Powder of Love (I)

by Summer Devon

  Skirts rustling, closer, but then she stopped short of his chair, at the desk.

  So near him, her back slightly to him. Those curves. He could reach out now. Touch her. Seize her. How would it be to shove up that dress, find that useless bustle, throw it away, and sink into her from behind. At last. Would her skin be cool against his heated body? Not cool inside. The heat deep inside her, her cunny, her cunt, her sweet womanly parts. And the tender flesh of her inner thighs, invisible under that dratted, thick cloth.

  Her curls bounced as she rattled the desk. Yes, that’s how they’d bounce when he’d thrust—

  “The drawer is still locked.” She turned to face him.

  He was having trouble catching his breath, and her steady gaze, fixed on him, didn’t help. “I don’t understand,” she said in a faltering voice. Her cheeks reddened as she looked into his face.

  Maybe she caught sight of the fierce, barely controlled hunger raging in him. More likely she was embarrassed by what she thought was her own false accusation. Her pink cheeks set off the brightness of her eyes.

  He held back the cry of let me teach you to understand.

  Instead he dug into his jacket pocket and wordlessly held out the ring of keys. Their fingers didn’t meet as she took them, but he swore he could feel the heat of her hand. That first day they’d touched, a simple, firm handshake had shaken him, all right. With this woman so near, he could hear the susurration of her breath, see the texture of her fine skin; his erection grew so thick and painful, the slightest motion might bring him off. He knew his linens were damp with the eager cock’s prespending.

  She swallowed. He watched the delicate motion of her throat. Could almost feel the pulse there too. She shook the keys until they jangled. “You’re telling me you did open the drawer?”

  He nodded.

  “Did…? No, no. Did you open the box?”

  “A bit. Wanted to do more.” His voice was hoarse. “But I managed to stop.”

  The stiff set of her shoulders relaxed slightly, but her breasts remained high and lovely. He should not be staring at her bosom, imagining how it would fill his hands and how the nipples would feel between his fingers, in his mouth, under his tongue…

  She put the keys on the desk rather than hand them to him. Good. If her hand came near him, he’d grab it, pull her down onto his lap, onto his aching cock. His mouth on those breasts at long—

  “Now you believe me. And if you didn’t open the horrible thing, well, then you’re not going to…ah…you’re not so badly influenced.” Her breasts rose and fell with her breath. He inhaled and—God, he could smell her. Sweet Miss Ambermere. Another discreet sniff, and he drew in the musk of her, the delicious scent of her skin, hair—and her. He’d put his face in her hair, just at her temple, in the crook of her neck, at her bosom, between her legs, and draw in full breaths of her. Sustaining lungs full of her essence.

  He clenched his hands tighter, dug his nails into his palms.

  “Bad enough,” he said. He couldn’t allow himself to move, not until he had more control.

  She went to her chair—thank God out of his reach—but, blast and damn, far too distant from him. He couldn’t smell her or see the subtle motions of her body as she breathed or hear the light rasp of her gown.

  But he could see her eyes were bright. With amusement?

  The lust twisted inside him and grew dangerous. He would show her what “bad enough” meant. No, he’d demonstrate how good it could be. That laughter in her eyes would turn into alarm, but then melt into sweet, helpless longing. He’d touch her with his hands and mouth until she begged him. Screamed for him.

  Shit.

  He was as bad as—no, he was worse than Clermont.

  She was speaking again, still in a light, smiling voice, as if they were having a real conversation. Chitchatting. “It is terrible. When I touched the box, all I wanted was to undo my stays and—”

  “God. Stop.” He moaned. “I am managing to contain myself, Miss Ambermere, but it is requiring effort on my part.”

  Her eyes widened, and her mouth—that delightful mouth—opened slightly. “Oh,” she said faintly. “Do you mean I’m the object of your—”

  “Yes.” He hissed the word explosively, as if it could offer the release he needed.

  “When I touched the box, I was in the room with Mr. Dorsey, you see, and never felt the slightest interest in him, but—Never mind,” she spoke hastily. “I wonder what we should do for you.”

  Rosalie knew she’d said the wrong thing again when pain or something glazed his eyes. “I can tell you are in discomfort. Should I leave?” she asked.

  “No. Yes. No!”

  She brushed back a curl that had escaped her elaborate pompadour and felt the hard concentration of his gaze that followed her every motion. A slavering wolf couldn’t have made its intentions clearer.

  She sank back deep into the chair and crossed her arms over her chest. When other men, like Mr. Clermont, examined her with that avaricious gleam in their eyes, she experienced a variety of sensations: repulsion, amusement, sometimes pride. A few times in her life, she’d felt her pulse quicken and a queer, eager alertness she now understood was lust.

  This was something more intriguing—and frightening.

  He wanted her, and his desire was out in the open, so to speak. She knew she wanted him. And they were alone. Had she ever been alone with a male for more than a few minutes? There was Robert in the gardens. He’d stolen a kiss. And Geoffrey during the dance—they’d retired to a balcony for fresh air…

  “Miss Ambermere, I beg your pardon. You’re frightened. I shan’t. I-I will not allow this to control my behavior.” His voice was gruff, but now she suspected the anger was directed at himself.

  She was afraid, and it wasn’t entirely his actions she feared. The way she felt when his intense stare drank her in…

  It kindled the response in her body.

  “I know. It’s just that I’m not certain what I should do. I mean…” She caught her lower lip between her teeth—a nervous gesture—but quickly stopped when she saw his hungry gaze fixed on her mouth.

  He flinched, groaned, and shifted sideways in the chair, turning away from her. He stared down at the list of names he’d brought as if he would devour it.

  If he could make his feelings clear, perhaps she might do the same. “Mr. Reed, when you look at me, I feel so queer. It is as if you were undress—”

  “Stop,” he shouted, then passed his hands over his face.

  “I wouldn’t advise touching your face,” she said. “It seems worse when the powder gets on more of your skin.”

  He shuddered. “You. No! No. You are playing with fire. You—I will sit in this chair and behave like a gentleman and not an animal. But you must stop.”

  The intriguing thought of allowing him to kiss her was momentarily nudged away by annoyance. “You needn’t raise your voice. And I wish you’d explain what exactly I should stop?”

  “Mentioning…things,” he snapped. “Undressing. Skin.” He pressed his lips tight. “Bodies.”

  She rose to her feet. Clearly if she allowed him to touch her—which unbelievably, she still wished he would do—he’d resent her. No doubt he’d claim she’d unmanned him, whatever that meant. She gave the sweetest smile she could muster when her heart beat so quickly. “What would you have me do, Mr. Reed?”

  His chest rose and fell in obviously ragged breaths. The long silence filled the room. “I think it best if I am left alone in peace. Until I might recover.”

  His hands, which had been formed into sizable fists, relaxed. He moved them restlessly over the arms of the chair, as if feeling the quality of the cloth. “And I must tell you…Miss Ambermere.” He sounded as if he was in pain as he said her name, and he would not look at her.

  It had to be mortifying for the man to be in this state in her presence, and she knew from years with her father that an embarrassed man was an angry one. She straightened, ready for another
onslaught of words.

  He twisted in his seat and glanced up at her with dark eyes aglow, only for a moment before he looked away. “Ma’am, I apologize. I tampered with your property and then commenced carrying on as if you were a Jezebel.”

  She wished he wouldn’t do that—behave rudely and then apologize and smile so sweetly. The man’s physical presence befuddled her enough as it was; his behavior needn’t be so confusing.

  “I’m not a Jezebel,” she said, trying to convince herself as well as him.

  “No, of course not. I am. Or whatever the male equivalent might be.” She thought she heard him mutter, “Clermont.” His hands stilled. “The symptoms. Perhaps they aren’t as bad. I can—I can nearly think.” He drew in a deep breath and brushed his fingertips over the knot of his dark cravat.

  “You weren’t thinking? What were you doing before?”

  “Wanting. Craving,” he whispered and shut his eyes. “Needing you.”

  “Oh.” Again the bottom of her stomach seemed to drop, and her heart sped up. “And that’s very bad, isn’t it,” she said with only a hint of a question in her voice.

  He gave the tiniest nod, eyes still shut.

  “Do you think perhaps it would help if I laid a hand on your forehead?” The words were out before she could stop them. But she recalled how she would have liked for someone to run soothing fingers over her when she was under the influence of the chemical. It might have helped ease the ache she’d felt. Particularly if it had been his strong hands soothing her, erasing that restlessness somehow.

  He froze, and she could tell he even held his breath. “No.” She could barely hear him. “It wouldn’t be enough of a touch. I want all of you.”

  He opened his eyes and glared at her, once again blazingly belligerent and angry. “I would rub and taste every last inch of your skin. I would commit the ultimate act again and again, and I wouldn’t stop until I was satisfied. But this hunger is so huge, I might never be sated.” He licked his lips. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

  The naked back writhing in her garden at night, flexing and pushing. Only it would be this man and her. Yes, she understood. She moved toward the door. “I was quite wrong to suggest touching you. My turn to apologize, and I’ll leave now. Do ring if you need anything. Beels will be at your disposal.” She took the key from the lock. “I’ll check on you in an hour or so.”

  “I wouldn’t object if you locked me in.” He sounded almost calm for the first time since she’d reentered the room. “But I pray it is not necessary.”

  “Pray?” She took a step closer to him.

  He raised a shaking hand, fingers bent as if he wanted to grab at her. He seemed surprised by his outstretched fingers, and he frowned at them. “Please. Miss Ambermere,” he whispered. “Lock the door.”

  “One hour,” she said. And she was surprised by her hope to find him still caught in the fever, though to a lessened degree, perhaps. If he couldn’t stop himself, if she had to comfort him—he was her guest, after all—well, they might touch and perhaps even kiss. Surely it would harm no one if they kissed.

  But then his voice, harsh and full of need, echoed in her mind, and she knew she fooled herself that they’d only indulge in a few light kisses. They would fall on each other like starving animals. He, at least, had the powder as an excuse for his hunger.

  She walked from the room without allowing herself to look back.

  Chapter Four

  Rosalie closed the door behind her. She absently fingered the shank and rough head of the key, then locked the door, knowing that wouldn’t accomplish as much as Mr. Reed had hoped, because she’d still be able to get in and was entirely too aware of that fact.

  An hour. She must distract herself from the weight of the key in her pocket. The dark promises behind all those words he’d uttered. They should have frightened her, and they did, but something dark deep in her core thrilled to his voice and what he had said.

  She reminded herself there was no powder in her system, but still she couldn’t stop the shivers of longing that twisted her belly. She rubbed her arms, but that brought no relief, for she imagined his strong fingers on her.

  She forced her steps from the library and walked to the parlor, where the evening mail delivery sat on a silver tray. As she slit envelopes and tossed them aside, she wondered what he’d be doing in that room alone. Pacing?

  She paused for a moment, recalling some of Johnny’s words of how a frustrated man could take the unhealthy action of easing the tension. Amazing how many details she recalled of his conversations. Especially because of the endless number of times she had told him and herself she was not listening to his wretched talk of bodies.

  Perhaps that was what Mr. Reed did behind the closed door. He’d open his fly, remove his stiffened organ—she had seen it was engorged under the dull tweed of his trousers. He’d use his hands or perhaps just one hand. “A light touch is all that is required for some men,” Cousin Johnny had said. “Pay attention, for many men do not want to do this for themselves. They consider it self-pollution. They would gladly allow you to perform the task.”

  Rosalie realized her breasts tingled and her whole body felt swollen with desire. She gave a snort of amused disgust. Perhaps lustful sensations were contagious. She must force her thoughts to something dull to prevent herself from walking into that library and demanding he show her all the details that Cousin Johnny had described. Would his organ discharge in pulses of white liquid? The thought had seemed comical at the time, but not at all now. The moment of release. She’d love to see the cool Mr. Reed lose himself in that ultimate pleasure.

  She went to the desk to sort the bills, the job Miss Renshaw usually insisted on doing. Shifting the mail over to the stack of letters she hadn’t answered yet, she found the letter from her mother she’d got two days earlier.

  Her mother wrote that she was ready for a jaunt to the city and promised to pay her yearly call soon. Rosalie stared down at the slightly smudged letter and for a moment was distracted from the yearning that roiled in her belly.

  A ring of dried liquid; she recollected she’d put her glass on it when she went after Miss Renshaw that first night she’d possessed the dreadful, amazing powder. Rosalie wondered what her mother would have thought if she’d witnessed the soft-spoken, reticent lady, who’d only touched the chemical and less than an hour later welcomed a coachman into her body.

  Thank goodness Lady Williamsford would never know about Cousin Johnny’s powder. She must write a letter at once to put Lady Williamsford off until this problem was solved.

  She sat in a chair and, instead of writing the letter, imagined going back to that library and allowing Mr. Reed to touch her. He had such a controlled manner, but under that was a raw energy she saw glowing in his dark eyes. The powerful shoulders. He might allow her to run her hands over his arms, his wrists. Touching those limbs would not be such an obscene gesture.

  He had such obvious strength of character as he’d fought the effects of the chemical. Certainly he could control himself from committing that final intimacy that brought two bodies together. Two bodies plunging. No. She only longed to feel the quality of his skin, perhaps the unfamiliar roughness of a male face and the touch of his calloused hand—nothing more. Except she’d have to test the softness of his rumpled hair.

  Come now. She was a young lady of moral fiber, and it was time she steer her thoughts to more temperate zones.

  Though she did not share Miss Renshaw’s horror about the matters of flesh, Rosalie had seen firsthand the trouble created by giving in to base desires. Cousin Johnny was not the only member of her family who’d enjoyed the decadence of flesh and lost too much with the pursuit of pleasure.

  She would not be drawn into the recklessness. And that reminded her, she must write that letter, putting off her mother’s visit as soon as possible.

  An hour passed, slowly. She wished her heart wouldn’t race as she walked back to the library to check on her prisoner. A maid
gave her a curious glance. Perhaps the girl knew who was in the library, and even in the fringes of polite society, young ladies did not lock men away. Rosalie swallowed a nervous laugh.

  She gave a light knock. “It is Miss Ambermere,” she announced. “May I come in?”

  “Yes. All right,” he said, gruff, as if granting something painful.

  As she pushed open the door, she saw him scowling up at her. Once again she was struck by the thought that Mr. Reed didn’t seem to particularly like her. His condition brought on by the powder meant he had some need of a body, and there she was. She had to admit that except for the moments when he smiled or said something surprising, she wasn’t sure she liked him either, but she was absolutely certain she wanted to touch him.

  Useless, impossible urges that had haunted her since he’d sat in her parlor, her silent guest—before the powder had entered her life.

  “Are you improved?” she asked and realized she sounded as brusque as he had.

  She shifted from foot to foot, determined to be less impatient. “Are you more yourself? Shall I ring for something to eat?”

  He’d risen to his feet when she’d opened the door, and presented the appearance of a man who’d been through a battle, or perhaps he was only as disheveled as a man who’d just got out of bed. His hair, which had not been oiled, was rumpled. His clothes were in disorder, his eyes shadowed, his cheeks flushed. This would be how he looked upon waking in the morning. The thought did not help her sangfroid.

  “Thank you, no. I appreciate your concern.” He managed a smile, showing those white, nearly even teeth. His disarray was not the only sign of his condition: his chest rose and fell in a manner suggesting his breath was fast and uneven. Oh. And he clutched a book in front of himself at groin level. He must have seen the direction of her gaze.

  “A volume of Aristotle’s treatises. I thought if anything could help a man regain his sanity…” He cleared his throat and looked at the chair in a marked manner. He wouldn’t sit unless she invited him to.