by Anne Barton
He grinned. “And you are wearing a satin gown of—well, I should let you select it. Any color and style you like. Be specific, please. Details are helpful.”
“I am partial to light green.”
“Good. Tell me more.”
“I should like it to be simple, without a lot of frippery. Perhaps short, petal sleeves.”
“Excellent,” he said encouragingly. “And would it be too much to hope that the neckline is a little daring?”
She decided there was no harm in accommodating the request. “It is rather daring, now that you mention it. Some of the older ladies are casting disapproving looks this way.”
“Perfect,” he growled. As his gaze dropped to the swells of her breasts, her pulse raced. “How are you wearing your hair?”
“I don’t know. Did you have something in mind?”
He seemed to consider for a moment, then reached for a loose tendril behind her ear and wound it around his finger. “Piled on top of your head, but with a few long curls dangling down your back and in front of your shoulder. Like this.” He released the curl and smiled as it sprang free, tickling her nape. “You are beautiful.” He uttered the words so sincerely that she almost forgot they were pretending.
“And you are the most handsome gentleman in the room,” she said, mostly to show that she wasn’t taking the whole imagining thing too seriously.
He tugged her closer, placing both his hands on the small of her back—quite a bit lower than could be considered proper. His breath warm on her ear, he whispered, “Can you hear it?”
“What?” The only thing Amelia heard was the frantic beating of her own heart.
He chuckled softly. “The violin, the flute. It’s a slow waltz. Listen to the beat.”
Slowly, he began to sway, encouraging her to do the same. He guided her hands to his shoulders, and she rested them there, barely resisting the temptation to sink her fingers into the firm, contoured flesh beneath his robe.
“I am a horrid dancer.” She wasn’t fishing for a compliment. She just thought he deserved fair warning.
“It’s more likely you’ve had horrid partners. Move with me.”
Before she knew it, he’d begun the steps of a waltz—at least she thought they were. She’d never waltzed before. And suddenly, she understood what all the fuss was about.
Stephen held her so closely that she could clearly see the dark fringe of his lashes, the many colors of the bruise along his jaw, and the thick, corded muscles in his neck. She could feel the warmth coming off his body and sense the strength coiled inside him.
He kept her in that intimate hold. There was no stepping in and stepping out, no changing partners. Not even a short reprieve in which a girl might attempt to catch her breath.
They moved in a circle, Stephen leading her surely with pressure of his palms on her waist, then shoulders, then hands. But she was beyond rusty, and when she took a wrong step, her chest bumped lightly into Stephen’s, causing a brief, incidental contact that was strangely and wonderfully intoxicating.
“You’re doing fine.” The low, deep timbre of his voice vibrated through her. “Now we turn this way”—he slid to one side, reaching across her belly, grazing the underside of her breasts. Smoothly, he raised his outside arm, which was joined with hers, forming a bridge over their heads.
As they stared into one another’s eyes, they made a full, slow turn.
Stephen smiled a wicked kind of smile that set her belly on fire, took both her hands in one of his, and held them above her head.
His gaze turned dark and hungry. “Amelia,” he said.
That was the precise moment she realized she was in trouble.
Chapter 8
Though Miss W. is not formally out, she dared to waltz with Lord B.
What’s worse, she is clearly on the verge of kissing him.
—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple
Stephen’s sudden light-headedness had nothing to do with his injuries and everything to do with the blood rushing to his cock.
They’d been about to execute a turn and he held both Amelia’s hands over her head—a vulnerable position, to be sure. Her breasts, high and round, thrust forward, their pebbled tips straining against the thin fabric of her gown, making his mouth go dry. Along the graceful column of her throat, he could just make out the rapid beating of her pulse. Her soulful brown eyes beckoned, luring him closer. And when her full lips parted, he was undone.
All pretense of dancing over, he released her arms and cradled the back of her head with one hand. With the other, he traced the tender spot on her neck where her pulse beat. The air between them crackled with desire. His cock grew harder, so much so, it was probably tenting the front of his robe.
And then Amelia’s gaze drifted to his mouth. His last ounce of self-control disintegrated.
Quickly—before good sense or reason could intrude—he kissed her.
Her lips tasted like ripe strawberries and cream. She released a sigh, soft and low, that set his blood on fire. He thrust his fingers into her silky hair and growled when several heavy tresses fell free. He skimmed a hand over her bottom, pulling her hips to his, letting her feel his desire.
She didn’t resist when he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, but melted into him, pressing her breasts into his chest and letting her hands roam over his back. Her passion may have been as unpracticed as her dance steps, but she was a quick study.
And she kissed even better than she waltzed.
Their lips still locked together, he slowly guided her back to the settee and laid her against the pillows, which were an appropriately sinful shade of red.
When at last he slowed the kiss and lifted his head, they were both breathing hard. “You said you wanted me to be honest with you,” he said.
“Always. Unless you’re about to tell me that I’m kissing incorrectly. That would be beyond humiliating.”
“Trust me. You’re doing everything right. What I wanted to tell you is that ever since you touched me—the first night I spent here—I’ve dreamed about touching you.”
“I don’t know what came over me that night. Do you think you might forget about that?”
“Not likely,” he said.
“No,” she said, a sultry smile lighting her face. “I don’t think I shall either. I confess I am curious.”
“About…?”
“Men, I suppose. But mostly about you.”
His chest swelled a little at that. “What are you curious to know?”
“How passion feels.” She blinked like she couldn’t quite believe she’d said the words aloud.
Stephen strove for a casual tone. “What shall we do about it?”
“The proper thing would be to suppress our wicked desires.” She walked two fingers up his chest till she reached the skin above his collar, then skimmed her palm along the side of his neck. Her eyes glowed with undisguised feminine appreciation. “I should scold you for your depraved behavior and send you upstairs without dinner while I go for a brisk walk.”
“Lord knows you should.” He sat up to give her some space and let her head clear. “We can do that Amelia. We can stop right now. You’ve shown me nothing but kindness, understanding, and generosity, and I’m sorry I haven’t acted like a gentleman. But the last thing I’d want to do is seduce you… unless you want to be seduced.”
“I think I do,” she said. “The kissing was so… so… pleasurable.”
He reached out and swept the pad of his thumb over her swollen lips. “It was indeed.”
“We could do more of that,” she said. “And I’m curious about what there is beyond kissing. I’ve no wish to be ruined entirely, you understand, but I should like to experience passion.” Her chocolate eyes—made darker by desire—gazed deeply into his. “I trust you.”
This beauty had more faith in him than he had in himself. He wouldn’t let her down. But midday in the drawing room was neither the time nor place for an int
roduction to pleasure.
“I’ll come to your room tonight, about an hour after the servants have gone to bed. If you change your mind, you need only lock your door.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“Very well.” He kissed her, long and slow, letting their tongues tangle before pulling away. “Until tonight.”
She placed a palm on the curve of his ass and gave it a firm squeeze. “Until tonight,” she said, grinning.
As Stephen left her, reclining seductively on the sofa, he suspected tonight would prove as illuminating for him as it would for her.
* * *
What did one wear to one’s almost-fall from grace? Amelia riffled through her wardrobe in search of something suitable for seduction. She was tempted to remain in the dress she’d worn to dinner that night, but one felt a bit foolish wearing so many clothes in one’s own bedchamber after midnight. She could opt for the pretty robe that she’d been wearing the night Stephen arrived, but it seemed to Amelia that this evening cried out for something rather more… daring. So, a few minutes after Cicely had braided her hair and helped her into her modest cotton nightgown, Amelia took it off and slipped into her finest chemise—the one with tiny satin rosettes on the straps and a low neckline edged in delicate lace. A flounce at the hem tickled her calves, just below the knees.
And that was all she wore. No corset, no stockings, no slippers. Just yards of smooth silk whispering against her skin, making her feel very naughty indeed.
In deference to the night’s chill, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and settled into a chair before the fireplace to wait for Stephen.
The house grew quiet, and Amelia knew the staff had retired, leaving the coast clear for him. An hour passed, and she began to wonder. Had she accidentally locked her door? She padded over to check, and the moment she put her hand on the knob, the door opened inward.
Stephen stood hesitantly in her doorway, the candle he held casting a flickering light on his bruised but still heartbreakingly handsome face. His gaze roved over her, lingering on her breasts and somehow making them feel swollen and heavy. He swallowed. “Amelia,” he whispered. It was a question. She saw the need and tenderness in his eyes and smiled, knowing she would never regret this night.
“Come in.”
He locked the door behind him, and she waved him toward the armchair where she’d been sitting. He wore a crisp white shirt—with no cravat to hide the delicious skin at his throat—and his buckskin trousers. And… Hessian boots.
She must have looked puzzled because he shot her an apologetic smile. “I had the devil’s own time getting them on with my ribs so sore.”
“You didn’t have to wear them, you know.”
“I thought they would help me keep myself in check. Keep things from going too far.”
She frowned, confused. “Boots are an impediment?”
“I don’t like wearing them in bed.”
“Oh.” She warmed at his thoughtfulness, and some of her awkwardness melted away. “Would you like a glass of sherry?”
“No, thank you.” He turned serious and ran a hand through his hair. “Amelia, you take my breath away.”
Her skin tingled and her nipples tightened at the compliment. Her fingers itched to touch him. “Where shall we begin?”
He chuckled. “The first rule is that there must be no rushing.”
“Why must there be rules?”
“Because I want this to be special. For you… for us.”
Well. That was a good reason. “May I make a suggestion—about where to begin?”
He arched a brow. “Of course.”
“I should like to remove your shirt.”
Letting out a long, slow breath, he nodded, and held his arms slightly away from his sides in invitation. Amelia eagerly accepted.
Grabbing handfuls of fine cambric, she pulled his shirttails out of his trousers and lifted the shirt over his head. He disentangled his arms from the sleeves and tossed the shirt behind him.
Without hesitation, Amelia placed her hands flat on his chest. A light sprinkling of hair brushed against her palms, and the skin beneath felt warm and hard. He kept his hands at his sides while she traced the slight indentation down the center of his torso and the subtle ladder of contours on his abdomen. When she reached the lowest rung, just inches above his waistband, he inhaled sharply, clasped her hands in his, and tugged her closer.
“You are full of surprises,” he said with a smile. “But so am I.” Reaching behind her, he tugged on the tail of her braid, then ran his fingers through it until her curls tumbled around her shoulders. “So soft,” he murmured. “So wild.”
Amelia wasn’t sure if he referred to her or her hair but decided she didn’t care.
“Let’s lie down before the fire,” he suggested. He took the thick quilt that lay on her ottoman and laid it, doubled over, across the carpet. Amelia tossed the pillow from her chair onto the quilt and lay with the heat of the crackling fire at her back.
Stephen sank to his knees and stretched out beside her, his appreciative gaze roaming over her shoulders, legs, everywhere. He skimmed a palm up over her hip and rib cage before taking the weight of one of her breasts in his hand. Through the silk, he pinched her nipple lightly, teasing it till it was a tight little point of pleasure. She felt like she would float away and wished he would kiss her, if only to give her something to cling to.
Instead he lowered his head, took her nipple in his mouth, and suckled her through the thin layer of silk, sending exquisite sensations coursing through her. Her limbs grew loose and languid. Her core pulsed, and though Stephen had not touched her there, she felt herself grow warm and wet with wanting, with desire.
He abandoned one breast in order to lave attention on the other, but not before blowing lightly on the soaked silk that clung to her. A soft cry escaped her throat, and she cupped his head in her hands, being careful to avoid the bandage above his ears.
She watched Stephen, taking pleasure at the sight of his broad shoulders and his large hands roaming the length of her body as though he wished to possess her. He wore a look of intense concentration, as though he were on a terribly important mission, and every so often he moaned, sending delicious vibrations through her bones.
When, at last, he lifted his head and kissed her mouth, she poured all the passion that had built up inside her into kissing him back. Their tongues touched and tangled as their passion spiraled higher, leaving Amelia trembling and aching with need.
Stephen seemed to sense her frustration and soothed her, slowing the kiss and lightly stroking her face. “The second rule you should know is that, for tonight at least, you are a princess. You should ask for whatever you like, and I will grant your wish. Or die trying.”
She traced the brow above his black eye and the bruise below it, ran a fingertip over the seam of his lips. His promise to try to please her only aroused her further, for she was quite certain he could deliver.
“You take my breath away too,” she admitted. “When I’m kissing you, I feel like my heart will pound out of my chest.”
“What else do you like?” He slid a finger beneath the slinky strap of her chemise, slipped it off her shoulder, and traced tantalizing circles over her skin.
Amelia’s mouth went dry, and she let her eyes flutter shut. “That’s very nice.”
He pushed the strap farther down her arm, eased it over her elbow, and tugged her chemise down, exposing her breast to the cool air. She lay back on the pillow, offering herself up to him, wanting his hands and mouth on her as they’d been before. But he went slowly, as though intent on savoring each moment. He touched her lightly, caressing her everywhere, driving her mad with wanting. “Do you like this?” he asked, nipping her shoulder.
Lord help her, she did. “Mmm.” But she wanted this night to be pleasurable for him too. “What would you like?” she asked.
“It’s enough for me to touch you. And the sight of you? It’s like a feast for my ey
es.”
Suddenly, emotion clogged Amelia’s throat—never had she felt so beautiful, so oddly powerful. She sat up and, as she gazed into the deep blue of his eyes, slipped the other strap off her shoulder and let the silk chemise fall to her waist.
Chapter 9
Miss W. seems curiously unaware that the proper location for receiving callers is the morning room or drawing room—not the bedchamber.
—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple
“Jesus, Amelia.”
The sight of her sitting naked before him, firelight dancing over her skin, her thick hair grazing the tips of her swollen breasts, nearly undid him.
Cursing under his breath, he sat up and captured her mouth with his, giving desire free rein. She melted into him, pressing her breasts to his chest and melding her lips to his.
The scent of her arousal hung in the air around them, making his cock painfully hard. She was so beautiful and genuine in everything she did, including this. He knew that she’d open herself to him if he asked her to, and that they could both find their release.
But he wouldn’t ask that. Instead, he’d focus on giving her pleasure and hope that she would remember this night—and him—long after he’d gone.
He eased her back down, laying her head on the pillow. “There’s one more rule.” He took a long lock of her silky hair and brushed the ends over a pert nipple, making her arch her back and moan. “The rule is simple: you must not feel ashamed. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever. You are beautiful. This is beautiful. This is how it should be between a man and a woman.”
He could say that with utter certainty because in spite of having been with many women, he’d never felt the connection that he felt to Amelia.
She gazed up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and smiled languorously. “I told you this afternoon that I trusted you, and I do. So let us not waste this night with talking.”
Though he happened to enjoy talking with her, he couldn’t argue with her logic. “Very well. Lay back, close your eyes, and leave everything to me.”
