All About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  She gave it unstintingly with smiles, laughter, and an effortless understanding. With sincere interest and a deep caring. It glowed—in her eyes, like an aura all about her. The children, the woman, basked and drew it in; Phyllida simply gave.

  He was sure she didn’t realize—she certainly didn’t realize how much he could see.

  Finally, after much teasing, she stood and the children, made to mind by their mother, let her go. She strolled toward him, still smiling softly, her gaze on the path. As she neared, she looked up. He kept his expression impassive. “Did they see anyone?”

  She shook her head. Looking back, she waved, then, side by side, they headed for the curricle.

  “They were out on Sunday morning. It was glorious weather, if you recall. They play out there most of the time. The chances of anyone slipping by and being missed by all those sharp eyes . . .”

  He handed her up to the seat. “So we’ve accomplished what we set out to do—we’ve confirmed no visitor, no one from outside, rode into Colyton on Sunday, at least not from the east.”

  Phyllida was silent as he set the blacks in motion and turned them out onto the road. “Now where? I’m ravenous. We need a place to do justice to Mrs. Hemmings’s picnic.”

  She pointed south. “Down to the coast. It’s wonderful on the cliffs.”

  The road took them down through the village of Axmouth, then wound up onto the cliffs. She directed him along a rutted track that led to a stand of scrubby trees. “We can leave the horses here. It’s not much further.”

  Carrying the basket, he followed her onto the windswept cliff. The view was magnificent. He stopped to drink in the majestic sweep of the cliffs westward. The Axe spilled into the sea virtually at their feet, distance miniaturizing the houses of Axmouth. The estuary itself was peaceful, but beyond the breakers the Channel swell ruled, surging powerfully.

  The gray-green sea stretched to the horizon; the cliffs dominated on either side. Phyllida stood watching a little way ahead; when his gaze reached her, she smiled and beckoned with her head. She led the way around a hillock; a patch of grass lay protected by the hillock, large boulders, and trees. It was a pretty spot, partly sheltered yet still open, still blessed with panoramic views.

  “Jonas and I found this place when we were children.” Phyllida drew the rug from the basket, then spread it on the grass. As she straightened, Lucifer’s hand appeared before her. She hesitated, then put her fingers in his and let him hand her down to the rug. He placed the basket beside her. She busied herself unpacking and arranging their feast.

  He lounged on the other side of the basket and reached for the bottle wrapped in a white napkin. Sliding it free, he rummaged for the glasses. When she finished laying out their repast, he had a glass ready to hand to her.

  “To summer.”

  She smiled and clinked glasses, then sipped. The wine slid down her throat, cold and refreshing; a tingle slithered down her spine. A whisper of anticipation echoed in her mind while a pleasurable warmth spread through her.

  They ate. He seemed to know her needs before she did, offering her rolls, the chicken, pastries. At first, she felt unnerved; then she hid a self-deprecatory smile. He wasn’t deliberately trying to rattle her—he wasn’t even aware he was. Such attentions were simply second nature to him.

  Not so to her. No other man treated her like that—ready with a steadying hand, a protective shoulder, not out of any intent to impress her but simply because she was she.

  It was unnerving, and rather nice.

  “Does the Colyton Import Company bring its goods ashore near here?”

  She waved to the west. “There’s a path to the beach a little way along. It’s easy to find; there’s a knoll beside it. If we need to light a beacon, we put it up there.”

  “How dangerous is it along this stretch?”

  “Not too bad if you know it. But there are reefs close.”

  “So the Colyton men go out and bring the goods in?”

  “They’ve been sailing these waters since they could stand. There’s very little risk for them.”

  She repacked the basket. The wind was freshening, tugging at napkins, but it was still pleasant beneath the screened sun. She’d left her parasol in the curricle and was glad she had. She couldn’t have used it in this wind.

  With everything returned to the basket, she stood. The wind frolicked about her face, flirting with her hair, teasing the ribbons of her bonnet. Lifting her face, she drew in a deep breath, then wrapped her arms about her. She’d worn a lilac cambric carriage dress, normally perfectly adequate in this weather, but here the wind rushed at her, sliding chill fingers through the fabric and along her body.

  Beside her, Lucifer uncoiled his long length and stood.

  She shivered.

  An instant later, warmth fell around her; his coat settled over her shoulders. “Oh—“ She half turned. He’d side- stepped the basket and now stood just behind her. She met his gaze briefly and prayed her reaction didn’t show. She managed a small smile. “Thank you.”

  His body heat was trapped in the fabric; it slid like a warm hand down her spine. She turned further toward him. “I’m really not that cold. You’ll freeze without your coat.”

  Before she could slide out of it, he caught the lapels and drew the coat more firmly around her. “I’m not cold.”

  Taking a firm hold of her wits, she looked up, into his eyes. “Are you sure?”

  Even as the words left her lips, she sensed the answer. She couldn’t have missed it—his hard body was near enough to feel his heat, the all-too-tempting warmth. The wind pushed her, urging her into it. Into his arms.

  His eyes, intensely blue, searched hers; his lips kicked up at the ends. “Why,” he murmured, his hands sliding from between them, his head bending nearer, “do you think they call me Lucifer?”

  If she’d been wise, she’d have stepped smartly back and told him she had no idea. Instead, she stood still, face tilted up, and let his lips settle on hers.

  The kiss was pure heat—a source of wonderful warmth. It spread through her; she could almost believe she was thawing—nerves stretching, unfurling, luxuriating. The kiss teased, tantalized. She moved closer, drawn to him, needing to feel his chest solid against her breasts. They tingled, then ached, yet it wasn’t with pain. His shirt was under her hands; she spread her fingers, feeling the fine fabric shift like a veil over hard muscle, over the roughness of hair; the flat disk of his nipple burned under her palm.

  She felt that tempting power surge through him. She parted her lips and opened her mouth to him, and shuddered when he entered. So hot. She drank it in; she wanted more. She pressed her palms to his chest, pushed them up to his shoulders. Everywhere she touched was like a furnace, the steady pulsing heat of hot coals.

  Her breasts were pressed to that heat; his hands had slipped beneath his coat and fastened about her waist. He held her tight against him, his thighs like granite columns on either side of hers. He was hard, ridged, rampant against her belly.

  A wanton urge to shift her hips and caress that rampant hardness gripped her; in something near panic, she tamped it down, like putting out a fire. The flaring urge died; she sighed into his mouth and sank a little more against him.

  He shifted, one hand rising to her throat. She felt a tug—he was pulling at her bonnet ribbons. She drew back from the kiss—the bow under her chin unraveled—

  “Oh!” She grabbed at her hat as the wind whipped it from her head. She whirled and caught it.

  Her feet twisted in the rug; she tipped backward, stumbled, and crashed into Lucifer. He caught her, tried to steady her, took a step back—

  They tumbled over the picnic basket, large and solid in the middle of the rug. Lucifer ended sitting behind it with her in his lap. Shaking with laughter. Swinging his legs free of the basket, he lifted her—and turned her and sat her back in his lap.

  He grinned at her. “We seem to be making a habit of landing on the ground with you on top of
me.”

  She blushed. She should definitely have made every effort to struggle free, to escape from his arms and stand up. Safe. Instead, she sat there, warm to the core, her gaze fastened on his lips, a mere inch in front of her nose.

  “Here—let me have that.” He tugged her bonnet from her nerveless fingers; bemused, she watched as, reaching around her, he tied the ribbons around the basket’s handle. “Now you won’t worry about losing it.”

  He was a man who definitely understood women.

  He straightened, his gaze fastening on her lips. He bent his head, fingertips sliding across the sensitive skin beneath her chin. She swallowed. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  “Why not?” His lips brushed hers lightly—too lightly to satisfy the hunger welling inside her.

  “I don’t know.” She couldn’t drag her gaze from his lips.

  They murmured, “Do you trust me?”

  Her heart was pounding in her ears. Her lungs were so tight she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think, but she knew the answer. “Yes.”

  His lips lifted. “Then relax.” They closed the distance and brushed hers; his voice was a whisper in her mind. “And let me show you what you want to know.”

  It was easy, so easy to do just that, to give him her mouth, to let herself flow, boneless in his arms. They held her, but not tightly. She felt cradled, protected, cared for.

  Worshipped.

  The thought floated through her mind as his fingers gently trailed her cheek. The touch was as wondering as hers had ever been; she suddenly understood how he had known it had been she who had touched him in Horatio’s drawing room. She’d never forget his touch, either—it was such a revealing, oddly innocent, gesture.

  His fingers drifted lower and he framed her jaw, his tongue surging boldly. Not innocent at all. She met him, knowing now what he wanted, what he liked. A dangerous knowing—so tempting to use it, to learn a little more. Her hands lay passive against his chest—she pushed them up, over his shoulders, fingers spreading over the powerful muscles, then sliding further to tangle in his hair.

  It was soft, silky, black as a night sky. She sank her fingers into the thick locks, holding tight as he slowly, unhurriedly, plundered her mouth, taking, certainly, but giving more.

  Addictive. Another word that drifted through her mind. It had to be that—the sweetest craving—that held her to the kiss even when he released her jaw.

  Forbidden—he was surely that. She shouldn’t be kissing him at all, yet the idea of stopping seemed totally foolish, something she never was. His fingers trailed, just the tips tracing tantalizingly down her throat, tightening nerves she hadn’t known she possessed. His fingers trailed on, lower; flames followed, heat spread.

  Her breast was swollen long before he touched it; once he had, she didn’t want him to stop. His touch was light, excruciatingly insubstantial—she wanted more, much more.

  Experienced—thank heavens he was that. His hand settled, hard palm cupping the weight of her breast. Delight was all she felt as his fingers firmed, then eased. His hand shifted, caressed. She sighed into their kiss and sensed his satisfaction, felt the hand at her back firm.

  The kiss grew more demanding, a fire that needed tending. She gave it her full attention, only dimly aware when the warmth of his hand about her breast slid away.

  Need was growing within her, but for what she didn’t know. The compulsion was not one she recognized. Then she felt the top button of her bodice give, and knew. A thrill of pure excitement raced through her. That was what she needed—a scandalous need, assuredly, yet . . . her breasts were swollen, aching with the heat of their kiss. Her wits were awash on the swelling tide that lapped about them. A languorous thing, it whispered promises of things she’d never known, of pleasure beyond imagining.

  The touch of cool air on her breasts, the light tracing of his fingers as he brushed her bodice wide, drew her from the mesmerizing warmth of their kiss. She should stop him, she knew it, yet . . . she couldn’t recall why. There was no threat, no danger—he’d told her to trust him and she did. If she wanted this to end, wanted to bring the simple pleasure to a halt, she only had to say.

  She didn’t say—she had no reason to. She wanted to know, to feel, to be touched and savored. Just once to be a woman desired.

  He gave her what she wanted, that and much more.

  She hadn’t known that his lips would feel like that, there. That the hot wetness of his mouth could scald her so and rip her wits away. Hadn’t known that her body could grow so hot and heavy, so wanton with desire.

  It was desire that thrummed through her, that pounded in her blood, that rose to every touch, every tantalizing caress. His lightest touch was sharp delight; more explicit caresses left her senses reeling. Heated pleasure was what he conjured; purposely, he wrapped her in it, pressed it upon her, and let it sink into her.

  Until she was filled with it, until her mind rode on the warm waves and her body was melting.

  His lips returned to hers, and she welcomed him back. His hand closed possessively about her naked breast and her body sang.

  He drew back from the kiss, just enough to look down at her. He studied his hand, firm and still about her breast; her flesh filled and heated even more. His gaze lifted to rove her face, her eyes. He glanced past her.

  His gaze steadied, fixed beyond her. Then he blinked; she saw his eyes widen and alter focus, saw his features harden. She felt the changing tension in his body.

  Lucifer looked back at her—and tried to think. Tried to breathe past the tightness in his chest. She lay relaxed in his arms, her nipple furled between his fingers, her skin hot silk against his palm. He felt dazed. Rational thought had left him long ago; desire rode him—potent temptation flicked a whip.

  He knew what he wanted, the need sharp as spurs, as clamorous as any demon.

  A tempest was bearing down on them, racing over the sea, piling thunderheads before it, yet looking into her eyes, drowning dark beneath heavy lids, with her body supple and heated in his arms, he wasn’t sure in which direction danger lay.

  It had been a long, long time since he’d surrendered so completely that he’d lost all sense of self-protection.

  Stifling a curse, he bent his head and kissed her, passion-deep, fire-hot. He closed his hand over her breast, fingers kneading, tightening . . . then easing. He drew back—from the kiss, from the caress, his fingers reluctantly leaving her. He brushed a last kiss to her lips as he drew her bodice closed.

  Her eyes blinked wide, revealing surprise . . . disappointment.

  Features setting grimly, he nodded out to sea. “There’s a storm blowing in—we have to go back.”

  Late the next morning, Lucifer tramped through the wood behind the Manor and tried not to think about the previous day. He’d told Phyllida the truth; they’d had to go back, to retreat. He’d gone charging into unchartered terrain, far too fast for her, and much too fast for him.

  Thank God for storms.

  He’d started today with breakfast at a table too empty for his liking. He’d never lived alone; the solitary life did not suit him. He’d repaired to the library and started sorting through Horatio’s desk. He’d spent two hours reading accumulated correspondence.

  After that, he’d had to get out. Walking through the wood to explore the lay of his land all the way down to the Axe seemed a sensible, and sufficiently physical, exercise.

  He felt like the energy of last night’s storm was bottled up inside him.

  The storm had brought rain; they’d gained Colyton in the teeth of a downpour. Although the sun was now out, the wood remained damp; the tang of rain-washed greenery rode the light breeze. He’d headed east from the rear of the stable block, leaving the lake on his left. The trees ahead thinned; he’d trudged for less than half a mile. Fifty paces more and he stood on the edge of a wide field, gently sloping down; beyond lay a lush meadow. Beyond that lay the Axe, a gray-blue ribbon glimmering in the sunshine.

  H
e ambled down the sloping field. A flash of movement to his left caught his eye. He looked, then halted.

  Phyllida was marching—no, storming—through his field. Her skirts frothed about her, whipped by the violence of her stride. Her gaze was fixed in front of her. Her dark hair gleamed. She held her poke bonnet in both hands.

  She was mangling the bonnet, twisting it, hands clenched on the brim.

  He stepped out to intercept her.

  She didn’t see him until he was almost upon her. She recoiled, eyes flaring, one hand rising to her breast. A squeak escaped her; it would have been a scream if she hadn’t recognized him and smothered it. Gulping in a breath, she stared up at him through huge dark eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” He smothered an urge of his own—to haul her into his arms. “What happened?”

  She dragged in another breath and looked at her bonnet. She was shaking. “Look!” She thrust her finger through a hole in the crown. “The ball just missed my head!”

  Her tone made it clear she wasn’t shaking with fear. She was shaking with fury. She whirled and looked back the way she’d come. “How dare they!” If both hands hadn’t been clenched on the bonnet, she would probably have shaken her fist. “Stupid hunters!”

  The words trembled; she bit them off and hiccuped.

  Lucifer reached out and wrapped his hand around one of hers, tugging until she released the bonnet. He enveloped her small hand in his and drew her to face him.

  Her expression was blank, not calm and serene but blank, as if she couldn’t maintain her usual mask but was fighting not to let her feelings show. Her eyes, wide and dark, were turbulent, awash with emotions. Fear was there, very real; she was using her fury to counter it.

  He drew her nearer still, until she stood close enough to feel his heat and the shield of his physical presence. She was wound tight, her control so brittlely fragile he didn’t want to risk even putting an arm around her; she wouldn’t thank him if she broke. “Where did it happen?”

  She dropped her gaze to his chest, drew a tight breath, then gestured with her bonnet. “Back there. Two fields back.” After a moment, she added, “I was returning from visiting old Mrs. Dewbridge—I go there every Friday.”