Beaumont’s hand stilled hers. “Allow me.” His hot, amused look suggested he wished to devour her there and then, and she was being far too slow. He flicked at the last button and stepped out of his breeches, stockings, and shoes in one fluid movement. Kicking them away, he stood naked and magnificent before her, his member proud, erect.
Verity sucked in a breath, unprepared for such a superb body, muscular and firm and wonderfully constructed, his limbs long and graceful. Her appreciative gaze roamed from his broad shoulders down over his ridged stomach to his narrow hips. His manhood was nothing like Jacques Rocchard. Beaumont was a much larger man.
He reached up and drew the pins from her hair. Her hair fell in heavy waves and curled round her shoulders. The violets scattered over the rug.
“Sweetheart.” He bent to kiss her breasts. She had never felt so wanton, so needy. She was hot between her legs. Her nipples peaked and throbbed.
He pulled her against him, skin to skin, sliding his hands over her as if committing all the curves of her body to memory. She was intent on learning his. He was so male, all sharp ridges and taut muscle and bone; warm and alive.
They were like darkness and light. Where she was all soft creamy curves he was all power, sun-kissed, hard, and strong. How perfectly her body melded to his as it was surely meant to. Surely even more so when they finally... A moan escaped her lips as he drew her down onto the rug. The soft, silken carpet rubbed sensuously over her back and derriere, teasing her heightened nerves to fever pitch. Ripples of sensation rushed through her when he lavished attention on her breasts and drew a sensitive nipple into his mouth. She moaned.
His eyes told her how much he enjoyed making her moan. He would assume she had seen many naked men. She gave up pretending she knew what a coquette knew. Somehow it no longer seemed to matter, for he led the way. He explored her thoroughly with his hands and lips. When he stroked the sensitive nub between her thighs, her thoughts deserted her. With a moan of abandonment, she spread her legs. She licked her lips and rocked her head from side to side as a strange needy sensation built within her. She murmured incoherent words, her eyelids fluttering closed as she moved inextricably toward something just beyond her reach. She heard a cry and realized the sound had come from her. She felt floaty, euphoric, and opened her eyes to find him watching her with a heavy-lidded smile.
It was instinctive to reach for him, to circle the solid length of his erection which was hot and silky and firm, growing harder beneath her fingers. She breathed in masculine aromas, and fascinated, stroked her fingers over its length.
He closed his eyes. “Oh, sweetheart, that is good.”
Moments later, Beaumont stilled her hand. “I want to enjoy you. And you to enjoy me.”
Her hand on his nape she brought his mouth to hers, her tongue dancing with his. She was filled with an insatiable curiosity. She wanted him inside her. “Please,” she murmured.
He eased her legs apart and his hard, heated body settled over hers. His blunt weight nudged at her entrance. With a thrust, he filled her. It hurt, and she cried out.
“The deuce!” He withdrew, his eyes widened with disbelief. “You’re a virgin?”
“She gasped out a breathy sob.
He looked at her doubtfully. “You want me to continue?”
“Oui!” She pulled him back down against her.
He pushed into her again, more carefully. It didn’t hurt so much now. He stilled as her body welcomed him. Then gently moved inside her. Even this small movement had her on tenterhooks, building a fire within her.
“All right?”
She nodded and held onto his shoulders.
The urgent question in his eyes faded and with a low growl, his mouth crushed hers and his thrusts grew faster.
It no longer hurt. She reined kisses on any of his skin she could reach, breathing in his masculine aroma and tasting the salt of his clean sweat. Her hips rose up to meet each thrust in an innate, implicit rhythm, faster, until he groaned and withdrew to spill his seed on her thigh. Panting, she held onto him, loving the weight of him, and the new sensations of pleasure and tenderness and sated desire.
Anthony rolled away. He grabbed his pantaloons and withdrew a handkerchief from the pocket. “You surprised me. I didn’t hurt you did I, sweetheart?” He wiped his spill from her and himself and his handkerchief came away bloodied.
She smelt herself on him and shivered. Shook her head. How incredible and intimate it was, the weight of his body on hers, him deep inside her. In truth, she’d wondered at the explosive intrigues that swirled around her in Paris. Now she understood what drove people to take such risks.
His brows came together in a concerned frown. “I confess I didn’t expect to find you an innocent.”
“Well, I’m not anymore.” She turned her head away and fought an overwhelming urge to cry. Not from sadness or loss, she’d abandoned her dream of a contented marriage years ago. More a sense of completion. As if by making love to him she came to understand her own needs.
He took her chin and turned her head back toward him. His serious brown eyes gazed into hers as he traced her swollen bottom lip with a gentle finger. “Why now? Why me?”
“It is inconvenient for an actress, and my life is complicated.” It sounded unconvincing even to her ears. She didn’t want to lie to him. Not now. Oh, why did he turn out to be so caring? She would have little trouble lying to some men she’d met, but this was too hard.
“I don’t understand. Tell me.”
It was impossible. She shrugged, breathed deeply as conflicting feelings surged through her: shame and confusion. But not regret. She understood the absence of regret because their union had seemed so right. She reached up to trail a finger over his sharp jaw because she couldn’t help touching him. “I’m glad it was you.”
He kissed her breast. “I am truly honored. A very lucky fellow.” He jumped to his feet and reached down for her hand. “Come to bed. Next time will be better, I promise.”
She followed him into the bedroom with a sad little smile. He would sleep in her bed now although he’d not wished to before.
She reveled in the blissful warmth and safety of his body close to hers and fell asleep. He awakened her with a kiss and she saw it was near dawn, the sky outside lightening to gray. “I must go soon.” He tossed back the sheets, leaned over her and trailed kisses down her body, pausing to give due attention to her nipples with his tongue. She clutched his head and moaned as they firmed under his touch. Warmth pooled between her thighs.
She wanted him again, admitting to herself she was now a hopeless case. Insatiable. His breathing quickened, and his eyes took on that heavy look she now recognized, which was enormously appealing and sent a thrill racing through her.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, hesitating.
She shook her head and drew him close.
He was right. They’d become more familiar with each other’s bodies. Confident and relaxed, she learned what made him groan, and delighted in it, becoming bolder with her hands and her mouth, displaying her body in wanton pleasure. With his clever mouth and tongue and fingers, she became convinced she would die from pleasure.
After he left her bed, she lay there wondering at how perfect their union had been. She’d come to London prepared to dislike him, even to hate him. Instead, she liked him a good deal. Infatuation? Possibly, he was everything in a man she wished for. She had sensed that from the first. But they would never meet on an equal footing. And in time, he would come to loathe her. She must guard against growing too fond of him. But in this blissful moment she pushed those thoughts away. She rolled onto her back and touched herself between her thighs where she was sticky and a little sore, then stretched her legs over the soft feather mattress. It was as if she floated, her muscles warm honey. Remembering it all with a moan of delight, she snuggled down beneath the covers.
Anthony would be with her again after tonight’s performance. She’d count the hours. But right no
w, fatigue claimed her, and she refused to face what must lie ahead. She closed her eyes.
Chapter Six
Henrietta’s first important dance was at Almack’s Assembly rooms, the Palladian-styled building in King Street known as the Seventh Heaven of the Fashionable World. The ballroom was crowded as the ton performed a Scottish reel beneath the multi-tiered chandeliers. The air stuffy with hot bodies, perfume, and dozens of candles. Ambitious mamas kept a sharp eye, anxious for their daughters to present well and ensnare a prosperous husband.
Henrietta was grateful to find her aunt less sharp-eyed than most. She held Henrietta on a loose rein, merely nodding and smiling when she took to the dance floor with the man of her choice. She was fast learning the complicated rules that must be upheld to keep her from disfavor. She had been instructed to appear docile and modest, something not natural to her. When the Marquess of Ramsbotham, a man of middle years, came to claim her hand for a second dance, she offered him her prettiest smile and told him she was otherwise engaged.
He bowed and left her, but not before she saw reproach in his eyes. She had an overwhelming desire to poke her tongue out at his broad back clad in gold silk taffeta, but with admirable restraint she turned with a bright smile to greet her next partner, a thin young man who lacked the Marquess’s presence, but had a nice smile. Neither sparked the remotest interest. In the semicircular balcony above, the orchestra struck up a lively tune for a country dance, and she lost herself in the steps.
“A jeune fille should be simply dressed,” her aunt had said earlier that evening. “The pale silk with the pearls, and rosebuds in your hair, is the perfect foil for your innocence and fresh beauty.”
Henrietta did not consider herself an innocent. Although she had not experienced love in the full sense, she had grown up in the country, and was confident she understood the mating dance. Some of her partners were unashamed flirts. In their powdered wigs, silks, and satins, they showed her a fine leg. No one touched her heart, however, and when they returned to her aunt’s mansion at the end of the evening, the image of Mr. Hartley refused to fade from her mind.
She searched and had not found him in the ballroom or the supper room where the rather uninspiring fare of bread and butter and small cakes was served along with tea and lemonade. Almack’s had failed to live up to her expectations. It would not be to Mr. Hartley’s taste either, she suspected. Where might she meet him again?
As she blew out her candle and pounded her pillow into an agreeable shape, she suddenly understood his reference. What a slow-top she was. He rode in the park every morning, he had told her so. And he passed by this very window on his return. Tomorrow, she would happen to be on the balcony at around the time she had last seen him. His irresistibly wicked gaze made her cheeks burn. If he should climb up to her balcony, would she throw water over him? She was no longer sure.
The next morning as soon as she woke, Henrietta leapt from her bed. The city’s churches tolled the hour of nine of the clock. She donned her dressing gown and sipped the cup of hot chocolate the kitchen maid had brought her. Once alone, Henrietta stepped out onto the narrow balcony. A beautiful sunny morning greeted her, and her spirits soared. The street was as busy as ever with people strolling about, and carriages traveling up and down. London was so exciting. She finished her chocolate, a breeze playing with the hem of her gown, cooling her legs. There was no sign of Mr. Hartley. She shivered slightly.
A merchant pulled his cart up below her to make a delivery to the house. He stood hands akimbo and ogled her openly. Annoyed and embarrassed, she stepped back inside her chamber again to find Molly waiting. “I’ll wear the blue brocade, Molly,” she said grumpily. Mr. Hartley was not an ardent suitor. That was clear, but really, why should she care? Today she was to go with her father to hire a suitable horse for her to ride in the park that afternoon. He promised to do so before he returned to the country.
Henrietta quickly dressed and hurried to the breakfast room. She found Aunt Gabrielle there drinking coffee.
“Good morning, Hetta. You slept well?”
“I did. Thank you, aunt.” Henrietta had never known a bad night in her life. “Has Papa gone riding?”
“No, perhaps he’s still abed.”
“I’ll go up. I want to see him.” She turned to the maid. “Is my father’s valet attending him?”
The maid bobbed. “No, Miss. His lordship’s bed has not been slept in, Lady Henrietta.”
“Did he not come home last night?” Henrietta put her hand to her mouth. “I hope he hasn’t met with an accident.”
A knowing gleam lit in aunt’s eyes. “Don’t be alarmed, child. I am sure he is perfectly well. Your father is entitled to a life of his own, is he not?”
Henrietta gasped. “He has never….” She paused, rendered silent by the prospect of her father taking on the appearance of a lover. Her aunt’s sympathetic smile made Henrietta defensive. “Papa said Mademoiselle Verity looks like Mama. Do you think so?”
“The shape of her face, perhaps and her coloring.” Aunt Gabrielle looked thoughtful. “But in every other way she is nothing like my sister. I doubt your father’s interest lies in that direction.”
Henrietta spread butter onto a roll warm from the oven. “What direction is that?”
“I always hoped he would marry again. But I doubt he considers it with Mademoiselle Verity.”
The door opened, and her father entered, fresh from his barber. “Good morning, my two favorite ladies.”
“Papa, where…” Henrietta began. She faltered when Aunt Gabrielle gave a quick shake of her head.
“Mm?” He rubbed his hands together. “I’ll have baked eggs this morning, Trotter.” He drank from his coffee cup. “What is it, my dear?”
“Are you planning to hire a horse for me, today?”
“I am. We’ll choose one at the park stables. We shall join others in their pursuit of a canter in Rotten Row late this afternoon.” He shook his head. “It’s not like the country, Hetta, you can’t gallop in the Row. Please remember that when I’m no longer in Town.”
“Do you plan to return home soon, Anthony?” Aunt Gabrielle asked.
The footman appeared and removed the cover on a dish of eggs and ham.
Her father shook his head. “Not immediately. There is something which holds me here in London for a while.”
He sawed into a piece of ham and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Has word come from Philippe?”
Deep creases rumpled Aunt Gabrielle’s brow. “No. Not yet.”
“Where is Uncle Philippe?” Henrietta asked, replacing her cup in its saucer.
Aunt Gabrielle shrugged. “He sent his last letter from his chateau in France.”
“Should he be there? I mean he’s an aristocrat and I’ve heard—”
“Hush, child.” Her father patted Aunt Gabrielle’s hand. “If we don’t receive a letter by the end of the week, plans must be made.”
Aunt Gabrielle put down a spoon with a clatter. “You haven’t decided to go to France, have you, Anthony?”
“Oh no, Papa. You cannot!” Henrietta cried, horrified.
He held up his hand to silence them. “Let’s leave it until the end of the week. Then we shall see.”
* * *
The roan mare her father had chosen for her had soft brown eyes. The weather was pleasant, the park filled with people promenading. Henrietta rode beside him across the park to Rotten Row where vehicles leisurely traveled along the South Carriage Way.
How she had missed riding. Henrietta was pleased with her new riding habit of a flattering moss green. Charlotte, as the horse was named, trotted along the track, obeying her instructions without protest and giving Henrietta plenty of time to search among the riders for Mr. Hartley, but there was no sign of him. A white horse approached them, ridden by a lady in a dainty sky-blue velvet habit with a tall hat atop her curls.
“Why, Lord Beaumont,” said Mademoiselle Garnier. “And Lady Henrietta.
What a pleasant surprise.”
Her father raised his hat. “Delighted, mademoiselle. Lovely day for a ride. Would you care to join us?”
Her father looked at mademoiselle as if he couldn’t bear to look away. Was this meeting prearranged? Excluded, Henrietta was a little jealous.
Mademoiselle Garnier had far too charming a smile. “I do love your habit, Lady Henrietta.”
“Thank you, mademoiselle. Your costume is quite lovely with the wide lapels and caped shoulders. So very stylish. I expect it was made in France.”
“Oui.”
“I find it incredible that a country with so brutal a government can produce such delicate and beautiful things.”
“Henrietta!” Her father glared at her. “You speak out of turn.”
“Non. She is correct, Lord Beaumont. My country suffers a bloody Revolution. But do you know, Henrietta, there are many Englishmen who agree with the Girondins?”
“They say the guillotine chops off people’s heads. Innocent women and children too. I read about it in The Lady’s Magazine. How can they be so cruel?”
“The French people were starving, and something had to be done to change that.”
Henrietta reined her horse in beside her. “What if someone you loved had his head chopped off, because he didn’t support the Revolution?” She was curious. “Would you still believe in it then?”
“Henrietta!” Her father glowered. “Have your manners deserted you?”
Henrietta stared at the Frenchwoman. She had gone white, and her violet blue eyes looked stricken. She suffered a jolt of remorse. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. It was purely rhetorical.”
“Henrietta!” Lord Beaumont brought his mount alongside hers. “You will please ride ahead. I’ll speak to you later.”
Henrietta had never seen him look so fierce or fail to call her Hetta, his pet name for her. Tears of contrition stung her eyes. What had made her act that way? But she knew the answer. It wasn’t so much that her father was enamored of Verity Garnier, but her fear that he would rush to his brother-in-law’s aid in France. A very pretty couple they made with their heads close together, walking their horses.
Hostage to Love Page 5
