Mary swallowed. He made it sound as if the choice was hers.
As he crouched in front of her, his bare hands against her silk-draped skin, she realized that perhaps it was her choice. What would it cost, really? A moment in his arms? The entire city already believed her the worst sort of wanton. The entirety of Mayfair had seen the gossip rags, and moreover, had probably seen her leave tonight with the most infamous scoundrel in London tonight. What harm would come of kissing him again, when the world believed she’d done worse?
That knowledge, more than anything, propelled her to imprudence.
She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his, fumbling inexpertly at the mechanics of it, trying to remember the few pieces she had learned that night in the library and again during that fleeting moment in the cathedral. He did taste of whisky, and lemonade as well, and the flavors propelled her onward.
Pleasure spiraled in her abdomen, a centrifugal desire, centering low. His hands came up to cup the back of her head, loosening the few pins she’d ineptly placed there, and her hair gave up its narrow hold on propriety, tumbling down around her shoulders.
He offered a small groan of approval against her mouth. His fingers tightened against her scalp, shifting her head, changing the angle of how they met. And just like that, her initial blunder of a kiss shifted to something that nearly made the seat vibrate beneath her.
“Oh,” she breathed, her lips parting. An invitation. Naively offered, perhaps, but gladly taken by the rogue who currently held her in his expert hands.
His tongue began to move in lazy circles against her own, languorous sweeps inside her mouth. The feel of his thumbs cradling her face loosened a sigh of pleasure from somewhere deep inside her, a place she couldn’t name or touch. His mouth played against her own, testing, the hot, warm sweep of his tongue melting inside her.
Her fingers fisted in his jacket, hauling him closer. Obligingly, his hands swept up and then down her bare arms, raising gooseflesh in their wake, and leaving behind a trail of trembling want. His fingers came down to twine into her own, and then he lifted her hands high above her head, pinning them lightly against the velvet backing of the seat, causing her breasts to rise high above her corset and brush against the wool of his evening jacket.
And then he was licking his way down her neck, branding each inch of skin with small pinches of teeth. Oh, but the man knew what he was doing. Her head lolled back against the soft seat back, the heat in her womb blooming into more of an explosion. Alchemy, he’d called it.
More like arson, a flame set to ready tinder.
She wished she could resent him for making her want this—want him—so very much, but that would require logic and reason, and those necessary pieces of thought had quite flown out of the coach window at the moment.
His touch became teasing. Though one hand kept her wrists lifted high, his other hand drifted down the swell of her breast to dip beneath her neckline. “Oh,” she gasped as his hand found the magic of her nipple, rolling the needful skin between his fingers. “Yes, there.”
His mouth came back to hers, diving in for a hot, wet, wicked kiss. Now her own hands moved, pulling from his slight grip, lowering about his neck, threading through the sinful softness of the hair at his nape. There was a familiarity here, a hint of memory. They’d done this before, behind the curtains that portentous night. It was nearly a relief to realize this was what she had been missing these heady, frustrating few weeks.
But there was newness, too. A rush of air tickled her silk stockings. She felt the slide of her skirts as he inched them upward toward her knees, the silk and crinolines fisted in one hand, even as the other hand played expertly against her breast.
His fingers danced—truly, there was no other word for it—against the quivering skin of her thighs, advancing, retreating, evoking a repartee of want and hope, promising more and yet warning her to wait. All the while he kissed her, wreaking havoc on every sense she had, and some she hadn’t known she possessed.
West slowed his ascent, though every sense he possessed told him to reach his destination faster. Good Christ, what was he doing? He’d only intended to have a little taste of her lips.
Remind himself of her innocence, of all the reasons they shouldn’t do this.
But the moment her lips had met his, his restraint went to shite.
Even now, as he gently broke away from their kiss, searching her face for clues as to how to apologize for such boorish behavior, his thoughts retained the blurred consistency of a fever dream. The taste of her lingered on the tongue like the sweetest of drugs, and in spite of his stern admonishment to make his mouth behave, he couldn’t help but let his hands linger on the soft rise of her thigh resting beneath his fingers.
She didn’t tell him “no”.
He swallowed, almost wishing she would. If there was a reality to be found here, it was hazy, a muddied understanding that, however far she was willing to take this, he would not, could not, go as far as he wanted. But he couldn’t quite resist sliding a finger along the ribbon that held up her garter, the knowledge of what the bit of frippery guarded making his fingers tremble. A world of temptation in that ribbon.
And a world of temptation in this woman.
“Odd”, he’d called this thing stretching between them. He’d meant it. He could think of no other word that so adequately described the feelings she evoked in him, this sensation of wanting something so desperately, and yet not knowing where he was heading, or what he was doing. She’d called him fickle and foolish, and perhaps he was both those things.
But it was telling, perhaps, how steadfast he was in those sentiments.
No matter how hard he pushed her away, no matter how forcefully he drove himself in the opposite direction, he kept circling back to her.
He was an experienced rake. He’d welcomed women more worldly than this one into his bed, and made sure each one left happy. He was not supposed to tremble at the thought of untying a simple silk ribbon, or lowering a wisp of stocking. And yet, here he was, his fingers shaking as the ribbon slid free of its loops, a whisper of silk and sin. As he hooked his fingers about the top of her stocking, he met her gaze. She was staring down at him, eyes wide, her hair a dark curtain of rain about her shoulders and her sweet swell of chest rising and falling in encouragement.
Perhaps . . . perhaps there was something to be done here. Something beyond a mumbled, false apology. Something that would keep her innocence—and his sanity—intact, but still thrum the cords of pleasure he could feel vibrating beneath her skin.
He slowly began to inch the silk stocking down her leg, all the while watching her face for signs to guide this journey. A small puff of a sigh escaped her lips. Her eyes fluttered closed, and her hands curled against the velvet seat.
He hesitated as the stocking rounded her knee. What did that sigh mean? He felt out of his depth with uncertainty, wanting her with a ferocity that would have made those who thought they knew him fall down in spasms of laughter. How fast and hard the mighty fall.
If she told him “no” again—which was a word he knew well could fall so easily from those lips—he would stop. Leave them both wanting and unsatisfied, though he knew he had the power to bring at least one of them to completion this night.
But no . . . she was shifting against the velvet seat.
Slipping out of her shoes. Lifting her leg, ever so slightly.
Granting him an undreamed of permission.
A groan of approval slid out of him as he took the advantage she offered. He slid the silk lower, over the sweet, rounded curve of her calf, past a trim ankle. And then he turned his attention to the other side, repeating the process, moving by scant inches, until at last her legs were beautifully bared for him. He sank back on his heels, his heart a bloody hammer against his ribs. She had the loveliest legs, begging for the sort of attention he knew how to give.
He turned himself over to the pleasure of providing it. Pressed his mouth against the sweet cu
rve of skin. Inhaled the lemon essence of her, sharply innocent and yet the most seductive fragrance possible. He kissed his way up the length of her leg, lingering on every curve, every hollow. And all the while, his thoughts wrapped greedily around the sound of her pants and moans, filing them away for later dissection and enjoyment.
He nipped along the tender skin of her thighs, pushing the wire cage of her crinoline aside with a frustrated hand. Damned modern things, blocking a man’s way to a woman’s pleasure. His fingers slipped through the opening in her drawers. Brushed her damp curls, searching for her core. When he found it, relief and lust threatened to swamp him. She was slick with promise. At last, he could read her, though he doubted she realized she was now an open book. She wanted this. Wanted him.
His fingers found the place that made her hips lift, pleading, toward his hand. The very heart of a woman, the doorway to her desire. He slipped a finger inside her. Felt her quim tighten deliciously. Ah, God, but he wanted this woman. Wanted to see her undressed, flushed with pleasure beneath him, her eyes wide with the wonder he could show her. But all they had was this stolen moment, crinolines and coach seats and nighttime shadows. He would make it count, for her. He could do nothing else.
He took a moment to learn her. Focused on her small, breathy sighs, the way her body twisted toward his fingers. The sounds she made nearly made him spill in his trousers, but this was about her pleasure, not his, and so he forced his mind away from the demands of his own body. She helped him along, her gasps of pleasure like a symphony to his ears. She was twisting beneath him now, her hands roped through his hair, that telltale pressure against his scalp like a guidebook to her spiraling pleasure. He paid attention to that miraculous touch against his hair. Adjusted his approach. Added a second finger to her inner exploration, curling his fingers into the heart of her. There. He could tell by the way she drew in a sharp breath.
He’d found her, sorted her out.
Her breaths became pants, and her hands fisted to the point of near-pain against his scalp. He was relentless, driving her toward the cliff he knew awaited her, luring her over the point of hesitation, until he could feel her, trembling on the edge. He placed his thumb against her swollen nub. Pressed it there, insisting.
“Let go, Mary,” he breathed, begging her to take the chance.
She slid over the abyss, her body rigid, the discovery of her own potential for pleasure a desperate cry on her lips. Her body convulsed about his needy fingers, the breath whooshing out of her. He’d never seen a more beautiful sight. And then she was settling back to earth, her eyes closed, her quim rippling about his fingers.
He tried to remember if he’d ever delivered a woman’s pleasure with no expectation or possibility of finding his own. Couldn’t think of a time.
The sight of her, tousled and languid, tempted him to dive back in and convince her of the need for another go. But instead, he slowly collected himself. Pulled her skirts back down. Smoothed a hand down her leg. He couldn’t do much about the stockings.
Re-dressing a woman was a skill he’d never needed to learn.
He collected the filmy silk underthings from the floorboards, along with her gloves. Placed the items on her lap. Rocked back on his heels and waited for her to say something. Anything.
Her eyes fluttered open. “That was . . . ah . . . quite climactic.”
He chuckled at her choice of word. “Are such things not discussed in those books you are always reading?” he teased. “You can do that endlessly. As many times and as often as you wish. Men, usually, need a bit of time between goes.”
Though, he suspected that for him, that time would be remarkably short, if she was the reward waiting at the end of his recovery.
He slipped her shoe back onto her bare feet, trying to sever the lustful nature of his thoughts. It didn’t work. He was wound tighter than a clock tower, and relief was not to be found in this coach tonight. He dared to meet her eyes. Felt bowled over by the way she looked, her hair falling over her shoulders, her skin dewy in the meager light. He’d done that to her. He’d done that with her. And God help him, he wanted to do more.
Instead, he pushed away from where he was kneeling. She’d crawled under his skin, somehow. Made him lose his wits every time she walked into a room. Oh, but the things he could show her, if given half a chance. But no matter how delightful this interlude, no matter how passion flared so readily between them, she didn’t want him as a husband. Had made it abundantly clear. So he stood up as well as he could in the body of the cramped coach. Straightened his jacket and turned the latch on the coach door.
Climbed outside into the streetlight and offered her his hand. She stared down at it, her mouth slightly open, her lips still swollen from his kiss.
“Come now, let’s get you inside quickly now,” he prompted. “Before your sister discovers you are gone.”
That, finally, shook her out of her hesitation. She placed one bare hand in his, her gloves and stockings clutched in the other, and climbed out in a froth of wrinkled skirts and mussed hair.
They walked up the steps in silence. “Do you have a key?” he asked as they came to the front door.
“Yes. I lifted it from Mrs. Greaves’s key ring during afternoon tea.” She opened the front door, and her gaze met his over her shoulder. “I . . . well . . . that is . . .” She worried her lip in her teeth. “I suppose this is good night, then?”
He nodded stiffly. “Good night, Miss Channing. Sleep well.”
As the door closed and he heard the sound of the key in the lock, he leaned his forehead against the door, trying to wrestle his emotions under control. He’d long imagined they would be a combustible mix when they finally found a way to do more than spar, and tonight had proven his suspicions true. What were they doing, pursuing this strange, dangerous folly?
She’d been correct when she’d pointed out that more often than not they rubbed in opposite directions. He felt like a foolish young man again, panting after that untouchable nun in the vestibule of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore. Not even two weeks ago, this woman had refused his more honorable overtures. He could ask her to marry him again, but he suspected he would know her answer.
No. A thousand times, no.
Hell, she’d nearly refused his request tonight for a simple, uncomplicated dance. And could he blame her? She thought him a rake. He’d all but proven it tonight, kissing her in such a manner when he ought to be running in the complete opposite direction. He would be the first to admit he would make a terrible husband. And that meant this simmering thing stretching between them could go no further, could end nowhere but these front steps—for her own safety, as much as his own sanity.
There was no other choice.
He himself was as much a danger to her as the damned assassins.
From the Diary of Miss Mary Channing
From the Diary of Miss Mary Channing
June 12, 1858
After all that passed between us tonight, West delivered me to my front door with neither another kiss to say good-bye, nor a promise to meet me on the morrow. I had imagined, perhaps, that after sharing such an intimate moment, things had shifted between us.
That he considered me a partner.
Potentially something more.
It is embarrassing, really, to think of how easily I fell under his spell tonight. I should be angry with him, but instead I feel a mindless confusion. He isn’t doing anything to find the assassins—at least, not that I can see. If Westmore would only give me some hint that he has the situation well in-hand, I would leave it to him. But he does nothing except drag me from ballrooms and distract me with heart-stopping kisses.
And now we have lost another day.
Chapter 14
Mary sat up in her bed, blinking in awareness. She could hear the echo of a clock somewhere down the hallway, outside of her locked door.
She held her breath, counting. Five chimes.
Five o’clock then.
She g
lanced toward her locked window, the thick air already hinting at the warm day to come. Perhaps she should start sleeping with her window open. After all, she no longer had a need to be afraid of her villain from the garden. He’d delivered her to her front door with her virtue intact. As though he couldn’t wait to be rid of her.
And then through the window, she had watched him saunter off toward the south of Mayfair, in the direction of Madame Xavier’s. Which was really neither here nor there: where he spent his nights should not be her primary concern. But drat the man, last night he’d destroyed any chance they’d had to identify the traitors, with his possessive performance and his ready distractions.
He really was rather good at this business of ruining opportunities. And people.
Not that she was offering up much by way of a hazard to either enterprise.
Confused by her feelings, and irritated with herself for succumbing so easily to his charms, Mary reached over to turn up her low-burning lamp. In truth, she was as irritated with herself as she was at West. The debacle behind the library curtains might be debated as to cause and effect, but the responsibility for last night’s misadventure could be laid at no feet but her own. But, oh, how he’d touched her. The sounds she had made, the things she had felt . . .
She supposed she would now be counted amongst the man’s many conquests.
A number, a notch on his bedpost.
At least she’d accomplished something memorable during this trip to London.
She picked up her diary, intending to relieve some of her frustration in another journal entry, but before she could pick up her pen, something fell out into her lap. Reaching down, she lifted up a folded note with a plain, unmarked wax seal. Curious, she broke the seal and opened it.
The words swam menacingly toward her.
Have a care, Miss Channing.
You are asking questions that will get you killed.
For a moment, Mary sat frozen, one hand over her mouth, her heart tearing a hole through her chest. The words were printed in a hasty scrawl, the very loops of the letters as threatening as a noose. But the shape and meaning of the words themselves seemed almost irrelevant, compared to the inherent threat present in the appearance of the note itself.
The Perks of Loving a Scoundrel Page 16
