by Jo Goodman
“Are you married?” he asked abruptly.
“What?”
“Is there a husband you are wont to make a cuckold?”
“No.”
“Then a lover? A fiancé?”
“No.” There was uncertainty in her voice. “Neither.”
“Then it is my honor you wish to impugn?” He thought he saw her blink behind her mask, but he could not be sure. “There is a brother waiting in the shrubbery, perhaps. A father. Three male cousins who box for sport. Can I expect to be called out?”
“How am I impugning your honor? You have chosen a damnably inconvenient time to discover that you are in possession of certain scruples.”
“It is not the scruples,” he said somewhat harshly. “It is the trap.”
“What trap? You are speaking nonsense.”
Ferrin drew himself up stiffly. He was unused to being addressed in such a manner. The fact that he might indeed be speaking nonsense did nothing to improve his mood. “Then Restell is paying you dearly for this charade. You are one of his paramours.”
She shook her head. “I never met your brother before this evening.”
“Wellsley, then.”
“I don’t know any Wellsley. Is he another brother?”
“A friend.”
“You entertain peculiar notions of what tricks your family and your friends will get up to. If you are so suspicious of some trap being laid, it might be more the thing to look to your enemies.”
That she was making sense and he was not was the end of enough. The urge was upon him to shake her, but only because he could not shake himself. What he did was draw a steadying breath and release it slowly. Except for the light strains of music coming from the house, quiet settled around them. He was aware of her stillness. Her fingers still held the rail at her back. The length of her slim throat remained exposed to him as she had never once dropped her chin or tried to look away in the face of his accusations.
“I have no enemies,” he said at length.
“Everyone has enemies, though if you are the exception to the rule, perhaps you should cultivate some. They might be less apt to play false with you than either your brother or this Wellsley person.”
“I did not say Restell or my friend ever played me false.”
“You charged them with entertaining themselves at your expense, and you named them with unseemly haste. I think that speaks to what you think of their character.”
“They are both possessed of good character.”
“And yet,” she said, “you do not trust them.”
“No, that is not it at all.” Ferrin regarded her upturned face closely, trying to see behind the mask. “I don’t trust you.”
“That is altogether different. At least you have begun to make sense.”
“Have I?” He was not so sure. That kiss—and it was the only explanation for what followed—had turned his brain to pudding. His chest rose and fell as he released another long breath. “I was thinking that if you had retained your spear I could impale myself upon it.” He watched the curve of her smile appear slowly. “I take it you approve.”
“Let us say, it’s difficult to make any argument against it.”
Ferrin discovered that he had not entirely lost his sense of humor. A chuckle rippled through him, releasing tension in its wake. “I could prostrate myself at your feet, I suppose. Would that suffice?”
“Suffice for what?”
“An apology.”
“For what? For asking if I was married or betrothed? It was not an unreasonable question, though the timing of it was ill-considered.” She held up one hand when he would have spoken, cutting him off. When he fell silent, she did not let her arm fall away but rather placed her palm squarely against his chest. “You cannot wish to apologize to me for the accusations you made against your brother or your friend. That would be better done with them, if you are ever of a mind to tell them what has passed this night. I will not. And finally, would you apologize for saying that you do not trust me when I have given you no reason that you should?”
“I was thinking I would apologize for making a cake of myself.”
“Well, there you have me.” She glanced down. “You will not want to lie at my feet long. I think the stone will be quite cold.”
He drew her close instead, kissing her with more gentleness this time. Her hand remained between them, but she didn’t push him away. Her fingertips nudged the top button of his waistcoat. Her mouth opened under his, and she allowed him to drink from her. He thought her lips trembled under his, then thought the tremble might have begun in him. The kiss was long and slow and sweet. He could not quite get enough of her when it seemed she was always willing to give more. Her mouth was warm. He tasted the sweet-tart tang of the lemonade they’d drunk earlier. It was precisely how she should taste, he thought, both sweet and tart with kisses made liquid by desire.
When he raised his head he noticed that her fingers were no longer trapped between them. Instead, both hands were clutching the sleeves of his frock coat. It was the first indication that she was not so steady on her feet as he’d thought. It was fitting, then, because he was in danger of rocking backward. They teetered a moment, weight and counterweight, before a tenuous balance was achieved.
His voice, when he found it, was not much above a husky whisper. “It does not mean that I trust you.”
“I understand.” Her fingers did not relax their grip. “But know this: I mean you no harm.”
“I believe you. I wonder, though, whether it matters what your intentions are. Harm will be done.”
She shook her head. “No. That is not—”
Ferrin placed one finger firmly against her lips. “I didn’t say I minded, merely that I expect it. Do not be contrary.”
“I’m afraid it is in my nature.”
No surprise there. “Does anyone, save me, know what it is you wish for above all things this evening?”
“To be seduced, you mean?”
His eyebrows kicked up in tandem. “If you have some other wish, I should like to hear it before I proceed granting this one.” He thought he heard her breath catch. What he knew with certainty was that she was again unsteady on her feet. The moment quickly passed, and she was Boudicca once more: determined, ruthless warrior.
He remembered thinking that she was a danger to herself and wondered if he was merely choosing to ignore that aspect, or if he was in the right of it when he sensed the greater danger would be to allow her to leave him.
“You are thinking again,” she whispered.
“Guilty.”
“It cannot be good for you. A rake should not entertain so many qualms.”
“You will scarcely credit it, but I’ve never had my qualms put to such a test before.”
“Perhaps if you kiss me again.” Hesitating, she bit her lower lip and worried it for the span of a heartbeat. “Or does that merely qualm the waters?”
Ferrin literally took her in hand, ignoring her light laugh, which he thought sounded suspiciously like a titter. He drew her back into the house, not pausing long enough in the doorway for her to retrieve her spear. The hand she flung out for it came away empty.
“This way,” he said, brooking no refusal. “This way” was through a deserted second parlor and into a dimly lighted stairwell. He drew her up eighteen steeply winding steps before he stopped on the small landing. An explanation was hardly required, but he gave her one anyway. “Servants’ passage.”
“It is almost as good as a cupboard.”
“Better, in fact. The servants are busy everywhere below stairs, not above. There’s no reason for one of them to come this way.”
“Then we will not be disturbed.”
“That is the idea.” He regarded her, trying to make out her thoughts from a shadowed expression that gave nothing away. “At least that was my idea. It is not part of your wish that we are observed, is it?” He was gratified to see this caused a reaction he could finally interpret. S
he was properly shocked at the notion of being watched. “Is it all you hoped for?”
Boudicca glanced about the close quarters. “It is…cozy.”
He smiled. “It is roomier than a cupboard.”
“My. I hadn’t realized.”
Ferrin never thought she was in the habit of making propositions like the one she had tonight. Still, he was gratified to have it confirmed. “You weren’t in anticipation of a bed, were you?”
“No. Oh, no. That would seem calculating rather than precipitous.”
He could have pointed out that throughout this encounter she had demonstrated more in the way of strategy than Napoleon had upon escaping Elba. He said nothing, however. Apparently she was taken with the notion of a chance meeting and reckless abandon. He was in favor of both those things, but they had nothing at all to do with this night’s work.
Ferrin observed that she was still looking around. He wondered if she was having second thoughts and how he felt about it if that were so. “Have you changed your mind?” he asked.
She shook her head. Her flame-red hair, so brilliant in the ballroom, had faded to burnt umber in the constricted space of the stairwell. A lock of it fell forward over her shoulders. Before she could push it back, he did it for her.
“I thought it was a wig,” he said.
Boudicca made no reply to that. What she said was, “Will you extinguish the lamps?”
“If you wish.”
“I do.”
Ferrin was disappointed but not surprised. She’d made it clear at the outset that she wanted to preserve her anonymity. He was the one exposed here, with or without candlelight. “Very well,” he said. It did not take him long to blow out the lamp below them, then climb to the second landing and extinguish that flame as well. His returning descent was slowed by the complete darkness. When he reached what he thought was the last step, he felt her hand brush his sleeve and knew then that he had arrived.
It was not that she was waiting for him with open arms, but that she went so easily into his. The fit was perfect. As soon as he kissed her, he knew she was no longer wearing her mask. Darkness had freed her. His hands came up and cupped her face. He let his thumbs pass lightly across the arch of her cheekbones. She was more finely made than he’d imagined the raw-boned queen of Britain had been. This Boudicca’s features were elegantly contoured, the symmetry just shy of perfection. He used his index finger to trace the pared line of her nose. No break or bump altered the intended shape of it. His fingers slipped under her heavy fall of hair, threading behind her head to support her as he deepened the kiss.
She was working the buttons of his frock coat, her movements not so practiced that they weren’t a bit tentative and clumsy. When she released the last one she began on his waistcoat, then pulled his shirt free of his breeches. He sucked in a breath when her hands lay flat against his chest.
“Cold?” she asked, beginning to pull away.
“Hot,” he said, drawing her back. His mouth covered hers again, harder this time, insistent. He pushed her against the wall and swallowed her moan. Her hands slid around his back until her fingers met at his spine. Her nails lightly scored the length of it from his nape to where it disappeared beneath his waistband. Her breasts flattened against his chest, but he was so sensitive to her touch that the twin buds of her nipples seemed to score him much as her nails did. He lifted his lips, then placed them at the curve of her neck just below her ear.
His breath was hot and humid, and he whispered what he wanted from her, what he wanted to do to her. She strained against him and clutched him tighter. He sipped her skin, knowing he would leave a mark there. She knew it too. Her hands and fingers stilled and she stiffened, then the moment passed and she was yielding to his mouth again, no longer caring that he was placing his stamp upon her.
The golden torc she wore fit closely. He kissed her at the opening, above the base of her throat. He felt her tremble.
They lowered each other to the landing, neither of them consciously taking the lead. It was surprisingly simple. At one moment they were standing, in another they were not.
He found the brooch that fastened her cloak. “Be still,” he said, “else I will stick one of us with this. I would rather it not be me.”
“You are not at all gallant.”
“Rakes rarely are. Or rather they can be when it serves their purpose.” His chuckle rose deep from the back of his throat when she pushed his hands aside and managed the brooch herself. She let him remove the cloak from her shoulders. He folded it so that it made a pillow for her head, then he bore her down on it.
Her tunic fell to her thighs when he raised her knees and settled himself between them. Neither of them moved at first, becoming acquainted with this new intimacy. Of necessity there were adjustments to be made. Her head bumped the lip of an upper step. His knee caught the lip of a lower one. The landing afforded them not much more space than an armoire, and they turned and twisted until they had an arrangement that suited them both.
“Aren’t you pleased I talked you out of the cupboard?” he asked.
“You cannot imagine.” She raised her head just enough to brush his lips with hers. The tip of her tongue wet his lower lip. “Shall I help you with your flies?”
If the mask had made her bold before, darkness made her bolder. “I can manage. Do you need help with your shift?”
“I can manage.”
There was no mistaking that he was ready for her, but Ferrin was not as certain the reverse was true. Reckless and impassioned they might be, he reasoned there was time enough yet to lay siege to all of her senses. To that end, he began in precisely the same place he had stopped when they had slid to the floor. The hollow of her throat was still damp from his last kiss. Her pulse thrummed beneath his lips.
He moved lower, finding the edge of her tunic with his teeth and tugging. He used his fingers to slip it over one of her shoulders, then traced the line of her collarbone. He retraced it with his lips. She arched a little under him, raising her breasts. He pulled the tunic lower until it was her flesh he felt under his palm and the sweet thorny point of her nipple against his thumb.
She filled his hand. He bent his head and suckled her. She cried out, and he was forced to stop. He placed his mouth near her own and whispered that she must accept quietly what was done to her, else they would arouse the curiosity of the housemaids and footmen. He felt her nod and smiled because she would not for anything risk a single word in reply.
This time when he took her nipple in his mouth she merely whimpered. The sound of that tight little gasp made his blood surge again. He was achingly hard. He ground his hips against her, and he rolled the tip of her breast between his lips, touching her ever so lightly with the ridge of his teeth. He felt the hand she’d laid on his shoulder lift, then heard her muffled cry and knew she’d jammed her fist against her mouth.
When she shifted under him he realized she meant for him to show the same delicate attention to her other breast. He did. She was so responsive to his touch that he found himself holding back, gentling her as though she might break apart in his hands. She would have none of it, or none of it for long. When his reserve became too much for her, the fragile foreplay a torture in itself, she caught his face between her hands and kissed him hard enough to bruise their lips.
As an invitation it could not have been clearer. Ferrin released his erection from his breeches, then slipped his hands under her bottom and lifted. He felt her draw her knees higher, opening for him, then clasping him. He did not go gently now but thrust forward so that she reared up and for a moment seemed as if she would stop him. The fists that he thought might pummel him when they pressed against his shoulders slowly uncurled. Her fingers fluttered, then were still.
He waited her out, another adjustment to be made as her body stretched to accommodate his entry. Her breathing was quick and shallow, the response to a heart racing so hard it threatened to burst her chest. He was quiet, patient. That would change, b
ut for now he could be patient.
“Please,” she whispered. “I want…” But she did not say what she wanted. “Please,” she said again instead.
They fit so tightly that the cramped space they occupied was without consequence. He moved slowly at first, long, sure strokes that helped her find his rhythm and take him so deeply he thought he might die with the pleasure of it. He didn’t, but he would not have minded if he had.
He set about making certain that she felt the very same. Releasing her abruptly, he turned her over and folded her forward on her knees. Her forearms braced on one of the steps above; the curve of her bottom was raised toward him. He palmed her buttocks, finding her cleft, then entered her again, this time from behind. He sensed her ducking her head and realized she was protecting her nose and chin from a collision with one of the upper steps. He swore softly, in way of apology, then leaned forward and kissed her shoulder to punctuate it.
“All is well?” he asked.
“Yes.” He began to move in her again. “Oh, yes,” she said.
One of his hands left her hip and sought the wet, slippery folds of flesh beneath her mons. He ran a finger between them, flicking the hooded bud with the tip of his nail. Her entire body quivered. The cadence of her breathing changed again, this time coming more irregularly as she caught, then held, a sip of air at the back of her throat.
In the ballroom a waltz was being played. The lilting three-quarter time insinuated itself into the dark passage. The vibration of so many dancers taking to the floor could be felt in the stairwell. Occasionally a servant moved below and then they would quiet, only the harshness of their breathing hinting at the mixture of anticipation and excitement they held at bay. Each brief respite served to heighten pleasure already spiraling in a dizzying arc.
He didn’t know what she did to keep from screaming, but when she shuddered violently in his arms he had little doubt it was what she had wanted to do. His own climax came as hard: short, shallow strokes followed by one that buried him so deeply that he touched her womb.
