by Cheryl Holt
"Have you?"
"It's been over ten years now, and I would say"—he grinned impishly—"that the jury is still out."
"I think your mother was very wise in forcing you to return." She sounded too fussy, too stuffy, and much older than her years.
"I don't know that I would agree with you," he said, and, unable to believe he'd admit such a thing, he added, "I seem to draw female trouble no matter the country in which I reside."
"And the woman?" she eventually asked, after staring
50 Cheryl Holt
much too long at how his hand manipulated that breast. "What was her name?"
"Lily. She was the artist's wife," Her eyes widened with shock, or perhaps dismay.
"And your friend did not mind?"
"We were young. In Paris. The times were more open. He considered the entire episode to be totally erotic."
Without responding, she slid the second drawing onto the table, then she reached for the third. The couple had moved so that Lily was now on her back with James stretched out on top of her. They were embroiled in an animated kiss, their lips melded, their tongues entwined. James's hand squeezed her breast as his fingers pressured her nipple.
"Your tongue is in her mouth," she commented after a long perusal.
" 'Tis the most passionate way to kiss a woman," he answered, fixed on her profile, but her attention was glued to the enthusiastic embrace. "A man moves his tongue in and out of the woman's mouth in a tempo meant to simulate mating."
"More of the preparation?"
"Yes." She was so wrapped up in the lovers that he dared move closer. "Have you ever been kissed?" he asked.
"Once," she replied, smiling with the memory. "My fiancé was allowed to kiss me, on the cheek, immediately after he proposed."
"That was the one and only occasion?" He inhaled deeply of the scent of her hair, the smell of her skin.
"The one and only. ..."
She finally managed to wrench her focus from the painting, and as she did, her breast brushed against his arm, her thigh crushed into his. He could see the gold flecks in her emerald eyes, see his face reflected back. Her pupils dilated, her nostrils flared at finding him hovering so near.
"So . .. you've never been properly kissed?"
"No," she admitted.
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They sat unmoving, paralyzed by the promise of what might happen.
"Would you like to be?" His heated gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered.
She seemed to surprise herself with her response. "I believe I would."
"Would you like to be kissed by me?"
He might have jabbed her with a pointed stick, so rapidly did she jump to her feet and head to the window, the sofa becoming a barrier between them. She braced her back against the panes of glass, glaring at him accusingly, as though he'd actually kissed her instead of simply considering it.
"This is not about me!" she insisted. "This is about Caroline, and my need to assist her with accurate information."
"But how will you give her accurate information if you have no firsthand knowledge?"
"You said you could teach me!"
"I can. I merely indicate that your understanding will be greater if you experience something of physical desire yourself."
"No," she declared, shaking her head. 'That is not what I want. Or what I came for."
"Are you certain?"
"Absolutely positive," she ultimately answered, but not until after a protracted delay, which provided him with ample evidence of her confusion over what was just beginning.
He stared calmly in return, as if he couldn't care less about which choice she made even though he was dying to feel the press of her lips against his, but he was a patient man. There was plenty of time to wear her down.
"Come," he coaxed. Missing her adjacency much more than he ought, he patted the empty spot next to him on the sofa. "I have some more pictures to show you." But like a skittish animal, she did not move closer, so he added assuringly, "I give you my word that I will do nothing unless you ask it of me."
"Swear it," she fervently required.
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"I swear."
Unfortunately, his pledge failed to mollify her, and she remained where she was. Her chest heaved, her cheeks burned, her teeth worried her bottom lip, and she kept a hand pressed against her stomach as though she might be ill.
"I think," she finally said, finding her voice, "that will be enough for today."
He intended to argue against quitting so soon, needing the extra time to figure out how he could change her mind. Then he looked at her again, and decided she'd heard all she could bear for one encounter.
"As you wish." He nodded in agreement, then stood to go, but not before scooping his lewd pictures into a pile and stuffing them into their protective portfolio. The collection was too precious a memento to leave behind, and he couldn't stand the thought of possibly losing it. Besides, rogue that he was, he wanted to be with her as she viewed every rendering. "Will we meet on Monday as we planned?" He tried to ease her distress with a smile. "Or have you had enough?"
He held his breath, waiting for her answer. If she said no, he'd have to find a method of infiicting himself into her world, because he was going to see her again.
"Yes," she ultimately concurred, "I would like to meet again on Monday."
His knees weak with relief, he just managed to suppress a satisfied grin. As he'd suspected, the woman was being gradually lured toward the dark pleasure that so easily tempted. While she stilt believed she was enduring this for her younger sister, she was a grown woman—a woman who yearned to know all. Which meant he could push her limits a bit further.
"I find you very beautiful, Lady Abigail."
"Mr. Stevens. . ." She groaned his name.
"No secrets, milady, and no shame. Not when you're here with me like this."
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"Your comment is overly personal. . . and it doesn't have anything to do with Caroline."
"No, it doesn't." He made a step as though to depart, then stopped himself. She was still huddled by the window. "Tonight, after you've sent your maid to bed, go stand in front of your mirror. Completely unclothed. I want you to touch your breasts. . . ."
At hearing his astonishing suggestion, she inhaled sharply. "I never could!"
"Yes, you can," he contended. "Squeeze your nipples. Discover for yourself how quickly and painfully they become aroused."
Before she could retort or protest, he rushed out, taking the stairs two at a time, grabbing his belongings and heading into the wet day. Already he was anticipating, counting the hours until he would see her once more.
CHAPTER
FOUR
Abigail regarded the elaborate supper assemblage, trying to follow the conversations going on around her, but concentration was impossible. All she could think about was James Stevens, so she gave up listening to the ebb and flow of the discourse from those sitting on either side, and she quit offering interesting responses to remarks directed her way, wallowing instead in her memories of the afternoon she had spent at her rented house.
Several hours had passed since she and Mr. Stevens had parted, but in that small expanse of time, the world had tipped off its axis. Even the floor seemed to tilt slightly as if everything had shifted, and she had to fight the urge to hold on to the furniture to keep from losing her balance.
Nothing was the same.
With his descriptions of sexual coupling fresh in her mind, she'd found herself in the parlor before the meal was announced, furtively glancing at all the gentlemen's crotches, looking for the telltale bulges hidden by their clothing. She couldn't believe she'd never noticed such a physical difference before.
Once in the dining room, her condition hardly improved as she took surreptitious peeks at the various couples, unable to prevent herself from imagining how they would appear when joined together in the throes of passion. The notion that any of the bald
ing, gouty men, and the obese, churlish women could find pleasure in each other's naked company was so far-fetched that she had to focus on her plate lest she be caught staring in discourteous, wide-eyed wonderment.
Her gaze came to rest on her half-brother, Jerald, who reigned supreme at the head of the table. Twenty-three years her senior, he was short and portly, with thinning hair
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and huge sideburns that fanned across his cheeks and covered the ruddy complexion he'd developed through excessive drink. His belly protruded over the waistband of his trousers so that his chair had to be placed quite a distance away from the table in order for him to fit in his seat. While not a handsome man in his younger days, he'd nevertheless been good-looking enough, but he'd let himself go, and she couldn't help speculating as to what her sister-in-law, Margaret, thought of his current condition. They had been married for almost thirty years. Did she even notice any longer?
At the other end of the table, Margaret sat, regal as a queen. Her graying curls were piled high and adorned with feathers, and the style accentuated her plump face, jowls, and the sag under her chin. The bodice of her dark purple gown dipped low, emphasizing her enormous bosom.
Did Jerald still visit Margaret's bed? Did the two of them undress and roll around in torrid ecstasy?
The concept was so ludicrous that she reached for her wine glass and sipped in order to stop herself from laughing aloud. In her haste, she swallowed more than intended, setting off a fit of coughing that had people staring. To cover the torrent of mirth wanting to burst out, she pressed a napkin to her lips and inhaled deeply.
How would all these noble ladies and gentlemen react if they realized where her curiosity strayed? Despite the inappropriateness of her musings, she couldn't help but strip them with her eyes while pondering the level of their sexual passions. James Stevens had opened a secret door to an entirely different world, and like the worst sort of voyeur, she couldn't resist gawking.
Across and down a few chairs, her sister, Caroline, conversed jovially with two possible beaux. Caroline was a beautiful girl, blond and blue-eyed, with creamy skin, perfect features, a pleasant voice, and a refreshing demeanor. Contrary to Abigail's opinion of the other guests, she could easily picture her sister in the arms of one of her two suitors, just as she could picture herself. Previously, she'd have denied it, but not after her meeting with Mr. Stevens.
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From that one fleeting lesson, she'd made a shocking discovery: There was an earthy, lusty side to her personality that she'd never suspected. She hadn't grasped that she'd been missing the type of physical interaction that marriage would effect. Now she couldn't understand how she'd managed to survive without it.
Surprisingly, she possessed an uncanny ability to fantasize. Every rime she closed her eyes, she saw the nude drawings Mr. Stevens had shown her, the ones of himself lying on the sofa with the woman named Lily. However, the woman she conjured wasn't Lily at all, but herself! She was the female who was so tightly entwined with James Stevens. Their legs and tongues tangled, his weight pushed her down into the pillows, his hand was at her breast, squeezing and manipulating her extended nipple.
To her dismay, her mental renderings were so vivid that she could perceive the warmth of his skin, the brandy on his tongue, the thickness of his hair as she sifted her fingers through it. Uncomfortable, she shifted in her chair, the friction against her thighs and bottom setting off a strange maelstrom of agitation.
Oh, how could Mr. Stevens have brought about such agony? Had the scoundrel realized that his brief tutoring would leave her in such a state? She couldn't contemplate anything but him! The rat! Every second of their appointment maddeningly replayed inside her head: everything he'd said, everything he'd done, everything she'd said and done, as well.
Mostly, she continued returning to the moment when they had discussed kissing, when he had asked her if she would like to be kissed. With all her heart, she'd craved the opportunity to have his lips pressed against her own. She'd wanted it with a longing that was as desperate as it was frightening. The prospect made her limbs weak. She was aching and restless. And her lips . . .
They tingled and burned, and she repeatedly ran her tongue over diem, aware of their presence in a fashion she'd never been before. Mad as it sounded, they felt dry
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and unused, as if they'd been in storage for a lengthy respite and were just now reattached and ready to be utilized for their main purpose. That being for kissing James Stevens.
The notion set her senses to reeling. What would it be like to be kissed by him? He had said that she would have to ask if she wished it to occur. What if she braved that necessary giant step?
She could reflect upon nothing else.
While contemplating their next rendezvous, she was compelled to admit an insane urge to wear her hair down, but, as no man had seen her locks unbound, the concept was almost too scandalous to consider. Yet, she could imagine Mr. Stevens looking his fill, touching, toying, letting the long strands drift across his palm. He would press it to his face, inhale the tangy scent of her soap, then wrap the blond wave around his fist, pulling her close, closer. ...
Stifling a groan, she glanced about, baffled to find that the meal had ended without her realizing. The ladies were headed for the drawing room and, thankfully, Abigail slipped past without having to talk to anyone. Since she'd arrived back at the Town house, she hadn't had a single quiet moment for solitary retrospection. Servants had been hurrying to and fro. Margaret had been in a dither over the seating arrangements. Caroline had insisted on incessantly reviewing the excitement over her first London party.
While Abigail typically exhibited the utmost patience and forbearance, it had been all she could do to keep from snapping at everyone. She yearned to sneak off to her rooms where she could fret and stew over the carnal information she'd just received, but departure would have been the height of rudeness.
She snagged the small sofa in the corner, hoping no one would join her, but to her dismay, her sister-in-law made a beeline in her direction. In Abigail's distraught state, she couldn't tolerate Margaret's blathering.
"I think supper was a success," Margaret declared as she worked at adjusting her full skirts until she was able to perch serenely.
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" 'Twas delicious," Abigail lied. She was so befuddled that she couldn't have said what was served. Vaguely, she recalled drinking some wine, and it was gurgling and fermenting in her empty stomach.
"I just heard the most exciting news." Margaret leaned in. "I had to share it with you right away."
"What is it?" Abigail was almost alarmed by the zealous gleam in Margaret's eye.
"The Earl of Spencer is going to marry again."
Abigail's entire body went rigid. The earl was James Stevens's father. The mention of the man, coming so soon after her assignation with his illegitimate son, panicked her. For a frantic instant, all sorts of alien impressions swirled through her, causing her to worry crazily that the earl's appearance at Margaret's soiree would unmask her bizarre scheme. With determined effort, she pushed the errant concern aside. There was no way anyone could discern how she'd passed the afternoon, and she simply had to get a grip on her careening sensibilities.
Searching for calm and steadying her breathing, she gradually realized that she didn't understand the significance of Margaret's pronouncement that the earl might wed. She asked, "So?"
"He would be perfect for Caroline."
Abigail had never met Edward Stevens, but she knew quite a lot about him. He was a widower who had just completed a year of mourning for his late wife. Three decades earlier, he had sired two bastard sons with the actress Angela Ford, plus he had four grown, legitimate children. While she wasn't certain of his age, she assumed it to be somewhere in his mid-fifties. "Honestly, Margaret," she chided, "what would make you even conceive of such a match?"
Margaret glared at her as thoug
h she were an idiot. "Rank and fortune, of course."
"Of course," Abigail murmured, biting her tongue against numerous rude retorts. "But Caroline is only seventeen."
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"An older man might be just what she requires." Margaret's gaze roamed across the room to where Caroline chatted merrily with several friends, and Abigail fought the urge to gnash her teeth. Margaret had always predicted that Caroline was too pretty, too livery, too uninhibited.
"She'll do fine with someone her own age," Abigail insisted. "Besides, I can't fathom that a widower would be interested in a girl who's young enough to be his granddaughter."
"Older gentlemen like youthful wives. They find them more biddable. More easily trained."
"For pity's sake, Margaret!" Abigail snarled. "You talk about Caroline as if she's a pet dog." A waiter strolled by offering wine, and anxious for something to do with her fingers lest she wrap them around Margaret's throat, Abigail grabbed a glass.
Undeterred by Abigail's sharp tone, Margaret said, "Girls have many wifely duties to learn, and someone as..."—she paused, seeking the appropriate word, and Abigail tensed, waiting—"as vivacious as Caroline could definitely benefit from the firmer hand a more mature husband would provide."
"Caroline will secure an excellent husband. Don't fret over her." But she made a mental note to speak with Jerald as soon as she had the chance. Although it was out of his character and terribly modern, she had gotten him to acquiesce that Caroline would be consulted over any proposal, and that she could turn down those suitors who didn't interest her. With the kind of determination only a seventeen-year-old girl can exhibit, Caroline had taken his assurance to heart and was determined to wed only for love.
Jerald's decision had never set well with Margaret. Her opinion was that Caroline should marry whomever she was told to marry, with no complaints, and Abigail's greatest fear was that Margaret would convince Jerald to renege on the promise he'd given. If Jerald changed his mind at this late date, it would be an unqualified disaster.
