by Cheryl Holt
They'd tarried too long, so they returned to the party. Separately. They hadn't another occasion to converse, but Abigail glanced up sporadically to find Edward watching her as though they shared some private jest.
It was almost three in the morning before she slipped off to her room. After quickly disrobing, she sent her tired maid to bed, then snuggled beneath the cool sheets. As she was extremely fatigued herself, she'd thought she would fall asleep instantly, yet she tossed and turned as she bad each night since meeting James Stevens. She couldn't quit remembering how he'd wanted to kiss her, how close she'd come to saying yes.
Stand in front of your mirror. Completely unclothed,
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he'd said, in that low sensual way that made her wish to carelessly do anything he asked. / want you to touch your breasts . . . squeeze your nipples . . .
Disturbed by her dark imaginings, she threw back the blankets and tiptoed to the mirror. There was a candle next to it, and she considered lighting it, but she simply could not. A hint of moonlight glinted through the window and provided more than enough illumination for her shocking behavior.
For the longest time, she stared at her reflection, trying to see herself as James Stevens did. As a woman. As an alluring female. Slowly, she untied the ribbon at the front of her nightgown; then, before she could muster the courage to stop herself, she tugged it off one shoulder.
In the silvery shadows, she viewed her breast. It was pretty, round, shapely. The cold air had aroused the nipple, and she surveyed the nub, fascinated, as it peaked and hardened. Carefully, as though observing someone else, she raised a hand, cupping the weight, judging the abundance. Then, gingerly, she covered the center with her palm.
Her nipple contracted further in an irritating, intriguing manner. Meticulously, she gauged the novel sensation, letting it register adequately before she laid her finger and thumb to the raised tip. Scrupulously, tenderly, she gave it the barest squeeze, and the action brought such a surge of agitation screaming through her entire body that she dropped her hand as if she'd been burned.
Scrambling, she hustled back to her bed and scurried under the covers. Her pulse raced, and her nipples throbbed with each beat of her heart. Her breasts felt heavy and too tight for the skin in which they were encased. All from the merest caress!
Stars, but she yearned to touch herself again! To continue on until......she knew not what!
Lest temptation strike, she tucked both her hands under her pillows and kept them there—out of mischief—through the endless, sleepless night.
CHAPTER
FIVE
James reached for the front door of Lady Abigail’s rented house. As they'd previously arranged, it was unlocked, lie stepped through, then quickly closed it, leaving the rest of the world on the other side. Alone in the foyer, he hastily shed his outer garments and climbed the stairs, much more eager than he should have been.
Four days!
Four days had passed since he'd last seen her, and like an infatuated swain, he'd spent nearly every second pining over the fact that they were apart. His longing for her was entirely out of balance with the actual facts of their situation, but nevertheless, he couldn't bring himself under control.
At the oddest times, he'd think about her, wondering where she might be, what she might be doing. During the night, he'd try to concentrate on the flow of money, food, and liquor, on the games and customers' entertainment, but more often than not, he'd stare off into space, imagining her in her bed. He'd fantasize at length about what her bedchamber looked like, what she wore for nightclothes, how she appeared without them on.
Because of his distraction, he'd wasted a thousand pounds on a turn of the cards—an amount he rarely wagered anymore—simply because he couldn't focus his attention. The loss was so out of character that his brother, Michael, had asked if he was feeling all right, if he'd been working too hard and required a holiday.
While escorting his mother to the theater, he hadn't spared the stage a glance. Instead, he'd perused the other boxes like a love-struck lad, hoping Abigail Weston might be in attendance and that he'd be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of her.
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This was madness! Yet on light feet, he fairly flew up the stairs, overly thrilled. The uncountable hours were finally at an end!
For some reason, he kept repeating, he had inflated his craving for her all out of proportion to reality, and he'd told himself over and over that a second rendezvous would quench the thirst she'd generated. His recollection of the events on the previous Thursday had to be incorrect, and once he saw her again, this gnawing, empty well of yearning would slowly be filled by the realization that she had no special hold over him.
However, as he walked into her private parlor, he was abruptly forced to concede that his careful assessment was utter nonsense. His heart leapt at the sight of her. There was just something about the woman that tickled his fancy as no other ever had. He fiercely desired her, and he wanted to jump ahead to their future carnal relationship. On a primitive level, he sensed that this bizarre need could only be pacified by possessing her completely.
Across the room, she stood next to the window. Sunlight had poked through the clouds and flooded the area where she lingered, bathing her in a halo of amber light. She'd donned another dark green dress, but the fabric of this one was lighter and woven with an exotic thread that shimmered with silver highlights when she moved. The color intensified the emerald shade of her eyes, making her seem ethereal, mysterious, as though she could see more than she rightly should. Her skin was translucent, her cheeks and lips rosy red. And her hair . . .
She'd worn it down! With unrestrained admiration, he gazed upon it. The golden mass flowed free and long, the curled ends just brushing her hips. In a compromise, she'd tied it loosely with a green ribbon.
Furiously, he evaluated what the gesture meant. It was a capitulation of sorts, a signal, an indication of trust. As he contemplated how far he might be able to push her during their lesson, his loins tightened, his trousers promptly becoming uncomfortable. With a single snap of his wrist,
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the ribbon could be gone, the silky strands available for his unimpeded exploration. His nerves tingled at the idea of massaging through it.
With a kind of crazy recklessness, he could picture her on die big bed in his own bedchamber—a private location he never let his paramours inhabit!—stretched out beneath him, her flaxen locks fanning across his pillows. What a spectacle she would be!
As he entered the cozy salon, she was so well schooled in masking her emotions that, for a fleeting moment, she assessed him casually, ostensibly expecting him or someone else. However, her indifference lasted only a brief instant; then her eyes shadowed, her pretty brow creased with concern, her hands toiled over a kerchief she grasped between unsteady fingers.
"Hello, Mr. Stevens," she said in that husky voice that never failed to arouse him. "I'm so glad you've come."
"So am I." Hesitantly, he took a few steps into the room. As he'd done formerly, he shut the door and secured it, sealing them in, not really worried about intruders or discovery, but liking the added bit of intimacy the barred door implied.
Wanting to extend their initial greeting, he tarried, languidly placing his satchel on the table, yet even as he bent over to relinquish it, he kept his steady gaze fastened to hers. As had happened during the two preceding encounters they'd shared, it seemed as if he had known her for a thousand years, that he could cut through the walls of propriety that separated them and shoot directly to the heart of whatever was troubling her.
"You're distraught."
"I guess I am. I just..." She smiled tentatively. "Would it be terribly inappropriate of me to say that I am relieved you're finally here?"
So . . . she felt it, too, this powerful sense of connection and expectation. Perhaps he was not the only one who had passed the time daydreaming, tossing and turning on a
&nbs
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lonely mattress. He divulged, "I've been thinking about you. I couldn't stop myself."
"Nor I, from thinking about you."
"Your hair . . ."
Blushing, she patted her temple in a self-conscious attempt to straighten what didn't need straightening. As though confessing a horrid sin, she disclosed, "I have never taken it down before ... not for anyone. ..."
"But you did for me." A great wave of hope swelled to the surface, and he steeled himself against the tempest of excitement rising through every part of his being. "Your hair is very beautiful. You are very beautiful." She was obviously flattered but also surprised, and he surmised that no man had bestowed such a compliment before.
"Thank you," she murmured, outwardly nervous, then she meandered to the sideboard. "I had tea prepared, but it's occurred to me that you're not a tea type of person, are you? Perhaps you'd like a brandy. I'd be happy to ..."
Off she went, talking a mile a minute. Fidgety and apprehensive, she'd lost her unruffled aplomb, and he watched curiously as she rifled through bottles and yanked at corks. Quietly, he came up behind her, striding close, the fragrance of her perfume and the lavender of her soap pervading his nostrils. He narrowed his eyes and inhaled deliberately, allowing himself to be overwhelmed by all the aromas that made her so unique.
He moved nearer still, her skirts swirling around his calves, his toes buried under the hems, his legs cognizant of hers through her petticoats. He reached out, covering her busy hand, arresting it with gentle pressure.
"Calm yourself," he whispered over her shoulder, his mouth next to her ear, his warm breath brushing across her lobe and tickling the hairs on her neck. "What has put you in such a state?"
Involuntarily, she shuddered, then turned to face him. "Everything has changed. These meetings will be so difficult."
"Why?"
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" 'Tis nothing like I anticipated."
She shifted, and one of her thighs wedged between his own. Although the multiple layers of her clothing offered plenty of padding, he could discern form and substance. His cock hardened; he ached to pull her tightly against him in order to allay some of the sudden pressure, yet he managed to restrain himself, traveling the more innocent route by resting a hand on her tiny waist.
"In what way?"
" 'Tis so much more personal than I imagined. And physical. I thought we could just. . . just. .."
Her gaze fell to his lips, lingered. A frown creased her forehead, and he had the answer to her upset. As he'd suspected from the beginning, her body's fervor was quickly outpacing her mind's clamoring for boring verbal discourse. Remarkably, the perception provided none of the elation he'd expected. She appeared utterly wretched, overwrought, distressed, and he felt acutely sorry for her predicament.
With any other female of his acquaintance, he'd have immediately pressed ahead, but because he enjoyed such a peculiar kinship with her, he couldn't seize the advantage. His affection for her overruled his masculine drives, urging him to protect and cherish rather than exploit. He couldn't have behaved badly toward her any more than he could have cut off his right arm.
"I knew this would be hard on you," he admitted.
"You did?"
"Yes." He smiled at her, and her attention remained fixated on his mouth. "Perhaps we proceeded a tad too rapidly the other day."
"No. 'Tisn't that at all." With the greatest of effort, she returned to staring at the bottles of liquor, showing him her back. "I suppose I will sound exceedingly forward, but I'm impetuously anxious for more than mere words. I need to experience what you're telling me. I crave an understanding of how a woman feels when a man ... when he ..." A blush started across her shoulders and rose into her cheeks.
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"Oh, I'm a mess!" she wailed, and he couldn't help chuckling at her plight.
" 'Tis only natural."
"What is? Thinking and acting like a brazen hussy?"
"No." He chuckled again. " 'Tis only natural for you to be curious." With both hands at her waist, he maneuvered her until she reluctantly faced him once again, though she seemed to be extremely fascinated by his shirtfront. "A woman needs sexual stimulation just as a man does," he explained. "Your body has been disposed and waiting for many years. You're simply aware of it for the first time. The realization is disquieting for you, but we'll deal with it together."
"I want you to kiss me," she whispered, her lashes sweeping down. "With your tongue in my mouth. Like you kissed Lily in your erotic drawings."
A groan of frustration charged to the surface. She was offering the initial step toward everything he eventually hoped to receive from her, so he couldn't help wondering if he'd gone completely insane when he responded, "We'll talk about it."
Instantly he deduced that it had been the absolute wrong comment. She stiffened, reddened further, then whirled toward the sideboard. "Oh, you don't wish to! You don't find me. . ." Patting her scalded cheeks, she muttered, "The thought had never occurred to me! I'm so embarrassed!"
"No, milady, no." He raised his hands to her shoulders. She was wedged quite nicely, her back against his chest, the hint of her bottom against his groin. "I would love nothing more than to kiss you, but you are a maid, and these are dangerous waters. We must both be certain of the depths before we dive in...."
He let the statement trail away as he brushed the sweep of her hair off to the side. The creamy slope of her nape beckoned. Leaning forward, he rested his lips on her heated, smooth skin, and he dallied there, tasting, nuzzling, and nipping until gooseflesh prickled.
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Barely breathing, she asked hesitantly, "You desire me, then?"
"Very much." At his admission, she sagged with relief, and he added, "But I am more enlightened in these matters. I grasp where kissing may lead. It can quickly spin out of our control, so you need to learn more of what you're truly contemplating." He dropped his hands to hug them around her middle, cradling her but not tightly, loving the way she fit so neatly into the circle of his arms.
"Of course, you're right," she said, on a shaky laugh. "I hadn't thought ahead. I've just been so distressed. It seems as though it's been forever since Thursday, and I had so many questions for you. . . ." She stopped. "Oh, but my imagination has been driving me mad!"
"I can tell." He kissed her hair, her cheek, encouraged by the manner in which she accepted his embrace as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "Come sit with me. We must talk. And look at more renderings."
"Yes."
He moved away so that she could proceed to the sofa while he poured a stout brandy, then he walked over and held out the glass. "Try this. It will soothe you."
"I don't think anything will help." Yet she reached for it with a trembling hand. Her fingers wrapped over his own as he guided it to her mouth. She accepted a prolonged sip, then flinched as the delayed sensation burned her throat. Her eyes watered.
"That is ghastly." She shivered.
He took a drink, fitting his lips over the spot where hers had touched the rim, then he proffered it again. "Another."
As he had just done, she twisted the glass in order to partake from the same site. An apt pupil. The liquor went down more easily the second time. Already she was relaxing; the tense set of her shoulders, the crease on her brow, were disappearing.
"One more," he insisted, and she did as he asked, draining the contents.
She sighed, then chuckled. "So now I've become not
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only a wanton, but a daytime drunkard, as well. You're having a fascinating effect on my character, Mr. Stevens."
He shrugged, saying philosophically, "A few bad habits never hurt anyone. They make a person more interesting."
"You would say something like that."
The strong spirits had brought a becoming blush to her cheeks and further reddened her ruby lips. They were lush and moist, and she was staring at him with such
wide-eyed, innocent appeal that it was all he could do to keep from kneeling in front of her and propelling her back against the sofa. But for once in his despicable life, he behaved himself, despite his desperate crescendo of lust, fearing that if he started kissing her, he might never desist.
He settled next to her, sitting much nearer than he had during their earlier assignation and touching her down his entire length; arms, hips, thighs—all were connected. Events were spinning out of control much faster than he could contain them. The fantasy was turning out to be nothing like the reality. She was animated and enthusiastic, downright eager to advance their acquaintance to a higher level, and the only obstacle to her longed-for ruination was his little-used, much-abused, barely recognizable sense of honor.
Who would have thought?
On tenuous new ground, and feeling as if it were constantly shifting beneath his feet, he grabbed for his portfolio, needing to hold on to something tangible. "Let's begin again, shall we?"
"Let's do. I've been beside myself, wondering what's coming." Seizing the lead, she retrieved the stack of parchments and centered it on her lap. She skipped the first two renderings, glancing only briefly at the initial nude sketch of Lily, at the second where he'd joined Lily on the daybed, but hurrying to the third—the drawing where they were luxuriating in an intimate kiss. Relishing a drawn-out examination, she studied the stretch of their bodies, the angle of their hips, the squeeze of his fingers around Lily's nipple. Then, apparently satisfied, she tossed it on the table
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and turned to the fourth picture before he had a chance to warn her as to what she would find.
He was there for her avid inspection, reclining against the pillows, an arm tucked behind his head. His body hair looked coarse and dark, contrasting starkly with his pale skin. It was matted across his chest in a thick pile, circling his brown nipples and descending in an arrowed line past his navel.
