Her arms tightened around his neck and her breathing changed. “I haven’t a clue how that just happened. If you practice that maneuver often, please don’t tell me.”
Something in her tone was heartfelt enough that he tilted his head back to regard her. But although her words may have been serious, her eyes were smiling, and she didn’t tolerate the interrupted kisses for long. She leaned her head up to meet his, her lips parted, her lashes lowering.
He curved his hand beneath her head and kissed her, grateful she didn’t expect a response. It was true; he didn’t feel like a green boy, fumbling his way through his first sexual encounter. But nor did he feel his usual careless self, taking pleasure for pleasure’s sake with this or that wench in a seaside tavern. First, he wasn’t drunk on whiskey and treason. Second, Miss Stanton was the complete opposite of anyone he had ever lain with. And lastly, he could scarce treat her or the moment carelessly because, well... he did care. Immensely.
The horrifying thought might’ve given him pause had Evan not immediately and forcefully put it from his mind.
The only thought drowning his brain was to keep kissing her. Touching her. He pulled the comb from her hair and ran his fingers through its softness. The blonde mass fell to her breasts. Her beautiful, tempting breasts. He ran the palm of his hand along the curve of her neck, her shoulder, her arm, irritated that every inch of her body was covered in layer upon layer of cloth, from her toes to her fingertips.
He could no longer withstand the need to have at least part of her jasmine-scented flesh exposed to his eyes and mouth and tongue. He slipped a finger between sleeve and glove and pulled. Neither budged.
She looped her arms around his neck, allowing their desperate kisses to continue as one bit of silk after the other fluttered to the floor beside them. He tugged one of her now-bare hands forward and brought it to his lips. He kissed each fingertip, the lines of her palm, the frantic pulse pounding at her wrist.
He decided he hated long sleeves. Perhaps clothing in general. He wished neither of them were encumbered by winter layers. Particularly those that would require ten minutes unhooking tiny buttons before the bodice would loosen. His heart would expire before he finished.
Assuming she let him try.
Then again, she was returning every kiss, every lick, every nibble. She certainly hadn’t been asleep when they’d tumbled into the room, closed the door, and made their way to the bed. She had been the first to start tossing unwanted articles of clothing overboard. In fact, so far she was the only one to have done so. Evan hoped to rectify that immediately. Now that they were alone and abed, he had no wish to remain properly dressed.
He kissed the hollow in her neck, the line of her jaw. His hand cradled the side of her face as their tongues clashed. Then he slid his palm down to her neck, her collarbone, her bodice. Blood pounded in his ears. He splayed his fingers over one perfect breast. Hidden beneath a thousand maddening layers of cloth.
She gasped beneath his mouth but arched into him as if she, too, resented the obstructions preventing his flesh from touching hers. He imagined he could feel her nipple hardening, rising to greet him through the soft linen of her stays. He stroked the phantom nub gently with the pads of his fingers. No, not imagining. She moaned, arching higher. His cock strained against his breeches.
He dragged his mouth from hers, burning a trail of kisses down the line of her neck, the muslin covering her décolletage, to the round breast cupped in his palm. He opened his mouth over that hard little nipple and laved with his tongue. Damp, the fabric molded to her skin, accentuating the nipple’s arousal.
Her fingers gripped his hair, pressing his face into her breast.
Without removing his mouth—he would die first—he reached lower, gathered a handful of skirt in his fist, and pulled. Inch by inch, the rising hem exposed the tops of her boots, the curve of her ankle, her slender legs. He couldn’t watch, but his bare palm informed him of every detail. The silken smoothness of her stockings, the heat of her skin, the slight shiver as both cool air and his warm fingers touched the exposed flesh of her thigh.
“I—” she gasped.
He returned his mouth to hers and swallowed whatever she’d been about to say with the passion in his kiss. He stroked her hips, the inside of her thighs, just above the apex between, everywhere but the one place he was dying to touch. He needed her to want it, too.
And she did. The scent of her desire drove him half mad. Her body writhed beneath him, her hips trying to coax his fingers to quit teasing, to give her release.
With his mouth still mating with hers, he finally slid his hand beneath her petticoats, cupping her. Ran the length of his fingers against her slick flesh. She moaned again, bit his lip. He dipped the tip of one finger inside, loving the hot wetness, the contraction of her muscles. He slid his newly moistened finger barely free, just enough to stroke her, to stoke her fire.
Her gasps came louder, faster. She forgot she’d been kissing him. Her head fell back against the mattress and her eyes fluttered closed. He rubbed, teased, dipped the tip of his finger back inside, stroked her in soft circles. Faster. Slower. Deeper inside. Back for more caresses. She was so hot, so wet, so ready, so—
She bucked beneath him, and he sank a finger inside, rubbing simultaneously with the pad of his thumb. She convulsed, gripped his shoulders, sucked in shallow, shuddering breaths.
He kissed her, caressed her until she collapsed boneless beneath him, then finally, finally, allowed his damp and trembling fingers to fumble at the buttons of his fall. His cock strained, pulled, demanded to sink itself to the hilt in all that sweet wetness. There. At last. His cock was free from its restraints, pulsing hot and hard in Evan’s palm.
He couldn’t wait another moment... but he had to do this right. For both of them.
“I want you,” he said between kisses. His voice was raw, hoarse. She nipped at his lips. “I need to feel you beneath me, part of me. Every moment I spent away from you, I was haunted by the scent of your skin and the feel of your tongue against mine.” She licked him, her eyes slumberous and teasing. He smiled back, a man lost. Helpless. “You’ve bewitched me. And I am desperate for more.” His fingers squeezed his overeager cock, which ached to be inside her. “There is nothing I want more than to make love to you. If you’ve even the smallest of doubts... tell me now, or I won’t stop until I’m buried inside you and we’re panting in pleasure, again and again.” His cock lurched in approval. “Tell me you want that, too.”
She blinked. In that second, her amorous gaze went from satisfied to horrified.
She gave a tiny scream and cracked her forehead against his in her desperation to flee his embrace. The pain in his skull was the least of his concerns. She scrambled backward, her expression aghast.
“No.” Her face drained of all color. She began to shake her head. “No. Oh, no. No, no, no.”
The hard shaft in Evan’s hand stopped pulsing.
“I—I—” She rolled away from him with such force she tumbled onto the floor. In seconds she was on her feet, smoothing her hopelessly wrinkled skirts, gripping her silk gloves. She forced them over trembling fingers without meeting his eyes, then backed toward the door. “I can’t. I... no. I don’t know what in the bloody hell I was thinking. Dear Lord, I wasn’t thinking. We can’t do this. I can’t do this. My—my husband—”
“Your what?” Evan stared at her, mouth open, cock in hand.
“Not yet,” she rushed to assure him, “but the one I do get is going to assume certain things, such as me never having done a single thing that we just did and—” She yanked open the door, then turned her anguished gaze on him. “Believe what you will, I am a lady. I wish to be treated as such. By you, by everyone, by the man whom I will marry. He will expect to bed a virgin on his wedding night. I expect to be one.”
Evan’s fading cock slipped from his slackened grip of its own accord.
“I don’t fancy being another one of your conquests,” she continued,
a creeping blush bringing color back into her deathly pale cheeks. “I have a conquest of my own to make. London. And to succeed, I need to guard what few advantages I still have.” She backed into the hall. “Please don’t kiss me again. Please don’t touch me again. Ever.”
With that, she was gone. The latch clicked in place behind her with the cold finality of a jailer slamming a prison cell shut.
Chapter 32
Evan rebuttoned his fall. He reasoned that Miss Stanton’s inglorious flight from the bedchamber had actually saved both of them from making an exceptionally unwise mistake. He doubted it was just the crack to the head that had made her speak the one word guaranteed to deflate the ardor of a man who’d never tumbled the same woman twice:
Husband.
Luckily, if also a bit insultingly, she clearly had no matrimonial designs on him whatsoever. Unluckily, her desire to remain a virgin until her wedding night—for which he would certainly not be present—precluded them from lovemaking.
He pushed off the bed and glanced about the chamber to make sure he hadn’t left any evidence of his presence. A long-instilled habit. Although he had never intended to lay with other men’s wives, the women in his past had not always been honest about such details. No, he’d left nothing behind. Except perhaps a bit of his pride.
Miss Stanton’s hair comb, however, poked out from the wrinkled folds of the tester. In fact, the entire mattress was awash with wrinkles. He pocketed the tiny comb and idly wondered what the servants would make of the disarray. Perhaps they would assume their master and mistress had tired of their bedchamber and sought excitement in an alternate venue. Evan chuckled. For all he knew, the overgrown oaf made love to his wife everywhere but their bedchamber. Perhaps the woman wasn’t “too sick for visitors” so much as simply exhausted.
He stepped into the hall. Since he was here, he might as well find Ollie. The servants might be close-lipped to outsiders, but they’d certainly mention Evan’s presence to their master. Come to think of it, since the brute wasn’t currently breathing down his neck, perhaps now was the opportune moment to search for the ornate box they’d unburied from the garden.
He headed downstairs. First step: Check the dining room mantle to see if the similar-looking ornate box were still present. If it was now missing, then at least he’d have solved that much of the mystery. If not... well, then he’d keep searching.
The dining room was empty, but embers still burned in the fireplace. They offered just enough relief from the shadows for Evan to take inventory of the mantle’s contents. Brandy. A forgotten cigar. An unlit candelabra. And the same gilded jewelry box that had always sat there.
He plucked a taper from the candelabra and bent the wick to the last of the dying flames. No easy task. He used the thin candle to light the rest of the candelabra and returned the taper to its original location. In the ensuing orange glow, the bejeweled box looked the same as it ever had... with two notable exceptions.
First, the jewel-encrusted lid was now closed. Before, it had remained open, the better to exhibit its empty but delicately sculpted interior. Second, the dark clump lodged inside the tiny lock was nothing more than... dirt?
It was the same jewelry box. He knew it!
He picked up the surprisingly heavy container and gave it a careful shake. Empty. Even without opening the lid to verify, there were no telltale sounds of clinking jewelry or shifting weight as the box’s contents slid from one side to the other. Nonetheless, he tugged carefully at the heavy lid. Locked. He’d need a key to open the damn thing. He glanced up to look for one—and found both Ollie and his lapdog standing in the doorway watching him.
Evan froze, his fingertips poised at the crevice between lid and receptacle.
Ollie was the first to step into the room. “Devilish tricky to open without the key, isn’t it?”
Evan couldn’t very well act as if that weren’t precisely what he’d been attempting to do, so he didn’t bother to playact. Instead, he removed his fingertips from the stubborn lock and held out his palm toward Ollie. “Got the key handy?”
Ollie ignored Evan’s outstretched hand, returned the heavy jewelry box to the mantle, and set about pouring a glass of brandy. He did not offer any to Evan. Just as well, for this seemed a moment where keeping a clear head would be wise.
“Why is the box closed?” he asked.
Ollie downed his first brandy and poured himself another without responding.
“Because we haven’t got the key,” rasped the jaundiced servant, crossing the room to stand by his master.
Ollie’s jaw tightened, but he simply capped the brandy and lifted his glass to his lips.
Evan turned his gaze to the wiry butler. “Where is the key?”
“Don’t know,” came the scratchy reply.
“Where did you last see it?”
“Never have.”
“Never?” Evan repeated incredulously.
“Don’t think there ever was one.” The servant shrugged one bony shoulder. “That’s why we kept it open.”
“Why do you care?” Ollie interrupted at last, his dark gaze focused on Evan.
“Why do you?” Evan gestured at the little box. “Damn thing’s empty.”
“Feels empty,” the servant corrected slyly. “Can’t know for certain until it’s open.”
True enough. “If you want inside that badly, a second or two with a hammer ought to do the trick.”
Ollie shook his head. “No hammer, no shovel, no ax. Didn’t you feel how heavy it was? All that delicate gold filigree and intricate ornamentation hides an iron core. Literally. It’s a strongbox, meant to look like a fribble’s gewgaw.”
Evan turned toward the innocuous-looking jewelry box again, nonplussed. Brilliant, that. How many times had he seen the thing on the mantle and never given it a passing thought? He wondered in which port Ollie had found such a treasure. And why it hadn’t come with a key.
“Fair bit of dirt stuck in the keyhole,” he commented idly.
The butler’s teeth flashed. “That was milady’s handiwork, it was. She likes to—”
“—play games,” Ollie finished, casting his lapdog a silencing look.
The servant’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his skinny throat, but he didn’t contradict his master’s obvious lie.
Why lie? Well, yes, Ollie was a pirate and as such lied on a regular basis, but not typically to Evan, and certainly not about something as silly as whether his wife had buried a trick jewelry box in a fit of matrimonial pique.
He frowned. She couldn’t be that sick, if she was well enough to traipse downstairs, carry a heavy box and an equally heavy shovel out to the rock garden, and bury the former in the dirt. And add a gravestone.
Perhaps she was socially... awkward. Or painfully shy. Or simply reclusive. Given her parents’ history, she would not have had what could be termed a typical childhood.
He picked up the box again, hefting its weight. There had to be some way to open it. “Can I take it home for a few days?”
“No.”
Not even a breath had passed before the refusal came.
Evan replaced the box on the mantle, unsurprised at Ollie’s answer. No matter if it were nothing more precious than ordinary snuff inside an ordinary snuff box, Ollie wasn’t one to share what was his when he didn’t wish to. Perhaps it was time to turn the topic.
“Are you going to join the captain’s crew?”
Ollie’s dark brows lifted. He gestured with his now-empty glass. “Leave all this?”
Evan inclined his head and wondered whether there was any truth to the captain’s promise to leave them behind alive and well, if they decided not to enlist.
Normally, he would’ve shared such concerns with Ollie. But Evan still wasn’t 100 percent certain whose side Ollie was on—if on anyone’s side but his own. He was certain he had overstayed his welcome. Particularly since they were all aware of his unannounced arrival and subsequent ignominious discovery in the dining room.
“I’m for home, then.”
He took a step toward the doorway. The butler stepped aside, his tiny eyes watchful.
With his broad back facing Evan, Ollie refilled his brandy glass without turning around.
“Do that.”
Right. Evan had definitely overstayed his nonexistent welcome.
He quit the dining room. He eased the door shut behind him and made his way toward the rear exit. Partly because the back door led more directly to the trail going toward Evan’s house. And partly because he wouldn’t mind having another look at the rock garden, now that he knew a woman too frail to leave her bed had supposedly decided to do a bit of nontraditional gardening.
At the time, he had thought Timothy might’ve been buried in that third grave, but what had everyone else been thinking? They couldn’t all have been after an empty jewelry box.
Evan could scarce ask Forrester what he’d been doing there without admitting to his own presence. Miss Stanton, however... Evan cursed himself as he realized he’d missed several good opportunities to ask her just what exactly she’d thought had been buried beneath that unmarked gravestone. Next time he saw her, he’d—
Jasmine. There she was. Right by the rear door.
Not facing the exit, however. She stared in the opposite direction, down a darkened stairwell Evan assumed led to a larder. Miss Stanton had her back to him, her outstretched hands splayed against each stone wall, a booted foot hovering over the first step.
He approached with caution. “What are you—”
She jumped, spun around, pushed him.
He didn’t budge.
She put a finger to her lips, eyes wide. “Shhh.”
Too Sinful to Deny: Gothic Love Stories #2 Page 22
