by Thea Devine
She rose to her knees, like a naiad rising from the sea, inviting him, mutely calling to him, enticing him with her nakedness.
And there was nothing but the rock shelf of his manhood beckoning to her, and just the shadow of wetness at its very tip.
"What must I do, my lord?" she murmured, skimming her hands downward to adjust the strips of satin around the thrust of her breasts.
"You must show me there is no one else worshipping at the altar of your beauty."
"But I have revealed it only to you," she said poutily, wondering just where this game was leading. "I have kept our bargain."
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"You have kept only what you wish to keep, and you dispense what you wish to dispense, Diana—witness today. It could be any other man standing here, surrendering to your nakedness."
"But it is you. And you have hardly capitulated," she said testily.
"Yes, it does make you sulky when your tricks do not work, does it not, Diana? I think you do not deserve such a feast of pleasure tonight, not after your siren call to every Jack-nasty in the whole of London. Perhaps you must learn that there is only one man who pleasures your body and owns your soul."
"And who might that be?" she murmured, slipping off the bed and brazenly confronting him.
There was no one like her, no one. She stood before him, arching herself toward him, all naked and luscious, gilded by firelight and streaming satin ribbon.
"Who must learn?" she whispered, extending her hand and touching the explosive tower of his erection. "Who would deny whom a feast of pleasure, my lord?" And she cupped him in her bold and questing hand. "Who stands before whom naked and offering a garden of delights?"
She stroked the massive bulge in his breeches. "Leave me now, my lord. Try to leave me now . . ."
He almost did it, almost —he wrenched himself away from her seductive hand, away from her lush breasts and stone hard nipples, but never could he tear himself away from the enslaving satin bonds that girded her body.
He tore away the impeding clothing that constricted his desire, and he reached for her, he hauled her up against his heat and his jutting hard length, and he held her against his body and whirled with her to move her against the bed, the wall, anything that would give him purchase to possess her instantly, immediately; he thrust his granite strength between her legs until he settled her nakedness against the door, and then, with one knee, parted her legs and covered her mouth and drove himself home.
She was floating on a sea of swamping desire, her whole world centered around the strength of him, the length of him and the thrusting force of his muscular possession. There was nothing else, not their mouths so furiously kissing, not their bodies so fiercely bonded together, not his words, a cadence in time with the rhythm 269
of his thrusts eking life between his harsh hot kisses: "you are mine, you are mine, you are . . . mine."
Nothing, nothing but the sole thrusting pleasure of him, ferociously claiming her, filling her, cradling her in a thousand lusty movements to prove his need and his desire.
His was the proof, hers the acceptance of his need; he had enslaved her forever by the virtue of this bond.
She drowned in a sea of pleasure, her body at the mercy of the virility of his. She felt every inch of his power, every relentless pounding thrust, all the heat and lust gathered in the carnal ramrod length of him.
And soon, in this maelstrom heat and explosive desire, he centered himself deep within her, finding the distended point of pleasure between her legs and working it, working it, thrusting and teasing it, pushing against it tauntingly, inviting her to close herself around him and find her glistening culmination.
Her body stretched against him luxuriously, seeking him, climbing against him, and finally settling and seeking that one elusive moment of recognition.
She bore down on him suddenly, frantically, loving the feel of her nakedness against the fine material of his clothing, loving that she was naked and open to him and that the fullest, most carnal part of him was serving her.
The cloth of his coat was rough against her breasts; the ferocity with which he possessed her elevated her streaming pleasure. It was moments, moments until the storm would break, moments . . . moments ... it was coming—it broke, it broke, a shower of gold tingling all over her body, lightning, light, crackling through her veins; her body shuddered and shook with the force of her climax, reaching endlessly, mindlessly for the dark lush pleasure.
She rode it, rode with it, demanding more; her swollen mouth begged for his kisses as her spangling body calmed and the pinpoints of golden heat danced along the sheen of her moisture-soaked skin.
And from there it was but another moment until he gave in to his passion, to the lush call of her body, and finally to the grinding racking spume of his release.
And then he held her there, still tight, taut, deep within her, his
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hands framing her face, smoothing her hair, touching her kiss-stung mouth, suffused with the scent of their sex, the enormity of their play.
What was there between them? He could not comprehend any-. thing but the driving need that centered him deep within her. Nothing more, nothing less. The feelings in his heart did not enter into it: there were none.
Women were born for betrayal: he had known it from birth, and he held that little bit of himself in reserve, waiting, waiting, waiting for the moment unearthed.
And she, she knew nothing but the throbbing need to bind him to her so irrevocably he could never get away. Men were born for betrayal, she had known it from her youth. She could only surrender and hope for the worst.
And when he finally left her, after carrying her to her bed, she felt a little prickle of abandonment, as if she could never contain him, and he would always leave her.
And who had capitulated to whom became not the point; the point was the swirling, opulent, swamping pleasure that swallowed them both and bonded them whole.
No other woman could serve him as well as she; she knew it, as she lay in her fertile pleasure bower, and he wanted her, and she would prove it to him . . . forever.
Chapter Fifteen
Everything seemed clearer in daylight. Even Marie's knowing look as she came to awaken her did not offend. There was something about a bright spring day with the sun streaming in the windows and a cozy fire by which to dress that made her feel as if she were overreacting to what were, at best, nebulous impressions of threats and plots and Lady Waynflete's secret yearnings.
These were the things that were real: her father had walked into Lady Waynflete's parlor and had turned out to be Southam's uncle; Southam wanted to use her to find her father, but for what reason she did not know — and now needed desperately to know. She could not tell Southam that Dunstan Carradine was her father because of Dunstan's singular unspoken threat on her life. She needed to buy time to try to find the boy.
Oh, the boy. The boy, the boy; somewhere in the shuffle the boy had gotten lost, and she really found herself wondering if she absolutely had to find the boy. She wasn't sure, even in her own mind.
She needed time to convince Southam that her father was nowhere to be found, or if he did not believe that, that her whole story was a hoax, top to bottom: a wager perhaps that she could twist even the dangerous and difficult Lord Southam around her little finger.
And that she had done with astonishing speed and thoroughness—except that his real interest in her lay in the story of her father.
And so she came back to Dunstan and the implicit threat her presence posed to him.
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That was the reality, tempered by her suspicion that Lady Waynflete had been dangling after him for years with unrequited love, and she owed Lady Waynflete more than she could ever repay for her help and guidance.
There it was —a circle, a compass, with all the points meeting in her father.
She did not know what she was going to do.
"Dunstan has sent round a note that he intends
to call this morning," Lady Waynflete said when she made her appearance for breakfast, "Perhaps you might tend to some shopping this morning?"
Such an off-handedly pointed little hint. "That sounds pleasant," Jainee agreed instantly, rather glad to have an excuse not to be at the townhouse when Dunstan arrived. Or had he thought he might come upon her in the course of paying a long overdue visit to Lady Waynflete?
He would be sadly disappointed, she reflected, but that was for Lady Waynflete to contend with.
"Very well, then. I will have a carriage sent around, and you will take Marie with you, and remember she must accompany you at all times. And I think ... I think the Burlington Arcade has the most to recommend it. By now you must need to replenish some ribbons and the like. Hawkins will be driving and you may rely totally on him. Now, the air is very brisk this morning, Miss Bowman, so it would be appropriate to take your cape."
"Thank you, my lady," Jainee said meekly, refusing to rise to that pointed barb.
"You might spend the morning," Lady Waynflete called but to her as she was on her way up the steps to change into a walking dress.
You might spend forever, Jainee thought dourly; she might climb in that carriage and never come back, and for one dark moment, it seemed like a terrifically tempting thought.
But not without money, not without a plan, not without a final break with Southam, not with knowing what she knew about his uncle and doing nothing . . .
It was so good to get out of the stifling atmosphere of the
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townhouse. It was perfectly clear to her that Lady Waynflete knew she neither wanted nor needed any refurbishments to her already extensive wardrobe. But still, the prospect of travelling alone through the streets of London had some merit and the novelty of adventure.
For the moment at least, she could enjoy the sights and sounds without feeling the pressure of Southam's demands upon her shoulders.
London was a city of movement; there was someone on his way somewhere every minute. The wonder was there were so many places to go. But then, she had done the morning rounds with Lady Waynflete; the fashionable world needed its occupations as well as anyone else.
And one of them was shopping in a massive mall filled with shops and fronted by palladian windows reaching fifteen feet to the ceiling. Inside its doors, shelves stretched floor to ceiling, stuffed and overstuffed with materials of every kind, color, pattern, thickness and delicacy. Stretched along the walls fronting these shelves were counters, hundreds of feet of them to display every manner of adornment from velvet trim to feathers, beads, gold and silver thread, buttons, braid, ruffles, lace, ribbons of every color imaginable, and thread to match.
It was easy enough to spend an hour browsing through the variety of goods here, and to select a length of ribbon, a set of black velvet bands to use for trim on a particular dress she had in mind, to choose a package of bugle beads for Marie to sew onto one or another of her lightweight shawls, and a package of needles for Marie,
What to do now? Not nearly enough time had elapsed since she had departed the townhouse, her purchases were made and duly tucked away in the carriage, and she had been warned by Hawkins that she was not to walk about with Marie, and the only choice she had was to put herself in his hands for a ride in Green Park before they returned home.
She was amenable to this, but truthfully bored by the prospect of going around that park drive yet another time. There was nothing new here; it was the same path and the same people, and
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she hadn't yet determined why this morning ritual was so revered.
But suddenly she sat up and took notice. Ahead of her, astride a beautiful, high-spirited mount, accompanied by a phalanx of admirers, was Edythe Winslowe.
She looked anything but bored: she looked entranced and enchanting, and as if she did not miss a thing.
She saw Jainee the moment Jainee saw her, and by an imperceptible movement of her stock, she motioned Jainee to meet her somewhat further on, beyond a copse of bushes where she knew they might have a moment's private conversation.
"Quickly, my dear. How do you go on?"
"Passably well."
"Nonsense—what have I heard about these past two weeks but the beguiling Lady Desire. You have made your mark. What? Had you not heard the name? Oh my dear, they speak of you everywhere, from the night of the Tallingers' party, at Lady Badlington's —forgive me, you weren't meant to know . . ."
And she remembered the whispers, the buzzing sibilant sound when she entered the Ottershaw home. Yes, Lady Desire, they were saying it, nodding to each other, pointing her out — clearing the way so that everyone could see her . . .
"Listen, my dear; we must meet. Come in twenty minutes: Covent Garden, twenty-five. Don't be late."
And she was off in a cloud of scent and galloping hooves.
"Mademoiselle—you need not go."
"Of course I need go, Marie, what are you saying? Miss Winslowe was my friend in Brighton. I will not cut her in London."
"Very well, mademoiselle. It is for you to decide," Marie murmured, but her disapproval was obvious, and Jainee did not know quite what to make of this reversal,
She honored her friendships, such as they were. Edythe Winslowe had predicted they might meet in London and that she would indicate how Jainee was to treat her, and she had done so: Jainee knocked on the roof hatch and Hawkin's face appeared.
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"I wish to be driven to the address the lady Winslowe gave me," she said imperiously.
"Yes ma'am," he said, and inwardly, she felt relieved because she had been sure he would question her or that Lady Waynflete had provided him with strict instructions as to where he could or could not take her.
The only drawback, perhaps, was that though the carriage was not one of the more distinctive ones in the Waynflete carriage house, its driver, nonetheless, was known to be Lady Waynflete's man.
Well, it could not be helped, and the traffic here appeared lighter in any event. Probably it was not likely that the sticklers among the ton would be wending their way through Covent Garden at this hour.
The small rowhouse was easy to find, and luckily there was a carriage house behind so that Hawkins did not have to wait in front of the house.
Edythe Winslowe threw open the door before Jainee could even knock, and admitted her and Marie, whom she promptly dispatched to the kitchen.
"Tea will be forthcoming, and we will sit and have a cozy chat, and you will tell me how you are coping with your great success."
The rooms were smaller here than in Lady Waynflete's house, and everything much less grand, but still tasteful nonetheless. Edythe's admirers did not stint in their gifts, and she had been canny enough to demand not only clothing and jewelry. The house was hers alone and the furnishings within, and the day her last paramour abandoned her was the day she could retire in comfort and want for nothing.
"There, doesn't that smell good and hot. Sit beside the fire, Jainee, warm yourself. I'm sure that old witch Lucretia never thought to tuck a hot brick under the seats so that you would be warm while you travelled. No, no, you need not take off your cape if you are warmer with it. Take this cup of tea, that should help. Now, tell me everything."
Jainee sipped her tea, wrapping her hands tightly around the thin china cup and reveling in the heat. "But you know every-
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thing. The bargain was struck, Lady Waynflete took me up and I have made my appearance at several exclusive parties and have earned a dubious title into the bargain. The men are attentive, as you and I knew they would be, and I have made my moments, as you so rightly advised me, and I teeter now on the edge of success or failure. I have seen no one I could identify as my father, and so Southam will be bound to take me on or throw me out."
"Ahhh," Edythe Winslowe breathed. "Southam. How goes it with Southam, my dear?"
"He is intractable and impossible and hateful into the bargain."
"And how does he as a lo
ver?" Edythe asked slyly.
Jainee hesitated. "I know not what you mean, madame."
"He beds you," Edythe said plainly. "I see it in your eyes, my dear. You cannot hide anything from a woman who has had the experience of men that I have had. And I have seen him. He is more reckless, less forgiving than ever. So—how does he as a lover?"
"He suits me," Jainee said briefly.
"Yes ... he suited me as well," Edythe murmured reminis-cently, and Jainee stared. "Oh? Hadn't you guessed? But no, you were too preoccupied with your own concerns. Yes, Southam did court me, but it was a short-lived affair, and it was he who abandoned me when I was perfectly content with what he chose to give me. I have never," she added, her face hardening momentarily into something awful and vengeful, "forgiven him. When I think how I groveled at his feet, begging him to take me back . . . only one time, only once. Never more than once when I really want a man. Never. But I have never forgotten the humiliation of it."
She pinned Jainee with her malicious gaze. "I swore I would have my revenge. The thought of it has sweetened the months since we left Brighton. And I have chosen you to be my instrument of reprisal."
Jainee almost dropped her cup. This woman with the malignant eyes was surely not the woman who had willingly aided her in Brighton just to amuse herself and stave off boredom. Or had 277
she been naive at the very moment when she had been congratulating herself on her perspicacity in selecting the one right person to tutor her?
"I don't understand," she said finally, because she could not mesh her image of Edythe Winslowe in Brighton with the calculating brittle woman seated opposite her.
Edythe Winslowe smiled slyly. "By all accounts, you have learned well the lessons I taught you in Brighton. And by now you have also seen that illusion is more powerful than the reality. By the same token, what a woman's reputation appears to be is more important than what she does behind closed doors. You have gone fast and far in Southam's world and you've done it in a very short time. Part of your success is due to your uncommon beauty, and part is due to Southam's pushing you, subtly, behind the scenes.
