by Jane Goodger
He opened his mouth, then shut it. He was trying to seduce her. And she was an old maid. But the way she had said it made him sound like some randy lord taking advantage of the nearest female, and that simply was not the case.
“Hmph. No answer.” She glared at him rather speculatively.
“Do you think I want to be attracted to my niece’s chaperone? Do you think I like being kept awake at night wondering what it would be like to lie with you? I do not. I cannot explain it, but I will tell you one thing, Miss Stanhope,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “You are not homely. You are pretty. And when you smile, you are beautiful.”
She stood there, staring at him, and slowly her eyes filled with tears, and she shook her head in disgust.
“Diane,” he said softly.
She swallowed and looked so torn. “Please don’t say another word or I might start believing you.”
“Would that be so awful?”
“Yes, sir, it would. Because there is something you may not know about aging spinsters. In here,” she said, pressing a fist against her heart, “we are still young. In here, we still dream of a husband and a home and children.”
George thought he’d masked his reaction to those words, but either she was quite perceptive or he wasn’t as good as he thought at hiding his emotions. She gave him a bitterly triumphant smile.
“No worries, my lord. I have no thoughts of matrimony when it comes to you. Why on earth would any woman willingly marry a man who professes that the emotion of love does not exist?”
“You agreed with me,” he said accusingly.
“I lied,” she said, nearly shouting, her voice cracking. She took a deep and calming breath. “You needn’t worry about me. Let us simply pretend this did not happen. It was wrong of both of us and a grave mistake on my part. But please don’t arrange such an evening again. I am not your paramour, and I never will be.”
His chest gave a painful squeeze as he realized she was right. No woman had had the capacity to cause him pain in decades. “I am sorry.” But he truly didn’t know what he was sorry for.
John kept his distance as best he could and watched, his depression growing, as Charles became more possessive of Melissa. It was a subtle thing, really, but whenever the three couples went anywhere or did anything, Charles made certain he was paired up with Melissa. It seemed Charles was constantly touching her. What was worse was that Melissa did not seem to mind. John’s fevered mind wondered if they’d kissed again, though he could not think of a time when they could have. It didn’t matter how often he told himself she was better off with Charles, for everyone’s good. He could not stop his desire, his longing, his near-obsession with her. Fortunately, the houseguests were leaving in two days, which would allow him to depart as well. This constant torture was wearing on him. He wasn’t sleeping well, and Avonleigh commented on the dark circles beneath his eyes with a knowing grin.
They had decided the night before when they’d gone into the village to watch a concert that they should go fishing the next day, but it had been raining on and off all morning. John, feeling out of sorts and knowing he was bad company, headed to the library to be alone, only to find the very woman he was avoiding curled up before the fire with a book.
When he saw her there, looking lovely in a white gown frothed about her, he nearly turned around. “Why aren’t you with the others?” he asked, knowing he sounded surly. He didn’t care, because frankly, he was surly. That’s when he noticed Darling curled up beside her, letting out little snores, and he couldn’t help but smile.
“She’s snoring,” Melissa said, looking completely charmed by her little puppy. “And did you know she’s already housebroken? Though I daresay she doesn’t much care for the rain.”
“Most dogs don’t. So, she hasn’t had any accidents?”
“Just one. But I scooped her up just like you told me, and she peed all the way to the door and finished up outside. She’s such a good girl.”
He was looking at the dog, resisting the urge to stare at Melissa like some lovesick boy. Don’t look at her. Don’t. But he did, and his heart wrenched in his chest. He didn’t know what was happening to him, and he didn’t like it. Not at all.
“Charles and the others are leaving in two days,” he said, forcing himself to bring up his friend’s name. It was quite clear where Charles’s thoughts were taking him, and John wouldn’t be surprised if the fool proposed before he left. “And I’ll be leaving as well. Going to Town. I’ve had enough of the country.”
She looked up at him with those big violet eyes, and damn if she didn’t seem to care whether he left today or tomorrow.
“The season starts in just a few weeks. I suppose we’ll see each other then,” she said, then returned her focus to the book in her hand.
Just at that moment a bright ray of sunshine flashed through a rain-spattered window, like a candle flaring up. “The sun,” Melissa said. “It seems ages since we’ve seen it.”
But as soon as those words were out of her mouth, the rain came back in force, pouring down through the sunshine, and Melissa smiled. “Oh, how lovely,” she said, watching as the rain, looking very much like falling diamonds, fell from the sky. Then her eyes widened in excitement. “I’m going out in it,” she said, carefully getting up so as not to disturb Darling and then rushing over to the French doors that led outdoors. She flung them open and walked outside, immediately turning her head up to the rain, laughing and twirling about as it thoroughly soaked her.
With an indulgent sigh, John strolled to the door to watch her delight in this new experience. When he reached the door, he stopped, mesmerized by the sight before him. She was, quite simply, glorious. She stood, eyes closed, head tilted up to the rain, in the sun-soaked courtyard, wearing a dress plastered against her stunningly beautiful body. Every curve, every swell was clearly defined. His mouth went dry, and his heart nearly stopped. The rain lightened, and she brought her head down, smiling and blinking against the water in her eyes. He stared at her, unable to look away, unable to move. A gentleman would have retreated, would have gone into the house and fetched a coat to cover her. But at the moment, he was a man, hungry for a woman, body tense and aroused.
Her smile slowly faded, and her breathing became heavy, her breasts rising and falling, almost as if she’d been running. He knew raw desire was evident in his face. He knew he should turn and go back into the library. But he stood there, staring at her, feeling more aroused than he ever had in his life. She walked toward him slowly, to where he stood, dry and protected beneath an overhang, her eyes never leaving his, her taut nipples clearly visible beneath her rain-soaked dress. She stopped mere inches from him, and he watched as droplets of water slowly moved down her cheeks, to her chin, and dropped onto her dress.
Without saying a word, he lifted shaking hands and laid them on her breasts, moving his thumbs slowly back and forth across her turgid nipples. She let out a small sound and arched her back instinctively. The cloth was cool beneath his hands. He stood, mesmerized by the sight of his hands on her full breasts. Without thinking—he was far beyond that now—he leaned forward, mouthing one hard nipple and licking it through the wet fabric. She breathed in a sharp gasp, and he felt a hand on the back of his head, pulling him toward her.
John lifted his head and looked at her, seeing only desire. No fear. No disgust. No uncertainty. She moved her head slightly forward and that was all the invitation he needed to kiss her with all the pent-up passion roiling inside him. She let out a cry, opening her mouth, clutching him to her, moving her hips because she already knew it drove him mad. He pressed his arousal against her center, letting out a groan of frustration, for he knew he could not have her, not all of her. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to slip inside her, feel her heat around him, lose himself to the insanity that gripped him unrelentingly.
Her gown was made more pliable by the rain, and he pulled down one side, exposing a breast, then greedily suckled her.
�
��Oh.” That one syllable was filled with wonder and desire and nearly drove John over the edge.
If he was insane, then God help him, he didn’t care. He only knew that he had never in his life held a woman like this in his arms and wanted to weep from pure joy. She was so responsive, so innocently provocative, that he had to use all his restraint not to press her hard against the stone of his home. God, she felt so good, moving against him, making small sounds of pleasure.
He needed her to touch him, so he guided her hand to his arousal, letting out a jagged breath when he felt her hand tentatively stroke him. “Yes,” he breathed, so taut he thought he just might break. “God, yes.”
Melissa felt as if she were drowning in desire. Everywhere he touched her, every sound of pleasure he made, pooled, hot and wet, in her center. She wasn’t certain what she wanted; she only knew she wanted something, that touching him, feeling his man-part, hard and so very foreign, was making her giddy with need. His hands touched her on her exposed breast, her buttocks, between her legs. When he touched her there, over her dress, and pressed against her, she felt as if she might faint from pure, raw pleasure. So when she felt his bare hand on her thigh, when he moved his hand up and found the slit of her pantaloons and touched her between her legs, her knees buckled.
“Oh, God,” he said as he explored her, moving his hand and touching her in places she hadn’t imagined a man would touch. But it felt so good, so right, and so she allowed it, spread her legs so he could gain better access. He slipped one finger inside her, and she let out a sound she’d never heard from her lips. Nothing had prepared her for the feeling of a man, this man, touching her there. He slid his finger in, then out, and she moved her hips in the rhythm he created. She didn’t care if that made her wanton, she only knew that it felt good and wondrous, like nothing she’d ever felt before.
And then, it got better. He moved his thumb across the spot that ached the most, releasing such an exquisite sensation, she cried out. He moved his thumb back and forth, and she kept her hand on his man-part as he thrust against her. It was primal, this feeling, natural and wonderful how he matched the rhythm of his finger with his own hips, and Melissa knew she must touch him, not through his trousers, but flesh to flesh. She fumbled with his buttons, and John, realizing what she was doing, made short work of it and his man-part sprang out, hot and hard and velvety to her touch. They didn’t speak, and the only sound was their harsh breathing, the rhythmic rustling of their clothing, and the rain falling gently onto the courtyard.
John bent his head and once again suckled her nipples, sending shards of excruciatingly intense pleasure to where his hand moved against her. “Come for me,” he said, moving his mouth up to hers, and kissing her deeply, letting out a groan as she squeezed his arousal.
Then, suddenly, the pleasure intensified, and a rush of light and color, explosive in its brilliance, made her body jerk against his hand. It stunned her, for nothing in her life had ever felt quite so good, this pulsing pleasure that flowed from her center, to her toes, to her breasts. She slowly came to her senses, her hand still on his man-part, and she opened her eyes dazedly. John suddenly turned away, pressing himself against the cold stone of the manor house, and let out a deep groan as he clutched himself almost frantically.
In a few moments, his breathing, ragged and heavy, calmed, and he turned his head to look at her, a faint but vaguely apologetic smile on his lips.
“That was wonderful,” she said. She should have known he wouldn’t agree.
“Oh, God, Melissa, I’m so sorry.” He turned his forehead against the stone wall and banged his head lightly, muttering something unintelligible to himself.
“Stop that, you ninny. You’ll hurt yourself.”
He turned to look at her again, but this time his expression was agonized.
“Don’t you dare apologize again. It was wonderful, and you have nothing to be sorry for.”
“But I compromised you,” he said, apparently stunned that she didn’t realize it. “I was supposed to keep such a thing from happening. Oh, God.”
The horror of the situation suddenly dawned on her, and she pulled her dress up over her breast as if that would erase what had happened. “Do you mean to say I’m not a virgin anymore?” She knew, from all those lectures from her governess, that maintaining one’s virginity was of utmost importance. She didn’t truly know what that entailed, but she did know that no man other than her husband was ever—ever—allowed to take it. Was that what had just happened?
“Good God,” he said, burying his face in his hands.
“John?”
He rearranged his trousers, a faint flush staining his cheeks and making him look almost boyish. “Your virginity is intact,” he said. “Just barely.”
“Oh. That’s good.”
He looked at her again, then shook his head. “I want to kiss you, even now,” he said, letting out a bitter laugh. “I want to hold you, lie with you. I want to take your virginity. The thought of another man touching you so drives me mad. I want to drown in you.” He swallowed. “But I can’t, you see. It’s impossible. And even thinking of such things is not only dishonorable to you, but to my father, who trusted me to protect you.”
He tucked in his shirt with near-violent gestures.
“Please don’t be angry,” Melissa said, laying a hand upon his shoulder.
He moved away, out of her reach. “I’m angry with myself.”
“I know.”
“My father trusted me. I have betrayed him. I have betrayed myself. Don’t you understand?”
She didn’t understand. Not at all. “But nothing irreparable happened, John.”
“Nothing happened?” he said in disbelief. “Nothing happened?” He repeated the words and stared at her, shaking his head as if in horror. “I‘ve fallen in . . .” He closed his eyes briefly, and for a terrible moment, Melissa thought he might actually weep. “I’ve fallen in my own esteem,” he said, then let out another sad laugh.
“I wish you would stop,” Melissa said, hugging her arms about herself. “I rather liked it, and you’re making something wonderful sound sordid. It wasn’t sordid.”
Suddenly, John slapped his hand hard against the stone wall. “It was. It was wrong. Of both of us, but I’ll accept the blame.”
Melissa stared at him, hating that he wasn’t as pleased as she about what they’d just shared. It hurt.
He looked at her, deadly serious, and tugged at her dress. Then he drew her against him and gave her a quick, hard kiss before pushing her back from him. “That was our last kiss,” he said with force. “Do you understand?”
She nodded, her eyes filling with tears.
“Don’t cry,” he said, softly. “Please don’t cry.”
“I didn’t like that kiss,” she said, her voice wavering. “I’d like our last kiss to be nicer.” And so she moved to him, laid her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him with everything she felt. Every bit of love, every bit of desire. It was a kiss they would both remember, she vowed. He let out a groan, deepened the kiss, and Melissa felt a small amount of bitter triumph. He might say what they did was wrong, but he wanted to do it again. He wanted to, but she also knew he wouldn’t. She pulled away and forced a smile.
“That was a better last kiss,” she said, then turned and walked into the library, away from his pain-filled eyes.
Chapter 12
That evening after dinner, the ladies gathered in the Rose Room, a small, feminine drawing room that had seen little use in the past few years. Melissa had discovered the room only two days earlier and had asked that the maids give it a good cleaning so that she might take it over as her very own. It was a lovely room, sun-filled in the daytime, with white-washed walls, deep red cushions on the sofa and chairs, and lighter pink accents. It was an oasis of femininity in this decidedly bachelor house.
Melissa’s nerves were rather frayed, and just being in the room was soothing. She was glad the men had gone off to have a game of poker an
d drink their awful port. If she had to spend one more second in John’s presence, she just might scream. He was as solicitous as ever but otherwise completely ignoring her. Anyone seeing him that evening would never have imagined the agonized look on his face after they’d touched.
The women, but for Miss Stanhope, who read by the fire, sat comfortably, talking about the upcoming season and discussing various people Melissa would likely meet.
“Do you remember when Lady Ashton’s daughters both came out the same year?” Laura said, laughing. “That poor father, can you imagine? They are twins. Identical,” she said, stopping to explain to Melissa.
“She could hardly have one come out without the other,” Lady Juliana pointed out.
“That is true, but I cannot imagine the confusion for all those poor chaps. It was the talk of the ton that year. I remember, even though I was only fourteen at the time. They were beautiful, too, but more than one fellow thought he was falling in love with one when it really was the other that he’d danced with.”
“Are they that alike?” Melissa asked, fascinated. She’d never seen a twin before.
“In every way,” Lady Juliana said. “They sound alike and dress alike, too. I can’t tell them apart. At least I couldn’t until they got married.”
“Oh, I could,” Laura said. “Georgina’s hair is parted on the left, and Georgette’s is parted in the center. At least I think that’s correct. It could be the other way around.”
“Georgette and Georgina?”
“Their father’s name is George, you see.”
Melissa laughed. “And is there a George?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, but . . .” Laura stopped and blushed, shooting a look at Miss Stanhope and Lady Juliana.
Lady Juliana gave Laura a small smile of encouragement, while Melissa looked from one to the other.
“I’m hardly one to repeat gossip,” Laura said.
“It’s not gossip at this point. It’s common knowledge,” Lady Juliana said. “And this is something Miss Atwell should know if she is to come out this year.”
