How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back

by Barnes, Sophie

  God, yes! With those words, he knew that all was lost. He simply did not have the will power to say no. Not when she was standing right there in front of him—so tempting, so seductive—asking him to kiss her.

  He closed the distance between them in three paces. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” he told her as he wrapped his arms around her and lowered his lips to hers.

  His lips were soft and tender as they pressed against her. Tightening his grip about her waist, he pulled her closer as he nibbled on her lower lip, reveling in the moistness of it. A small sigh escaped her lips as he glided his tongue across them. She trembled, like a leaf rustling in the wind, as sparks ignited from her head down to her toes.

  Her need was as desperate as his own, he realized with great satisfaction as he slipped his tongue inside the warmth of her mouth. And as their tongues tangled rapturously together, his hand came up to rest upon her breast. With skillful mastery, he kneaded that soft, round, pliable mound, then pushed it up to free it from the restraints of her bodice.

  Breaking the kiss, he stepped back to look at her, his eyes heavy with a burning desire that excited Emily to her very core. Seeing the effect she had on him fueled her own hunger. She wanted to partake of everything he had to offer her, unleash the passion that she felt building inside her, and let him take her to places she’d never even dreamed existed.

  Raising his other hand, he tugged at her dress to watch the other breast emerge. A look of devilish content settled upon his face. His lips curled upward in a wayward smile. “So beautiful,” he murmured in a husky undertone as he let his fingers sweep across them. With expert ease, he teased her nipples, watching in reverence as they responded to his touch, perking into tight crimson buds.

  Seizing her head with his hands, he drew her hastily toward him, his kiss transformed to one of fierce desire as he plunged his tongue inside her.

  Matching his ardor, her arms flew about his neck, clutching onto him as though her life depended on it. Stars shone behind her closed eyelids while her body exploded in bursts of sensuality. Never in her life had she thought she’d feel so revered—it was nothing short of sensational.

  Breaking the kiss once more, Francis trailed kisses down her neck—so soft, so sweet. “Beautiful—sweet—Emily,” he murmured between kisses.

  She ran her hands through his thick dark hair as he lowered his head to her right breast, then gasped as he licked her nipple with the tip of his tongue, coaxing it to grow harder still. His own manhood grew taut as it strained against his breeches, desperate to find comfort within the warmth of her body.

  A small voice whispered to him from somewhere far, far away. He wanted nothing more than to ignore it, to tell himself that it was insignificant—yet he could not, would not. He stepped away, his breathing coming hard and ragged as he looked at her like a man who’d crossed the desert and finally found the water he’d been so desperately seeking. She looked equally affected, her eyes beseeching him to continue.

  “Emily,” he sighed. “If I don’t stop now, I’m not sure I’ll be able to.”

  He saw the immediate look of disappointment upon her face. She wasn’t just a dillydally, however. She was his friend, first and foremost, and as such he had to do right by her. “You . . . you don’t want me after all?” she asked carefully. She suddenly appeared to be on the verge of tears.

  “Emily,” he said, his voice full of incredulity. “How can you possibly think that I don’t want you after what we just shared?” Her face was flushed as she focused on the pattern of the carpet. “Look at me,” he beckoned. “Just look at me to see how much I truly want you.”

  She raised her eyes to meet his. Giving her a quick downward glance, she followed his line of sight only to find herself staring at the massive bulge at his crotch. “Oh my . . .” she gasped, her face instantly reddening.

  “Indeed,” he grinned, though his eyes were deadly serious. “Emily, I cannot do this to you, not like this. It would be terribly wrong of me to claim your innocence. As difficult as it is for me to do, I must not take what rightfully belongs to the man you will one day marry. You would be ruined, Emily, and your chances for a perfect match along with it. Do you understand?” He did not tell her that he intended to be the man she married—nevertheless, it was suddenly very important to him that he did everything according to the book. He sensed that, even though she might not realize it now, it would be important to her that she wasn’t deflowered before speaking her vows.

  She nodded, then looked at him with sheer determination. “I know we’ve had our differences, Francis, though I like to think that we’re beginning to move past them. Whatever happens, I want you to know that nobody has ever had this effect on me, not even Adrian. With you, it’s as if my soul is on fire.” She paused for a moment, an inward struggle evident in her features, as if she knew not whether she ought to continue. “Though I lack the experience, I’m not as naïve as you might think when it comes to the art of lovemaking.”

  Shocked, yet somehow intrigued by this new piece of evidence, Francis urged for her to continue. “You know how I love to read—I always have. There was a book in my father’s study that I happened to stumble across when I was sixteen. I’d been looking for something with which to pass the time; a novel or some poetry. But instead I picked this book from the shelf. When I opened it and saw what it contained, I immediately hurried it off to my room where I hid it until later that evening.

  “The book contained illustrations of a sexual nature—explicit positions that left nothing to the imagination.”

  Francis was stunned. Never in a million years would he have imagined that Emily’s father would have had such a book, nor that Emily would have been the sort to secretly read it late at night in the sanctity of her bedroom. The thought was a pure aphrodisiac.

  “So, Francis . . . I know that there are ways to . . . to . . .” she trailed off, her embarrassment too great for her to continue.

  “To what?” he asked her gently.

  She was silent for what seemed like forever. He was about to ask her again, when she turned away. “Nothing,” she murmured, her confidence nowhere to be found.

  “Bloody hell, Emily!” He reached out, grasped her wrist, and spun her toward him. “For heaven’s sake, lose your inhibitions and tell me what it is that’s on your mind. I’m not about to judge you. Come on—out with it!”

  Her eyes came to rest upon his in a deadpan gaze. She saw the spark of passion in his and it fueled her own. She sagged against him, her arms once again about his neck. “Touch me,” she told him simply, her breath warm against his neck.

  He knew immediately what she meant.

  “Say no more,” he replied in a strained voice that conveyed with unwavering certainty his craving for her. In one swift movement, he picked her up in his arms and carried her over to a chair, then set her down carefully on her feet. “Don’t move.”

  She watched in silence as he unbuttoned and removed his waistcoat, flinging it carelessly on the bed. He then unwrapped his cravat, pulled his shirt from beneath the waistline of his breeches and seated himself on the chair. “Come,” he told her as he reached out his hand and guided her toward him, pulling her in so that she stood between his legs.

  Inhaling her scent, he slowly reached down—beneath the hems of her dress, her petticoat, and her chemise—to touch her calf. She stiffened, and drew a sharp breath. He looked up to find her eyes upon him, her face frozen with sudden alarm. “Are you sure that this is something that you want?” he asked with a hint of concern.

  She nodded, her eyes never leaving him, not for a second. “All right then,” he smiled. “Just don’t forget to breathe, and try to relax. I intend for you to enjoy this, Emily.”

  At the sound of her sigh, his lips broke into a greedy smile. He allowed his fingers to make their gradual journey upward, swirling in gentle motions around the backs of her knees and over her thighs—so whispery soft it sent tingles cascading over her, skimming the surf
ace of her skin. She gripped his shoulders as his hands clasped her buttocks, nudging her closer toward him.

  “Turn around,” he said, and as she did, a glimpse of alabaster skin that almost made him spill himself like an untrained youth. He cursed beneath his breath at the injustice of having the moral standing and sense of responsibility that he did. “Now help me pull up your skirts, as high as you can, then sit down on the seat between my legs.”

  Without questioning him once, she did as he asked, her bare bottom coming to rest against the smooth silk upholstery. He ran his hands down her thighs and back up again, then pressed faint kisses against the back of her neck, relishing the way she purred at his touch. Then, taking one leg at a time, he picked them up and settled them on either side of his own, spreading her wide. With a slight groan that heated his blood past the level of boiling, she relaxed against him.

  Brushing his fingertips softly over her inner thighs in an ever-upward motion, he placed a line of kisses upon her shoulder. When he reached the outermost part of her most sacred place, he pressed his lips close to her ear. “Tell me, Emily,” he whispered, so faint she could barely hear him. “Tell me again. What is it you want me to do for you?”

  “Oh God, Francis . . . Francis, please . . . please touch me,” she gasped.

  Without further delay, he swiftly moved one hand to her still-exposed breasts, caressing each of them in turn. With his other hand, he gently brushed against her womanhood, sending ripples of ecstasy coursing through her veins. With unparalleled care, he parted those velvety soft layers that surrounded her, seeking the bud that would take her to the highest heights of exquisite pleasure.

  He ran his fingers over her so gently that he barely touched her, yet the sensations it evoked within her were electrifying. With soft, circular motions, he rubbed his fingers lightly against her, then slid one finger inside her to feel her moist warmth surround him. She groaned from somewhere deep inside as she pressed herself forward against his hand, quietly begging him for something she did not yet understand. “Yes, sweet Emily, let me show you,” he murmured in her ear.

  Pinching her left nipple between his fingers, he withdrew his other hand, added a finger, and plunged inside her again. She whimpered with pure pleasure. “That’s it, Emily, let me show you the stars.” His voice was low and guttural, his breath hot against her neck. Feathering his fingers inside her, he pressed his thumb against her bud and felt her insides contract as she shuddered against him, crying out his name.

  Emily soared through space while stars burst around her, showering her with fervent pleasure. Nothing had ever felt so good or so right. Her only regret, as she drifted back to earth, was that he had not been allowed the same release.

  “Thank you,” she sighed, resting against him, her body limp with sexual fulfillment. “That was magnificent.”

  “You were magnificent,” he told her as he burrowed his head against the nape of her neck.

  “Should I . . .” she began, then paused, unsure of how to broach the topic. “The way you touched me . . . couldn’t I do something similar for you?” Her voice quivered with uncertainty and self-awareness. Never in a million years would she have imagined that such a question might leave her lips.

  “No,” he told her as he eased her back onto her feet and lowered her skirts around her. “It’s not that I don’t want you to,” he added quickly, before she could feel slighted. “In fact, there’s nothing I’d like more, but I don’t think I’d be able to leave it at that. Do you understand?” His eyes looked up at her imploringly.

  Damn the rules of society. How utterly unfair!

  “Yes,” she muttered with great frustration.

  He stood up, kissing her gently on the lips. Though she did not look at it directly, she was only too painfully aware of the hardness that still protruded from the crotch of his breeches—a reminder of how little she’d been able to do for him.

  “I think it’s best if you get some rest now, Emily,” he told her softly as he brushed his lips against her forehead.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “We have Lady Cunningham’s garden party to attend to tomorrow.”

  “Oh, is that tomorrow—I had forgotten. Well then you’d better hurry off to bed.” Turning, he headed for the door, then paused and looked back at her. “Emily, I want you to know . . . you matter a great deal to me. This wasn’t something that will be forgotten in the morning. I hope you know that.” Then, turning away from her once more, he opened the door and slipped away, leaving her staring after him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Emily opened her parasol, twirling it slightly between her fingers as she scanned the lawn behind Cunningham House. Everybody worth knowing had shown up, and rumor had it that even the prince regent was expected to put in an appearance.

  “I don’t even recognize anyone,” Claire announced from behind Emily’s left shoulder. “It’s all just one massive blur.”

  It was true, Emily agreed with a slight twist to her lips. Amongst all the parasols, bonnets, ribbons, and lace that blended together in one single hue of white, it was very difficult indeed to distinguish one person from another. She looked across at Beatrice, whose arm was linked with Jonathan’s. What a handsome couple they made.

  “Well, here is one lady who I daresay will never conform to the norm,” Francis remarked, tearing Emily’s thoughts away from her sister. He’d placed himself directly between her and his aunt Genevieve, who’d been determined not to miss this afternoon extravaganza for the world. And, having no desire for anyone to see her with her cane, for fear they might think her old—to be fair, she was only approaching her sixtieth year—she had latched on to Francis’s right arm for support.

  Turning her head, Emily immediately spotted the lady in question—it was of course Lady Giddington, hurrying toward them in a bright spray of pink, her straw bonnet overflowing with ribbons and roses.

  “My, my,” Genevieve remarked. “She certainly is a splash of color upon a blank canvas.” Then, addressing Veronica more directly, she said, “If only everyone else would be as daring as you, Lady Giddington, then London might not be so dull and dreary.”

  “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you again, my lady. It has been far too long,” Veronica beamed before turning her attention on Emily, Beatrice, and Claire. “And look at you—how pretty you are, and each with a different colored ribbon about your waists. My dears, there shan’t be a gentleman here who won’t take notice.”

  “Thank you,” Beatrice replied, her cheeks turning rosy. “We did try to follow your advice.”

  “I daresay that Jonathan and I wouldn’t mind a compliment, too, if you have one to spare,” Francis muttered with a crooked smile. “It does take a fair amount of skill to tie a decent cravat, you know.”

  Emily rolled her eyes while the rest of the ladies chuckled.

  “Why, Francis,” Veronica continued with an exaggerated note of apology. “I think it goes without saying that you and Mr. Rosedale are the best dressed men here. You must forgive me—it was very thoughtless of me not to point that out sooner.”

  “Shall we remain rooted here for the remainder of the afternoon then?” Genevieve asked impatiently. “Or shall we go and mingle with the rest of the guests?”

  “I must admit I’d give my left slipper for a glass of lemonade,” Claire said, looking about for any sign of a refreshment table. “The heat is absolutely stifling.”

  “If I may make a suggestion,” Jonathan put in, “let us wander down toward the pond over there. The shade from the willow trees will surely offer some measure of relief.”

  The plan was quickly agreed upon, and when Francis and Jonathan offered to fetch drinks for everyone, none of the ladies protested.

  “Well?” Veronica suddenly asked Beatrice as soon as the men were out of earshot.

  “Well what?” came Beatrice’s guarded reply.

  “Oh, come now, Beatrice, the whole world can see you’ve been struck by Cupid’s arrow . . . and if I’m
not mistaken, then . . .”

  “I cannot imagine what you might be referring to,” Beatrice said, looking away in the hopes that Veronica might disappear into thin air.

  “I think I can,” Emily said with a wide smile directed at her sister. “We’ve all seen the way you look at Mr. Rosedale.”

  “You’re one to talk,” Beatrice countered. “For someone who’s recently had her heart broken, you certainly seem rather chirpy of late—one cannot help but wonder if it isn’t because of Francis.”

  “Why ever would you say that?” Emily squeaked.

  “I can’t say . . .” Beatrice said, her resolve withering.

  “If I may,” they heard Veronica say. “I believe it’s because you look at him as though you’d like to devour him—clothes and all.”

  “I do not!” Emily gasped, appalled by the fact that her thoughts had been written so plainly upon her face.

  “Hush, ladies,” Genevieve admonished. “We will not discuss such matters in public—especially not when the gentlemen in question are presently coming our way.”

  But as Emily turned her attention toward Francis and Jonathan, who were doing their best not to spill the tall glasses of lemonade they were carrying, she couldn’t help but feel Lady Genevieve’s sharp eyes boring into her.

  “It may interest you to know,” Francis said upon his arrival, his eyes turning to Claire, “that we just ran into Lord Camden. He inquired about you . . . seemed quite eager to discover which flowers are your favorites. I told him I hadn’t the foggiest idea. Perhaps you ought to go and tell him yourself.”

  It was Claire’s turn to look as though two giant hearts had just been slapped over her eyes. “Oh, please, can I, Bea? If you come with me it should be all right, don’t you think? Oh, please say yes.” By the time she finished talking she was bouncing up and down like a spring.

  “I think it sounds like the perfect opportunity for us to better our acquaintance with his lordship,” Beatrice announced. “I shall be happy to accompany you, Claire.” The words were barely out before Beatrice was being dragged away by her sister.