by Mary Balogh
He raised both eyebrows and gazed very directly into her eyes, awaiting her answer.
Katherine was fully aware that she had waded into deep waters and was by now quite out of her depth. But oddly she had no wish to return to safe waters just yet. He really was flirting with her. And he had noticed her before tonight just as she had noticed him.
How very foolish to feel flattered. As if she did not know better.
“I see, my lord,” she said, “that you do not observe the rules of polite conversation.”
“Meaning,” he said, “that I do not endorse lies and other hypocrisies in the name of politeness? You are quite right. When I see a spade, I see no conversational advantage in calling it something else. Perhaps this is one reason many people of good ton avoid my company”
“One reason, perhaps,” she said. “There are others.”
He smiled fully at her and regarded her in silence for a few moments. For which she was very thankful. The smile transformed him into…Oh, where were there adequate words? A handsome man? She had already thought of him as being handsome. Irresistible, then?
“That was a very sharp and nasty retort, Miss Huxtable,” he said. “And not at all polite.”
She bit her lower lip and smiled.
“We are being a severe annoyance to all who are proceeding along this avenue,” he said. “Shall we move on?”
“Of course.” She looked ahead. Their party was right out of sight. They were going to have to walk quickly to catch up. This brief, strange interlude was at an end, then? And so it ought to be. She should be feeling far gladder about it than she actually was.
But he did not lead her in their direction. Neither did he turn back toward their private box. He turned her instead onto a narrower path that branched off the grand avenue.
“A shortcut,” he murmured.
Within moments they were enclosed by trees and darkness and solitude. There were no lamps swaying from the branches here. There was an almost instant feeling of seclusion.
This encounter, Katherine thought, was taking a very dangerous turn indeed. She did not for a moment believe that this was a short route back to the others. She ought to take a firm stand right now, insist upon being taken without delay back to the main avenue and on to Lady Beaton and safety. Indeed, she did not even have to be taken. She could go on her own. He surely would not stop her by force.
Why did she not do it, then?
Instead of taking any stand at all, she walked onward with him, deeper into a darkness that was only faintly illumined by the moon and stars far above the treetops.
She had never really known adventure—or danger. Or the thrill of the unknown.
Or the pull of attraction to a man who was for bidden.
And definitely dangerous.
And, for the moment at least, quite irresistible.
3
M I S S Katherine Huxtable was, as Jasper had expected, naïveté itself. A dangerous innocent.
And quite exquisitely lovely.
There was also something unexpectedly likable about her. She was not insipid, as he had also expected.
All of which did not matter one tittle of an iota, of course.
Her eyes — those deep, fathomless blue eyes, which had drawn him from his first sight of her simply because he could not see far enough into them to understand them or her—her eyes could fill with sudden laughter, and laughter also lifted the corners of her soft, kissable lips.
Her hair was not golden after all. It was actually a dark blond. It might have been nondescript, even mousy, if it had not been for the pure gold highlights that gave it sparkle and luster—and allure.
She was coltishly girlishly slender, but she was well shaped too, by Jove. He favored women of voluptuous proportions when given the choice, but there was much to be said for slenderness and poise when he was not.
She moved with a natural grace.
It had been sheer good fortune that Rachel had been invited to join this party at Vauxhall tonight—just four nights after his birthday—and that the party was to include none other than Miss Katherine Huxtable— minus any of her family members. His discreet inquiries had revealed to him that they had all gone off to the country together, leaving her behind in care of Lyngate’s mother. It was neither luck nor chance that had brought him here. It had cost him all of fifty guineas to persuade an indignant Gooding to turn an ankle while descending from his curricle this morning. It had taken less effort, it was true, to persuade his elder sister to beg him to escort her in Gooding’s stead and even believe that the whole idea had been hers. She had even thanked him profusely, explaining that an evening at Vauxhall was not something to be missed even if she must go without her betrothed. She had missed so much of life in London. She was twenty- six years old, and this was only her second Season.
“What are brothers for,” he had said magnanimously, squeezing her shoulder, “but to support their sisters when they have suffered a disappointment? I have been assured, by the way, that Gooding’s ankle is not actually broken. I daresay he will be as fit as a fiddle again to dance with you by the next grand ball, whenever that is.”
This was all great good fortune even if he had had to do some fancy maneuvering and open his purse rather wide. There was no place more romantic than Vauxhall—to a lady’s sensibilities —or more conducive to seduction.
The trickiest moment had already passed. She had not resisted being turned off the grand avenue. Young ladies really ought to be educated more thoroughly in the wicked ways of the world. If he ever had daughters—if!—he would make very sure to include it in the compulsory subjects of their schooling. Reading, writing, penmanship, embroidery, dancing, watercolor painting, geography, and the Wicked Ways of the World.
He pressed Miss Huxtable’s slim arm tightly to his side for a while, but when he turned them onto yet another path, even narrower and more secluded than the last, he was forced to release it and set an arm about her waist so that they could move along side by side. Single file was the only sensible way to proceed along this particular path, but who was being sensible?
Not Miss Katherine Huxtable, certainly
She did not point out, as she sensibly might have done, that this was hardly a shortcut back to the rest of their party. Neither did she make any protest at the intimacy of his touch. She stiffened for a moment, it was true, but then she relaxed again.
“Mmm,” he said softly. “You wear a perfume I have not smelled before.”
It was even true.
“It is not perfume,” she said. “I never wear any It must be the soap I used to wash my hair this morning.”
He smiled at the naïveté of her answer. And at its unconscious invitation. He stopped walking and drew her to a halt too. He lowered his face to her hair and inhaled. He could feel it soft and silky against his nose.
“Ah,” he murmured. “And so it is. Who would have thought mere soap could smell so… enticing.”
He felt her shiver.
“It is what I always use,” she said.
“May I offer a word of advice?” he said, turning her slightly so that her hand had to come up to his chest to keep a little distance between them. “Never change that habit. That soap is more appealingly fragrant than any perfume.”
“Oh,” she said. “Do you think?”
“ I think, Miss Huxtable,” he said fervently, and he slid his thumb along the base of her fingers, closed his hand about hers, and lifted it high onto his shoulder, bringing her against him with the other hand as he did so. “Though sometimes I prefer not to. Sometimes there are better things to do.”
He lowered his head to brush his lips across the warm, soft flesh between her shoulder and neck and then moved them upward. He flicked his tongue over the warm, sensitive flesh behind her ear and heard her inhale sharply and felt her curve her body more firmly into his as he blew softly into the cavity of her ear and then moved his mouth to cover hers.
Her lips were closed and pouted,
and it occurred to him that this was possibly her first kiss. Her whole body trembled noticeably and sagged further against his. Her hands gripped both his shoulders.
He kissed her softly, waiting for her grip to loosen before touching her lips with his tongue and, when they parted, sliding it into her mouth. She inhaled slowly through her mouth as he did so, an unconsciously erotic move that had him harden into early arousal.
She tasted of strawberries and wine and woman.
He twined one arm about her slender waist and spread the other hand lightly over her buttocks.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, his lips still touching hers. “Beautiful, beautiful.”
Her eyes were closed. She pressed her lips softly to his.
“We ought not to be here like this,” he murmured. “You ought not to be here with me. Especially with me. You have been warned.”
She had opened her eyes, and even though they stood in almost total darkness, it seemed to him that he could see the depths of trust and surrender there.
“I make my own decisions about people,” she said.
Ah, foolish. Naïveté par excellence. He felt a strange twinge of tenderness for her.
“Do you?” He feathered kisses against her lips. “I am humbled. And unworthy. You are so very beautiful.”
He spread one hand over the back of her head, angled his own against it, and kissed her with sudden and deep urgency, pressing her mouth wide with his own, ravishing it with his tongue.
Her arms came tightly about him.
“Ah,” he whispered after several moments, “you tempt me.”
She made a low sound in her throat but said nothing, and he turned her so that they were off the path and her back was against the smooth trunk of a tree. In the distance the orchestra at the main pavilion played a waltz tune and revelers laughed and called out to one another.
He made love to her with his hands and his lips, slowly, gently, patiently, almost worshipfully so that she would not take sudden fright and flight. His guess was that she was experiencing a seething torment of emotions, including alarm and guilt. His guess was also that her inexperience with sexual desire would persuade her to delay one more moment before stopping him and then one more—until the time came when she would feel it was too late to stop him at all without appearing very foolish.
His task was to wait until that moment came and had passed.
And to fulfill her every dream of forbidden sensual delights during the moments that followed. He had always taken a great deal of pleasure in all the women he possessed, but it had also always been a matter of pride with him to give a great deal of pleasure too—even when there was a wager involved.
He moved his hands over her, easing her flimsy dress off her shoulders and down her arms, baring her breasts in the process. He fondled them gently, kissed them, suckled them. They were small but firm, warm, exquisitely silky to the touch. Her nipples were pebbled hard.
Her fingers twined in his hair while she pressed her head back against the tree trunk. She was breathing deeply and audibly
Someone really ought to make a perfume out of that soap. That someone would make a fortune.
He stood against her, softly kissing her face and murmuring to her while his hands slid the fabric of her gown up her legs and he touched their firm, smooth warmth. He nudged one knee between her inner thighs until she moved her feet apart and his hand had access to the most private, secret, hot core of her.
She whimpered slightly when he touched her there, and he stilled his hand for a moment while he kissed her lips.
“Ah,” he murmured to her. “So very lovely.”
She was too. She was all slender, immaculate beauty. A girl in innocence, a woman in soft, warm allure. His hand played with her, teased her, scratched her lightly. He slid one finger part of the way inside her before withdrawing it. She was hot and slickly wet.
Ready for him.
Hot with mindless desire.
Aware too perhaps that it was too late now to behave as she ought and as she surely had done all her life until this moment when tempted by a practiced seducer.
As he fondled her with one hand and stroked into her mouth with his tongue, he used his other hand to open buttons and lower the fall of his evening breeches. He set his erection against her when he was ready and felt the familiar pounding, almost painfully pleasurable anticipation of penetration, vigorous action, and ultimate release.
Naked flesh against naked flesh. There. And soon to be…
He really did want her, he thought. This was not just about seduction. It was not all cold cynicism.
Whom was he trying to fool?
The question presented itself to him with cold verbal clarity at just the moment when he needed to be as mindless as she.
He had a sudden flashing image of himself tomorrow swaggering into his club to claim his prize after only five days. Seduction of innocence complete—full penetration, full intercourse, full submission. Full enjoyment. One devil of a fine fellow. No dare too daring, no wildness too wild, no debauchery too debauched for Baron Montford, fondly known to his admiring intimates as Monty.
Always and ever a winner.
And he had a companion image of Katherine Huxtable tomorrow, confronting the knowledge of what she had done, knowing herself ruined and alone and abandoned, the latest victim of a heartless, conscienceless rake. Knowing too that she had only herself to blame. She had been warned—even by him.
Though of course it would not be all her fault at all— or even nearly all. How could an innocent be expected to contend against his considerable experience?
He felt suddenly and viciously angry. He was not accustomed to thinking at such moments —especially such thoughts. He was heartless. He was without conscience. He was an unprincipled rake. And he had a wager to win.
He cupped her with one palm, his hand between her open, inviting heat and the instrument of her violation.
“Miss Huxtable,” he said in a voice that sounded shockingly normal, “you are about to cost me several hundred guineas.”
And his pride and reputation. He would be the laughingstock.
“ Wh- at?” Her voice sounded bewildered. It was slightly high-pitched.
“That is what it is going to cost me for denying myself the ultimate pleasure of mounting you and slaking my lust on you,” he said, enunciating each word very clearly lest she—and perhaps he too—not understand.
“What?” She had still not even begun to understand. Her voice was thin and bewildered.
“There has been a wager on the books in one of the gentlemen’s clubs for the past four days,” he told her bluntly, “hotly contested by a large number of the members, that I cannot seduce you before two weeks have passed—seduction meaning full sexual intercourse. Full penetration of your body Which will not happen here tonight. Not now, not ever. Not because you have said no, Miss Huxtable, as you ought to have done with firm moral outrage as soon as I enticed you off the main path and every moment since then, but because I say no.”
“What?” She could not seem to find anything else to say But there was more alarm in her voice now.
He took a step back and let her skirts drop about her legs while he buttoned up his breeches again. He pulled the bodice of her gown none too gently up over her breasts since she had made no move to do it herself.
“This was all planned, Miss Huxtable,” he explained with cold, brutal honesty “Right down to Gooding’s curricle accident, which prevented him from coming this evening and gave me the opportunity to take his place. This was all planned and would have proceeded without a flaw if I had not just now decided that a wager so easily won was a wager not really worth winning after all. You may take your virtue home to bed with you tonight with my compliments. Now we must make our way back to Lady Beaton’s box before your reputation suffers serious damage after all. Even now I do not doubt you will have to endure her frowns.”
All his anger was directed against her—outwardly at l
east. For the moment she was a convenient target for an emotion that was quite unfamiliar to him. He had not even assigned the word guilt to it yet and perhaps never would.
He never allowed himself to feel guilt over anything he did. He prided himself upon having no heart. No conscience. He had spent long years cultivating the reputation he had.
A desirable woman had been his for the taking this evening. So had the winning of a lucrative wager and the awed adulation of all his male acquaintances.
He had not taken any of it. For once in his life, he had not taken. Because he had chosen not to. Because he was bored with her, bored with himself.
Or so he chose to believe.
Truth to tell, he did not know why he had stopped. It was something totally new to his experience. And he was angry and frustrated.
“I do not believe you.” She had her fingers spread over the bare flesh above her bosom, as if to protect her modesty—a gesture somewhat akin to shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted. Her voice was shaking. Her teeth chattered audibly after the words were out.
“Do you not?” he said curtly. “You think I am making polite small talk, Miss Huxtable? You were warned that I am a rake of the worst order. You ought to heed such warnings, especially when they come from someone like Con Huxtable, who knows me very well indeed. You ought to have known what was happening as soon as I singled you out for attention back on the grand avenue—or even sooner, when I gazed at you eating your strawberry in the box. And you doubtless did know—you surely cannot be such an innocent as to have been entirely ignorant of my intentions. But you thought you were strong enough and worldly enough to handle me, did you not? Women are prone to the belief that they can handle and even reform society’s rakehells and tame them with love. Is that what you were envisioning with me this evening?”
