by Sara Portman
“I don’t think that would be the way with you, though,” she mused, her eyes focusing on some faraway point and her voice soft as a dream. “Somehow I feel that I could be comfortable with you in a way that I couldn’t imagine being with another man. I would be so frightened and foolish with anyone else. If anyone were going to show me how to”—feathery lashes fell to land on pink-tinged porcelain cheeks—“do those things, I think I should be less frightened with you. As we’ve agreed, it is strangely as though we’ve known each other for a very long time.
“Consider this conversation,” she continued. “It’s horribly improper and I should be dreadfully embarrassed to be discussing any of this with you. But I’m not. Because it’s you.”
Her eyes lifted then and gazed at him with such sweet admiration that guilt suffused him. He did not deserve such a look from anyone.
“Aren’t you a little bit frightened,” Bex asked, working diligently to keep his voice steady and calm, “that all of this talk of love affairs while we are alone in a carriage together may inspire me to make decisions based upon temptation, rather than practicality?”
Bex watched as she considered the dilemma he had posed. She pulled her weight from the elbow upon which she’d been leaning and sat upright, facing him. Her wide blue eyes met his and held him, transfixed.
Those eyes. Those beautiful, expressive eyes that hid nothing. There was something gleaming there in those lake-blue pools. But it was not fear.
Thank God.
It was not fear.
Chapter Twenty
Bex stilled as sweet, expressive eyes fell to his mouth in unspoken invitation.
He waited.
He waited for what seemed to be a thousand years in a moment, just to be certain she was given every possible opportunity to look away, retreat, or otherwise break the moment. He knew if she did, he would be decent and noble and keep his hands and his lascivious thoughts to himself.
But she did not. She held it, as he did, leaning toward him, lips parted with the same breathless anticipation that heated him from head to toe.
When he was certain he had waited long enough, he waited just a second longer, and then he reached for her. He placed his hands on her waist and dragged her into his lap, filling his senses with the feel and scent of her. His lips found hers in a frantic search.
The kiss was not tentative. He assaulted her and she clung to him, opening her mouth for his exploration, demanding even more than he gave.
Hands.
Her hands started at the nape of his neck, pulling him more firmly into the kiss, but moved on quickly. Even through his coat, he loved the feel of her delicate fingers roaming over his shoulders, down his arms, and across his chest, as though there were not enough places for her to touch him.
There were far too many places for him to touch her—so many tempting places. With one hand over her silken curls to cradle her head, he slid the other across her slender rib cage to cup one breast through the fabric of the dress. She pressed into the touch, but it wasn’t enough. He moved upward, laying his palm over the bare skin above the hem of her bodice, feeling her chest rise and fall with her excitement.
She pulled herself even closer to him, rocking in his lap in a way that mercilessly stoked his arousal.
God, it wasn’t enough. He needed to touch her. Still cradling her head, his mouth still plundering hers, he leaned her back just enough so his exploring hand could smooth down her side, over the curve of her hip, and down her bent leg to the hem of her dress. Breaking the kiss to bury his face into the crook of her neck, he slid his fingers underneath the fabric and slowly upward along a smooth stocking until he felt the fabric end at warm, silken skin.
As his hand spanned her slender thigh, squeezing with gentle pressure, she released the softest, most erotic mewling sound he had ever heard in his life. That sound alone could break a man, and he hadn’t even touched her yet—not really touched her.
Even as he knew it was selfish and greedy and horribly wrong of him to think of touching this angel so intimately, Bex knew with equal certainty that he was too weak to deny himself. He wanted it so damn badly and so did she. God. That was the part that made him give in. He felt her body hum with it. He could feel her vibrate with wanting to be touched. She strained for it. Her fingers where they clutched his shoulders, her hips where they lay warm and tempting across his thighs, and her cheek as it nuzzled against his hair—they all moved instinctually to the rhythm of what they both wanted. She was too innocent. She couldn’t possibly know what she wanted, but her body knew, and he was just selfish and greedy enough to grant the dangerous wish.
He slid his hand upward, feeling her warmth, feeling her move in response to the touch. She didn’t shy away. Instead, her response urged him onward and he complied, trailing his fingers slowly toward the apex of her thighs.
His hand found the slit in her drawers and traced the opening, feeling the moisture there. He couldn’t imagine anything more arousing in that moment than the tangible proof that this perfect, angelic creature wanted him. He pushed the damp fabric aside and repeated the motion, this time tracing softly at her opening.
She made that sweet sound again, and he basked in the pride of knowing he produced it. She squirmed and her legs parted, inviting him to touch her again.
So he did.
He touched and traced until she pressed herself against him. He lifted his head to watch her face, transfixed by the pure eroticism of seeing her introduction to these sensations painted across her lovely features. He wanted to introduce her to everything—teach her so much more than just this first taste of passion.
It couldn’t be his. She couldn’t fully be his, but he could take this fleeting moment.
Her fingers dug into his arms and he could feel her hips undulate with rising urgency as he stroked and teased her. He dipped his finger into the hot place where he wanted to bury himself and she moaned, hips rising to meet his pressure. His thumb found her sensitive bud and stroked there.
She breathed his name.
He wanted her to be naked. He wanted to see all of her, wanted to watch her hips writhe with his touch, but he could only feel her response, feel how beautiful she was below the dark shroud of her skirts. Instead, he concentrated on her face, watching as each movement of his hand triggered some new response. Her lips parted as he dipped inside her again. Her eyes widened, then fluttered closed as he drew his thumb across her. Her head turned to the side and she bit her lip in the sweet agony of it. She had the most expressive face, and everything—every torturously sensual thing—was there for him to experience along with her. No master could have painted or sculpted a more vivid and stunning portrayal of sheer passion. He had never been so hard in his life.
“Oh, God,” she breathed, clutching him. “Bex, I…” Her voice was questioning, uncertain.
“Let it happen, sweetheart,” he whispered.
Her breath came in short pants until she broke, with one final moan, and her expression of release and rapture was the most beautifully erotic image he would ever know. Even as he watched it, he knew it was indelibly branded into his memory.
His hand slowly retreated, righting her drawers and sliding along her leg to her ankle. He cradled her to him with both arms around her as her breathing slowed. As he hugged her to him, he concentrated on ignoring the merciless pulse of arousal in his own unsated body. She burrowed snugly into his embrace and he closed his eyes, knowing she would recover herself shortly and the awareness would set in.
And the inevitable regret.
He held her anyway, greedily taking his last few moments until it happened.
He knew the moment she began to come back to herself. He sensed it even before she began to pull away. Slowly, she slid from his lap, bewildered eyes above pink cheeks. Silently, she reached a hand up to take stock of her mussed hair, then reached both hands down to
smooth twisted skirts.
Bex waited patiently, dreading the words that would break the silence.
He did not expect accusation or censure. Those things were not Lucy’s way. He did expect awkwardness, remorse, and a shift in their odd, comfortable friendship. Probably, too, there would be a stern reminder that they could not violate propriety in such a way again.
It was far less punishment than he deserved for daring to touch her. Had she been in her usual, practical state of mind, she would not have allowed it. Still, deserved or no, he dreaded seeing the regret so vividly displayed across the features that had been ripe with passion only moments before.
Lucy released a soft sigh. She looked up at him. Her cheeks were still pink, but her eyes were not shy. “I was right.”
Bex stilled. He shook his head. “What?”
Then her perfect, swollen lips broke into a smile. “I was right.”
He hunted for the regret in her features, but it was not there. Her eyes were bright and she was smiling at him. Smiling.
“About what, exactly?” he asked.
Then she laughed. “About you,” she said, and because there was not a coy bone in the woman’s body, she said, “I’m not at all frightened or embarrassed with you.” She shook her head as though mystified herself to realize it. “I’m not even shy.”
At her words, Bex felt a physical unburdening of his soul. He wanted to laugh with the lightness of it. “No,” he said, draping his arm protectively around her shoulders, “you are not shy.”
She sat comfortably tucked at his side for a long moment before she abruptly turned to face him. Startled, he looked down at her.
“I want you to show me more.”
Her words were such an echo of his recent thoughts that his mind and body immediately settled upon the most lascivious interpretation of her meaning. Bex steeled himself against the dangerous train of thought and sought clarification. “Show you more of what?”
“More of this,” she said, her hand coming to rest on his thigh as she made her earnest request. She lifted clear blue eyes to his and said, without any hesitation or apology, “I want you to show me the rest of it.”
Desire lit through him again, like a bellows fanning the flames of a smoldering fire. “No, we cannot,” he said, a bit more firmly than he intended. He was saying it for his own benefit as much as hers. He had dreaded her regret, but he could not have predicted she would request they keep going. One of them had to think responsibly. They could not, under any circumstances, continue with these dangerous games. He would have her ruined before the day was out, and what then? He was in no position to save her from said ruination.
She pursed her lips and looked at him quietly for a moment. Then she said, “But why not?”
Good lord, the list of reasons why not could rival a Greek epic in length. He opened his mouth to provide the most pressing, but she held up a staying hand and continued before he could speak.
“Just consider for a moment,” she said. “I understand we aren’t supposed to do…these things, but why couldn’t we, really?” Her eyes drifted around the coach as though pondering her own response to this question as opposed to waiting for his.
“Because we are in a carriage, to start,” Bex blurted, feeling the urgent need to catalog, for both of their sakes, precisely why her suggestion should be summarily dismissed.
At his words, she broke her mental wandering and turned to gape at him. “I did not mean immediately,” she said, as though he were daft to have assumed so. “I meant at some other time.”
“Some other time when we are unchaperoned and alone?” he asked, one brow raised in challenge.
“We are reasonably clever people,” she defended. “Surely we could arrange for some other opportune time.”
“No,” he said firmly. “There can be no other time.” What the devil was happening here? She was supposed to be saying these things to him.
“You don’t have to worry that you can’t afford a…mistress…I don’t want to be a mistress, at least not in the conventional sense of a woman with a protector and a financial arrangement. That whole thing seems rather mercenary and callous and…wrong.” She wrinkled her nose, as though the thought produced a tangibly unpleasant odor.
“Wrong indeed,” he said. He knew as well as everyone else that calling a woman a mistress and placing her in elegant clothes or surroundings did not alter the inelegance of the arrangement. Polite society excluded such women because they were, despite appearances, paid whores. Bex would be damned before he would allow Saint Lucy of Beadwell to even contemplate such an arrangement.
“It is wrong,” Lucy repeated with a punctuating nod. “That is why I would never dream of proposing a financial arrangement. I am simply proposing a different sort of friendship. You’ve made me see the possibility.”
Bex nearly choked. “I have made you see the possibility? That was not my intent, I promise you.” At least, he would not admit to such an intent, even if the prospect was damnably tempting.
“Of course you have,” Lucy said.
Bex released a heavy sigh. “I am sure you will explain.”
“Certainly,” Lucy said with a pert nod. “We have just engaged in highly inappropriate conduct.” The color rose on her cheeks.
Finally. Sense. “Agreed, and you have my regret and sincerest apology.”
Lucy laughed. “But I don’t regret it. It was…” She bit her lip. “It was very nice.”
There was that word again. He should begin a campaign to have the word eradicated from the English language.
“It is just like you said about our first kiss. It’s only a scandal if someone knows about it,” she said.
“You should not listen to me so closely,” he said miserably. “I am considerably less wise than I pretend to be.”
She laughed again, and the light sound filled the interior of the coach yet only managed to make his mood heavier. Five minutes before, he had dreaded her declaration of regret; now he was actively trying to convince the woman she did not want to become his lover.
He was mad. Barking mad.
“But you were correct. The rules of society only matter to society. When there is no one involved save you and I, our judgments are the only ones that matter. If we are discreet, no one else need know.”
“What of your husband?” Bex blurted. “If you are ruined, he will certainly discover it.” His words were harsh, but he needed them to penetrate.
“We both know I will never marry,” she said quietly, eyes cast downward. “I am going to be a governess. I am already past the age most women marry and I will spend the next several years hidden away in some family’s schoolroom, preparing their daughters for marriage. My prospects are already dismal now. They will not improve with time.”
“You cannot be certain of that,” Bex said, but it felt like a lie, so he tried again. “There are too many reasons why not and only selfish, irresponsible reasons to proceed.”
Lucy reached out and lay a gentle hand upon his arm. “Please listen to me, Bex,” she said, her voice softening to a plea that tugged at his heart in a way he found decidedly uncomfortable. “I will never be a wife. I will never be a mother. Can I not, for a brief time, know what it means to be a lover?”
Her eyes were so blue and bright with entreaty. She was small and vulnerable, and damn him, but he wanted to yield to this heartbreakingly sweet request. She would make it so damn easy for him to convince himself that he was being somehow noble and generous to give her this one thing she so greatly desired. Because her reasons, irresponsible though they might be, were not selfish. How could he call a woman selfish when she must sacrifice everything and she asked to keep only one small thing?
Because it was not a small thing, that was bloody why. It was a monumentally sized thing. How could they be assured of discretion? What if she regretted it and hated h
im? What if he hated himself?
What if he crushed the tender heart of another innocent woman and the little bit left of his broken soul was lost forever?
“No, Lucy. It cannot happen. The idea is as tempting for me as it is for you, but when you have had more time to contemplate, you will be grateful that one of us had the strength to ignore this impulse.”
“I understand.” Her voice was barely a whisper. Her eyes were wide with hurt, and he hated the way she retreated back to the opposite seat. She very clearly did not understand, but she would. Once she truly considered what she had proposed, she would realize how close they had both come to disaster.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lucy had never cared much for uncomfortable silences. She usually avoided them in the simplest way—by making conversation. It was quite simple to find topics of general interest that would not be offensive to others, and she found most people were as relieved as she to be freed from the awkwardness.
The half hour that Lucy spent alone in the coach with Bex following his resounding rejection of her proposal was not one of these occasions. She found she much preferred the silence in this instance. She could not converse with him. She preferred to avoid looking at him. She hated that she had to blindly repair her damaged coiffure while he sat across from her, and she said a prayer of silent gratitude that he chose to close his eyes and be silent as well.
She did make a valiant effort not to feel too deeply rejected by his vehement dismissal of her proposal. He had, after all, referred to her offer as tempting. He had even implied his refusal was for her own good. Therefore, she should not feel ridiculous.
But of course she did.
