Chase Family Collection: Limited Christmas Edition

by Lauren Royal

  “See?”

  Apparently finished “getting comfortable” for now, he reached for his wine. “See what? The author is rather enamored of the word ardor, isn’t he? Three ardors in two paragraphs. And it would enhance readability if he broke up all those long sentences…who wrote this, do you know?” Sipping, he flipped back to the title page single-handedly.

  “It’s anonymous.”

  “I can see why.” He shut the book and set it on the table, looking relieved to be finished with the reading. “Now, what is it you don’t understand?”

  “All of it! What ways can love teach better than he can write?”

  “Almost anything is better than he can write.”

  She ignored his sarcasm. “What does he mean by giving these directions to invigorate mutual desires with ingenuity and daring and inventiveness?” Although she’d never shared this chapter with her sisters, she’d read it so many times the words were burned into her brain. “And freshness and originality?”

  “What do you mean, what does he mean?”

  “I mean, how can one be creative in copulation?” She blushed at her use of the word, but went on. “I’ve seen the animals in the fields, and each species has only one way to go about it.”

  A grin spread on his face.

  Suddenly, she felt very, very stupid.

  “What?” she asked suspiciously, trying to scoot farther away on the settle but only managing to smash herself against the hard wooden arm.

  Very slowly, he ran a finger down her nose. “Let me tell you, darling, there are many, many ways to go about it.”

  “Oh.” The finger continued down to her lips, tracing them lightly. “Oh,” she repeated against it. “In that case, never mind.”

  “No, no.” Smiling, he handed her his cup. “You came to me for physiology instruction, did you not? Let me explain the many ways.” His eyes sparkled with devilment, and she couldn’t quite decide whether to be irked or intrigued. “First, there is the disrobing. Many ways to be creative with that.”

  Intrigued, she decided, gulping a mouthful of wine. “Are there?”

  “Absolutely. For example, you could dance for me while you remove your clothing.”

  “Dance?” she gasped.

  “Oh, yes. You could hum a tune or sing a song while you did that, and I would enjoy it very much. Or I could dance for you.”

  Although he’d proven himself a good dancer at the Royal Society event, she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around that picture.

  “No?” he continued, obviously reading her face. “Well, then, of course, we could remove each other’s clothing instead.” She looked down to see him doing just that, his fingers detaching the tabs of her stomacher. “Inventively.”

  She drained the rest of the wine. “Inventively?”

  “Mm-hmm.” The stomacher dropped to the floor. “For example, I could use my teeth.”

  “Your teeth?”

  “My teeth,” he murmured, inclining his head. He bit one of her laces and drew back to untie the bow. Her heart slammed against her ribs. With his head down there, she was sure he could hear it.

  He knelt at her feet and pulled off her shoes, then eased his hands beneath her skirts to raise and drape them over her thighs. It was a good thing she’d finished the wine, because the cup dropped from her fingers and rolled across the planked floor. It stopped against the wall with a clink.

  “My teeth,” he repeated, using them to capture one of the ribbon garters she’d tied below her knees. In a trice, both were gone, and he used his teeth—his teeth!—to draw off her stockings after that.

  He used his tongue, too, tracing hot, wet trails down her legs.

  When a shiver rippled through her, he raised his head. “Are you, by any chance, feeling ardor right now?”

  A nod was all she could manage.

  With a grin of pure masculine pride, he rose to his feet, taking her hands to bring her up with him. “Now, before we begin our conjugal embraces, we are instructed to invigorate our mutual desires with much daring and inventiveness.”

  How could he speak so matter-of-factly, she wondered, after undressing her with his teeth?

  “I think…” She licked her lips. “I think I can see now, there are indeed many ways, so—”

  “But I would be remiss if I failed to demonstrate the wide range of options in invigorating our mutual desires.” As he talked, he pulled his shirt off over his head. The resulting ripple of muscles invigorated her desires quite effectively. “For example,” he continued conversationally, his long fingers working the laces that secured his breeches, “one can employ things in an invigorating manner.”

  “Things?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Yes, things.” Pausing, the breeches still hanging on his hips, he scanned the Spartan room. “There’s nothing much in here, though, is there? In the way of things, I mean.”

  “No,” she agreed, drifting slowly down toward the settle. Her knees felt inordinately weak.

  He seized her around the ribs and held her up, his hands feeling hot through her bodice. She blinked. “What sorts of things are you looking for?” she asked, half afraid to hear the answer. Or maybe only one-quarter afraid, because truth be told, she was also intrigued beyond bearing.

  “Oh, any number of things,” he said blithely, raising his hands to her shoulders. He eased her gown and chemise down to her waist. “A feather, for instance,” he elaborated as he plucked her limp arms from her sleeves, “can engender many pleasant sensations.”

  Her jaw went slack, and her gaze dropped down to her bared torso.

  “Yes, there.”

  The thought of that made her pulse leap. Then it raced when he brushed her breasts with his fingertips. Lightly, lightly.

  “Feather-light,” he whispered as she watched herself tighten in response. “But not nearly as effective as an actual feather.”

  She closed her eyes, swaying, imagining that feather, thinking it was very difficult, actually, to imagine anything feeling better than what he was doing now.

  Then she felt her gown pool at her feet, and her eyes flew open to find his gaze riveted there.

  “Yes, there,” he repeated. “A feather can be very effective there.”

  He had no feather. Yet she imagined herself sprawled wantonly on that enormous bed in the next room while he teased her with one.

  Faith, she could feel it. He wasn’t even touching her now, and she could feel it. Her face was getting hot—no, her whole body was getting hot. She sank back onto the settle.

  “Are you perhaps feeling ardor?” he inquired, fetching the chair and dragging it over to face her. His breeches were the last of his clothing, and those looked as though they might slide off his slim hips.

  She half wished they would.

  He sat and scooted the chair closer, so close their knees touched. Then closer still, until one of his legs slipped between both of hers.

  She stared at his bare chest, thinking she must be dreaming. She was stark naked, and a man’s knee was between her legs. Her open legs, exposing where he wanted to tease her with a feather.

  Reaching out, he raised her chin. “Violet? Are you paying attention?”

  His muscles flexed with his movements. She wanted him. Now. She couldn’t take any more of this lesson. “Ford, I—”

  “I’m remembering,” he interrupted smoothly, “that the book gave directions to be resourceful. Therefore, since the only thing we have here is wine, I should use it to demonstrate creativity.” He raised his cup and swirled the liquid with two fingers. “For example, we can use it as paint.”

  Holding her gaze, he anointed the crest of one breast with a sweeping, circular motion.

  Shocked, she looked down. A droplet of wine seemed poised to fall, and she gasped when he bent his head and caught it on his tongue. Then his lips closed over her, and he suckled the rest of it off.

  Her breath caught as a dizzying wave of excitement rolled through her, matching the rhythm of hi
s mouth.

  “Ford—”

  “Hmm?” His eyes looking glazed, he dipped his fingers again and painted her other breast. “Mmm,” he murmured, not a question this time, but a sound of satisfaction. “Red wine would be most flattering on this rosy little confection, but white looks fetching as well.”

  How could he talk like that while he was doing this to her? The wine felt cool on her skin, and his tongue felt hot as he licked it off, ever so slowly and thoroughly. She forgot whatever it was she had meant to say. If she’d even known in the first place.

  Finally he sat back, giving her a lazy, seductive smile. “Now,” he announced, the instructor again, “there is the finale, otherwise known as ‘conjugal embraces.’ There are many ways—”

  “I am sure there are many ways,” she cut in. She ached, an ache that was becoming unbearable. “I liked the first way we tried perfectly well.”

  As though he hadn’t heard her at all, he cocked his head and eyed the settle. “That looks damned narrow and uncomfortable, but if we move to the bed, we could try it on our sides. Either face to face, or me behind you. Or I could lie back and let you ride me—”

  She gasped, but he only grinned.

  “Not ready for that? Or is it that you wish to stay in this chamber? I suppose we could try it standing against the wall, or…I know, right here on this chair.” And before she could react to that astounding barrage of ideas, he’d grabbed her by the waist and hauled her, facing him, to straddle his lap.

  Somehow he’d maneuvered his breeches down, because she could feel him, right there where she ached. “Oh my,” she breathed, closing her eyes to revel in the sensation. Amazed at her own boldness, she wiggled closer.

  She was dying to have him inside her.

  She ran her hands up his chest and felt him gently tug off her spectacles. Her eyes flew open as she realized he’d brought her this far, to the brink of completion, without so much as a single kiss.

  He made up for that lack now.

  His lips slanted over hers, his tongue invading her mouth, stroking hers, gentle and tender at first, almost exquisitely so. Then more insistent, more emphatic, angling his head, nipping her bottom lip, coming back to settle on her mouth and stay there, working his magic until she felt nothing but heat and a wild dance of tongues and lips and teeth.

  For a long time, he just kissed her, until, wanting more, needing more, she rocked against him and her hands began roaming his body. And then, still kissing her, he began to touch her, too.

  In this position, his hands were free. They teased her breasts, sending the blood in a rush through her veins. They cradled her face, making her heart melt with tenderness. They threaded into her hair, making her feel sweetly possessed. They wandered down her back, warm and swift, all the way to her bottom. He pulled her closer. A moan escaped her lips as she felt him pressing, pressing against where she ached. Until he finally slid inside.

  And then deeper, still kissing her, kissing her until she wondered if she’d ever catch her breath. But she didn’t want him to stop. Deeper still, and he shifted, tilting his hips, and she moved with him. That feeling she remembered was building, an excitement so urgent she could barely keep from crying out. She was spiraling up, up—

  And then suddenly he stopped, holding her hips in place with his hands. His lips clung to hers, one more sweet, lingering caress before he drew back.

  Still straining against him, she opened her eyes.

  “Sometimes,” he said softly, “one can find ‘freshness’ in an encounter by temporarily reversing the process.”

  Her fingers clenched his shoulders. “Wh-what?”

  “Although we are here in a conjugal embrace, there is nothing to say we cannot resume invigorating our mutual desires.”

  Her squeak was one of distress, but he smiled as he eased her away, and the smile widened when she moaned at his withdrawal. Standing, he swept her up, cradling her with an arm beneath her knees and another around her shoulders, as she imagined he would carry Jewel were she asleep.

  But Violet wasn’t asleep. Every fiber of her body was alarmingly awake. Wanting him back inside her.

  He walked into the other chamber, kicking his breeches off as he went, and deposited her flat on her back in the middle of the bed. She gazed up at him. She could see he was still ready for her. Magnificently ready.

  Faith, she wanted him more than she’d wanted anything in her life. Beseechingly, she held up her arms, waiting for his warm, welcome weight.

  “We’re going back, remember? To invigorating our mutual desires.” Instead of joining her, he sat beside her and reached for the bottle of wine. It seemed like hours since he’d left it on the night table.

  “Hmm,” he said speculatively. Her heart beat faster. She was beginning to anticipate that speculative “hmm”—and with good reason, as it turned out. He raised the green bottle so the candlelight shone through it. Then he spilled a bit into her navel and immediately leaned to lap it up.

  His hot tongue in that little indentation made her belly quiver and sent a jolt of passion streaking through her. The ache between her legs intensified, an almost unbearable wanting. She called his name in a breathy cry.

  “Hmm?” he murmured, a hum against her skin. His dark head moved lower, his tongue licking, his teeth nipping, down her pelvis and over the tender insides of her thighs.

  And then he hovered there, where she ached.

  She waited, feeling his warm breath washing over her, and when nothing happened, she grabbed his shoulders, his hair.

  He lifted his head, meeting her gaze.

  “Ford?” she whispered, wondering what she was asking. Would he touch her there with his mouth? She’d never imagined such a thing, but the thought of it sent such a hot stab of lust coursing through her, it completely stole her breath.

  “No,” he decided with a reluctant shake of his head. “I’m going to save that for our wedding night.”

  Air rushed between her parted lips. She wanted him there so badly, touching her, stroking her, filling her…

  “Are you feeling ardor now?” he asked.

  “Oh, please,” she breathed in reply, unsure whether she was asking for his mouth or his body, but needing something.

  Some part of him, completing her.

  At long last he came over her, warm along her length, groaning as his lips met hers above while down below he slid inside. Her blood sang at the sheer perfection of the way their bodies fit together. He thrust once, twice, and—

  She exploded. That was all it took, and there was no other word to describe it. Lost to sensation, she barely felt him draw out of her before he shuddered and collapsed, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

  “Violet,” he choked out, “I love you.”

  Struggling to catch her breath, she missed him inside her already. But she hadn’t missed the fervor in his voice, the force behind his words. And when he finally lifted his head, she saw it there.

  Love, true and honest.

  She searched his eyes, learning this gaze by heart. And then she smiled, a tentative smile, wanting to tell him she loved him, too, but unable to find the words. After all she’d put him through, she wanted her declaration to be perfect—

  A different light entered his eyes as he rolled off her, still holding her in his arms. A glint of humor. “You see, my sweet,” he said, a playful grin curving his lips, “there are many, many ways.”

  “There are,” she breathed, knowing now there must be so much more. That reminded her. “You didn’t do that the last time. Leave me at the end.”

  She felt him tense. “Last time,” he said, all the playfulness suddenly gone, “I thought we would soon be married.”

  “Oh.” She knew he was waiting for her to say they would. But she was shocked beyond any more speech. A simple “Oh” was all she could muster.

  How could she, levelheaded Violet Ashcroft, have done such an irresponsible thing?

  He’d pulled out this time but, faith
, they could have conceived a child that night on the barge. She’d been so carried away, she hadn’t thought about the consequences, never mind that the Master-piece had been quite clear in that regard. Thinking about it now brought a chill to her heated flesh.

  She lay a while beside him, waiting for her heart to calm and her head to focus. Thank heavens he loved her; thank heavens she’d seen it in his eyes. The Ashcrofts might be unconventional, but a child born out of wedlock would strain their family motto a bit too far.

  “Ford?” she called softly, but there was no answer.

  He’d collapsed for real this time. He was sound asleep.

  Her arms tightened around him, and her heart squeezed to match. She pressed a kiss to his warm, dear temple. She’d let him sleep a few minutes before she woke him and told him she’d be honored to become his wife.

  Sixty

  “JOSEPH?” CHRYSTABEL called softly.

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you think our baby is still an innocent now?”

  He rolled to face her. “She’s been alone with him before, my love.”

  “You don’t think…no…”

  “Yes.” He struggled up on his elbows, peering at her through the darkness. “Who, after all, brought home Aristotle’s Master–piece?”

  “I’m sure she thought it was a philosophy book.”

  He snorted and fell back to the pillows. “You just go on believing that, Chrysanthemum. Whatever makes you happy.”

  No matter that she’d plotted to allow Ford to seduce her daughter, she would have known had it actually happened. She was sure of it. “If she’d been with him before, I would have seen it in her face.”

  This snort was even louder than the first. “One cannot tell from a woman’s face whether she’s made love. If so, you’d be going about wearing a veil all your days.” She blushed, and he touched her cheek, then his eyes drifted closed. “But you believe whatever makes you happy, Chrysanthemum my love, so long as you let me sleep.”