The Bewitching Hour

by Diana Douglas

  “Well, I’m here now,” she murmured.

  “Yes you are,” he agreed. “And I’m most grateful.” She could not see him clearly, but glimpsed the glitter in his eyes, knew he was smiling. He pushed the cape from her shoulders and fingered the bodice of the thin lawn gown. “What are you wearing, my love?” His hand trailed lowered and nails grazed her nipples.

  She closed her eyes to regain her thoughts. “I um... I was in a hurry.”

  With nimble fingers he unfastened the short row of pearl buttons holding her gown together in front. “It doesn’t really matter what you wore,” he whispered as he pulled her arms through the sleeves, then lifted her easily and with one quick motion had the garment over her head and lying on his greatcoat. “As you aren’t wearing anything at the moment.”

  She gasped as the night air touched her nakedness..

  “I’m not quite done,” he said softly. “There’s still this ridiculous little cap.” He felt for the hairpin securing her cap and pulled off the puff of lace that held her hair bunched at the top of her head. He threaded his fingers through her curls and a heavy wave of hair fell loose gently caressing the bare skin of her shoulders and back. She shivered at the sensation. Her nipples tightened, her belly clenched.

  “Cold?” he whispered.

  “Yes.” But she wasn’t. Not cold exactly. Her skin tingled; her breathing was short and erratic. No, she definitely wasn’t cold.

  “Do you want your cape?”

  “No.”

  “I will warm you.” He took her into his arms and captured her mouth in a gentle kiss. She sunk into his embrace, scarcely aware when he slid his arm beneath her legs and lifted her into his lap. Without breaking the kiss he pulled off her slippers and caught both feet with his hand. He tickled the arch of her foot and she pulled away trying her best not to giggle.

  “Such delicate little feet,” he observed. “You’re very tense, love. You know I won’t do anything you don’t want me to, don’t you? All you have to do is tell me.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  “Then relax,” he murmured. He cupped her breast with one hand as he traced the length of her thigh with the other, his fingertips barely touching the skin. “As long as we bring pleasure to one another, nothing we do is wrong. These moments belong to us. No one else will know. No one else will judge us.” His hands played over her as he unhurriedly stroked her thigh, her belly, the soft curve of her hip; circling and flicking the taut peak of her breast with his thumb. He nuzzled her cheek, placed gentle kisses along her jaw.

  She shut her eyes and nodded. Other than a prolonged sigh, a faint intake of breath, she remained quiet.

  He placed the palm of his hand flat against her belly. His hand drifted lower until he cupped the mound of curls at the junction of her thighs, his fingers caressing the entrance, his thumb and forefinger pressing and nipping at the folds of throbbing flesh. She bit her lip and shuddered, her body lurching of its own volition.

  Two fingers slipped inside as he covered her mouth with a searing kiss. His arousal was cradled beneath her bottom. She wiggled and rocked against him, tightened her muscles around his fingers searching for release. It came quickly; her body arched convulsively, suffused with pleasure. She moaned softly into his mouth; clutched at him, pulling him closer, knowing the fulfillment was short-lived and there was more to come. She felt the heat of his body surround her, the stiffness of his jacket against her bare skin, the scent of tobacco in his hair, the taste of brandy on his tongue. He broke their kiss, withdrew his fingers, lifted and set her on the cushion. An irrational sense of panic set in and she reached for him. “Don’t leave me.” She didn’t care what he did, as long as he kept holding her, touching her.

  “Shhh,” he said softly. He knelt before her and looked up into her eyes. “I’m not leaving you, love. I’ll never leave you. Do you trust me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Scoot down,” he ordered.

  She did as he asked. He parted her legs and pulled them over his shoulders. Holding her hips firmly in his palms, he lightly ran his tongue up her open cleft. Shocked, she gasped as a throbbing current cut through her and her flesh quivered beneath his lips. She stopped breathing. Stopped thinking. She slid her hands into his hair, holding on, making soft whimpering noises as he teased her with his tongue and lips, kissing, tasting, gently nipping at her with his teeth, bringing her to the brink but not letting her cross. It was an exquisite torture that seemed to have no end.

  He held her tightly, keeping her hips immobile. She moaned, frustrated with the need to move, to find her climax. Instinctively she drew her knees back, allowing him greater access. He stretched the glistening folds with his thumbs, found the tight nub with the tip of his tongue. An implosion of searing heat coursed through her and she arched her back, giving in to the waves of sensual delight flowing from the core of her body, knowing she was powerless against them, rejoicing in the pleasure they brought her. Flooded with sensation, she rode until the waves receded and her arms and legs went limp. She sat motionless, legs sprawled over his shoulders, unable to move.

  Slowly her senses returned. She took in a deep breath and exhaled, aware that his cheek was resting against her thigh, his breath washing against her belly. He leaned in kissed the dew drenched curls between her legs then sat back on his heels. She watched through half closed eyes as his shadowy figure pushed aside the pile of clothing, raised the lid of the bench and pulled out a satin lined quilt. He spread it out on the floor of the carriage then slid his arms beneath her and laid her on the quilt. The satin was cool and slick beneath her skin. Shadows hid the planes of his face, muted the glitter in his eyes, but she felt the intensity of his gaze. He made no move to touch her.

  Her heartbeat quickened and her breathing came ragged and shallow. She had no will, no strength, no sense of reason. They were alone in the darkness, cut off from the world. Her only awareness was a deep aching need to have him inside her. Without thought, she moistened her lips and her thighs fell open.

  He continued to stare at her then uttered hoarsely, “I love you beyond words, Priscilla. What magic have you worked on me?” He loosened his cravat, then knelt in front of her and removed his jacket and waistcoat, the white linen of his shirt shimmering where a strip of moonlight shone through the edge of the curtain. His hands went to his trousers where he quickly freed himself. Slowly he eased himself over her, his palms on either side of her, his erection nestled between her legs. Curious, she reached out to touch him but he pulled back and groaned. “Not yet, my sweet. I’m too close.”

  She dropped her hand to her side and nodded. He entered her slowly. Painstakingly so. She felt the trembling of his muscles, vaguely understanding what it cost him to stay in control. He bent down and covered her lips with his, sweeping her mouth with his tongue, allowing her a brief taste of herself before he lifted his head again. He groaned and sank deeper into her passage until completely submerged, buried in her flesh, the feeling heightened by the slight swaying of the carriage and the rumblings of wheel on cobblestone beneath her. With a groan he withdrew and then eased back in again, his motions slow and deliberate. Other than the joining of their sex, they did not touch. His face still in darkness, she could feel his eyes burning through her and was enthralled by the power he welded over her. He was the aggressor, physically more powerful and far more skilled. She willingly surrendered; her trust in him absolute.

  Heat flowed through her as he kissed her again, his tongue demanding and possessive. Her arms went around him. She was his to do with as he wished. She shifted her legs, tilted her hips, gloried in the sensation he brought as he moved in and out of her body. Their rhythm was seductive, almost hypnotic. She slowly ran her hands over his back and shoulders feeling the corded muscles flex then lengthen as he moved over her. But impatience set in, he shifted his weight and his thrusts came faster and harder, less controlled. She could feel his need as he drove deeper inside the warm moist sheath of her b
ody. He plunged into her, every stroke building a current of desire within her. Her thighs tightened as she spread her legs wider, raised her hips higher to meet his ever-deepening thrusts as she became feverish with need. The tension coiled inside her sprang free and she felt the pulsing between her legs, a spreading warmth in her belly, a return of the glorious waves she had ridden earlier. She wrapped her legs around his waist and held him tightly against her as he groaned and climaxed.

  They drifted to earth some time later. With reluctance, he withdrew, and slowly eased over on his side and murmured, “Sorry. I must be crushing you.”

  A rush of cool air hit her body and she crossed her arms and shivered. “You weren’t crushing me, you were keeping me warm. Tell me exactly why is it that I’m naked and you’re not?”

  He laughed and reached for his greatcoat. “I planned it that way,” he said as he drew it over her and gathered her up on his lap. “Do you have any complaints?”

  “No.” She gave a sigh of contentment. “It was glorious. But I was surprised.” She stopped suddenly.

  “What surprised you?”

  “I didn’t expect you to put your mouth,” she buried her face in his shirt, “there.”

  He snaked his hand beneath the coat and touched the dampness between her legs. “Where? Here?”

  Her nerves jumped and she felt herself quiver beneath his fingertips.

  He laughed softly and said with ill-concealed satisfaction, “I felt that, Priscilla. You’re delightfully responsive.” The touch became a tickle and he received the same response once more. “I don’t believe we’re done here.”

  She tried squirming away from his persistent touches, but it only served to make things worse. Between his skillful hands and the rumbling of the carriage floor beneath them, she was having a difficult time holding still.

  She hauled in a steadying breath. “Do other men do that?”

  He splayed his other hand across her abdomen and began caressing the soft flesh of her belly. “Do what?” he whispered against her cheek. “Touch like this?”

  She shook her head slightly. “No. You know.”

  He laughed. “Don’t be embarrassed, my love. There isn’t anything you can’t ask me.”

  “Do they make love that way? Put their mouths on a woman’s... private regions?”

  “No, I’m the only one.”

  His comment temporarily broke the spell and she smacked him in the thigh. “You’re making fun of me. All you needed to do was say yes.”

  “Yes, some do. It isn’t anything new.”

  “Oh, heavens.” She brought her hand to her mouth. “You don’t think…”

  “What?”

  “That our parents could have…”

  “You mustn’t think of it, Priscilla.” His voice was a mixture of laughter and warning. “I’m certain our parents have enjoyed the marriage bed as much as anyone, but it won’t do to dwell on the specifics. It will only distress you.”

  She tried to block the thought and failed. “I don’t seem to be able to stop it. This is horrid.”

  He chuckled. “Then I will have to offer a distraction.” He tickled her again.

  Her muscles clenched against his fingertips. “Stop that.”

  He chuckled. “Why? You seem to like it.”

  “I don’t know. Oh, never mind. I do like it.” Trying to ignore his not so subtle ministrations, she snuggled against him. “Can I really ask you anything?”

  “Anything.”

  She smiled wickedly, knowing her question would distract him. “Why does your aunt call you Eugie?”

  His hands stopped moving. “Priscilla, that isn’t what I meant.”

  “But you said I could ask you anything.”

  He grunted. “Oh, very well. There’s no great story behind it. When I was little, I couldn’t pronounce my name very well and it came out Oo-gy. My mother and aunt thought it would be very cute to call me Eugie.” She felt his chest rise against her as he sighed. “I suppose it wasn’t so bad when I was four, but now it’s very annoying.”

  “Does your mother still call you Eugie?”

  “Thank God, no. My father made her stop before I went off to Eton. Didn’t want the other lads making fun, I suppose. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the same influence over my aunt. The name has stuck with her.”

  “I suppose you would prefer that I not call you Eugie?”

  He bent forward to kiss her hair. Two fingers slid inside her, the other hand caressed her breast. “My love,” he whispered into her ear. “You may call me anything you wish as long as you do it in the heat of passion.”

  A half hour later, Stratton jumped to the ground and swung Priscilla from the carriage. As they walked to the servant’s entrance he could tell from her movements that exhaustion was setting in. “I believe I’ve worn you out,” he said softly when they reached the door.

  “You did. But it was lovely.” She paused. “No, not lovely. I haven’t the faintest idea what word to use. Everything I can think of seems woefully inadequate.”

  “So it does.” He caught her chin and ran the pad of his thumb over her lower lip then tilted her face up and kissed her gently.

  “Good night, Eugie,” she murmured.

  He playfully smacked her on the bottom. “Stratton,” he corrected. Then he laughed softly. “I hope I’m mistaken, but you may not love me very much tomorrow, Priscilla.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “You may very well be sore.”

  “But I’m not sore at all now. Just sleepy and very relaxed.” She blinked and covered a yawn as he unlocked the door.

  “Now, get some sleep.” Pressing the key in her palm, he kissed her briefly on the forehead and pushed her inside the door. "Good night, love." Then he quickly turned and left.

  Stratton climbed into the carriage and leaned back against the velvet squabs, utterly spent, a lazy trail of warmth traveling through his body. Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath. Her scent lingered. Lilies mixed with the musky scent of her arousal. She was astonishingly passionate. She had given herself so completely, allowed him to do whatever he wished. He felt a familiar tug at his groin. Good Lord, as exhausted as he was, the desire to make love to her was rapidly returning. What sweet misery this was. Love had a way of drastically changing one’s perspective because the need to marry her was almost as strong as the need to bed her. He could only hope that tonight had changed her mind; that she would confide in him and he could make her troubles go away.

  The carriage slowed to a halt. Sighing, he reluctantly left the warmth and comfort of the cushioned carriage and hauled himself outside and up onto the bench. Rand handed him a half-empty flask and he took a drink, allowing the brandy to burn down his throat.

  “Did you and Miss Hawthorn have an enjoyable evening?” Rand asked with a grin.

  “I always enjoy Miss Hawthorn’s company.”

  Rand snorted. “That’s a very unsatisfactory answer.”

  Stratton lifted his brows and shrugged. “Perhaps, but it’s the only answer you’ll get.”

  “You were never one to part with details. You know she’ll murder us both if she ever figures out I was your driver.”

  “Then prepare to meet your maker because if she hasn’t already reached that conclusion, she will soon enough. She’s not a stupid woman. Who else would I trust?”

  “Well, if she comes up and slaps me full in the face, I’m holding you personally responsible. And it’s your turn to take the ribbons.” He took back the flask and handed over the reins. “It’s bloody cold out here and I need to warm up.” Lifting the flask, he took a drink.

  “Oh? I hadn’t really notice the cold.”

  Rand grunted. “That’s only because you’ve had your arms wrapped around a lovely warm body while I have been spent the past hour and a half driving about the streets of Mayfair, freezing my bloody balls off, because my best friend trusts me.”

  “Stop bellyaching. Look at it this way. I now owe you a
n enormous favor.” He watched as Rand took another drink from his flask. “What’s your destination?”

  “Miss Lamont’s.” Rand leaned back against the seat. “Her bed’s bound to be a sight warmer than my own though she is a bit miffed at me.”

  “How so?” Stratton flicked the reins and they rumbled off.

  “She’s complaining about the lack of social life she says I’ve imposed on her. I’ve never escorted my paramours to social affairs and don’t intend to start. I made that clear to her from the beginning." He took another long swallow. "Given that she’s more than amply rewarded for her favors, I don’t understand what her problem is.”

  “I imagine she grew accustomed to Lord Milton taking her about. The old codger most likely considered her a trophy to be shown off to his cronies.”

  Rand shrugged. “Then she can grow unaccustomed or find someone else to indulge her. I’m not willing to haul her about in the same social circles we’re obliged to move in.”

  “My, but you’re in a sour mood,” Stratton observed.

  “I suppose I am, but my foul temper is entirely your fault.”

  “You’re bellyaching again.”

  Rand sighed. “It’s more than a bellyache, damn you. You’ve caused me to think about things I absolutely don’t want to think about. I’ve spent the past hour and a half wondering what it would be like to find someone I truly wanted to marry. Though the idea of marriage terrifies me, for some Godforsaken reason, I’m envious of your good fortune in finding Miss Hawthorn. Devil take it, Stratton, it rankles me to think of your happiness, heartless bastard that I am.”