When they reached those turns where they were intimately entwined, he forgot everything except the lilting sound of her humming and the feel of her waist going taut beneath his arm. As they twirled slowly, one pair of hands touching in the air, the other pair half caressing each other’s waists, he saw only her face and the sensual awareness pooling in her big brown eyes, threatening to drown all his resolutions.
After a moment, she murmured, “I’ve lost count of how many turns we’ve made.”
The words only half broke the spell she’d cast over him. “So have I.”
Yet they kept turning.
“Are we still even dancing ‘Jenny’s Market’?” Her voice was breathy, her eyes wide with arousal.
It mirrored his own. “Not quite.” Lowering his mouth to within a hairbreadth of hers, he said, “I believe musicians would call this a variation upon the dance.”
He hovered there a moment to give her a chance to protest what they both knew he meant to do. Then he covered her mouth with his, exulting in how she rose to his kiss with all the eagerness of a woman newly discovering her power over a man. Which was obviously considerable, since he couldn’t seem to stop tasting her lips, despite the warnings his conscience screamed at him.
And once she opened her mouth to let him plunge his tongue inside, even his conscience fell silent. Waves of hunger swamping him, he brought one hand up and the other down so he could clasp her head and kiss her deeply, thoroughly. She tasted of oranges and smelled of rosewater, a heady mixture surprisingly feminine for a woman said to be a hoyden. Willingly he sank into its dangerous depths.
And every time he came up for air, he had to go back in, over and over until he thought he might explode if he couldn’t touch her more intimately. So he staved off that urge by kissing her closed eyelids, the curve of her cheek, the sweet shell of her ear.
But kisses weren’t enough. He wanted to fondle her, entice her as she was enticing him. Even as he pressed his lips to her temple, he slipped his hands to her shoulders and kneaded them through her flimsy gown in an attempt to resist doing what he mustn’t—tracing a path down to her breasts so he could caress the forbidden parts of her.
“I rather . . . like this variation on the dance,” she said.
So did he, God save him. Before he could stop himself, he muttered, “Shall I improve upon it?”
The pulse in her temple quickened beneath his lips. “I don’t see how you can.”
“I can do whatever you wish,” he rasped, in a deliberate echo of her words earlier.
To his surprise, she stretched up to whisper in his ear, “Then by all means, Grey, improve upon the variation . . . if you can.”
Giving in to his craving, he took her mouth once more and slipped his hand over her breast.
Chapter Twelve
Beatrice froze. Grey’s hand was on her breast. She ought to push it away. No, she ought to wrench her mouth from his and give him a piece of her mind. That much she’d learned from managing Uncle Armie. Not that it had ever worked. The only thing that had worked with him was her leaving or threatening to tell her brother.
But Grey wasn’t Uncle Armie. His kisses were a delight and his blatant and wicked caress an invitation to adventure she badly wanted to accept.
She broke the kiss to whisper, “This is an interesting variation.”
He stared at her with eyes like blue flames in the shelter of the alcove. When she boldly returned his stare, he growled low in his throat before backing her up against the wall behind the pianoforte to kiss her.
Unlike his other kisses, this was a marauding one, fierce and hot and savage. It should frighten her, make her want to fight him off. It didn’t. How could it when every thrust of his tongue, every motion of his hand on her breast, made her come alive?
She slid her hands up to clasp him about the neck, which only freed him to fondle her other breast. Her nipples ached beneath her shift, especially when he tore his lips from hers to say in a voice rough with need, “You’re driving me mad. You know that, don’t you.”
“Should I be sorry?” she managed, though her breath seemed lost in the recesses of her throat.
“I hope you aren’t. Because I damned well am not, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. There was that lovely word again, piercing her as surely as if he’d driven a stake through her. Did he mean it? Did it even matter if he did?
She had no time to dwell on that before his mouth covered hers again and he kneaded her breasts so softly and sweetly that she wanted to stay against the wall forever.
Dear Lord. This was . . . heaven. It made her go all melty inside, like Cook’s delicious Welsh rarebit. She would never have expected that a man could rouse such tumultuous feelings in her. And when her fingers flexed in his unruly hair, mussing it even more, he dropped onto the piano bench, hauling her down with him and onto his lap.
“Grey!” she squeaked. “Someone will see!”
“No one will see.” He wrapped one arm about her back so he could better settle her on his lap. “They’d have to come into the room and turn around. We’d hear them before then.”
“Someone could come in from the garden.”
“No one’s in the garden.” He kissed a path from her temple to her ear. “Shall I stop? I’d rather not. I’d prefer to do this.” He tugged her gauzy fichu out of her gown, then slipped his hand inside the layers of bodice, corset cup, and chemise to seize one breast and thumb the nipple over and over, seeming to relish its hardening point. “But I can stop. If that’s what you want.”
He was caressing her bosom so deliciously, she could hardly think. “I want . . . I want . . .” For you to do that some more.
Eyes gleaming, he bent her back so he could pull her clothes down just enough to bare one breast.
“What are you doing?” she rasped.
“I’m indulging in another variation. So I can taste you.” The fire in his face seared her.
Taste her? He’d already tasted her. She laughed shakily. “How many variations to this dance are there, anyway?”
“You have no idea,” he muttered, and bent his head to her bosom.
Daringly, he licked her naked nipple as his gaze burned into hers. It sent her quite out of her mind. And when she moaned and thrust her breast up toward his mouth, he proceeded to devour it, using teeth and tongue to suck and torment her so gloriously that she could think only of having more.
This luxurious passion was unlike anything she’d ever felt. She wanted to savor it. To revel in being able to tempt a man like him. Given how he’d reacted after their last kiss, she hadn’t been sure she could.
But when his eyes drifted closed and his hands wandered down her skirts, she was sure of one thing. He desired her. And she, God help her, desired him.
Oh, dear. That was where the trouble usually started. She should end this before they got too carried away. No matter how lovely it felt.
“And you?” She caught his head in her hands, still unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer. “What about your pleasure?”
“I want only to keep tasting you.” He sucked her nipple just enough to tantalize. “That’s plenty of pleasure for me.”
“Liar.” With her heart hammering in her chest, she drew his head back up so she could meet his gaze. “As you said, you’re a man. You take advantage when you get the chance.”
He flinched. “Whatever you may have heard of me, I am not Thorn. I don’t . . . behave like this with every woman I meet.”
“Just with women you mean to bed,” she said, fighting to hide her hurt.
His eyes glittered at her. “I don’t try to bed every woman I meet, either.”
“Then what are we doing, exactly? Remember that we swore to be honest.”
The question seemed to flummox him. That was her answer. She slipped from his lap and feverishly worked to restore her clothing before anyone saw her.
He remained seated on the pianoforte bench, his fingers flexing on his knees and
his breath coming in hard gasps. “Beatrice,” he finally said, “I honestly don’t know what we’re doing. But I swear I don’t generally behave so . . . recklessly. And I certainly have no intention of taking advantage of you.”
Unsure whether to be pleased or alarmed that he claimed to act differently with her than with other women, she rounded on him. “So you mean to marry me.”
His lips opened and closed repeatedly as if he were seeking words to set her at ease. Apparently, he didn’t find them.
“That’s what I thought.” She buried her disappointment. He must never see it. “A duke can only dally with a woman like me, not marry one.”
He jumped up, anger sparking in his features. “I was not dallying with you, damn it! We were both . . . caught up in the moment, and it got away from us.”
“It certainly did,” she said, trying and failing to tuck her fichu in properly.
“I wish you’d stop referring to yourself as a pariah. You’re the granddaughter of a duke, for God’s sake, and certainly worthy of any duke’s attention.”
“Just not yours.” Lord save her, but she sounded far too needy. She must watch that. She would not have him pitying her.
He blanched. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.” And she was fighting hard not to let him see how much it wounded her.
“My reluctance to marry has naught to do with you personally. You’re a lovely woman, and if not for . . .”
When he seemed to catch himself, she said, “I wasn’t asking you to marry me.” She attempted to sound unconcerned as she struggled with her fichu. “Dear Lord, for a man of your reputation, you certainly take these things seriously.”
“You obviously do as well. Or we wouldn’t be having this discussion. I did not force anything on you, and you know it.”
She pulled her fichu free so she could do it properly from the beginning, then looped it about her neck. “You’re right.” She swallowed her temper. “It was a delightful private interlude, one I freely embraced. But if you don’t mind, Your Grace, I’d prefer to forgo any such future private interludes.” They’re too hard on my heart.
No, saying that would be unwise. She must appear nonchalant.
Grey touched her arm. “This isn’t how I would have things between us. I’d prefer we be friends at least.”
I cannot! she wanted to scream. But she dared not do that, either. As an enemy, he was far more dangerous, since he clearly suspected her brother of something.
She forced a smile. “Of course. I bear you no ill will, sir. I merely think it wise we do no more dancing in private, if you take my meaning.”
For a moment, she thought he might protest. His gaze dropped to her mouth and she feared—hoped?—he was on the verge of kissing her again.
Then he seemed to catch himself, for he straightened into the very picture of the self-important duke she’d first met in the foyer. “That is probably best,” he clipped out.
Their gazes locked and held. Unable to bear the sudden coolness in his eyes, she was about to flee when a male voice intruded into their intimate corner.
“What the devil is going on here?”
She nearly jumped out of her skin. It was Sheridan. Of all people, why must her cousin be the one to find them back here?
Grey must have felt the same for he swore under his breath as he released her arm. “Miss Wolfe and I have been practicing some dances.”
Wrestling her expression into a semblance of calm, she faced Sheridan. “Your brother and I . . . that is, he’s been showing me a few . . . a variety of dance steps, since I’m badly prepared for balls and such. To dance at balls and such, I mean.” Lord, she sounded like a fool.
Sheridan’s lips tightened into a line as he seemed to assess her agitated state. “And that’s why you’re dancing back here out of sight.”
Grey shrugged. “I played a few bars on the pianoforte so we’d know what tune to dance to.”
“Then I hummed the music,” Beatrice blurted out. “So we could dance. That’s why Grey had to start it on the pianoforte.”
Sheridan frowned. “Is that why your fichu is hanging out of your gown?”
Beatrice’s hands grew clammy. Lord help her, she’d forgotten to finish fixing her fichu! “I got hot.” What other excuse could she give?
“I’m sure my brother had something to do with that,” Sheridan said.
“Now see here—” Grey began.
“I took it off while we were dancing.” Beatrice struggled to gather her composure. “I was about to restore it when you came in.” She drew in a few deep breaths to steady herself. Then deliberately leaving her fichu hanging down, she approached Sheridan. “If you have something to accuse me of, Cousin, I suggest you do so.”
Sheridan shot her a remorseful look. “It’s not you I wish to accuse.” He glared at Grey.
“Don’t be silly,” she broke in. The last thing she needed was Sheridan trying to force Grey to marry her when the man clearly couldn’t stand the idea. “Grey is merely doing what you asked, and quite capably, too.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grey shoot her a sardonic look, which told her she was doing it up brown, but she pressed on. “So I’m not sure why you must subject us to an inquisition.” She crossed her arms over her bosom . . . and the nipples still hard beneath her bodice. “What business is it of yours how I learn to dance? I’m a grown woman of some years. I can take care of myself.” She tipped up her chin. “And now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I shall go to the retiring room to repair my fichu.”
“You might wish to go through the garden,” Sheridan said blandly. “Mother and Gwyn are returning, and I’ll be partnering one of you ladies, since Thorn is definitely heading back to town. But you mustn’t let them see you as you look right now, or they’ll make the same assumptions as I.”
She gulped down her mortification. “True. Thank you for the warning.” As she marched off to a garden door, she prayed she didn’t look as guilty as she felt.
Chapter Thirteen
Still aching to bed her, Grey watched Beatrice march off.
“What just happened?” Sheridan asked.
“Hell if I know.” Grey’s blood pounded in his veins . . . and his cock. “I have yet to figure out your cousin. She blows hot and cold.”
That was his own damned fault. His body wanted her in his bed; his mind warned him to be a gentleman. He couldn’t blame her for not knowing which one governed his true intention. Half the time he wasn’t sure.
“You shouldn’t have maneuvered her into being alone with you,” Sheridan said. “It’s not right.”
Taking a leaf from Thorn’s book, Grey said, “Has it occurred to you I might actually be looking for a wife?”
Sheridan irritated Grey by bursting into laughter. “That’s rich.” The man could hardly choke out the words for laughing so hard. “You . . . looking for a wife in the wilds of Lincolnshire . . . Don’t even try to convince me . . . of such a mad thing.”
“I do intend to marry one day, you know,” Grey grumbled.
His brother sobered. “When you do, it will be to some elegant lady as haughty and sure of her place as you. Not to the likes of my self-conscious, awkward cousin.”
Grey bit back the urge to tell Sheridan that Beatrice wasn’t awkward and self-conscious when she was in her element . . . or in his arms. But telling his brother that would only make matters worse.
That was proven when Sheridan glowered at him. “Which is precisely why I don’t like you being alone with her.”
Belatedly Grey remembered how he’d ended up here in the first place. Damn it, he would wipe that scowl off Sheridan’s face if it was the last thing he did. “How the devil do you expect me to find out about Wolfe’s involvement with the deaths if I can’t speak to Beatrice alone? It’s not as if she’ll confide in me in front of the entire family.”
His brother shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “I told you, she doesn’t know a
nything.”
“She knows more than you think, at least about her uncle Armie’s demise.” Grey drummed his fingers on the top of the pianoforte. “Every time I bring it up, she gets nervous. She wouldn’t even show me the site of the accident when I asked her to. And what have you done to investigate Wolfe?”
Just as he’d hoped, Sheridan got defensive. “I’ve scarcely had time to breathe, much less investigate my cousin. You have no idea how bad Uncle Armie left things. He was in debt up to his roving eyes when he died.”
“Roving eyes? So you know about his dalliances.”
“Everyone knows, at least around here. How do you know?”
“As you said, everyone around here knows.”
Fortunately, his mother and sister arrived at that moment. But he couldn’t pay attention to their complaints about Thorn. He was still rattled by what he and Beatrice had just done.
Why was it that when he was alone with her, he behaved differently, even recklessly? She eroded his reserve so he acted more himself and not the haughty fellow he displayed in society to put people off.
What’s more, he liked it. Being allowed to say what he really felt was a heady intoxication that he craved as desperately as any drunkard.
Clearly, she wasn’t angling to marry a duke at any cost, as Thorn had seemed to imply. Otherwise, when Sheridan had come in on them she wouldn’t have fought so hard to hide what they’d been doing.
Devil take her for that. It made him feel like the worthless debaucher everyone thought him. He almost wished he were. Then he’d have no compunction about seducing her. Then he’d finally gain satisfaction for the yawning abyss of need he felt around her.
But no, he was a gentleman and didn’t believe in deflowering innocents he never intended to marry, even ones equally attracted to him. So somehow he must endure the next few days, perhaps weeks, of trying to elicit the truth about her brother from her without giving in to his urges.
Without showing her all the many ways they could reach ecstasy together.
The thought made his blood rise again, so fiercely he gritted his teeth. He must gain control over these impulses, damn it! Otherwise, he would find himself leg-shackled, at the mercy of a woman who couldn’t even keep from blurting out her true opinions.
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