“Not specifically, no. My book is for ladies.”
“What do your feminine instincts tell you then?”
“That I should try to arouse your desires. I thought I would begin by caressing you the way you caressed me two nights ago.”
“That would be a good start. You can use your hands or your mouth to arouse me.”
“My mouth?”
Damon smiled at her surprise. “Yes, darling. I told you, there is much about lovemaking that you have yet to learn.”
A tremor of excitement ran through her. “Will you teach me, Damon?” Eleanor asked coyly, her tone belying her agitation. “Will you show me how I can give you the same pleasure you gave me?”
“Gladly.”
The dark gleam in his eyes revealed his approval as he caught her hand and drew it against his loins. He was already greatly aroused, judging from the large bulge in his breeches. Eleanor could feel the thick ridge of his male member beneath the satin. She also felt how his body tensed at the slight pressure of her hand.
Hoping to increase his tension, she slowly slid her hand over the swollen hardness, stroking gently. A flare of heat sparked in Damon's dark eyes, giving her encouragement. But did she dare go further? Eleanor wondered, her entire body tightening at the forbidden thrill rushing through her.
Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she used both hands to unbutton the front placket of his breeches. Then drawing a slow breath, she opened his drawers and bared his naked loins to her gaze.
She stared, fascinated by his male anatomy and the long, dark phallus that jutted from the curling hair at his groin. He was every bit as virile as she had imagined him to be.
Reaching out tentatively, she brushed the surging, silky flesh with her knuckles. His rampant member jerked involuntarily, making her breath catch.
“Did I do something wrong?” Eleanor asked, drawing back her hand.
“No, not at all. Touch me again.”
“Where?” she queried unevenly.
“My sacs. The head of my cock.”
Obligingly, she cupped the heavy sacs beneath his arousal. His flesh was smooth and hot, she noted, savoring the feel of him. Moving upward, she traced her forefinger over the blunt, rounded head of his shaft.
At her light touch, Damon sucked in a breath. Emboldened by his response, she shifted her fingers lower to stroke the full length. Then letting her fingers curl around him, she cradled the rigid shaft with her palm.
The hot, granite thickness of his manhood felt strangely erotic and quivered in her hand. In response, something deep within Eleanor shivered in purely sensual reaction.
“Is this the way?” she asked.
“Yes,” Damon replied, his voice suddenly hoarse. “But stroke me harder.”
His hand moving over hers, he coaxed her to fondle his straining erection. When he gave a soft groan, Eleanor looked up and found herself caught in the smoldering heat of his gaze.
Ensnared, she was hard-pressed to breathe or to calm her own pounding pulse. A yearning filled her, a welling bubble of desire that threatened to burst inside her.
Struggling to gather her control, however, she reminded herself of her aim and offered Damon a smile that was both sweet and seductive, innocent and tantalizing, as she went on exploring the hardness and detail of him.
Damon was caught in her enchantment; his entire body clenched with the arousal that simple smile had awakened in him.
He had never seen Eleanor quite like this. She was vibrant and intoxicatingly alive, a sparkling-eyed beauty who radiated temptation.
When another groan escaped him, she asked almost tauntingly, “Does that hurt?”
“It's pure torment,” he answered truthfully.
“Good. I like making you feel the same torment you have made me feel.”
She was succeeding utterly, Damon decided. He felt as if he might burst. His primal impulse was to draw Elle beneath him and make violent love to her; he wanted it more than his next breath. And yet he knew he had to go slowly out of respect for her virginal state…
Then suddenly, she left off arousing him.
“I have a surprise for you,” Eleanor murmured, her voice husky.
“What surprise?”
Her eyes, vividly blue and fringed with black lashes, met his. Those eyes had a suspicious glimmer in them, Damon noticed.
“You will see soon enough,” she replied. “Close your eyes.”
Damon thought about disobeying. He was so aroused, he felt feverish, so he was in no mood for any more teasing or seductive games. But when Eleanor repeated her command, he dutifully shut his eyes and clenched his jaw at the savage ache that continued to twist and tighten his loins.
“No peeking now, my lord,” she added as he heard her rise from her kneeling position.
Something in her tone seemed off, which prompted Damon to ask, “Can I trust you, Elle?”
“Why certainly you may trust me. Just as much as I can trust you…”
Her voice had come from further away, from across the library. When he heard her unlock the door, Damon quickly opened his eyes. Eleanor had retreated across the room, carrying his shoes.
His gaze speared her when he guessed that her intent was to leave him. “Just where are you going, Eleanor?”
She smiled when she answered. “Back to the ballroom. I think I have exhibited enough unladylike behavior for one evening. And my aunt will doubtless be wondering what became of me.”
“Now you are worried about your aunt?”
“Actually, I wished to prevent you from returning to the ball. I doubt even you would dare go before such distinguished company barefoot.”
Damon half rose from the sofa, trying to judge whether or not he could reach her in time to rescue his shoes, then sank back down when he realized any attempt would be futile.
His lips twitched. “Elle, you little wretch. You meant all along to arouse me and leave me like this… in pain.”
“Well, yes.”
“That is not how I treated you the other night.”
“No. But you delight in provoking and flustering me. Turnabout is fair play, Damon.”
Reaching down, he tucked his still-swollen cock inside his drawers and closed the placket of his breeches. “I suppose this is your revenge for my interrupting your kiss with your prince,” he grumbled.
“How perceptive of you.”
Damon shook his head, a smile-half wry, half grim-curving his mouth. “I must commend your creativity. It was highly effective.”
“Why, thank you. I also thought,” Eleanor mused as he fastened the buttons of his breeches, “to put your vow of celibacy to the test… to make it more difficult for you to keep your pledge. Of course, if you find it too painful, you could always go to your mistress for relief.”
“I told you,” he retorted in exasperation, “I don't have a mistress.”
“Perhaps you should employ one to see to your carnal needs,” Eleanor said carelessly. “Then perhaps you won't continue to pester me.”
Despite the lightness of her tone, Damon caught the small hitch in her voice that suggested she was not as nonchalant about the subject of his mistress as she tried to appear.
“That just shows how little you know about the male body, sweeting. I can soothe the pain myself. I don't require a woman to slake my carnal needs.”
His remark made her hesitate and raise her eyebrows in curiosity. “Oh? How?”
“By stroking myself. It is not nearly as pleasurable or satisfying, bringing myself to climax that way, but effective for easing the pain.”
Eleanor gazed at him a moment, as if trying to picture what he was describing. Then flushing, she shook her head quickly, evidently irritated with herself for allowing him to distract her. “Your carnal state is certainly no concern of mine, Damon, nor are my romantic affairs any concern of yours. I'll thank you not to interfere in the future.”
She opened the door, then paused to say, “I will ask Lady Haviland's
butler to summon your carriage for you so that you will not have to wait in the entrance hall for long. If you are swift enough, perhaps he won't notice that you are missing your shoes.”
“I am not troubled about the Haviland butler,” Damon said dryly. “It is my valet who worries me. Cornby will be highly distressed if I return home without my shoes.”
Eleanor dimpled. “You can always tell him that I absconded with them.”
As she slipped out the door, Damon couldn't help laughing softly.
Letting his head fall back, he shut his eyes, remembering the picture Elle had made as she delivered her parting shot… her eyes sparkling, her luscious mouth curved in an enchanting half smile. That image would haunt him for days.
And so would his physical ache from her outrageous trick. Damon shifted in his seat to ease the pressure caused by his raging arousal.
Yet he had probably deserved her retribution, he thought with a self-deprecating grin. And perhaps he had been mistaken to interfere so overtly in her romance. As it was, he seemed only to be driving her into the prince's arms, not to mention inflaming his own aching need for her.
He needed to cool his blood, although he was not about to turn to a mistress or any other woman. His vow of celibacy was real, even if it led to acute physical suffering. When he returned home, he would take care of his pain, Damon decided.
At the moment, however, his physical discomfort was not his chief problem.
For now he would have to determine how to obtain a pair of shoes that fit so he could leave the Haviland ball with his manhood figuratively intact.
Before Eleanor returned to the ball, she hid Damon's evening pumps where she doubted he would find them: in the music room two doors down from the library, behind the draperies of a window seat. Once in the entrance hall, she approached the Haviland butler and requested that he send for Lord Wrexham's carriage immediately.
As she made her way upstairs, Eleanor couldn't help feeling a twinge of satisfaction and triumph along with a measure of self-recognition. Despite her professions to the contrary, she had unconsciously wanted revenge on Damon for hurting her so deeply two years ago.
Even if her scandalous escapade tonight had been a bit spiteful, Eleanor decided stubbornly, she didn't regret it in the least, although she had discerned a wicked glint in Damon's eyes that had promised retribution. She had succeeded in both her aims-to discomfit him the way he had discomfited her of late, and to prevent him from returning to the ball and interfering further with her pursuit of Prince Lazzara.
When she arrived in the ballroom, the din of gaiety and laughter had increased from earlier in the evening, in part because a lively country dance was in progress.
She saw her Aunt Beatrix at once, speaking to their hostess, Lady Haviland, but she didn't immediately see Prince Lazzara or Signor Vecchi. Taking care to avoid the sprightly dancers, Eleanor threaded her way through the crowd and headed to the far corner where the prince had been seated earlier.
She discovered him still there, sitting in the same chair, except that this time, curiously, he was bent over at the waist, a handkerchief pressed to his forehead.
Concern seizing her, Eleanor leaned down to murmur in his ear, “Highness, are you feeling unwell?”
When he lifted his head, she could see that his olive complexion had paled, while the term “green around the gills” perfectly described his expression.
“I think… I might be sick… at any moment,” he replied weakly before making a sound between a groan and a whimper.
“Come with me…”
Quickly she took his elbow and made him stand. Then offering her shoulder to help support his weight and spare his injured knee, she led him over to the potted palms-and none too soon.
Releasing his grip on Eleanor, the prince lunged for one of the large pots and used it as a basin to regurgitate the contents of his stomach.
As he endured the painful bout of retching, Eleanor spied a nearby footman and summoned him over to assist the ailing nobleman. While the sturdy servant was aiding the prince back to his chair, the dance ended and Signor Vecchi appeared.
“What is his trouble, Donna Eleanora?” he demanded when he saw his cousin's frail state.
“I don't know,” she said worriedly, “but he just cast up his accounts. I think we should fetch a doctor.”
To her surprise, the diplomat's face cleared as he studied the prince further. “I do not believe that will be necessary, since Prince Lazzara's illness is likely not serious. He has always had a weak stomach. Don Antonio, it is extremely unfortunate to end our evening so soon-I know you were anticipating this ball with eagerness. But we should take you home at once.”
Prince Lazzara nodded as if grateful for the suggestion and wiped his mouth with the handkerchief.
At the diplomat's command, the footman enlisted another of his fellows and carefully helped the prince to his feet.
When the signor would have followed, Eleanor touched his arm to forestall him. “Signor Vecchi, I am growing concerned about his highness. He has suffered too many mishaps in recent days.”
The Italian gentleman looked puzzled. “I suspect it is mere coincidence, Donna Eleanora. No doubt this illness was caused merely by something he ate. I will take him home so that he might rest and regain his strength. Pray give my apologies to your lovely aunt.”
With an elegant bow, Signor Vecchi went after his cousin. Yet Eleanor was not satisfied with his casual dismissal of the threat to the prince. If someone was deliberately attempting to harm him, the culprit needed to be stopped immediately.
But first she needed to ascertain if there truly was a threat, as she was coming to believe.
Eleanor stood there frowning while she debated what to do, but then she recalled that Damon's physician friend, Mr. Geary, was present at the ball.
She found him a short while later conversing with several older ladies who were telling him of their physical complaints. Mr. Geary actually looked relieved when Eleanor requested a moment of his time.
When he stepped to one side with her, she explained what had occurred, finishing with her suspicions. “This last incident seems too much of a coincidence to me. Indeed, it seems rather sinister. Perhaps I am overreacting, but… is it possible someone tried to poison him?”
The physician's gaze sharpened at such a serious accusation. “Do you know if he ate or drank anything this evening, my lady?”
“He drank a cup of punch earlier. We both did.”
“But you are feeling well?”
“Yes, perfectly well.”
“When did his symptoms begin?”
“I am not certain,” Eleanor replied, “but when I arrived tonight, Prince Lazzara was already flushed and perspiring and complaining of the heat.”
Geary frowned. “There are a number of maladies and physics that may cause such symptoms. If he recovers fully, then we will know he was not poisoned.”
“But what if he does not recover?” she asked in a troubled tone. “Is there nothing we may do now to investigate?”
“I do not see how… although if I were to examine the remains of what he ingested, I might be able to make a determination.”
Eleanor's gaze arrested as a thought struck her. “Perhaps you can. Will you come with me, sir?”
She led the physician back to the corner of the ballroom where the prince had been seated. The punch cups were still resting on the floor beside his chair.
Picking them both up, Eleanor identified which one had belonged to the prince. When Geary peered into it, his frown deepened. “How odd…”
Following his gaze, she could make out what had caught his attention: There were dregs of a powdered substance in the few remaining drops of liquid in the bottom.
Taking the cup from her, Geary first sniffed, then dipped his finger into the damp residue.
“This tastes very much like ipecac,” he pronounced after a moment.
Eleanor looked at him in bewilderment, knowing ipeca
c was a powdered medication used to purge the stomach. “Are you certain?”
“Fairly so.”
“So his cup was not poisoned?”
“I do not believe so, no. Ipecac is relatively harmless-or at least not life-threatening.”
“But it could not have gotten there by accident.”
“No, most certainly its introduction to his cup would have been deliberate.”
Weakly, Eleanor sank down in one of the vacant chairs. “But why in heaven's name would a medication have been added to Prince Lazzara's punch?”
“It is a puzzle,” Mr. Geary agreed as he sat beside her. “Perhaps he is indeed the target of someone who wishes him ill, just as Wrexham suspected.”
She glanced curiously at the physician. “Lord Wrexham mentioned the prince's mishaps to you, Mr. Geary?”
The physician nodded. “He said that his highness has been beset by several mysterious misadventures of late. Perhaps you should tell Wrexham of this latest one, Lady Eleanor.”
Eleanor didn't reply at once. In the first place, she wanted nothing more to do with Damon tonight, or in the foreseeable future, for that matter. In the second, he had likely left the ball by now. And third, even if she had wanted to solicit his help, she doubted he would be interested in helping the nobleman whom he seemed to consider-quite mistakenly, to her mind-his rival.
“I suspect Lord Wrexham would not care to involve himself with the prince's misfortunes,” she said finally.
“You might be surprised,” Geary responded. “He has spent the last several years concerning himself with the misfortunes of others.”
Her attention captured, Eleanor eyed him quizzically. “Misfortunes? What do you mean, Mr. Geary?”
“Well… perhaps the word ‘misfortunes’ is not quite accurate.”
“Then what would be accurate?”
“Affliction would be a better term.” When Eleanor's expression remained blank, Geary offered her a rueful smile of apology. “I mean the poor souls stricken by the scourge of consumption. Until now they have had little hope. But Wrexham has dedicated the last three years of his life to finding a cure, along with a significant portion of his fortune.”
Predictability may bore him. Dare to be different, to stand out from every other lady competing for his attention and affections. -An Anonymous Lady, Advice…
To Romance a Charming Rogue tcw-4 Page 14
