A Midnight Clear

by Kristi Astor

  Roxana removed her gaze from the tester above her and looked at Max. His face was so close she could see every dark eyelash around his warm brown eyes. The hint of his beard showed below his firm jaw. His lips parted and he breathed more deeply than normal, although he managed to carry on a one-sided conversation.

  “We have always had a Yule log, though the servants complain it is difficult to keep lit. But then, split wood burns so much better.”

  “Max?”

  He pushed up on his elbow to lean over her. His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded. His breath brushed across her lips. “Yes, sweetheart?”

  Sweetheart? “Do you mean to talk to me all night?”

  “If that is what it takes,” he said, but then he brushed his lips across hers. His touch was light and altogether unsatisfying. She wanted more.

  “What do you”—his hand curled around her breast—“oh!”

  A jolt shot from his hand to the damp place between her legs, and his mouth covered hers again. She lowered her arm around his neck.

  He kissed her languorously as if in no hurry at all. Her bones were melting and a building urgency made her arch into him. His thumb skimmed over the tip of her breast, and pleasure rippled through her, traveling directly to her womb.

  He ended the kiss as if reluctant, his lips clinging to hers. “Are you done being frightened, pet?”

  His voice was rough and low. He hovered above, waiting for her answer, with his mouth a mere hairsbreadth from hers.

  She raised her other hand and covered his bare shoulder.

  He kissed her again, lightly, teasingly, and she found herself following him, her head lifting off the pillow as he drew back. His lips curved in a smile before they entirely left hers. “Now is the time for plain speaking, my adorable Miss Winston.”

  His hand skimmed over her breast and she wondered how he could speak at such a time, when she felt as if she were unraveling.

  “I’m not so frightened,” she managed to whisper.

  “Good, for I am deuced tired of this restraint.” He shifted his body over the top of hers and nudged apart her legs with his knee. His weight pressed her into the mattress as he kissed her again with more purpose and intensity.

  His hands drifted over her, exploring and alternating between places that prompted a slow swell of heat and places that sparked and tingled with an instant fire. Each time he touched her in a new way, he paused, giving her time to react and absorb his possession. And as his caresses dropped lower and became more intimate, everything seemed to spiral and pool in that secret place.

  He moved to nuzzle her neck and Roxana stared at the tester, so aware of him, so hungry for him, her body wanton and waiting and her heart breaking, because she knew with each low moan and cry she was betraying him. She gripped his shoulders, her fingers aching to explore his firm golden skin, yet restrained by her double crossing.

  He whispered sweet things to her—commands, coaxing, and compliments. He touched her with such a mix of reverence and patience that she knew he made love to her. It was more than a simple seduction to him. And it was more than that to her.

  “I don’t want you to hate me.” A sob cracked her voice and she blinked hurriedly. She bit at her lip, trying to keep her confession of her whole nefarious plan held inside. She could not tell him or she risked failure, and she was out of time. But not telling him made her feel that she was holding herself apart in this moment that was about sharing everything.

  He settled himself on his elbows as he stroked her hair. “I could never hate you. Do not worry. I promise all will be well.” He kissed her face, trailed little nipping kisses down her neck.

  “I think—”

  “Try not to think so much, pet. Just feel.”

  His head dipped lower until he caught the material of her nightgown and her nipple in his mouth.

  The hot wet heat of his mouth through the cotton of her gown shot pleasure through her body, and every sensation echoed in her woman’s core. She felt too much.

  He shifted back up to kiss her lips again. She abandoned her fight of reluctance and gave over to the tightening and tingling cascading through her body.

  He tugged up the hem of her nightgown. She hardly noticed except when his bare skin landed against her breast she felt a new spiraling of vibrations. Her insides tightened and held as if waiting for something to happen. Yet she was aware that there were more steps to this intimate dance.

  “Roxy, darling, am I to assume you want to be caught in flagrante delicto?”

  “Caught?” she echoed dimly, his words not penetrating her focus on exploring the contours of his firm body. And his hand. Oh stars above, he touched her intimately, his fingers sliding along the cleft between her legs.

  “Clothes off?” he asked.

  “Mmmm,” she managed.

  He lowered his head to her other breast, his mouth no longer impeded by material.

  His slipping fingers found a spot that thundered sensations into her body in a way that she could not even call it pleasure. It went beyond pleasure. His tongue swirled against her beaded nipple. She was coming undone.

  She moaned and tossed her head side to side, as Max’s magical touch brought her into a dangerous swirl of unimagined yearning for something just out of reach. She searched for relief, yet holding on to him, knowing he guided her to deliverance. Finally the first swells of a wave of pure bliss broke over her, drowning her in a mind-numbing pulsing paradise.

  Max’s weight and the pressure of his hand against the throbbing of her body soothed her, while the tenor of his kisses changed, as if he were now exploring her body in a way that was less about her response and more about his interest. She struggled to swim out of the fog of repletion.

  She grew aware of the nightgown bunched at her shoulders, that she held handfuls of his hair. She relaxed her grip, hoping she had not hurt him in her frenzy.

  He lifted up, tugging her nightgown over her head. “How much time do I have before we are discovered?”

  “Discovered?” she said, as she was suddenly bare. Worry tapped at her complete state of contentment. She shoved it away, preferring to linger in the afterglow.

  He pulled the covers over his shoulders, although not before his gaze had swept over her naked figure. “Roxy,” he urged.

  She could hear the strain in his voice. Tension was palpable in the tautness of his muscles under his skin. He reached for those ties on his small-clothes.

  “Roxy, how long do I have?”

  She brushed her hand over his chest, pleased that the gap allowed her to explore more, but missing the skin-to-skin contact with him. He groaned. With his hand at the nape of her neck, he brought her up for a deep kiss. His hunger was unmistakable and she wanted to ease him, to give him every measure of the pleasure he had given her. Oh God, for just this moment she wanted to love him as if tomorrow would never come.

  “How long?”

  “All night?” she whispered, knowing she was missing a matter of import in his question. Or perhaps he just liked to talk of nonsensical things like Christmas trees when he made love.

  She slithered down, pressing her lips to his chest. Could she bring him to the place she had been?

  He pushed her away while moving to his knees on the bed. “What?”

  Had she done something wrong?

  He gathered the covers, piling them not so they covered her, but so they were in between her and the door.

  “Bloody hell, do not tell me you neglected to plan a timely interruption.”

  “A what?” Had she not understood completely the way to go about being compromised?

  As if he could not help himself, his hand stroked over her curves. “How the hell did you plan to force an offer if you did not arrange to be discovered?”

  “I was to go to you,” she said in a small voice.

  “Roxana, if no one witnessed your disgrace, then I could do nothing to insist—Oh Christ, you are so beautiful.”

  He put his hand over h
is face, raking into his disordered hair. “Bloody hell, we cannot go further. Damn!”

  Roxana saw the heaving of his chest as he breathed heavily and cursed. She twisted so that she could reach the laces of his small-clothes.

  As her fingers brushed against the heavy length of him, a shuddering groan left his mouth. He had not had any qualms about touching her private parts, and she wanted to touch him. She paused to run her fingers over his length. The leap of his member under her ministrations pleased her. Anticipation began a slow build in her again.

  “Oh hell, you’ll have to scream.”

  Like hell she would. “I will not.”

  But then, she didn’t have to as the door clicked open and Roxana caught a glimpse of satin, lace, and white, white skin before Max threw the covers over her head, muffling the words that were said, but not diluting the scream of rage and mortification.

  Roxana struggled against the covers, but Max pressed down as if he intended to suffocate her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fanny drew away from Scully. Her heart pounded madly. He had proposed and she had not expected it or been prepared for it. She had barely allowed herself to think that he wanted to sleep with her.

  He listed his shortcomings so fast—his lack of title or prospects, his modest income, his small estate, his work for the foreign office that took him away for long stretches. Did he want her to refuse? Yet all that really registered was that odd knee-jerk response of his when she had asked him why. Anger and hurt burned under her breast. “Max said you must what? Offer to marry me?”

  Her voice squeaked. Since when had Max interfered in her love life? Since he became duke. He had that right. And to be precise, she had no love life.

  “Forget I said that,” said Scully.

  If she accepted the ring, perhaps she could console herself that everyone would understand her foolishness. “The words are said; you cannot unsay them.”

  “Then allow me to explain.” He cupped his hands around her shoulders.

  The ring dangled beside her face, pinched in his thumb and forefinger. It was undoubtedly the most precious thing Scully owned. While his grandmother had been a countess, Scully was a younger son of an earl with several nephews between him and the line of succession. If Fanny took it from him, he would regret the loss of a bauble so valuable.

  “I cannot think it should matter.” She turned and held out her hand. “I want the ring.”

  “Fanny?” He stepped forward, a smile breaking across his face as he lifted her left hand. “I had thought you would need more convincing.”

  She snatched her hand back, suddenly thinking she had made a grave miscalculation. The disappointment she expected on Scully’s face was not there. “I will consent to a private engagement, nothing more.”

  His smile faltered. “If that is all you can agree to right now, then I will be glad of it.”

  His dark hair dropped across his forehead as he reached down for her hand, lifted it and slid the ring on her finger. “With this ring, I plight my troth,” he said solemnly, unlike her carefree Scully.

  He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it, turned it over and kissed her palm. Then he reached to cup her face.

  She spun away and tugged at the ring, which refused to leave with the ease it had slid onto her finger. “I did not think you were serious. You are never serious.”

  “Men never jest with proposals, Fanny.” He caught her hips, her more-than-ample hips.

  She twisted and backed away from him.

  “I love you,” he said quite firmly. “I have loved you for fifteen years.”

  He would not love her when he realized she was not the same woman she was ten years ago. Why had he said fifteen?

  He closed the gap between them. Fanny spun around again and found herself confronted with the wall of her bedroom. The toile de Jouy wallpaper greeted her. She slapped her hands against the wall, which seemed to approach with dizzying speed.

  “Interesting position, Fanny. But I am game.” He pressed his erection against the curves of her derrière and slid his hands around her waist. “Although I have to wonder if you will complain about your dignity later. Mind you, I shan’t care if you laugh a little.”

  Did he really want her? The evidence of his body would suggest so, but she clenched her eyes shut, waiting, fearing his interest would fade when he felt what deficiencies a middling-aged-woman’s corset could conceal. He had to have felt the extra padding around her midsection.

  Instead he shifted, rubbing against her in such a suggestive—lewd—manner. Her breathing quickened and her blood thickened. Heavens, could she not restrain her response? How could she be aroused by such coarse bawdiness?

  He slid his hand up and cupped her breast. “Quite clever of you to realize that you would do well to avoid touching me, my hunger for you is so near out of control.”

  She heard the catch in his voice with disbelief. And as he’d distracted her with fondling her breast—which quite shocked her—he pulled her hips back tighter against his. Then his hand dropped quite blatantly to cup around her woman’s mound. In spite of the shocking manner of his seduction, if one could call it that, tingles raced along her spine, under his hands, in her woman’s core.

  “Oh, Fanny, this might work quite nicely, but in front of your looking glass, so I might watch your pretty face.”

  She squawked. The idea of his watching her reflection as they made love appalled and titillated her. What a horrid person she was to want him after such crude suggestions.

  His hands smoothed over her curves, then he backed away.

  Heavens, she felt a fool. The burn of humiliation stung her cheeks. The betrayal of her body was clear.

  “I think I should want to kiss you awhile first, Fanny. I do not think I would rush this moment. I have looked forward to it so long. I would have you disrobe and kiss every inch of your fair flesh and feast my eyes upon your loveliness.” He stroked her hair. “I want your sweet honey hair across my pillow, your—”

  “Stop it, Dev.” She pulled her hands down and began to tug on the ring. With every word he reminded her of how dowdy she had become. “You can leave now. Your games are done.”

  His hand closed around hers, stopping the removal of his ring. With his other hand he produced the deck of cards. “These are for games, love. What I do with you is real. If you would prefer we play games, I will deal the cards.”

  He flipped over the ace of hearts. How had he managed to change the top card from the knave to the ace?

  “I would beg that we play for kisses, my pretty Fanny.”

  “So much for your lack of control,” she said bitterly.

  “I have never lacked for control, love. It took me three years to seduce you before. If it takes me as long again, I shall relish every moment.”

  “Your math is sadly lacking, Dev.” She turned and leaned against the wall. She again tugged at the ring. Damn the humidity that made her knuckles swell so that a ring that fit was near impossible to remove. Her hands had not become grotesque, the swelling noticeable only to her with certain rings that no longer fit. How long before they would become gnarled and ugly?

  “It was ten years ago, not fifteen, and . . .” She had fallen into his arms with so little provocation and prompting on his part she was ashamed. He had not campaigned for her seduction for three years. He was Max’s friend from Eton, often underfoot, always begging her to join them at cards or riding, archery, picnics, facilitating the friendship she had finally formed with her stepson, who had been too self-sufficient to accept her as a mother when she arrived at the age of eighteen. Being maternal to his nine- and seven-year-old brothers was much easier than forging a relationship with a rigidly correct eleven-year-old Max.

  When Dev had been here every school break, and months at a time after he and Max finished school, Dev had made her laugh, reminded her she was still young, although her husband’s years were wearing heavy on their marriage.

  He touched a finge
r to her cheek. “And?”

  She stared at him, wondering if she had misconstrued the past, if she had not recognized when his offers of friendship had changed to more than a harmless flirtation. And God forgive her, her husband had allowed it and interfered only after she begged him to ban Dev from the house. Tears burned at her eyes.

  He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, gently, persuasively. “Your lips are a taste of heaven.” He touched his finger to the bow of her lower lip. “So soft and sweet. Always the ones I’ve wanted, even if only for conversation.”

  She closed her eyes. “So you would offer marriage for companionship?”

  “For that, but for everything that comes with marriage. Most of all I dream of having you in my arms every night.”

  She could not give him everything he should expect in a wife. Her age may preclude children. And she was tired of all the time involved in managing a large household, and with Julia’s debut in a few years that was likely to get worse. She opened her eyes and found Scully’s intense blue gaze and a cocked eyebrow.

  “What am I missing, Fanny? What constrains you? Why are we not in yonder bed, finding heaven?”

  “I’m fat.”

  He laughed. “You cannot expect that I am disappointed that there is more of you to love.”

  She pushed him away.

  He caught his arm in her elbow and swung her around. “Ah, Fanny, love, I am well aware of the lushness of your womanly figure—I look upon it every day with lust in my heart.”

  “Do not jest so.”

  “Lust in my loins, then. That should be obvious to you. I have changed in ten years too. I think I may have a little paunch.” He made an effort to stick out his flat stomach.

  “You have not changed.”

  “I have so. No one ever calls my shoulders puny now.”

  She took a hard look at him. The changes in him had been gradual, but he was no longer the boy of one and twenty who had cajoled his way into her bed. He was a man who had made it to the ripe old age of thirty without marriage or even the hint of particular notice to any young woman. Why, when he could have any fresh-faced young misses such as Miss Winston or Lady Angela, would he want her?