris. That had been by design. Knowing she would never marry, Kathryn had wanted one sexual experience to understand the mysteries everyone was always talking about. Afterward, they’d gone their separate ways, knowing they’d never see each other again.
Last night was a different thing entirely.
Last night, she had behaved in the most wanton manner with the Duke of Darcy. A man who had just hired her to work for him.
Never mix business with pleasure.
She wished she could blame Lord Darcy. Tell herself that he was a cad. That he’d taken advantage of her, made her do things against her will. But it wasn’t true.
His behavior, of course, was equally wrong. He had deliberately made advances when they were playing billiards. Everything that had followed was entirely inappropriate.
But she had been a willing party to it all. A sudden image surfaced, of herself standing on her tiptoes and planting a kiss on him. And then eagerly shrugging out of her jacket and helping him take off her blouse. Gaaaaack!
Clearly, she hadn’t been in her right mind. Clearly he’d been right when he’d suggested, before they ventured into the smoking room, that she might have already had too much to drink. She must have been tipsy long before things got so out of hand. Or maybe even been flat-out intoxicated. Yet she’d asked for a whiskey, anyway.
Kathryn couldn’t recall ever being intoxicated in her life. A shot or two with the boys had always gone down smoothly, no problem. But then again, it hadn’t been preceded by three (or was it four? Five?) glasses of wine.
