Dangerous Joy

by Jo Beverley

  "I've had years more practice at the game."

  "You know that's not what I mean." Her eyes met his pleadingly, though she was not sure what she requested. "I can't think. It's so hot."

  He dropped his cravat on the floor. "Perhaps, then, we shouldn't try to think." He walked around the table to her side.

  Felicity took one step back. "What are you doing?"

  He put his cue down on the baize. Then he plucked hers from her hand and laid it side by side with his.

  There seemed an absurd intimacy in those two neatly aligned cues.

  Then he pulled her into his arms.

  "Miles!"

  His lips silenced her.

  The chord swelled but lost all menacing discord so Felicity had no choice but to surrender to purest, sensual harmony.

  With a master's skill, he kissed her deep, he kissed her light, he brought her to join with him in kissing so she had no idea who was giving, who was taking. He raised the heat a great many degrees, but somehow, she didn't care.

  Perhaps because by now her gown was unfastened down the back.

  "Miles!"

  His lazy eyes were heavy with passion, but not lazy anymore. He slid her dress off her shoulders and nipped at her skin.

  She clutched the dress at her breasts. "It's the middle of the day!"

  "No one will come here."

  "Your mother..."

  "Is off being similarly treated by Colum, I suspect, damn his wicked heart." But there was no anger in him.

  "Miles," she whispered faintly, "you're my guardian..."

  "I see no profit in it at all, at all," he murmured, sliding into a brogue that stole the strength from her hands so her dress pooled on the floor.

  His hands stilled as he looked at her, absorbing her as she wanted to absorb him. "You have the beauty of the Danaan, a muirnin, mo chroi. This is our destiny."

  Then the pins came out of her hair and he spread it around her, every delicate touch of his fingers a sweet chord along her nerves.

  He cradled her breasts, cupped by her white linen corset but largely vulnerable to his touch, shielded only by her fine shift. "It's not fair that a woman be so well-armored," he murmured as his thumbs softly teased her nipples.

  "A corset is armor?"

  He laughed and loosened the ribbon at the neck so her shift fell loose over the upper swell of her breasts. "Your armor, my fair swan, is what lies beneath it...." And he brushed his lips, breath hot, over her.

  Felicity swallowed, murmuring a disjointed prayer. Though what god would have any part of this, she didn't know.

  He loosened the corset-laces and slid it off, but all the time his mouth teased at her ear, her neck, her chest....

  She clutched his hair, holding him close, though somewhere in the heated maelstrom of her mind, she realized this did not fit in with her plans at all.

  But they had a week.

  Didn't they deserve a week?

  A ripple of maddening pleasure flowed through her. Her knees gave way and she would have collapsed to the floor, but he swept her into his arms and carried her to the sofa. Placing her there gently, he knelt to slide her shift up, gazing at her legs as she gazed at him.

  He had never looked more beautiful. With his red-gold hair disordered and his features in intent repose, he stole her breath and took the remnants of her sanity with it.

  His shirt was loose at the waist. Perhaps she'd loosened it. She wiggled her toes under and pressed her foot against his ribs, trying to work the shirt up and expose more of his body.

  He grinned and moved to sit on the edge of the sofa, leaving her shift as it was, hanging loose in the top exposing her breasts, and rucked up at the bottom almost to the top of her thighs.

  Laughing with him, she began to tug at his shirt, using her very useful ability to grip things with her toes. As the front came free of his breeches, he asked, "Can you do buttons?"

  "No, but I can tickle."

  He captured her feet and tickled back, so they tangled and tussled on the damask sofa until the shreds of her decency were entirely lost.

  Then he kissed her between her legs and in her navel and on her breasts and around her neck until he reached her lips and she could kiss him back. And if her toes could not undo buttons, her fingers could, and could do other interesting things, things she had never done to Rupert....

  But no. She would not think of Rupert Dunsmore now.

  She curled her hand around Miles's erection, determined to take this moment and find the fullness of it.

  Fullness.

  "You're very big," she murmured.

  He'd been licking her breasts in a leisurely, thorough way, but now he stilled. "I was thinking perhaps I should ask if you were a virgin."

  She stilled, too. How had she ever imagined they could do this and keep her secret? "I wish I were."

  He turned her face toward him. "It doesn't matter, a stor. And," he added with a grin, "I'm exceedingly pleased that I'm bigger."

  She fell into laughter, then, though there were tears in it. He drank the laughter from her lips and the tears from her eyes and slid into her so smoothly she scarce felt the change from two to one until they were in complete harmony of the flesh.

  She cried out from the perfection of it, and from the sensual sweetness sent running flame-like through her body from crotch to dizzy, whirling head. She kissed him then, holding tight into his curls so he could not resist, wrapping her strong legs about him so he could not retreat, contracting her inner muscles in raptured seizure.

  Mine, said a primitive part of her, and would not let cold logic intervene.

  Mine.

  He murmured to her as he moved, in English and in Gaelic, and his message was the same as hers—a raw possession like a wild Irish raider seizing a maiden on the shore. Like Diarmuid stealing Grania from the High King and holding her against man and magic, against heaven and hell for the sake of this roiling madness, this golden rapture of the soul.

  But even in myth, the rapture ends and lovers must fall back to the chill earth.

  Cool again, melded, welded, changed.

  Sane.

  Had Grania felt like this when she came to her senses and realized what she had done? Felicity turned her head into his hot damp neck and, against her strong will, tears escaped.

  He moved her into his arms, onto his lap, to hold her, rock her, soothe her, tease her. "No need to cry, my wild, dark-plumed swan. We can do it again."

  "But only for a week."

  She felt his sigh. "Felicity..."

  She pushed back. "Did you think this would change anything?" At the look on his face, she cried, "You did! Is that why you did it? Just to change my mind?"

  She would have torn free of his hold, but he strengthened it brutally. "That is not why I did it, why we did it. Do you really think this was planned? I've wanted you now for weeks. God help us both, I love you. But if you'd shown any reluctance, mo chroi, I would have stopped."

  She slumped back against his chest. "Oh, Miles, I was not reluctant. But how could you think it would change anything? It just makes it harder."

  "I want it to be hard. So hard it is impossible."

  "That can never be."

  "Then I will simply have to stop you."

  "Once I am of age, you cannot."

  She hated this talk, this bickering, and drowned it in the senses, exploring him again with mouth and hands, tasting the sweat that dewed his smooth skin. "We have a week, Miles. Let's drain the joy of it."

  He sank back in surrender, his hand speaking need and sorrow to her skin. "Ah, but it's a dangerous joy, a taibhreamh, a chroi, like the wild loving of legends, leading only to tears."

  How frightening that he shared her thought. "Better perilous joy than no joy at all."

  And they found the joy again—all the searing heat and bitter sweetness of it—even as they knew the pounding hooves of the High King of reality would soon steal all magic away.

  Eventually, reluctantly, t
hey had to acknowledge his presence. They had to resume their clothes and the cares of the fast-expiring day. The room was nearly dark and the long-untended fire was merely a starving glimmer.

  He buttoned her gown; she buttoned his waistcoat. She straightened his hair as best she could without a comb, and he assembled some sort of knot for hers and fixed it with the pins.

  Then they looked at one another and laughed.

  "Not exactly pattern-cards of perfection, are we?" he said.

  "Ah, but it's a fine wild game, the game of billiards."

  "A fine, wild game indeed. Can I come to your room tonight?"

  The sweet thought of it made a pain near her heart that was like tears held there. "We shouldn't...."

  "There'll be no scandal. I'll make sure of that."

  With sanity came a new fear. "And what of a child?" She pressed her hands to her head. "Dear God! How could I have been so mad?"

  He reached out to soothe her hands down. "Ah, muirnin. I can think of nothing I'd like more."

  Felicity stepped back sharply. "No! How could I—"

  "How could you marry Dunsmore with my child in your womb? You couldn't."

  She saw the glint in his eyes and the pain was now like a sword in her heart. "That's why you did this! Diabhal! What of our truce?"

  All humor left his face. "I never made a pact with you, Felicity. I intend to stop you from marrying Dunsmore, and I will do anything—"

  She put the billiard table between them. "Then I take back my word. Now! My promise is as mist on the wind. It is nothing. I will leave here when I will."

  "Then I will guard you night and day, or set others to guard you. My will is unbreakable on this."

  "As is mine."

  They faced one another, enemies who had so recently been lovers of the closest kind, their enmity too deep, too strong for outrage or for snarling mouths.

  Felicity broke the silence. "Since my future husband is surely not back in Ireland yet, I will regive my promise, if that is the price of peace from you."

  "You will not leave Clonnagh without my permission?"

  "I will not, for six days now. But on condition," she said fiercely. "On condition that you do not seek again to get me with child."

  He regarded her, as a warrior might regard a naked sword. "It is in the hand of fate, then. I accept your terms."

  "And if I prove to be with child, that will not stop my marrying Rupert."

  "I will stop you from marrying Dunsmore, child or not."

  The dinner bell rang, a startling reminder of everyday things.

  He shook his head, becoming once more a civilized gentleman of 1816. "Hell, and we need to change."

  With exactly the manner of one who has been playing billiards and has lost track of time, he ushered her out of the rapidly cooling, darkening room.

  * * *

  Felicity would have loved to avoid meeting Miles over the superficial normality of the dinner table. She disdained to plead sickness, however, and there was no other reason to give except the truth—that she wasn't sure she could sit through a meal opposite Miles and not reveal something of the afternoon, of the ecstasy or the misery.

  She dressed for the meal, acknowledging that it was even possible that her uncle and aunt would guess they had been lovers. Such things often showed. If her grandfather and aunt had been more observant people five years ago, they would surely have noticed her turning into a lovesick fool.

  Perhaps they might have forestalled the whole tragedy, a tragedy still being played out today, undermining what could have been a fine and magic love.

  Love.

  It was a bitter herb that love had come too late, and quite impossibly. It was sharp-edged terror that she might have conceived Miles's child today, horribly complicating her already wretched situation.

  Felicity draped a large Norwich shawl of green and gold around her shoulders. A last check assured her that she was the very image of a proper young lady, one who would never dream of an afternoon of wanton sensuality in the billiard room.

  Armored in that belief, she swept downstairs to dine with her lover and his parents.

  There she discovered, if she hadn't already known it, that both she and Miles were clever actors. They bantered as if mere genial acquaintances, easily taking part in discussions of books, poetry, and even politics.

  At times she wondered if the afternoon had been a mad dream.

  Had this lighthearted gentleman, with his ready smile, his pleasant manners, and the witty stories of hounds and hunting, lain naked between her naked thighs stroking her to delirium?

  She had to slip the shawl from her shoulders, for the room was becoming exceedingly hot.

  Neither Colum nor Miles's mother showed any awareness of impropriety. Colum matched Miles story for story, his mainly about the administration in Dublin. Lady Aideen contributed stories of Society.

  Felicity noted that Miles often made mention of a particular group. "Now, who are these Rogues?" she asked at one point, mostly to break her silence before it became obvious. Anyone who knew her would find a long silence remarkable.

  It was Lady Aideen who answered. "Oh, the Rogues. As big a bunch of rascally ne'er-do-wells as the world has ever seen!" But she was laughing. "I'm sure as individuals they are all fine young gentlemen, but when they are together, heaven protect us all! Why, we had some of them here once, and they were nearly shot by Lord Whitmore's gamekeeper."

  "He had man-traps out," Miles said, "and we decided to spring 'em."

  Miles's mother lost her smile. "I still shiver to think of it. Even though you managed to outwit the keeper, you could have sprung one with a leg, you foolish boy."

  "We were only sixteen."

  "You were fortunate your father decided you were too old to flog."

  "I think we'd rather have had the flogging than to be confined to house for two perfect days and set to learn whole chunks of Tacitus."

  "But," said Felicity, "this still doesn't tell me who these people are, and why you—for I see you are one of them—call yourselves Rogues. I'm surprised you want to advertise the fact."

  "Proud of it," said Miles with a warm smile that must have been the best acting of the evening. "You see, my Uncle Kilgoran insisted I be educated in England. That wasn't to my taste at all. Having seen some of the cruelty of the English soldiers here, I hated everything English with a passion. But he insisted, probably for that very reason."

  "Exactly for that very reason, Miles," said his mother. "We were no happier about it than you, but we could see Kilgoran's point. In time, you will be a force in Ireland, and you must be able to deal with the English on equal terms."

  Miles grimaced. "So, as fervently rebellious as Fitzgerald and Grattan combined, I was dispatched to Harrow School where I found myself surrounded by the cream of English manhood and stood ready to challenge them all."

  "And you lived to tell the tale?" Felicity remarked, intrigued despite herself.

  Miles laughed. "Only because of the Rogues. A certain Nicholas Delaney decided to gather twelve boys under a vow to stand together against cruelty and oppression. A blow against one was a blow against all. It deterred bullies very well indeed."

  Then the goose was brought in, and he stood to carve.

  Felicity wondered how someone carving neat slices of meat from a bird's breast could be so appallingly sensual. She made herself look at his face instead. "And what did you do, you Rogues, when not standing against oppressors or sabotaging man-traps?"

  He smiled at her. "Believe it or not, we helped each other with studies now and then. And in holidays, we spent time together, or at least smaller groups did. Twelve of us in one house was more than even the most tolerant parent would permit."

  He flashed an amused look at his mother and gestured for the footman to pass around the meat.

  "Besides, we didn't always agree on a perfect holiday. Nicholas picked a very varied group. Not all of us were horse-mad, for example. Lucien, Stephen, Hal, and I we
re generally off finding the best riding we could persuade our fathers to allow us. Nicholas, Francis, and Roger were more interested in antiquities."

  "It all sounds like fun," Felicity said wistfully.

  "It was. Still is, for the bonds still hold. It's a shame you didn't go to school and make friends."

  Felicity fought back tears. At sixteen, when Miles had been hunting or sneaking into his neighbor's coverts to spring mantraps, she'd been in exile, enduring a long pregnancy which would end with her giving up her child.

  "So you all still meet to enjoy your adventures?"

  Miles resumed his seat as vegetable removes were passed around. "Not all of us, alas. Three have died in the war."

  "I'm sorry for that."

  He smiled. "I suspect that when the rest of us are toothless and gouty, we'll envy them their eternal youth in the Land of the Happy Dead."

  "Hey, hey!" interrupted Colum. "No morbid talk! But these Rogues do all sound like fine, brothy boys, and I hope to meet them one day."

  "I'm intending to leave shortly for the Shires, and some of them will be there. You'd be welcome to come along, Colum."

  There was a moment of wistfulness, but then Colum said, "No, my boy, no. I could not leave behind the pleasures I have here." He toasted his wife. "Some other year, perhaps."

  "When the pleasures are fading?" queried Aideen with a wicked twinkle.

  Colum reddened. "Oh-ho, my love! You have caught me on a lazy thought. True it is, that I am likely never to move from your side."

  "Silly man. I'm sure that, in a year or two, we'll be able to part for a while, and the absence will give greater spice to our happiness."

  Colum toasted her again. "What a wise woman you are, my precious one."

  Miles raised his glass as well. "And pleasant memories ease the lonely traveler." But his eyes were upon Felicity and she understood his message. He was trying to seduce her into more lovemaking before their week ended.

  She should have extended her conditions. It was not enough that he not try to get her with child. She wanted him to cease attempts at intimacy altogether.

  * * *

  After dinner, Felicity played the piano, for a while managing to lose herself in music. Then Colum and Miles's mother sang a duet, their voices blending perfectly.