Crispin’s words cut through Sophie’s anger. For a moment she sat completely still, stiller than she had ever been in her life. Then she raised her eyes to his, eyes shining with held back tears, and asked, “Don’t you understand that when you treat me like that, I want to leave?”
Crispin nodded. “I do now. But you didn’t go. Why did you stay?” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Was it to berate me?”
Sophie ripped her eyes from his, from his smile, in a desperate effort to recall why she had not left. She tossed the dice and the cubes clicked over the smooth surface of the bench, but she paid no attention to how they landed. She was torn, torn between wanting to trust these new words, between wanting to let “I am glad you stayed” erase “ I do not give a damn what becomes of you,” but she knew she should not. They were just words, words the Earl of Sandal seemed particularly adept at tossing around, just as some people tossed dice. She should leave, should stand up, cross the perfect lawn, and leave, should just go—
“You win,” Crispin announced, breaking into her thoughts. Judging from the confused expression on her face that she did not know what he was talking about, he held up the dice. “You rolled six and I rolled nine. You win. Now I have to answer any question you ask.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s a game I used to play with Lawrence. Whoever rolled the number closest to seven that was not seven won. The winner got to ask the loser a question, any question he wanted, and the loser had to answer. Honestly. You won, so you get to ask the first question.”
Sophie had been practically on her feet, her leg muscles tensed, ready to stand, to walk away. That, she knew, was the right thing to do. But she had won. How could she pass up the opportunity to ask Crispin anything? Anything. After all, she had stayed only because he had information she wanted. And here he was, practically offering it to her. Her leg muscles relaxed.
“Very well, my lord, I shall ask a question. Why did you want to see Richard Tottle?”
This time Crispin recognized the odd feeling he was having as one of disappointment immediately. Did she care about him only because of the investigation? asked a voice inside his head.
So what if she did, another voice countered. The investigation was all that was important.
Perhaps to you, the first voice put in, but—
“Need I remind you how this game is played, Lord Sandal?” Sophie chided. “Lest you are trying to come up with an evasion, I remind you that the rules, as you stated them, required an honest answer.”
Crispin shook his head, shook the voices back down into whatever dark cavern they occupied. “Nothing of the sort. I resent your accusation, Miss Champion,” he said with a soft smile. Then he cleared his throat. “I wanted to see Richard Tottle because he was the best source of gossip from the Palace in London and I wanted some information.”
“What kind of information?” Sophie asked, interested now.
“Need I remind you how this game is played, Miss Champion? One question per roll.”
Sophie reached out for the dice and rolled a five. But her triumphant smile turned to a scowl when Crispin rolled an eight.
“My turn,” he announced, and saw that she was nervous. This was the time, this was the moment to ask her about her godfather, when she could not, would not, lie. Here, at last, was his, the Phoenix’s, chance to find out everything he wanted to know about her.
Crispin slid closer to her on the bench, touched her hand with his pinkie, and asked, “What is your happiest memory?”
The question took Sophie completely by surprise. “My happiest memory?” she repeated vaguely, her eyes fixed on the pool in front of her. She decided to lie. “My happiest memory is of swimming in the pond outside of Peacock Hall, Lord Grosgrain’s countryseat, in the moonlight.”
Crispin frowned. “Wasn’t it cold?”
Sophie shook her head. “The water was heated by the huge furnace that always burned in Lord Grosgrain’s laboratory in the cellar of the hall. People came from all around to bathe in the waters there. They were said to have healing properties.”
“What did Lord Grosgrain do in his laboratory with the furnace?” Crispin ventured.
Sophie looked at him pertly. “I believe that is another question, my lord, requiring another roll of the dice.”
Crispin greedily threw the dice. He tossed a four, and thought he was doomed, until Sophie tossed eleven. She glared at the dice, then turned her glare on Crispin. “Lord Grosgrain did alchemical experiments in his laboratory,” she explained, answering his question before he had posed it. “He believed he could turn lead into gold, and he worked at it day and night. Until he met Constantia,” she added, then stopped.
“Why, what did Constantia do?”
Sophie waved her hand. “She made him happy. And he wanted to make her happy, which meant moving back to London. And moving his laboratory to a rented space in Saint Martin’s Fields, in the suburbs.”
Crispin, surprised at Sophie’s willingness to talk, decided to push. “Were you jealous of his relationship with Constantia?”
“Jealous?” Sophie repeated as if the thought, the word, were completely alien. “Not at all. I was thrilled. I had never seen my godfather as happy as he was with her. Constantia gave him more joy than you can imagine. The way his eyes lit up when he looked at her, or even talked about her—” Sophie stopped midsentence. She really had not been jealous, not even slightly. But she realized with a start that she was now. Now she wished she could make someone feel that way and look at her that way. Someone that was glad she had stayed. Someone that did give a damn what became of her.
All at once, she saw that she had been a fool to remain at Sandal Hall. No information was worth the peril of Crispin’s proximity. “I believe, my lord, that was three questions rather than one,” she told him when she felt she could trust her voice again. “And I believe that it is time for me to go. Good night, Lord Sandal.”
She made to rise, but Crispin pulled her back down, keeping hold of her wrist. “Where are you going? You cannot go.”
“Why not?” Sophie asked in a voice that was half challenging him to stop her, half pleading with him to do so.
“Because,” Crispin began, then paused, looking for reasons. Because it is dark, and raining, and following you will be a challenge. Because I do not want you to go. Because I never want you to go. Because you are the best hope for my investigation, and for my happiness… “Because I owe you one question,” he answered finally. “After all, I did sneak some in on my last turn, and it is only sporting to let you ask one in recompense.”
Crispin’s tone was light, but he was holding his breath as he waited to hear her question. She hesitated for a moment, knowing that she should leave, but once again the opportunity to learn what information Crispin possessed was too tantalizing to pass up. Besides, it was just one question. A single question. The last question she would ever get to ask him. It had better be good.
With her investigation hanging in the balance, Sophie asked, “What is your happiest memory, my lord?”
Crispin exhaled sharply, then replied with a candor that shocked them both. “Hearing you call me Crispin.”
Neither of them moved, Sophie because she was afraid she would burst into tears, or song, and Crispin because he was afraid if he let go of her wrist, she would leave.
Sophie broke the silence first. “Are you mocking me, my lord?” she whispered.
“Crispin,” he corrected gently. Then he shook his head. “And no. I mean it.”
“What about earlier today?” she asked, forcing herself to look straight at him. “You said that you did not care what happened to me. And now—”
“No, I said I did not give a damn what happened to you,” he interrupted to correct. “Surely you can see the difference.” Very tenderly, he stroked her
cheek with his thumb and looked deep into her eyes. “Besides I think, perhaps, I was wrong.”
“Perhaps?” Sophie’s heart sounded like a badly rehearsed drum corps in her ears.
“Perhaps,” Crispin repeated huskily. He was suddenly overwhelmed with a need to hold her in his arms, to feel her soft hair on his neck, to brush the tip of her nose with his lips. Lifting her from the bench so they were both standing, he gingerly peeled off her mustache and pulled her to him. He leaned down, intending to place a shallow kiss on her lips, but instead found himself crushing her mouth against his deeply, passionately, unreservedly, whisked forward on a tide of something more potent than desire.
Sophie kissed him back, pressing her lips hard against his to convey her gratitude, her joy. There was no “perhaps” in their kissing, nothing held back, just pure passion that coursed between their bodies. Crispin kissed the path her tears had taken earlier that day, surprised by the saltiness of her cheeks, kissed down her neck, along the open front of her tunic, kissed her ear, her temple, the tip of her nose. He pulled her tunic over her head and kissed her breasts, kissed their round, pink tips until they became firm, then ran his hands down to the laces of her leggings.
He stripped off his shirt and moved closer to her and Sophie felt the warmth of his chest against hers. His fingers adeptly undid the ties on her breeches and her fingers unsteadily unknotted his, until both pairs fell away. Naked now and laughing nervously, they stepped out of the tangle of their clothes, and into each other’s arms.
“Tesoro,” Crispin whispered in her ear, holding her close to him. “I missed you today, tesoro. Did you miss me?”
The tears in Sophie’s eyes were tears of happiness now. “Perhaps,” she whispered back smiling into his shoulder. They stayed like that, quietly embracing, reveling in the feel of their bodies together, the feel of skin on skin, cool tears against unshaven cheeks, hard muscular planes on soft, yielding breasts, the feel of their growing intimacy, their growing arousal.
And then Sophie’s stomach grumbled. Crispin pulled away from her slightly and saw her blushing.
“I am famished,” he announced.
Sophie looked up at him. “You are? Not me. Would you like some beef stew?”
He wrinkled his nose. “I am not sure. I was half thinking of a roasted goose. With some braised carrots.”
Sophie shook her head. “No. You do not like carrots. You want beef stew. With little onions in it. And beans swimming in butter. And peaches.”
“You are right. I do not like carrots. What I want is beef stew with little onions in it,” Crispin repeated.
“And beans—”
“—swimming in butter. And peaches,” Crispin confirmed.
Two hours later, after an extended picnic in the center of Crispin’s bed where the required attire was a silk robe, the beef stew had been pronounced superb and the beans delicious. “Crispin, that was marvelous,” Sophie murmured when she had licked the last of the gravy up. “I could not eat another bite.”
“You cannot miss dessert,” Crispin admonished. “It is the most important part.” As he spoke, he cleared their dishes from the bed and returned with a glass plate filled with sliced peaches and a chilled pot of sweet cream.
“I don’t think—”
Sophie’s powers of speech left her as Crispin dipped a slice of peach into the cream and then brought it to his lips. She saw his tongue reach out to lick the cream from its tip, using long, unhurried strokes, and she felt as if he was licking her instead. As she watched, he slid the slice of peach into his mouth, dragged his teeth along the top, and then, with agonizing slowness, bit down.
Sophie sank into the bed. The sight of his teeth raking over the peach and then sinking into its soft, orangy-pink flesh, staggered her senses. She had to feel him do that to her, had to feel him lick and nibble at her the same way, right then, right that instant. She pulled herself across the bed toward his reclining figure, possessed with the need to taste the peach on his lips, to touch him and be touched by him, to have him inside her, but when she tried to bring her mouth to his, she was stopped by his finger between them.
“Not yet,” Crispin murmured. “Tonight we are going to do everything slowly.”
It required all of Crispin’s physical restraint, all the skills learned during years of constraining his urges, to keep from turning her onto the bed and plunging himself into her body. His member ached with desire for her, to know more of her, but he held himself back, putting his hard-learned control to work for her pleasure.
“Lie down,” he instructed, reaching out at the same time to slide her robe from her shoulders.
Sophie was in a trance, a trance in which every fiber of her body came to life, tingling. Everything her body touched had a marvelous new texture, everything it came into contact with aroused her more. The smooth, silky fabric of the coverlet sliding under her felt like lover’s hands gently massaging the globes of her backside, the lightest brush of Crispin’s robe against her breast became the most amorous of caresses, Crispin’s breath on her neck as he moved close to her was a forceful, passionate kiss that made the place between her legs ache uncontrollably for his touch.
Sophie watched, her eyes opened wide, as Crispin dipped another slice of peach into the cream. He brought it toward her, toward her lips, and her mouth opened for him, but he did not stop there. Instead, he moved it over her, not touching her, tracing lines in the air that echoed like veins of molten gold in her body, until one drop of cream fell into the valley between her breasts. He dipped his head down to lick it with his tongue, and his soft golden hair brushed against Sophie’s breast, tickling the tip, making her arch toward him.
“Be still or I will stop,” Crispin commanded, and she relaxed immediately.
He dipped the peach into the cream again and this time brought it to rest lightly on her lips. Her tongue darted out, hungry to taste it, but Crispin dragged the slice away, dragged it down over her chin, down her neck, leaving a line of cool cream and boiling desire. He drew a circle around her left breast, then smaller circles, until the peach rested on her nipple. The cold fruit playing over her warm body drove Sophie wild, and she had to clutch her hands into fists to keep from moving.
Her fingernails dug into her palms as Crispin began to lick the cream from her body with his tongue, flicking it over her lips, down her chin, across her chest, spiraling around her breast to her nipple. He used his whole tongue now in long, slow strokes as he lapped the cream from there, wrapped his tongue around her nipple and felt it grow hard in his warm mouth, then turned his attention to the other one. He took a bite of the slice of peach and, holding it between his lips, used it to stroke her right nipple, its cool, uneven texture winding Sophie into a fever pitch of excitement. Small rivulets of juice ran down the sides of her breasts, rivers that made Sophie’s body tingle, made her want to cry out, cry out louder as he took her nipple between his lips and touched it lightly with his teeth.
Crispin recorded ever tremor of her body, every swallowed moan, memorized the places that he could tell drove her wild, lost completely in the act of pleasuring her. The ache in his member grew with each touch of his mouth to her skin, suffusing his entire body, straining his restraint almost beyond bearing. Without taking his mouth from her breast he reached a hand toward the silver tray and managed to cover another slice of peach with the cream. This time he brought it to her thighs, running it up from her knees, along the sensitive skin between her legs, using it to coax them apart, until it rested on the pearl of flesh nestled between her curls.
His mouth still danced on her nipple, doing wondrous things there, sending out pulses of sensation, which were doubled, tripled, quadrupled as Crispin increased the creamy cold pressure of the peach against her. He pushed its curved surface down over her nub and into the petals that surrounded it, and Sophie could no longer contain herself. Her hips
arched up to meet him, and he pressed into her harder. She felt the soft, lissome flesh of the peach gliding over her, then inside her, felt it between the lips of her passage, felt its coolness even through the glaze of her arousal that covered it, felt its creamy tip massaging her bud.
Crispin turned it then, so the wide part of the slice rested directly on her most sensitive place, and slid it back and forth over her, pulling her left, then right, as his tongue traced the same path on her nipple. Something burst into life inside of Sophie, swelling from a tight seed of sensation into a full-grown plant, tendrils spreading from her nub, swollen, aching, down into her legs, up into her arms, wrapping around her breasts, being fed by Crispin’s kisses, by his caresses. It spread through her body until she tingled from head to toe, more alive than she had ever felt before, and more desperate, desperate to explode, to let the vines blossom into a thousand flowers. She pushed her hips more insistently against the peach, moving up and down as Crispin moved it back and forth, spreading her burning, aching bud, the pressure inside her mounting uncontrollably. The slick fruit moved over her, dousing her in its sweetness, its juices mingling with her own, running down her petals in tingling rivers. Crispin’s fingers around the peach delved into her creaminess, massaging at her along with the fruit, sliding the peach into her, letting it stroke the sensitive place just inside her passage as his fingers gently pressured her swollen nub in a wide circle, until she began to cry out, until she was at the very edge of exploding.
Simultaneously, Crispin lifted his mouth from her breast and slid the peach from between her legs. Trembling from head to foot, it took Sophie a moment to understand what had happened.
“No,” she cried, plaintively. “No, Crispin, please, do not stop. I am so close—”
“I know,” Crispin replied. He settled himself along her body, stretched out to his full length, and slipped his arm under her head. “So am I. That is why we must stop.”
Instead of replying, he held her eyes with his as he brought the slice of peach up to his lips. He breathed in deeply, breathed in the mingled scent of her arousal and the peach, a perfume so powerful, so sensual that Crispin was almost undone. The slice of peach was wet with Sophie’s moisture, and he brought it to his tongue to sample.
The Water Nymph: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book Two Page 19
