Slightly Sinful

by Mary Balogh

  He was seeing her for the first time in her working clothes, he thought. He really would rather not have done so. It had struck him just today that he called the other ladies by their given names whereas he always called her Miss York. He did not like to think of her as a whore.

  “Good evening,” she said. “Are you feeling neglected?”

  “More like a beached whale actually,” he said. “But I understand that I am to expect crutches and even clothes tomorrow. You cannot know how grateful I am to all of you.”

  “We are happy to be of assistance.” She smiled at him.

  “Are you not working?” he asked, and then wished he had not.

  “Not tonight,” she said. “I came to sit with you for a while. May I?”

  He indicated the chair with one hand and she sat down in her usual graceful, ladylike way. Listening to a burst of laughter from downstairs, he was glad she was not there.

  “You will be happy to be able to move about again,” she said, “and to get your strength back.”

  “More than you can possibly know,” he told her. “I will not be a burden to you for much longer, I promise. As soon as I am able to get about at a reasonable speed and as soon as I am decently clothed, I will be leaving here and finding out who I am and where I belong.”

  “Will you?” she said. “We were discussing just this afternoon how we might help you, but then it occurred to us that perhaps you would have some ideas of your own. What will you do? How will you go about discovering who you are?”

  “There must be some military personnel still here,” he said, “and some members of the British upper classes. Someone may recognize me or have a record of the fact that I am missing. Failing any answers here, I will find my way somehow to the Hague. There is a British embassy there. They will help. If nothing else they will probably get me back to England.”

  “Ah, so you do have plans.” She gazed at him with her lovely hazel eyes. “But there is no hurry. You must not feel that you have to rush away from here. This is your home for as long as you need it.”

  He felt a sharp jolt of desire for her.

  “On the contrary,” he said. “I have been here for almost two weeks, with no sense of identity or belonging, while all sorts of people have probably been searching for me and thinking the worst. Perhaps even more important, you must all be eager to return to England. I have kept you here too long already.”

  “It has not been one moment too long,” she said. “We have all been happy to have you here. I will miss you when you are gone.”

  We have been happy, but I will miss you. He did not fail to notice the change in pronoun.

  And he would miss her too.

  Without thinking he stretched out a hand toward her. She looked at it for a few moments, and he would have withdrawn it if he could without making an issue of it. She leaned forward and set her hand in his. It was warm and smooth-skinned and slender. He closed his fingers about it.

  “I will find you again one day,” he said, “and find some way to repay at least a part of the debt I owe you. There is no way to repay you for my life, of course.”

  “You owe me nothing,” she said, and he was aware suddenly that the brightness of her eyes was caused by unshed tears.

  He ought to have released her hand then and turned the subject. There must be any number of topics on which they might safely converse. He might have asked her to read more of Joseph Andrews. Instead he squeezed her hand more tightly.

  “Come here,” he said softly.

  She looked rather startled for a moment, and he thought she would refuse—which would be just as well considering the level of tension in the room. But she got to her feet and came to sit on the side of the bed, all without relinquishing his hand.

  She was far too close for comfort. There seemed to be less air in the room than there had been a short while ago. His nostrils were being teased by a fragrance that he realized he associated with her.

  “Roses?” he asked.

  “Gardenia.” She was gazing down into his eyes, her own wide. “It is the only perfume I ever wear. My father used to give some to me every birthday.”

  He inhaled slowly.

  “Do you like it?” she asked him, and it occurred to him suddenly that she was flirting with him in her own very subtle manner. Had she orchestrated the whole of this scene?

  “I do,” he told her.

  He watched her lick her upper lip, her tongue moving deliberately from one corner to the other. He fixed his eyes on the movement. She had the softest, most kissable lips he had ever seen—at least, he thought she did, since it was something he could not be sure of.

  “Miss York,” he said, “I ought not to have invited you so close. I am about to take advantage of your kindness in coming to sit with me, I am afraid. I am about to kiss you. You had better scuttle back to your chair or even out through the door if you consider me impertinent or presumptuous.”

  If it was possible, her lovely eyes grew wider. Her cheeks grew pinker. Her lips, which she had just moistened, parted. But she did not move.

  I do innocence very well, would you not agree?

  She had spoken those words to him some time ago and he had agreed with them even then. Now he agreed a hundred times more.

  “I do not consider you presumptuous.” She spoke so softly that her words were a mere whisper of sound.

  He released her hand and took her by the upper arms. They were covered with goose bumps, he could see. He rubbed his hands up and down them a few times and then drew her down. Her hands splayed across his chest as his lips touched hers.

  He kissed her lightly, his lips moving over hers, at first closed and then parted. He licked her lips with his tongue and pushed it through to caress the warm, moist flesh behind. But it was not, of course, enough, and she made no move to cut the embrace short, as he half expected she would, to smile teasingly at him, and whisk herself off back downstairs to the paying customers—perish the thought.

  He allowed a little more of his control to slip and deepened the embrace, wrapping his arms about her, drawing her bosom down against his chest, and kissing her more hungrily, his tongue pressing deep into her mouth. He could feel one of her narrow braids sway and tap against the side of his face. She was every bit as gorgeous as he had ever thought her. Even in such a relatively chaste encounter she was all soft, shapely, enticing woman.

  And yet she kissed like an innocent at first, he noticed, her lips closed and slightly pouted and opening only at the prodding of his tongue. She was very alluring. The illusion of innocence mingled with the reality of her hot sexuality made for an explosive mix. He was far more aroused than it was comfortable to be under the circumstances. But for a while he was past caring.

  She drew back her head after several minutes and looked down at him with heavy-lidded, questioning eyes. When he drew her head down to his again, he kissed her more gently, ravishing her mouth with slow thoroughness.

  He was the one who set her away from him at last, though he did so with the deepest reluctance.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “This is probably not very thrilling for you, is it, when you had expected a free night. And I cannot even pay your fee, whether it is sixpence or a hundred pounds. Besides, I like you and would not take advantage of your good nature.”

  He saw what might have been bewilderment in her eyes and then something else. She dipped her head down to rest on his shoulder, and he allowed her to come down on top of his chest again. Her hair teased his cheek and his nose.

  He was going to suffer for this foolishness, he thought. He had owed her better than this. He would be fortunate if their friendship—and there was a sort of friendship between them—survived this night’s doings. But even before he could suffer tomorrow’s regrets there was this evening’s discomfort to deal with. He was hard with need for her.

  He had no way of knowing how long he had been without a woman, but it felt altogether too long. Not that just any woman would do, he suspect
ed. Deuce take it, but he had allowed himself to become too infatuated with Rachel York. He had had nothing better to do with his time and energies, he supposed.

  “I was not thinking about any fee,” she said. “And you were not taking advantage of me.”

  “It must have been the other way around, then,” he said chuckling softly, trying to make light of the situation. “You were taking advantage of me.”

  “Because you are weak from your injuries?” She lifted her head, supported herself with her hands on his chest again, and looked down at him with troubled eyes. “Did I do that? I did not mean it. I will go away immediately.”

  Damnation, he thought, he had hurt her. He ought not to have made mention of her profession. Clearly she was not plying it here. She knew he had nothing with which to pay her.

  He grasped her by the arms when she would have got up.

  “Rachel,” he said, “don’t go. Please don’t go. I just wanted to know that I was not offending you—but I seem to have done it anyway. Forgive me?”

  She nodded and he set one hand behind her head and drew her downward to kiss her again.

  “Stay with me?” he asked against her lips.

  He heard her swallow.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Does that door lock?” he asked her.

  “Yes.”

  “Lock it, then,” he said. “Let’s be sure of privacy.”

  “Yes,” she said again, and got to her feet to cross to the door.

  She stood with her back to the room for a few moments after he heard the click of the lock. He was going to make love to her, he thought, and not feel guilty about it. She had just said she had not thought of a fee, meaning that she genuinely wanted to be with him. Very well, then. If she wanted him as he wanted her, they would enjoy themselves together and part amicably as soon as he was fit enough to leave. They would leave each other with pleasant memories.

  But as she turned back toward him and he saw the color warm in her cheeks, it seemed to him that she looked like the innocent she sometimes pretended to be, and he felt ever so slightly sinful for wanting her so badly.

  CHAPTER VII

  IT WAS ONLY AS SHE STOOD AT THE DOOR AND turned the key that she realized fully what she had just done and what she was about to do.

  He had warned her that he was going to kiss her, but she had not stopped him. She had not wanted to. Now he had asked her to stay and she had said yes even though she had been in no doubt of his meaning.

  He was going to bed her.

  And she had said yes.

  Was she mad? Was she utterly, out-of-her-mind insane? She scarcely knew him. Indeed, she did not even know his real name. Soon he would be gone from her life, gone forever despite his promise to find her one day so that he could repay some of the debt he felt he owed her.

  He believed her to be a whore. He thought this was nothing more to her than a pleasant little fling on the side with no money involved.

  It was not too late. Even now she could tell him no, unlock the door, and flee up to her attic room.

  But she was twenty-two years old and her life and been so barren of excitement, sensual or otherwise. The men she had had a chance to meet, including certain gentlemen who had frequented Lady Flatley’s and had thought she was easy pickings just because she was a sort of servant, had always given her the shudders. And when she had chosen very deliberately with her head and agreed to marry Mr. Crawley because she had thought he was very different from all the others, she had found him to be a coldhearted villain.

  She wanted to do this. She longed for it—with him, with Jonathan Smith. There were no illusions, no promises involved. There was no future. Just tonight. She could not bear to unlock the door and go away. If she did, she was sure, she would congratulate herself for the rest of her life on her good sense and pretend that she did not regret that she had not found the courage to do what she wanted to do.

  She was terribly attracted to him.

  It took only a few seconds for these thoughts to tumble through her mind. Then she drew a slow breath and turned back into the room. Perhaps she would regret this tomorrow, but she would think of that when tomorrow came.

  The trouble was, she thought as she looked at him and saw naked desire in his darkly handsome face, that she did not know how to go about this. If she had not left the bed, she would not have thought about her ignorance, but here she was stranded at the other side of the room, not knowing what to do next.

  She smiled at him.

  “You will have to help me out of my dress and stays,” she told him.

  She went to sit on the side of the bed again, her back to him, and tipped her head forward.

  He did not say anything, but she felt his fingers work at her buttons and pins and laces. She held her dress to her bosom as both it and her stays opened along the back and she felt the cool evening air against her bare flesh. He eased her dress off her shoulders, and she shivered as his hands caressed her back.

  She stood up then and released her hold on her dress. It slithered down her body, taking her stays with it, and she stepped free of them. All that remained was her skimpy shift, which the stays had molded to her body, and her stockings. She sat down on the bed again and rolled them down and off her feet. At the same time she was aware that he was pulling off his nightshirt and tossing it onto the floor on top of her dress.

  She turned and looked down at him. He looked very broad shouldered and well muscled and masculine despite the fact that he had been an invalid for almost two weeks. He was gazing back at her with dark, intense eyes. She was terribly afraid suddenly of the barely leashed passion that seemed to sizzle between them, but of course it was far too late now to change her mind.

  Besides, there was a fascination, an overwhelming attraction all mixed in with the fear.

  “Let your hair down,” he told her. But before she could lift her arms, he caught at her hands. “No, let me take it down.”

  Geraldine had dressed it for her since she had had time to spare before the evening’s revelries and had come into Rachel’s attic room for a chat and possessed herself of Rachel’s brush without a by-your-leave. She had produced a work of art, which had pleased Rachel, as she had wanted to look pretty for the evening’s visit to Jonathan’s room.

  He took his time about drawing out pins and unraveling braids. She dipped her head down so that their faces were close all the time he worked, and her freed hair fell about them like a curtain. A few times he interrupted his efforts by drawing her closer and kissing her softly—on her eyelids, on her nose, on her lips. Her breasts felt tight and almost sore. There was a heavy pulsing low in her abdomen and down between her thighs that she recognized as the physical effects of desire.

  All this felt terribly sinful, she thought. It was also unbearably erotic. If he did not finish with her hair soon she would surely burn up with heat.

  “I am afraid,” he said at last, combing his fingers through her loose hair and drawing her head downward once again so that his lips were touching hers, “that my leg wound makes me less mobile than I would wish to be at this moment. You are going to have to come on top of me and do most of the work. Stand up for a moment.”

  When she did so he turned back the covers so that she could join him on the bed. Her knees almost betrayed her then. She almost forgot to breathe. She set one knee on the bed, and he grasped the hem of her shift with both hands. She lifted her arms as he peeled it off and sent it to join their other garments on the floor.

  She was startlingly aware of the candle burning on the table beside the bed.

  He was gazing at her with narrowed gaze and pursed lips.

  “In fairness to other women,” he said, “there ought to be some imperfection in your person. But, if there is, I fail to see it. Come.”

  She was twenty-two years old. She was not entirely ignorant of what happened. But he would surely expect experience and skill. She had told him once, though, that she was the one who catered to the ta
ste for demure innocence.

  “You must instruct me,” she told him. “I am new to this, remember?”

  He laughed softly. “Come astride me,” he said, “and I will give you a lesson in love—though I daresay I will end up as more pupil than teacher.”

  She blessed his bandaged thigh at that moment. Having to move across him and settle herself above him in such a way that she did not jolt him or inadvertently touch the wound somehow alleviated the awkwardness and intense embarrassment she might otherwise have felt at being above him. She could feel his body heat beneath her spread thighs.

  A weakness that was almost painful spiraled up inside her until even her throat ached. She set her hands on his shoulders and leaned over him, her eyes on his.

  He took over at that point, cupping one hand behind her head and kissing her openmouthed again, his tongue plundering her mouth so that she was soon consumed by needs her body had never before dreamed of.

  He touched every inch of her over the next several minutes—with his hands, his palms, his fingers, his fingertips, his thumbs, his lips, his tongue, his teeth. He touched her in ways she had not known there were ways. He suckled her breasts, moistened her nipples with his tongue, nipped them lightly with his teeth until they were hardened and almost unbearably sensitive. He set one hand flat over her throbbing private place, almost startling her into madness, and then probed the folds, exploring, caressing, teasing, scratching lightly—and sliding one finger and then two slowly up inside her. She was wet there, she realized, as muscles she had not known she possessed clenched hard about him.

  She was not idle while he gave her an education in foreplay. Her hands roamed over him too, marveling at the solid maleness of him and by very instinct knowing where to pause and caress. After he had suckled her breasts she lowered her head and licked one of his male nipples, startling a gasp and an exclamation from him. She raised her head and smiled into his eyes.