by Anne Stuart
"I regret Lady Whitmore didn't have a chance to show you," he drawled, shocking her. He knew she'd come with Lina. Well, there was nothing remarkable about that—they'd been standing together during that ridiculous ceremony with its terrible Latin. "But that's hardly an excuse. All you had to do was look.
The Portal of Venus," he said patiently, "is the round entrance to the first garden, surrounded by boxwood and maidenhair ferns. It resembles..."
"Oh, how revolting!" Charlotte cried, with no need for him to continue.
“On the contrary, I tend to find it quite...hmm... stimulating. But I believe I did mention that I reserve my attentions for women, did I not?"
There was no other way out, she thought desperately. Where the hell was Lina when she needed her? Off enjoying the attentions of who knew how many, her idiot of a cousin forgotten.
"Yes, you did," she said calmly, dropping all effort to disguise her voice. He wouldn't recognize it anyway, not from one short conversation in a noisy ballroom. "But Viscount Rohan is known for his excellent taste. His mistresses are some of the most beautiful women in the world."
"Now, how would you know of my mistresses?" he murmured, amused.
She ignored the question. "You would hardly lower your standards to...to...bed an unwilling antidote, a plain old maid."
He surveyed her figure in silence for a moment, and she had the odd notion that he could not only see beneath the enveloping hood, but also see through to her flaws and imperfections. 'The word is fuck," he said deliberately. "And you wouldn't be unwilling." There was a calm certainty in his voice, as if he'd been privy to her awful dreams. "You greatly underestimate your charms." His hand tightened, and he pulled her toward him, slowly, inexorably. She tried to put her hands between them, but it was already too late to fight him, and he simply clamped her against him, against his strong, hard body. She could feel him, as she had in her dreams, and she wanted to cry. So close, so tantalizingly close, and all she had to do was pull back her cowl and he'd release her, shocked, horrified, perhaps disgusted at the thought of the mistake he'd almost made.
But she couldn't get her hands free—they were trapped between their bodies. He'd managed to restrain her with just one arm, and his hand reached up toward her hidden face.
"You don't want to do this," she said desperately.
"Of course I do. I've wanted to for a long time. Miss Spenser." And he pushed the hood from her head, caught her stubborn chin in one strong hand and kissed her.
Lina heard the sound first. A grating noise^ like some strange bird, she thought. A jackdaw or perhaps a crow. She opened her eyes and realized she'd fallen asleep beside Monty's chaise. She was sitting on the floor, fully dressed, her head cradled in her arms, and Monty slept on, oblivious to the most irritating bird that was...
No, that wasn't a bird. That was someone clearing his throat, and she lifted her head and turned, not bothering to rise, assuming it was simply Dodson with some tea and toast.
It wasn't. It was a man she'd never seen before, soberly dressed in black with white linen. No lace, no jewels, no ornament of any kind, and he was looking down on her with a shadowed expression that doubtless signaled deep disapproval. She felt herself flush. She, who prided herself on being shameless.
She started to rise, and he held out one hand to assist her. She'd planned to ignore it, but her legs were cramped and gave way beneath her, forcing her to reach to him for support. His was a strong hand, and not soft like those of the aristocrats who touched her.
"Has Montague converted to Catholicism without telling me or are you some part of his depraved activities?"
She was still wearing the wimple, though by now it was on crooked. She snatched it from her head, shaking her long black hair loose around her shoulders, and surveyed him for a moment. "I'm a part of his depraved activities," she said in a cool voice meant to deflate pretension. After all, he was only a vicar, not someone who had any right to judge her.
The man was unmoved. He wasn't a young man-perhaps close to forty if she were to guess by the deeply etched lines on his face. A handsome face, with deep brown eyes, a straight nose, high cheekbones and a stubborn mouth that on a less disapproving man might almost be called sensuous.
Not on this man.
"You must be the new vicar."
"You are very perceptive. I’m the Reverend Simon Pagett, here to take up the living." He glanced down at the sleeping Montague. "Is he dead?" he asked in a voice as cool as hers.
"Of course not!" she hissed. "How could you ask such a thing?"
"Simon's never been one to avoid the truth, no matter how ugly it is." Monty's voice came from the chaise, sepulchral and amused. "I'm afraid I'm not ready to stick my fort into the wall, dear boy. Sorry to disappoint you."
"Good," the man said. "That means there's still time to save your soul." He glanced toward Lina. "And your strumpet's soul as well."
Lina drew a deep, shocked breath, but Monty chuckled. "You know as well as I do that I haven't changed that much, Simon, even if you have. My strumpets are a different gender. Lina's a dear friend and I'll thank you not to insult her."
"From the local convent, no doubt," Simon said politely.
Montague snorted. "You'd best have a care, Simon. This is Lady Whitmore. I have no doubt there are at least half a dozen of her admirers who would gladly defend her honor from your prudish, judging ways. Of course...the term honor..." His smile at Lina took the sting out of his words.
"And where are those half-dozen men, Montague?" Simon said. "When I arrived I saw the carriages, and yet the house seems empty. Where are your licentious playmates?"
'They're at the abbey ruins. I've had it renovated, landscaped. It's really quite delightful, though I doubt you'd appreciate its all-too-human beauty. You'd be shocked."
"You lost the ability to shock me years ago, though you continue to try. How long have you been ill?" he demanded abruptly.
"It takes a number of years for consumption to kill a man. I don't pay any attention to it."
"I know you don't," Simon said severely. "And that's why you're in this current difficulty. You can no longer afford to burn the candle at both ends."
"It's the only way I know how to live. And I didn't invite you here—you weren't supposed to arrive until my guests were long gone. Unfortunately, thanks to Dodson's interference, you've come at a most inopportune moment.”
"I am desolate," Simon said dryly.
"Still, I suppose it's just as well. Dodson's infernal meddling has forced Lady Whitmore to miss the first night of the Revels out of kindness for me. Lina, my pet, why don't you run along and play. You can still catch up with the party—it's not far past midnight. Simon will look after me. He's done it enough times before. I have no doubt you'll be able to find some amiable distraction, even at this ungodly hour. The Heavenly Host never sleeps."
"I'll be lucky if I can find anyone stirring," Lina said wryly. “They'll all be unconscious from a surfeit of lust and drink."
Simon Pagett was looking at her. When she turned to meet his gaze his eyes were filled on Monty, but she could have sworn he'd been watching her...
It was an easy decision to make, and she didn't bother to consider why she made it. "I'm not going anywhere, Monty," she said, taking the seat she'd abandoned a few hours ago for the dubious comfort of the floor. "There will be plenty of other times of unbridled depravity for me to enjoy. For now I'm not leaving your side." She cast a sly glance at Simon. "Mr. Pig-ett should feel free to partake of the myriad pleasures the Heavenly Host offers. Perhaps he might understand the nature of the sins he's so roundly condemning."
"Pagett." He was calm. And this time when he looked at Lina he didn't try to hide it. "And I assure you. Lady Whitmore, that I have already experienced everything the Heavenly Host has to offer. I'm not interested." He looked down at Monty. "Despite your friend's deplorable taste in both costume and companions I think it probably wise for her to remain here. You've never been an easy pat
ient."
"And you've always been a pain in ray arse. Why don't you do as Lina says, and go out to the ruins. Perhaps the decadent souls out there might wish to be saved. I know for a fact they're very fond of succor." He drew out the last word, long and lasciviously.
"You need to be in bed," Pagett said, ignoring him. "I'd have Dodson call the doctor but he'd probably wish to bleed you and you're weak enough as it is." He glanced at Lina. "Would you prefer to go back to your friends. Lady Whitmore? I can make arrangements."
She wasn't quite sure what she preferred. She certainly wasn't pleased with this soberly dressed, high-handed man "making arrangements" for her. She ought to get back and make certain Charlotte was all right. Of course, if there had been any question about her cousin's safety she would never have agreed to bring her, but it wouldn't hurt to set her mind at ease.
"Oh, God, don't leave me to Simon's tender mercies!" Montague begged, his eyes sparkling. "He'll have me in a hair shirt before the day is out. Spare me from reformed rakes—they're the very devil. And yes, Simon, I use that term advisedly."
"I'll stay." Lina pressed his thin, weak hand with hers.
"I knew I could count on you," he murmured, casting a speaking look at the vicar.
Lina glanced over her shoulder but Mr. Pagett was expressionless, offering no protest.
She couldn't imagine a man like him succumbing to the lures of the flesh. His lined face seemed preternaturally grave—as if he were born that way—and she couldn't imagine a time when he had laughed, cried, charmed, kissed. He really did have a lovely mouth when it wasn't drawn into a thin line of what was either worry or disapproval, disapproval seeming more likely. It was a shame it wasn't used for more pleasurable purposes than denouncing the sinful.
Dodson had made a reappearance, accompanied by two of Montague's typically handsome footmen.
"Assist Lord Montague to his rooms and make him comfortable," Simon said in a calm tone that was nonetheless a trifle high-handed. "And Lady Whit-more, may I suggest you change into something more appropriate for the circumstances?"
Prudish little toad, Lina thought rebelliously, ignoring the fact that Simon was neither little nor toad-like. "I thought the habit was eminently suitable, Mr. Pagett, given the spiritual aspect of the occasion and my nursing skills."
In another man she might have recognized humor in his eyes. But this one was surely devoid of humor, and that light in his dark eyes must be impatience. "I wasn't objecting to the nun's habit. Lady Whitmore. I merely thought the decolletage was a bit extreme for a sickroom, and I assumed you preferred to be fashionable. You may wear whatever you please."
"Thank you for your kind permission," she said with only the faintest bite beneath her soft tone. In fact, she'd forgotten that beneath the rounded white collar of the habit the plain black dress was cut very low, ostensibly to allow men to survey her bounty before she actually divested herself of her clothes. She resisted the impulse to yank her dress up higher. Her breasts were firm and well shaped; let the dour clergyman look his fill.
"You have a point, Mr. Pagett," she murmured. "Though it's a shame when you and I are so particularly matched. In costume, at least."
For a brief moment the words hung in the air, seeming to take on a different meaning. And then Pagett scowled at her, ignoring her breasts as few men had managed in the past ten years. "I doubt we would find we have anything else in common," he said, sounding irritable. "Perhaps it would be better if you were to join your fellow sybarites..."
"I will stay." In fact, she'd considered slipping away, but most likely Charlotte was in the room they were sharing, sound asleep.
The footmen were already carrying Montague from the candlelit salon amidst his weak curses and languid protests. The look Simon Pagett cast her was far from promising. "He's in safe hands with me.
Lady Whitmore, no matter what he says. It would probably mate things a great deal simpler if you went and joined the others."
She looked at him for a long moment. "And it would doubtless make things a great deal simpler if you returned from whence you came and waited until you were supposed to show up. Sometime next week, I collect?"
At first he didn't answer her, and she had the odd, uncomfortable sensation that he saw her too clearly. "Why would you suppose any such thing?"
"Because Montague would scarcely invite a stick-in-the-mud, disapproving parson to a house party composed of notorious libertines, would he?"
Now she could see for certain—he was amused. It barely touched the comers of his fine eyes, and his mouth kept its grim, uncompromising line. Nevertheless, he was amused.
"You think not. Lady Whitmore? In fact, he was expecting me tomorrow, and the Revels usually last a good four days, do they not?"
"Only three this time." She didn't stop to wonder why he'd know that much.
His lips curved in a cool smile. "Perhaps Montague is beginning to accept the fact that he is mortal after all. I expect he hoped to be strong enough to enjoy at least a part of the Revels, and to rub my nose in it." He stared down at her for a long moment, as if he'd forgotten what he was going to say.
She was feeling oddly breathless. If he wasn't going to speak, then she should, rather than stand there in that awkward silence. Of course, the way to break it would be to excuse herself, and that was exactly what she should do. Except she didn't want to.
There was an arrested expression in his eyes, and the silence held. Until something made him come to his senses, and he turned away with a short, dismissive laugh. "Montague will be resting for the next few hours, once the doctor leaves. You may as well
"We've got an arduous battle ahead and you'll need your strength."
"Battle?" she echoed, confused. "Battle for what?"
"Montague's immortal soul." He turned, then looked back for a moment. "And likely yours as well."
And without another word he was gone.
For a first kiss it was not bad, Adrian thought coolly. Charlotte Spenser froze as his mouth touched hers, too shocked to do anything more, and Adrian pressed his advantage, pulling her closer against his body, wrapping his arms around her so she couldn't escape easily, and proceeded to work on seducing her mouth first. He slid one hand up to her gold-rimmed glasses, slipped them off and deliberately dropped them on the ground before she even knew what he'd done.
She could probably feel his iron-hard erection beneath her silly monk's habit, even if she didn't know what it was. Quite impressive—he hadn't been this excited so early in the game for a long time. He usually needed his partner to be completely naked and under him before he reached this dangerous point, further proof that he'd been far too interested in Charlotte Spenser to begin with.
She was struggling, just slightly, making a distressed sound, and he silently cursed. She was going to have to be handled very carefully or she might bolt, and he'd be honor bound to let her go. Assuming he still possessed a degree of honor.
Except that he knew she wanted this, or would if well-bred, virginal young women had any honesty. If he could just manage to convince her to let go of it all, this could be quite revelatory for both of them.
He lifted his mouth from hers, just barely, and looked down into her shocked, wide-open eyes, now without the annoying barrier of glass. She didn't even seem to notice he'd taken them. "It's easier if you close your eyes," he said in a practical voice. To his astonishment she did, and he kissed her again.
She was no longer struggling, a mixed blessing; her squirming had provided a lovely friction for his erect penis. Then again, it wouldn't help matters if he climaxed in his breeches. Her lips had been tight, frightened, but now they had softened, and he brushed his own lips against hers, once, twice, wanting to hum with anticipatory delight.
If she accepted his kiss he'd have her, he told himself. Accepted a real kiss, his tongue in her mouth, taking her, not this innocent stuff reserved for young ladies behind the punch bowl, innocent creatures who didn't know what they wanted.
&n
bsp; He lifted his head again. "Open your mouth for me.”
Her eyes flew open again. "Why?"
It was the first word she'd spoken in quite a while, but her voice was husky and raw as if she'd been screaming.
"Because I want to kiss you that way."
"I don't know what you're talking about. You need to let me—"
He covered her mouth again before she could say the fateful words, and he pushed his tongue into her mouth so he could taste her fully. She froze again, but he knew how to kiss, how to use his tongue and teeth to get the response he wanted. Her body softened first, then her jaw, then her mouth, accepting
He took his time then. He wanted her tongue in his mouth, he wanted her to draw his in and suck on it. He demonstrated, hoping she might get the idea, letting his tongue slide against hers, teasing, dancing, sucking, but she still didn't do anything more than let him.
And he wanted more. He'd told himself that acceptance was enough, but he'd been wrong. He wanted, needed participation.
"Kiss me back," he whispered, his own voice hoarse.
She started to shake her head, but he caught her chin in one strong hand, holding her still. "Kiss me back," he repeated in a rough voice.
Her eyes were huge. In the darkness her rich red hair looked black, and she looked up at him beseechingly. Don't ask me to let you go, he thought.
A slow smile curved his mouth as relief flooded him. "I'll show you," he said, claiming her mouth again, trying to control the sheer ferocity of his desire for her. He kissed her slowly, much more slowly than he wanted to, but after a moment he got into the feel of it, the slow, languorous sweep of his tongue in her mouth, the soft little bites, the lift and repositioning of his mouth over hers. The final, tentative touch of her tongue against his.
He wanted to throw back his head and laugh with triumph, but he didn't want to stop kissing her. He could feel the changes in her body, as it softened, flowed against his, and he wanted to push her against a wall, shove her robe up and take her right there.
