She would have leaned forward to give it to him, but the look he gave her rather melted her into the chair. As before, his eyes took her in slowly, every bit of her from top to toes. It was thrilling, and she felt a rush of warmth between her legs while every inch of her skin began to tingle in anticipation.
He slid from the chair to his knees before her. “Well if I only get one, then I’d like to make it count,” he said in a delicious voice, and then put his hands on her knees.
She brought her hand up to her mouth to cover the soft gasp of surprise which was almost a scandalized laugh. They were suspended like that for a moment, with her wide-eyed and smiling in disbelief while he raised his brows in a devilish dare. Then he nudged her knees gently, a questioning exertion.
He murmured, “Very much and very deep and very long, I think I said?” And she was only human. She let her knees fall apart.
She felt like a giddy girl, shy and excited and inexperienced – which was nonsense, she told herself as the dressing gown parted and his hands pushed the lacy hem of the shift up her bare legs. But she had been a girl, almost, the last time she had enjoyed this particular delight. Richard had never been very inclined to it, and it seemed to be out of the question for…what was his name? She was rather forgetting things, as Mason put his face between her thighs. The village shoemaker that had been her lover, he had not done this and his name did not matter at all because Mason was breathing her in hungrily. A deep breath, a rush of air at the top of her thigh that told her he loved the scent of her arousal, that he was taking her deep into his lungs because he was as lost in lust as she was.
But he took his time. The way his tongue moved leisurely over her, a slow and luxurious journey as it moved closer and closer to the center of her, was not only meant to tease. It was for him too. He loved this, she could tell. He wanted to taste every last inch of her. She leaned back in her chair and opened her legs wider, the pleasure and the wine chasing through her veins as his tongue reached deep inside her, eager to take in every last drop.
He made a sound, a groan that sent vibrations through her and made her gasp. His tongue finally moved upward in a slow, broad stroke across the place she wanted it most. Oh God, he knew what he was doing. She pressed a fist to her mouth to keep in the shout of pleasure she wanted to let loose. Instead she made little whimpering noises, teeth pressed against her hand as she panted and his mouth continued the most delicious torture.
He brought one hand away from where it smoothed over her thigh and added it to the pleasure. A finger inside her – two, or more, she couldn’t think past what an idiot she had been to say only one kiss – and his mouth over the most sensitive part of her. She grew frantic with desire. Even as she thought she never wanted it to end, she could not wait to reach that end. He groaned again and sucked gently at her while she gasped her approval.
She looked down to take in the sight of his head between her legs, red hair gleaming in the lamplight. His fingers pressed inside her just so, his lips and tongue never relenting, and her free hand reached down to twine her fingers in his hair. Wonderful, thick hair that she gripped to hold him there as she rocked her hips forward, trying desperately to get more of herself into his mouth. His tongue played with her in earnest, his fingers urged her on until she finally reached the peak and shattered – a slow shattering that seemed to go on and on and on, that took all her breath and temporarily made her forget how even to breathe. And all the while, he tasted her, his tongue never missing even the littlest bit of her as she moaned and jerked beneath him.
“Oh,” she finally sighed, when she got her breath back and realized he was not stopping. He kept his mouth on her, his fingers moving gently and his tongue knowing exactly how and where to move on her, until she felt the excitement building again. One kiss, she had told him. Very much very long, he had said, and so she could not fault him.
She really could not fault him at all.
She might have said so, but she was urgently occupied with stifling her cries of pleasure again, sudden and strong. She had forgotten pleasure could be so intense, so drawn out. So very, very good.
When it was over she was completely limp, and not a little bit stunned. She looked down at him as he pulled his hand away and placed a last kiss on her thigh. He rested his head there and looked up at her with a satisfied, dreamy little smile.
She let her fingertips linger in his hair, running circles through it as she slowly came back to a sense of herself. “Well,” she mumbled, with a contented little sigh. “I cannot wait to learn what our second kiss will be like.”
Chapter Nine
Marie-Anne considered it one of her greatest acts of self-control when, the next morning, she did not dismiss the maid, make her excuses, and fling herself through the wall again. It was certainly all she wanted to do, and virtually the only thing she thought of.
The only thing that prevented her from doing it was a lingering worry over – of all the predictable and tiresome things – what the servants might say. They would notice patterns and then gossip among themselves, and there was no pretending that they would not be looking for improper behavior from the semi-notorious Frenchwoman in their midst. It occurred to her that she had never before been required to exercise discretion in matters of the heart. She had been open about all her lovers, all her life. Well, except for Jeremy, because the village would have been scandalized. But Jeremy was different. She had liked him, but not –
She sat up abruptly in her bed. Yes this was different, but she did not want to think too much about it. She threw off the covers and headed for the wash basin. It was another warm day. Once she was dressed, she could find Dahlia and assure herself that Mason had been irrevocably released from any obligation.
“Well, so what if I am a little infatuated?” she murmured to herself. She had not been infatuated for many years. And what was a little infatuation, when even the most practical woman would be hopelessly besotted with a man who could use his mouth like that? “Very infatuated,” she amended.
She took her time at the basin as she washed, resolutely keeping her back to the secret panel while thinking how much she really did want to kiss his mouth, in addition to many other parts of him. If she were a more respectable person, she would throw herself into the task of ending Phyllida’s fascination with her libertine poet. But she much preferred to neglect that and throw herself instead into reviewing her options for another evening’s ravishing entertainment, because she was brazen and shameless and respectability was wildly overrated.
When she finally made her way downstairs, there were only a few guests remaining at breakfast and Dahlia was not one of them. Nor was Releford, or the other Shipley girls. She settled herself next to Miss Ainslie at the table and politely smiled as the singer regaled her for at least the fourth time with tales of her grand success on the stage in Vienna. Marie-Anne was nearly finished with her toast and wondering if she was still required to look impressed, when Amy came in the room.
“Marie-Anne, there you are!” Amy beamed at her. “I wonder if you will walk with me in the garden, when you have finished your breakfast?”
“I am finishing now, you see?” She gulped down the last of her tea rather inelegantly and stood. “Let us go before the sun grows too hot.”
Mason entered the dining room as they left it, which her body greeted with a sudden but brief sense of vertigo. She joined Amy in wishing him a good morning as they passed, and looked up at him only in the very last second. His face was perfectly composed and cordial, but his glance burned right through her.
Oh, she rather loved that burn. It made her desperately hungry for so much more of him.
A sudden and very deep pang pulled at her as she walked toward the garden. Norway was a horrid place, not least because it was so very far away. She desperately wanted to talk to Helen. It was a part of infatuation, of course, this intense need to whisper with a dear friend. Her heart seemed to be moving very quickly and she would very much like Helen t
o help her decide if it was reckless. She could talk to Joyce, of course, but Joyce was far too blithe with regard to romantic entanglements, and anyway they were not close in the same way as she was with Helen.
Nor could she enjoy confiding in Amy, who was very caring and trustworthy, but entirely too practical. It was doubtful she ever swooned in her life, dear girl, and though Marie-Anne had only met her fiancé the one time, she was certain he was not the kind to induce breathlessness. She was suddenly very sad for Amy on this account. Swooning was wonderful, after all. Every woman should swoon from time to time. Possibly she could convince Amy that it was vital to the circulation of the blood, and that the staid and boring Mr. Harner was therefore a danger to her future health. That might appeal to her practical soul.
But, one sister at a time.
“Where is Dahlia?” Marie-Anne asked as they stepped onto the garden path. “I want to speak with her.”
“She’s gone riding with Releford,” Amy said happily. She was flushed with excitement. “That’s why I wished to speak with you in private. Dahlia has broken her engagement with Mr. Mason! She spoke to him last night. Now we can hope she will come to an understanding with Releford and it’s all your doing, Marie-Anne, I’m sure it is!”
Marie-Anne did not contain her broad smile as they clasped hands in excitement. Amy might not swoon, but she was capable of great happiness and her glee was contagious. “You have seen how he looks at her?” Marie-Anne asked her. “It is not so difficult to end something when there is a happy alternative, we only needed to push her toward it.”
“Yes, and I can’t imagine she’ll tell everyone she meets how very superior Releford is, as she did with Mr. Mason. She won’t need to, of course.” The relief in Amy’s voice was overwhelming. “And Releford is very respectable, not at all like so many of the men she flirted with. There can be nothing but praise from Mr. Harner’s uncle.”
Marie-Anne looked at her curiously. “It made you so distressed, that this uncle did not approve?” Which seemed a less combative way of saying that Amy seemed happier to be free of disapproval than she was to see her sister well-matched and in love.
“His disapproval distresses Mr. Harner so,” she answered. “Mr. Harner is himself always very forgiving and kind, but of course I do not wish my relations to be the cause of any strain in his relationship with his uncle.” Before Marie-Anne could tartly reply that he did not seem to care equally about causing strain on her relationships, Amy said, “Mr. Mason did not seem upset at all, did he? Just now, he looked perfectly content.”
“Yes,” agreed Marie-Anne. “His heart was not engaged.”
Amy leaned over to take in the scent of the beautifully flourishing roses, and then adopted a very careful tone. “If you tell me he confided as much to you, I would not be shocked. In fact, Dahlia told me that her own heart was not at all engaged. She likes Mr. Mason – we all do, except for mother and father of course – but she has never loved him.”
“That was very obvious to me,” said Marie-Anne, “or I never would have interfered. But I am relieved she does not regret her decision.”
“Not in the least. She confessed to me that in observing his manner with you, she felt some envy. Not because she resented your ease with one another, but because she felt certain she could never feel such ease with Mr. Mason.”
Marie-Anne cleared her throat lightly and tried not to feel nervous over where this conversation seemed headed. “Yes, she said to me that it made her long for Releford. So we must be glad for them, and hope he is even now declaring himself to her.”
“Dahlia is younger than me,” Amy went on as though Marie-Anne had not spoken. “Her memories are not the same, nor as vivid as my own. While your rapport with Mr. Mason reminded her of her own with Releford, it reminds me of nothing so much as you and Richard.”
“Amy, ma petite–”
“Marie-Anne, you must never think that you are bound to remain loyal to Richard’s memory for our sakes,” she continued doggedly. “Or that your past indiscretion with him is something for which you must pay penance for the rest your life.”
“I have never thought those things,” Marie-Anne protested faintly. She really never had, and found it very presumptuous to assume she felt guilt over these things and must be preemptively forgiven! But Amy, like her sisters, apparently liked to think of Marie-Anne as eternally grieving and forever repenting.
Amy seemed hardly to hear her protest. “I would not speak so but for the fear that you might feel constrained to be only friends with Mr. Mason when I think it possible you could one day be very much more.”
Well. That was unexpected. “Oh.”
“I know I need not ask you to forgive my impertinence, as you are always encouraging it. You will tease me for being so practical, but – well, I worry about your situation, and Mr. Mason is very good and very wealthy and he seems to like you very much. Dahlia would not be hurt in the least if he were to marry you. That is all I wanted to say.”
Marie-Anne struggled between amusement and affection. In the end, she only smiled indulgently and slipped her arm in Amy’s companionably as they walked. “I count a baroness and a countess as two of my dearest friends, and if we are lucky there will soon be a duchess who thinks herself in my debt. I promise you, ma petite, you do not need to fear I will starve a beggar in the streets.”
Amy laughed a little. “I confess I had not thought of that. Little Dahlia, a duchess. Mother really will be unbearable, and father too. It’s a very good thing I like my sister so much or I could not be happy at the prospect.”
They amused themselves by speculating how insufferable Lady Shipley would be as they strolled back to the house, stopping to admire the roses that grew in even more profusion just outside the drawing room. It was there where they heard voices drifting from the open window.
“But that’s Mr. Harner!” Amy straightened up, startled. “He was not to come until next week.”
She began to move toward the terrace so that she could enter the house, with Marie-Anne close behind her. But Mr. Harner came outside, and Mr. St. James with him. Both were very agitated, and Mr. Harner seemed to only grow more upset when his eyes fell on Marie-Anne. Nevertheless, he gave a stiff bow in greeting.
“Miss Shipley,” he choked out. He was brandishing what looked like a thin sheaf of papers in his hand. “Something must be done. I will not have you suffer for the indiscretions of your sisters or this…this…” He gestured at St. James, clearly too disgusted to think of a word for whatever Mr. St. James was.
“But whatever is it?” asked Amy, wide-eyed.
Mr. Harner thrust the papers into her hands. It was, Marie-Anne saw, a pamphlet – one of the weekly papers that circulated, documenting the latest news and gossip. This one was illustrated, which meant it must be very popular indeed. It had been curled tightly in Mr. Harner’s hand, and Amy flattened it as best she could.
On the page was a drawing of a man who was very obviously Mr. St. James – or at least, Marie-Anne thought, exactly as St. James would like to appear: perfectly wind-swept hair and an air of wild romanticism. He was pictured at the opera, a very lively scene in which he was surrounded by women who were all shown from behind except for the exceptionally lovely actress on the stage. But rather than looking at the stage, he was gazing at the woman next to him. Beneath the picture was written St. James plans his Next Conquest.
Amy had turned a very deep red. “It is not so very different from what they have written about you before, is it, Mr. St. James? And Phyllida is not pictured.”
“Indeed, it might be any woman with a lovely coiffure and gown, with her back turned like that,” said St. James. Marie-Anne had always thought he was proud of his reputation as libertine, but now he seemed angry at Mr. Harner for bringing it up. “I see no need to distress Miss Shipley, and to rush all the way here from London to do it.”
Mr. Harner ignored him and jabbed at the pamphlet. “In the text, Miss Shipley, you must read the text.�
��
“At the opera…His affair with the celebrated actress…” Amy read, blushing even more. She continued to scan the lines for the offending information. “Oh! Here – Mr. St. James has lately been a frequent guest in the home of Sir Gordon Shipley, one of whose daughters the notorious libertine conspicuously favored while attending the opera!”
“You must see now that these are inventions.” Mr. St. James was speaking not to Harner, but to Amy. He seemed quite concerned that she believe him. “Phyllida did not attend the opera that night. I accompanied Dahlia at her invitation.”
While Harner protested that this was even worse, as it implied St. James was dallying with both sisters, Marie-Anne couldn’t help but to think it was all very silly. So what if Phyllida’s infatuation with St. James was known in the papers? She hardly hid it, and it was already known among all her acquaintance. And so what if he was a libertine – he seemed decent enough to Marie-Anne, who had seen many a libertine in her day. She had come to believe that, like his hair, it was an affectation. After all, she’d had no occasion to brandish eating utensils at him in an attempt to defend her thighs.
But here was Harner, insisting that if his uncle caught wind of it, it might ruin his prospects. The rumor would cause no damage at all if Dahlia were to announce an engagement to Releford. No one would talk of anything else, and having a duchess as a relation would solve any number of social ills.
“I have said my piece and will take my leave now,” Mr. St. James was saying, his color high. “I would not like to cause Miss Shipley further distress.”
He bowed quickly to both ladies – pointedly ignoring Mr. Harner – and went back into the house. Marie-Anne put a hand on Amy’s arm and nodded toward the hedge maze where Dahlia now walked with Releford. They were arm in arm, smiling as only a pair of lovebirds would smile. Dahlia waved at them from afar, and rested her head on Releford’s shoulder as they strolled off into the garden.
House of Cads (Ladies of Scandal Book 2) Page 12
