Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles)

by Gloria Harchar

  Better to concentrate on her struggling commerce because her marriage would not warrant her time. All day she'd halfway expected Malcolm to come into the shop and demand his conjugal rights, or at least insist on retribution for cornering him into having tea with Lady Celeste. But as the day wore on, she'd come to the conclusion that he would never again actively seek her out. Malcolm didn't want her.

  Gaspar stepped out of the shadows and bowed low. "His lordship already retired, my lady."

  She met Gaspar's solemn gaze with all the pride she could muster. "I'll do the same, then." As she swept toward the stairway, she glanced toward the hall that led to Malcolm's chambers and sighed. He'd merely tried to intimidate her with his talk of making babies.

  Her disappointment was her own ridiculous fault. Her meddling and goading had caused him to respond in kind. He'd merely been jesting or trying to browbeat her with the business of making babes, and she should be relieved because she didn't know the first thing about the act. She was relieved, really. So, why did she feel this gaping emptiness at the thought of going to bed alone?

  With heavy steps, she plodded toward her chambers and pondered her new shop. The pamphlets advertising the next day as her first one of business in the new location would, with any luck, attract customers. She'd hired a boy to distribute them on the streets that afternoon. And she was very optimistic that her new shop would generate income. She hadn't been able to sell many hats, she assured herself, because she'd been stuck in the back room of the old mercantile. But that had changed. She had a prime location, beautifully appointed, all thanks to Malcolm. She owed him a tremendous debt of gratitude for that.

  Stepping inside her chamber, she rubbed at a smudge of dirt on her skirt. A movement caught her eye, causing her to freeze. Shock coursed through her to see Malcolm lounging on the chaise longue.

  "Good evening, Countess Falconwood. Are you prepared for our business?"

  The predatory look was back. He'd removed his cravat and his shirt was open. The broad expanse of his chest with dark whorls of hair made her breath catch. Sprawled on the dainty sofa he looked virile and powerful, making her go weak in the knees.

  "Wh-what business?" she asked, her fingers plucking nervously at her skirt.

  The light in his eyes as he studied her, the way his gaze practically caressed every part of her, the intensity that seemed to crackle the air around him—all suggested that the Clockwork Blue wasn't the only thing he'd wanted to possess.

  "Why, the business of creating an heir."

  Knees like pudding, she would have sat if there was a chair nearby. Instead she thrust out a hand to steady herself against the wall. "Really? I mean, you're truly going to go through with your threats?"

  "Promises, Nicola. Pure promises that will lead to pure pleasure."

  Pure pleasure. Merely hearing such simple words in his deep, husky voice sent a ripple through her, heat and hunger that made her nerves quiver like a feather in a breeze. Oh, yes, she could well believe that his lovemaking would lead to pleasure.

  Just knowing that he truly wanted her was pleasurable. For several moments, she merely stared at him and reveled in that knowledge. He wanted her. He really was interested in getting to know her in that special, intimate way that a husband learned about his wife. Surely this was a good sign—surely he couldn't leave her in the country and forget her after this.

  All right—now that she'd finally come to terms with the notion, what was she to do about it? She hadn't the slightest idea. He'd caught her flat-footed. She worried her hands. "Uh, well, it looks like you've already begun the process."

  "Just helping out a bit. Would you rather I start removing your clothes?"

  "No," she said in a squeak that sounded like the barrelabout when she stepped on the brake. She stared, fascinated by the dark swirls of his chest hair. His bronze skin glistened, reminding her of a statue. She wanted to touch that skin. The realization shocked her. "I thought you said I could use my own strategy," she blurted out.

  "I did."

  A feverish heat burned her cheeks. She couldn't think with all that skin exposed. "Well, button up that shirt right now."

  How delightful. Malcolm barely resisted the urge to chuckle. On the heels of that reaction came one of surprise—surprise at himself. What in bloody hell was he doing here? He hadn't meant to come tonight. But her challenge earlier had made ditching her unavoidable. "So you don't want my shirt off?"

  "Absolutely not."

  He raised his brows at her dogged denial.

  She smiled sheepishly and fiddled with her hair. "Uh, no, actually I've thought in detail the whole business of child-making and your assumption has ruined the... sequence of events I had in mind."

  "And, pray, what do you consider the most important article of clothing to remove in this business of reproduction?" Fascination stole over him as he waited for her answer.

  She stared at him. He could see the panic in her eyes, and he was almost tempted to give her an excuse to say good night—almost.

  Staring at him, she blurted, "Your boots."

  He couldn't resist teasing. "Good choice," he told her with a serious look. "You've been studying the art of seduction."

  She frowned, and he could see doubt cloud her lively eyes. Leaning back, he wondered if she would find an excuse to postpone their encounter.

  "Stick out your foot, please," she instructed like a schoolmistress.

  "Yes, madam." He obliged.

  She knelt in front of him, looking as if she would bolt if he moved. With a deep breath, she bent to grasp his heel. Clasping the toe of his boot in her other hand, she tugged. Nothing happened.

  She darted him a look. "This is more difficult than I realized," she said. "Are all men's boots molded as a second skin?"

  "I haven't noticed." He supposed he should tell her the correct manner in which to take off a boot, but he was enjoying himself too much.

  "Well, I hope you pay your valet well," she quipped. Remaining in her hunkered down position, she secured his foot under her arm, causing the mounds of her breasts to spill over the edge of her bodice. Her warmth permeated the leather. Awareness of her soft, womanly body pressed against him gave a jolt of pure lust. A line of sweat beaded his upper lip. Suddenly, it wasn't a game anymore.

  Digging in her heels, she pulled backward once again, causing those delectable mounds to move enticingly. Adding insult to his growing passion, she damn near pulled him off the chair. He had to grasp the squabs to keep from landing in a heap on the floor. He couldn't help it. He laughed, ending the sound in a choked groan.

  "Am I too rough?" she asked. She looked up.

  She must have seen the lust in his eyes. For certain she saw the direction of his gaze because she looked down. And gasped.

  "Oh, my!" Hastily she stood, dropping his foot with a thud.

  Reverberations traveled up his spine, and he grimaced, certain she would run out the door. "You're not reneging on our bargain already?"

  "Of course not," she said, turning with spunk that he was coming to both admire and dread. With determination, she grabbed his leg again, running her hands over his leather-clad calf, the caress knocking him upside down, causing him to shudder with unwanted passion. Hoisting his leg up, she grasped his whole foot in both hands.

  Removing his boot was a simple task. His valet did it every day—even he had done the task on occasion. How could she turn it into an act of seduction? He wanted to rock her backward and tumble her on top of him. He wanted to explore that smooth skin that was the color of honey from days in the sun, to taste her and stroke her and claim her as his.

  Sweat broke out on his brow.

  "I thought you said you studied this," he commented through gritted teeth, wondering how she could be so unaware of the way she affected him.

  "I have. Well—in for a shilling, in for a pound, I always say."

  He should have been warned by that comment and the determination he saw gleaming in her eyes. Desire neverthe
less punched him in the gut when she hoisted her skirts, giving him an eyeful of slim calves and thighs before she straddled his leg. She leaned and adjusted his foot so that she held his heel, and then wiggled her hips, planting her feet wide for leverage. The move was unconsciously seductive. The picture of her adjusting her hips as she slid onto his hardness, her yellow-blond hair drifting over his chest, flitted through his mind.

  A flush rose up the back of her neck. He knew she was aware of how intimate their positions were. His knee was inches from heaven. He could feel the heat of her settle over his thigh and it was enough to make him mindless with want.

  "Oh, my, it's getting hot in here, isn't it?"

  "I'll say it is," he fairly growled, trying not to groan with passion again.

  "It must be this spring weather."

  "Madam, are you going to continue to maul me or are you going to get my bloody boot off?"

  "You don't have to be so surly," she snapped, turning to glare at him over her shoulder. The movement only brought his knee closer to the heat of her femininity.

  "For Christ's sake, woman! We haven't got all night," he snarled.

  "Why not? You aren't going anywhere, are you?"

  Not anywhere but insane, he wanted to say. His new wife was treacherous—that was all he could think.

  She settled his booted foot more firmly in both hands, and pulled. It gave. She went sailing across the Aubussom carpet. "It's off!" she declared, holding the boot high as if it were a trophy.

  Her bodice slipped and her hair fell from its pins to hang becomingly about her flushed face.

  He wanted to make that blush be the result of his attentions rather than from her exertions. "If you attack my trousers with the same enthusiasm, I'll be a man blessed."

  He couldn't help but see the dark humor of the whole situation. For him to be matched with a woman so full of life and vigor was too much by half. If she had been his mistress, he could have enjoyed her, then paid her a handsome stipend and left her to her machinations with no more expectations. But he would have to be careful. If he allowed a wife to get too close, or if he gave in to temptation and tried to get nearer to her, he would be her ruin. He would be responsible for yet another person's demise.

  "Can't get to the breeches until I have your other boot off," she replied, breathless. "Perhaps this one will come off easier, now that I have experience."

  He shuddered to think what she would be like with experience.

  Holding his other leg between her own, she grabbed his Hessian, applying the correct angle to his heel so that she retained her balance as it slid off. Her widened stance and the apple-shape of her slim rump as it jutted toward him proved to be too much. Before he could stop himself, his stocking foot trailed a path up the inside of her calf, gliding along the silkiness of her skin.

  She yelped. "Whatever are you doing?" Her legs snapped together, trapping his foot between her thighs, tantalizingly close to her core. If he wiggled his toes—

  As if burned, she jumped away.

  With great interest, he noted her high color. His own breath had quickened. "I was merely following through on your very thorough strategy."

  "My plan is that you can't participate," she said.

  He stared at her. "You'd miss a very vital part the process, then."

  "I know what I'm doing," she stated and firmed her jaw. "Now, stand please."

  He did as she bade, wondering if she would attack his trousers next.

  "How did your skin become so dark?" she asked, staring at his chest.

  "India is hot. There aren't as many social restrictions in the hills where there's no British cantonment."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  He shrugged. "In the wilderness I enjoyed riding in nothing but breeches."

  Her eyes widened in fascination as tangible as a caress. A vision popped in his mind of her in a silk toga, her long legs bare and wrapped around his waist as he rode his black stallion.

  She stared at his trousers and the painful bulge that had developed there. "Forget the breeches. Your shirt," she muttered, the muscle in her jaw jumping before she grabbed his shirttails and raised them. She was too short and couldn't begin to pull the garment over his head. But he didn't say a word. Some perverseness wanted to see what she would do without any help. Her scent of wildflowers and the out of doors tantalized him. The nearness of her breasts tortured him. Her breath stirred the dark hairs on his chest, making him tremble like an untamed stallion. He clamped down on his desire, welcoming the punishment of self-denial.

  Her hands skimmed his chest and her mouth was close, very close to the throbbing vein in his neck. He felt a butterfly touch under his ear and wondered if she'd brushed the tender skin with those lush lips. "Lift your arms."

  He complied, doing exactly as she asked but no more, waiting to see what would happen. Could a person die from want? The thought intrigued him.

  Her slender, bare hands traveled up under his shirt, skimming close to the vulnerable undersides of his arms, then continued up the length of his biceps. Heat radiated between them and she suddenly stopped, looking at him from the comer of her eye, standing quite still.

  "Ummm, I don't think this is going to work," she said breathlessly, not daring to turn her head. The delicate shell of her ear was tantalizingly close to his lips. Before she could pull her arms out from under his sleeves, he hugged her, efficiently trapping her within his shirt. When she looked at him, he gave in to his desires and did what he'd wanted to do for days.

  With a hard kiss, he tumbled her onto the bed.

  She started for a moment, jerking back her head, then returned the kiss. He was lost. Vital awareness washed over him of her pert breasts crushed against his chest. The pearly hardness of her nipples caused shivers of passion to tighten his whole body. He maneuvered his leg between hers and felt the swift intake of her breath. Then she hooked one limb around him, and he swirled into mindless haze of pleasure.

  He deepened the kiss, taking her tongue into his mouth. Desire pierced through him in hot, jagged streaks, the joining of their lips lighting firecrackers too intense to look at, but too beautiful to not see. Heat as powerful as the Indian sun burned between them. His tongue delved inside, finding and claiming hers.

  Flames leaped from her innocent lips to his jaded ones, the chemistry of her taste creating pure steam energy, causing a combustible reaction similar to gunpowder, and just as deadly. He wanted to strip her of all barriers, to feel her skin against him. But he was having a devil of a time because his arms didn't seem to work. They were tangled somehow. Then he remembered how she'd goaded him into being a true husband and his perverse urge to meet her challenge.

  The old guilt over his brother's death rose up to suffocate him, the undeserved title he was forced to carry, his vow to remain aloof to life's joys, for she was surely that, bright sunshine and happiness. All these thoughts swirled around him like a black cloud. No, he could never be a husband in reality to her.

  As the realization cooled his ardor, he acknowledged how dangerous she was. She'd made him forget who and what he was.

  Malcolm inhaled sharply and sat up. Then he straightened his arms, shaking them to free her. Slowly she withdrew, her lips swollen from his kisses and her eyes smoky with desire. It took all his willpower not to draw her into his embrace again.

  Abruptly, he stood, avoiding her gaze. "That is the general idea of the business of baby making."

  Silence greeted him. He sat down on the sofa and began pulling on his boots, those damnable, skintight boots that had caused all the trouble in the first place.

  "I know there's more," she said, her tone bewildered and hurt.

  His hands trembled with unfulfilled passion as he yanked on his other Hessian. "We'll resume our business in a fortnight."

  "Two weeks? Why not now?"

  Her eagerness was enough to tempt a eunuch—and he was no eunuch. "You have a lot to learn about the art of seduction, Countess. It has to do with
timing. And the timing of our union is all wrong."

  "Wrong? It felt right to me."

  Damnation, it did to him, too. All his self-command had to be exerted on not letting out a shout of needy desire. "Yes, it's not time for making a babe yet. Your... crescendo isn't ready." He didn't know where that term came from, but he couldn't trust himself with her. He had to give her some excuse, any excuse; to escape from her allure, even if he had to fabricate something. She was too pure, too innocent, and he knew with a certainty that he would forever ruin her if he didn't get away now.

  "My what?"

  "Your crescendo." He felt foolish for his silly fib, but he didn't know what to do about it now.

  "What is it? And how do you know it isn't ready?" She tilted her head, her brows puckered, and God help him, he wanted to smooth away that line of concern. By thunder, he had to get away.