by Candace Camp
“I didn’t say that we must avoid each other.” Graeme frowned.
“There’s no need to explain. You must not worry about tact. My feelings are armored to insults, I assure you,” she lied smoothly. “I have no interest in anything permanent. We are simply two people in a difficult situation—rather stuck with each other.”
“Yes, well . . .” He took another sip of wine, still looking troubled.
“Graeme . . .” Abigail leaned forward to lay her hand on his arm. “I do not want to cause you distress or . . . or inflict something abhorrent on you.”
“No,” he said hastily. “Nothing abhorrent, I assure you. You are obviously quite . . . beautiful. Any man would be honored.”
Abigail raised her finger to his lips, stopping him. “I am not asking for compliments. Least of all lies. I know how little you desired this. I want to make it easy for you.” She reached up and pulled out the lacquered sticks anchoring her hair, letting it uncoil and slide silkily to her shoulders.
chapter 11
Graeme could do nothing but gaze at Abigail, his mouth suddenly dry as dust. From the moment she opened the door, he had been struggling with a throbbing, insistent arousal. To his astonishment, Abigail wore a dressing gown, as if ready for bed—and not only a dressing gown but one that was lush and exotic, with slashed sleeves that invited a man’s hands to slide up her arms. White lace peeked out between the lapels and showed in glimpses as she walked, a continual reminder that she wore only a nightgown beneath the robe.
He felt an intense need to caress the lush blue satin, to trace the embroidered figures with his fingers, to slide his hands along the wide sash that delineated her waist. Everything about her was soft and rich and inviting. Even her hair was twisted around the crown of her head in a fashion so precarious it seemed it might come tumbling down at any moment. His fingers itched to pluck those absurd shiny red sticks from the knot and watch it fall. When she had done exactly that, it had taken his breath away.
He knew he must have sounded like a bumbling rustic every time he opened his mouth. It was a wonder he had been able to speak with any coherence at all. Everywhere he looked, soft sensuality teased at his senses. The low glow of the lamps, tinged with the warmth of the gossamer scarf thrown over one, the door standing slightly ajar so that he could look into her bedroom without really seeing anything at all, the touch of her fingers on his arm. It was easy to get lost in watching the movement of her lips. Even the sound of her voice set something thrumming inside him.
“You’re trying to seduce me,” he said, and the smile she sent him made him feel both foolish and hungry.
“I am,” she agreed, unembarrassed. “I understand your reservations. Your scruples. Whatever you may think of me, the truth is I don’t want to harm you or make you do something you dislike.” She reached out to take his glass and refill it. “I have heard that alcohol will make one more amorous.”
He made a noncommittal noise and took a drink, watching her with a curious combination of wariness and eagerness. Whatever else this woman was, she excited him. Abigail slid closer.
“I know it must be difficult for you since you don’t want this. Don’t want me.” She laid her hand lightly on his chest. It might have been a burning brand, the way it felt.
“Abigail . . . you needn’t—” he began, his voice thick.
“No, I have given it a great deal of thought.” He missed the words that followed, because she slid her hand across his chest and all thought left his brain. The next thing he heard was, “Don’t think about me. Pretend I am someone else.”
Little likelihood of that. Right now she was the only person he could think of—or see or feel or smell. And sweet heaven, but she smelled delightful. He circled her wrist with one hand, sliding it up over the lace and silk of her gown.
She edged nearer, her hand gliding over his shoulder, her voice soft. He could feel the brush of her breath against his skin as she leaned toward him. “Clearly you are able to separate your emotions from your desires when you go to, um, ‘professional’ women. So I thought perhaps you could pretend that I was one.”
“What? Pretend you are a . . .” It was ludicrous. Demeaning. It sent the blood roaring through his veins.
Abigail nodded. “Your mistress. Or a woman you bought for the night. From a bordello, say.”
“Abigail, no.” He shifted in his seat. He must stop; there were things they had to agree on, rules to establish. He should move away. Or at least stop stroking his hand over her arm. And he definitely should not move his other hand to the wide satin sash at her waist. “What you’re saying is absurd. Wrong.” Almost unbearably arousing.
“What would you do there?” She trailed her forefinger up the side of his neck, and he could not control a tremor. He closed his eyes, not sure what she might see in them. “You would relax, wouldn’t you? Take off your jacket?” She went up on her knees and reached across him to grasp the other side of his jacket and ease it back off his shoulders.
He moved forward to let her pull the jacket back and down his arms. He opened his eyes and looked into hers. There was no longer any question of ending this. The only thing on his mind now was what she would do next.
He saw her eyes spark as if she had read his thoughts, and the faintest smile curved her lips. “Then this, perhaps?” Her fingers went to his ascot, unfastening the stickpin and sliding the folds apart with a whisper of silk.
“And surely your waistcoat would be unfastened.” She began on the buttons.
His eyes locked to hers, Graeme laid his hands on either side of her waist, spreading out his fingers and sliding them up the wide sash until they were tantalizingly close to her breasts. When his hands curled around those luscious orbs, she drew in a sharp little breath that almost undid him.
Graeme glided his thumbs over the sleek satin of her dressing gown, stroking the nipples beneath it. The buds tightened, pressing against the cloth, and Abigail’s eyes fluttered closed, her fingers digging into the cloth of his waistcoat.
Heat speared him, and with a little groan that was part hunger, part surrender, he pulled her into his lap and kissed her.
Abby had thought she knew what to expect, but now she found that she had not, could not have, prepared herself for the rush of sensations pouring through her. His mouth, his hands, his heat . . . the raw need that suddenly blossomed low inside her, aching for something unknown, but with the deep certainty that only he could provide it.
Graeme’s arm was hard around her. She was not sure she could have stayed upright if not for that, for every part of her body seemed to be melting, consumed by the fire he caused in her. What would have been alarming, if she had been able to form a rational thought, was that she was happy, even eager to be lost in him.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on in the torrent of pleasure. His kiss went on forever, and when at last he pulled his mouth from hers, she started to protest. But then his mouth was finding such interesting places to explore, roving over her neck and down to the swell of her breasts, that all that came from her lips was a sigh of satisfaction.
His hand roamed down her front, sliding between the sides of her dressing gown and nudging it open. He curved over her breasts and down onto her stomach, his skin searing through the thin cloth of her gown. His fingertips traced the circles of her nipples and moved to the shallow well of her navel. Slid even lower.
Abby drew in her breath sharply as he delved into the crevice between her legs. It was startling and embarrassing . . . and so very delightful that she found herself opening to him, hoping he would do more. Graeme’s breath rasped against the soft flesh of her throat as he aroused her with teeth and lips and tongue, and farther down, his fingers caressed and teased until she felt almost desperate. She turned her face into his shoulder, sinking her teeth into him.
She felt the tiny jerk in his body and heard the low sound he made, and she feared she had done something wrong. He would pull back. Leave her. Instead, he surg
ed up from the sofa with her in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. Settling her onto the bed, he untied the sash of her dressing gown and spread the sides apart.
Leaning over Abby, one hand braced against the bed, he ran his hand slowly down the length of her body, his gaze following the path of his fingers. His face was slack, his eyes dark and hungry. When he reached the hem, he slipped his fingers beneath the material and started back up her leg, his skin like fire against hers. The cloth pooled before him as he moved upward, exposing the long line of her legs.
Abigail suspected she ought to feel embarrassed—and perhaps she did, a bit—but far more than that, desire flowered in her at the touch of his eyes, and she knew that what she wanted was to be completely naked before him, to see the passion rising in him at the sight of her. To know in the most elemental, clearest way that he wanted her.
Graeme pulled the dressing gown down from her shoulders. She sat up to make it easier, and as he turned to toss the robe away, she pulled her nightgown up and off. Graeme turned back and saw her, his eyelids drooping lower as he studied her.
“Abigail . . .” He sat down on the bed beside her, tracing the line of her collarbone with his fingers. “You are so beautiful.” He bent and kissed her lips, her cheeks, her ears, her throat, his lips velvet soft and lingering.
She trembled beneath his touch, her senses filled with him. His mouth moved lower, exploring the hard center line of her chest, the contrasting softness of her breasts, and all the while his hand trailed over her stomach, her hips, her thighs, arousing her with a feather-light touch.
Abigail twined her fingers through his hair, stirred by the soft glide of it over her skin. She wanted more, and experimentally she ran her hands down the sides of his neck, rewarded by the surge of heat in him. She caressed his shoulders and back. Frustrated by the cloth that lay between her fingers and his skin, she went to the buttons of his shirt.
He stood up, his eyes never leaving her as he stripped off his clothes, cursing softly when his hasty fingers slipped on the fastenings. Then he was naked, long and lean and fully aroused, but she hardly had time to take in the sight of him before he was on the bed beside her, his mouth on hers, his arms around her, pressing her into him.
He was hard and hungry, and his questing fingers found the hot damp center of her. Abigail moved against his hand, instinctively seeking release, but what he was doing only increased the need inside her. His breath labored in his throat and she could feel the hard length of him pressing against her hip, throbbing and insistent.
Murmuring her name, he moved between her legs. Slipping his hands beneath her buttocks, he lifted her slightly and pushed into her. Abigail tightened at the sudden pressure and pain. This wasn’t going to work, she thought, panicked. Graeme stopped abruptly, his eyes flying to hers.
“Abigail! You’re . . . why didn’t you say?” He started to move back, and she flung her arms around his neck, holding on.
“No! No, please, don’t stop. It will be all right, won’t it? I’m not—there’s nothing wrong with me, is there?”
“No.” He braced himself on his arms on either side of her head, bending down to kiss her lips. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” She could feel his smile against her cheek as he kissed his way lightly across her face and down her neck. “You’re perfect. Lovely.” He drew a shaky breath. “I shouldn’t have rushed.” He nuzzled into her neck. “Just relax.”
She could feel the tension in his arms, hear it in his breath, but his voice was soft and soothing, his lips tender on her skin. She gave way, her body responding to the gentle coaxing of his mouth, the soft brush of his fingers down her side. He moved into her slowly, and again she felt the pressure, followed by a sharp swift pain.
Then he was inside her, filling her. It felt so strange and yet so right that she wanted to laugh or cry or perhaps shout out loud, she wasn’t sure what, but she only turned her head and pressed her lips against his arm where it lay beside her head.
He let out a low groan and buried his face in her hair. He began to move inside her, and Abby realized with a start that yet more pleasure was possible. Now she did let out a breathy laugh that slid into a moan as the sweet sensations intensified. Sinking her hands into Graeme’s hair, she moved with him. He murmured her name as he thrust with harder, swifter strokes. “Abigail . . . Abby . . .”
The sound of it on his lips stirred her almost as much as his movements. Need built within her; she felt as if she were racing and reaching and what she sought was just beyond her grasp.
Then it exploded within her, flooding out all over her in great waves, startling her so that she cried out. Graeme shuddered against her, groaning, as he rode out the cataclysm.
chapter 12
Abby awoke in the wash of pale morning light, huddled against a firm warmth. She realized in the next instant that the source of the heat was Graeme. He lay naked, his back to her, his breathing soft and steady, indicating he still slept. She did not open her eyes, but simply lay there, luxuriating in the moment.
It would not last, of course. Graeme would awaken and reality would return. They would once again be strangers, poised somewhere between enmity and intimacy. But for a bit, right now, he was her husband, the man who had evoked such passion and pleasure in her last night and who had, for an instant, been joined to her in a shattering union.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Abby opened her eyes. She inched away from Graeme. Theirs was a mutually beneficial arrangement, a rational and impersonal relationship, and if by some stroke of luck there had been passion between them, that was not love or even affection. There was no reason to cuddle up to him. It wouldn’t do to cross a line or break a “rule” of their arrangement. She tried to recall exactly what Graeme’s stipulations had been but could not. She hadn’t been paying much attention to his words.
Her movement must have disturbed him, for Graeme rolled over in his sleep and onto his side, one arm falling over her. His eyes opened hazily and he frowned. She could see recognition awaken in his eyes. “Abigail.”
“Good morning.” She had the annoying feeling that she was blushing.
Abigail expected Graeme to pull back, but he only reached up and smoothed his hand over her cheek, brushing her hair from her face. “Good morning. Are you all right? I mean—why did you not tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“That you were untouched. That you hadn’t been with a man before.”
“I thought that was a given,” she responded tartly, and she was the one who slid several inches away. “Since I am your wife and you have never touched me. I didn’t realize you believed me a wanton.”
“No. I didn’t—it’s just—” He rose up on his elbow to look at her. “It’s been ten years, after all, and we were apart.”
“So you assumed I slept with other men.” It was satisfying to see him squirm a bit.
“I am sure there were a number of men who were eager candidates. Besides, the way you acted last night—what else was I supposed to think? You were the one seducing me. ‘Wouldn’t you do this?’ and ‘Let’s take off that.’ How did you know those things?”
His expression was so puzzled, his tone so aggrieved, that Abigail had to laugh. “One doesn’t have to have do something to learn how to do it. I thought you would be more . . . comfortable if I approached it like a professional. So I asked a professional.”
He stared. “You went to a prostitute?”
“A high-class one, of course. I assumed that was the sort you would be accustomed to.”
“Abigail. My God.” He sat up. “How did you find her?”
“I have found that one can learn almost anything if she’s willing to pay for it. I asked the man who operates the lift which was the finest bordello in London.”
“The man in the lift!”
“Yes. I thought about it a good deal. I couldn’t very well ask you, and it would have embarrassed David if I had asked him. I was sure Lord Cargaron would know—”
/> “Good God.”
“—but it would have caused gossip if I had asked him or, really, anyone in society. I thought someone who worked in a nice hotel where a number of gentlemen stay would probably have such information. He seemed the likeliest choice, as one sees him every time one goes up or down.”
“And he told you?” His voice hovered somewhere between dismay and fascination.
“He appeared somewhat taken aback,” Abigail admitted.
“Imagine that.”
“But when I opened my purse, he was happy to provide the names of several brothels. He assured me they were the best.”
“Please don’t tell me you went there.”
“Of course not. It would have caused a great deal of scandal if anyone found out, and since it is the sort of place aristocratic gentlemen frequent, it seemed all too likely I might run into someone I know.” She ignored the choked noise Graeme made. “I sent a note to the establishment, offering to pay the best rate if the woman came here to the hotel. She came cloaked; it was all very sub rosa.”
“What did she—what did you ask her?”
“Oh, all sorts of things. She was quite agreeable . . . once she got over her astonishment. She had expected a man. One would, I suppose.”
“Mm.”
“But when I explained what I wanted, she was happy to help me. I asked her how a visit would proceed and what she would do to . . . to encourage a man.” Heat flared in Graeme’s eyes, and Abby stopped, suddenly off-balance. She cleared her throat. “Fortunately, those things weren’t really necessary, for some of them were rather embarrassing.”
“Abigail . . .” His eyes dropped to her mouth, then down to the swell of her bosom above the blanket. He skimmed a finger along the blanket’s edge, his eyes darkening.
