He followed, a slow prowl like a wolf approaching an injured fawn. The shadowed gap between the hedges formed a tunnel of privacy and Sabine swallowed as he pressed close, invading her space. She caught his scent—warm male overlaid with a smoky tang of liquor.
He tilted her head up to the moonlight. “You look flushed, my sweet.”
Sabine moistened her lips with her tongue and watched with a thrill of alarm as his eyes followed the move hungrily.
“Yes, I, ah,” she stammered. “It’s all so…overwhelming. My first ton ball. And it’s so hot in there…” She trailed off at his skeptical expression.
His thumb swept over her jaw and her insides melted like candle wax.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he chided softly. “Who knows what unsavory characters might be lurking about in the bushes?”
She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. The stroke of his thumb against her cheek was an erotic caress, but he hardly seemed aware that he was doing it.
Sabine swallowed. “You know I can take care of myself, monsieur. There’s no need to cosset me like an English debutante. Men have tried to lure me into dark corners before.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Have they? Who?” The silky question held a distinct undertone of menace.
“Oh, I shall name no names. Suffice to say they found the experience extremely disappointing.” She tugged away from his hand and started walking, but he sidestepped, blocking her way.
“You promised me a dance.”
“In public,” she protested. “What good will it do if we dance here? There’s no one to see.”
His teeth flashed white. “That means we can do whatever we like.”
Sabine closed her eyes against temptation. He sounded so seductively reasonable. The serpent in the Garden of Eden would have spoken just like this. Just bite the apple, Sabine. One tiny, forbidden taste.
He bent his head. “Who are you meeting, out here in the dark?”
“No one.”
“Liar.”
He was still angry. It vibrated between them, thickening the air, mingling with the tug of desire. His lips brushed her ear, then nuzzled the soft skin at the side of her neck.
Sabine stilled. Her pulse slammed against her throat and slow, delicious heat curled her insides. She wanted to reach up and grab his hair and hold him to her skin.
“As long as we’re pretending to be courting,” he murmured, “I’m going to have to insist that you stay away from making assignations with other men.”
Sabine opened her eyes wide. Was he jealous? Did she have that much power over him? Or was it merely that he considered her his possession, under his control?
The frothy white lace of his cuffs brushed her cheeks as he lifted his hands and framed her face. “If it’s a kiss you want, Miss de la Tour, your fiancé should be the one to provide it.”
Sabine bit her lip. Oh, this was wrong, so wrong! “You’re not my fiancé,” she managed shakily. “And you’re only doing this because you don’t have a mistress to entertain you.”
He tilted his head, but his eyes never left her lips. “That’s not true. There are any number of women in that ballroom who would be more than willing to accommodate me. But I want you.”
“Am I supposed to be flattered?” she snapped. “You have not bought my body with your money, Monsieur Hampden. Only my counterfeiting skills.”
He chuckled darkly. “Oh, I’m well aware of that. Your body you have to give to me for free.”
She opened her mouth to berate him, but he wasn’t finished. “What’s the problem, Sabine? There’s no harm in playing. We’re both adults.”
He bent and pressed his lips to the very corner of her own. His tongue flicked out to taste her. Her stomach somersaulted. “Admit it. You want to. Just as much as I do.”
Oh, he was a wicked, wicked man.
“One kiss,” he taunted. “I’ll stop whenever you say.”
She knew how he would kiss her—with practiced, leisurely ease. He’d do what he doubtless did with all his other women: tease her, drive her to distraction—and never lose a scrap of his own composure. That was unacceptable. She wanted all of him. Uncontrolled. Unrestrained. She wanted him to go up in flames like a bonfire made of money.
Sabine threw caution to the wind. She was Philippe Lacorte. She dared anything. She went up on tiptoe, grabbed the lapels of his immaculate coat, and tugged him close. “Stop talking, Richard Hampden.”
She pressed her mouth to his.
For one brief second he froze. And then he broke. With a wordless sound of need he pulled her to him, tilted her head to the perfect angle, and kissed her back. The rest of the world disappeared. This was no practiced, tentative exploration. This was darkness, heat, and total abandon. His lips shaping hers, his tongue swirling inside.
Sabine closed her eyes in delight. They fit together perfectly, concave to convex, dip and curve. She pulled him closer, melting into his wonderful warmth. His heart pumped fast under her palm and she wished his clothes gone—wanted to feel him, all of him, body to body, skin against skin.
On a wicked impulse she caught his bottom lip between her teeth and felt the jolt that ran through him with a surge of dark delight.
—
Bloody hell, Richard thought dazedly. Kissing Sabine had to be the stupidest thing he’d ever done. And the most glorious.
His body was on fire, desire roaring through his bloodstream, pounding in his head, and he tried to remember all the many, many reasons he shouldn’t be touching her. They were enemies. She was a blackmailer, possibly a spy, and she had a Frenchwoman’s soul—ungovernable, subversive. Full of rebellion and revolution. People like her threatened the very bastions of Englishness he held dear: cricket, and White’s, and roast beef.
But Christ, she tasted good. Nothing mattered when she made those soft little sounds of pleasure and her body pressed into his as if she couldn’t get close enough.
His head swam. He’d known it would be good, but this blistering intensity, this pounding need, was unsettling. He hated wanting her so badly. Still, he felt a rush of savage satisfaction. At least the desire wasn’t all one-sided. This woman faked everything, but even she couldn’t hide her response or feign indifference to his touch.
The low cut of her dress exposed the creamy top swells of her breasts. He traced them with his hand, cupping her through the fabric, finding her nipples with his thumbs. She arched up into him with a moan of delight and he dropped his head and kissed her, where the central sapphire nestled between her breasts.
It wasn’t enough. Suddenly impatient, he pushed down her bodice and freed her breasts to the cool night air. Thank God he’d ordered her dress cut so low. He ignored her gasp of shock and cupped her. She was small and perfect, and her nipples pebbled against his palms. He wanted to devour her. Giving in to the impulse, he bent and took her into his mouth, flicking with his tongue, and she surged against him with an incoherent moan. The sound inflamed his blood. The world narrowed to his hands on her skin, his mouth, sucking, biting, licking. The scent of her: ink and paint and lemons.
He wanted to be inside her. Wanted her on the ground, skirts up, with him buried deep between her legs. In one impatient move he pulled up her skirts and gathered them at her waist in a frothy mess. He reclaimed her mouth and drew her leg upward, curving it around his hip. His body slid between her legs, a perfect fit, and he pressed his aching cock against her, grinding his hips so she could feel the effect she had on him.
She moaned and tugged him closer.
His fingers went to the buttons of his breeches. His hands were shaking so much he fumbled them in his haste and cursed his incompetence. He was almost dizzy with desire. Any second now he’d be inside her—
A sharp trill of female laughter on the other side of the hedge brought reality crashing down like a bucket of ice water. Richard froze. What the hell was he thinking? He pulled back, panting hard, his aching body protesting at the sudden lack of con
tact. His heart was thumping as if he’d just finished a fight.
Sabine’s eyes were huge in her pale face, and in the dim light she looked as dazed as he felt. Her mouth was all puffy, her lips swollen from his kisses—which only made him want to kiss her all over again. With a belated gasp she tugged the front of her bodice back up, hiding those perfect breasts from view. Richard realized he was still gripping her hip and forced his fingers to release her. Her skirts fell back down to her ankles with an audible swoosh.
He took a deep breath of cool air. “You didn’t say ‘stop,’ ” he managed hoarsely, then cursed himself for sounding more accusatory than teasing. He hadn’t exactly thought about stopping, either. Maybe she would hit him. He probably deserved it.
Instead, she tilted her head in wry acknowledgment and her lips quirked in a self-deprecating smile. “No, you’re right. I did not say ‘stop.’ ”
Richard felt a spurt of reluctant admiration for her fairness, swiftly followed by a hint of irritation. She appeared to be recovering very quickly from what had been—for him, at least—an earth-shattering event.
Bloody hell. What was it about this woman that made him lose all sense of control? He’d been like a randy schoolboy cornering a dairymaid in the stables. A hot wave of humiliation heated his cheeks. Where had Richard Hampden, consummate lover, gone?
Sabine smoothed the front of her skirts and set about re-pinning her hair. He’d dislodged several pins with his hands; she tucked a few loose strands back into the elaborate mess. Determined to appear equally unfazed, Richard plucked a leaf from her hair, annoyed to realize his hand was still not quite steady.
“We should get back inside,” she muttered.
He shook his head. “Not together. That would create a scandal.” Not to mention the fact that he was still sporting an erection hard enough to hammer nails into steel.
Her lips gave a sarcastic little quirk. “Of course. We wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation, would we, Lord Lovell?”
“Debauching young women in the shrubbery is certainly not my usual mode of operation,” he said bluntly. “But you returning to the ballroom slightly…mussed,” his eyes lingered on her hair and lips, “will only help my plan. The ton generally turns a blind eye to a little dalliance if there’s the expectation of an impending marriage announcement.”
“There will be no marriage announcement,” she said coolly.
“Of course not. But you’ll be long gone by the time they realize that. I’m the one who will have to put up with the whispers and knowing looks that accompany a jilted suitor.”
—
Sabine escaped to the powder room without encountering anyone and tidied herself as best she could. She met Heloise on her way back to the ballroom, and the other girl readily accepted her excuse that she was tired and wanted to leave.
“Maman was just saying the same thing. She’s having the carriage brought around now. Did you enjoy your first ball?” Heloise asked brightly.
Sabine was certain her flushed cheeks and throbbing lips betrayed exactly how much she’d enjoyed herself. An indecent amount.
“I haven’t seen Richard for a while—” Heloise’s eyes sparkled mischievously and Sabine had the uncomfortable suspicion that the other girl knew exactly what she’d been up to. And with whom. Heloise gave an elegant shrug. “I expect he’s still closeted with Lord Simms. Don’t bother waiting for him. Just send his carriage back later.” Heloise kissed her cheek. “Good night, Sabine. I’ll see you soon.”
Chapter 37
Sabine couldn’t sleep. It was beyond stupid to have kissed him. Even stupider to admit that she’d wanted more. The shameful truth was that she’d been only seconds away from letting him take her, there, up against a tree, like some back-alley doxy.
She shook her head. The one time Anton had kissed her, years ago, he’d been ardent, gentle. And when he’d tried to slip his tongue inside her mouth she’d pulled away, laughing and protesting at the same time. To his credit, he hadn’t pushed her. He’d laughed too, albeit shakily, and run his hand through his hair. Sabine’s momentary worry that he perhaps felt more for her than she did for him, or that the experiment might affect their friendship, had been unfounded. The following night he’d bedded a pretty army officer’s wife and never mentioned the kiss again. They’d settled back into the easy familiarity of friends.
Sabine buried her face in the pillows with a groan. What she felt for Richard Hampden was entirely beyond her scope of experience. She knew what it was, of course. She’d listened to the gossip of the women in the markets and the taverns, heard the giggles and bawdy jokes. It was lust, pure and simple. Or, rather, impure and complex. An animal attraction that was both natural and highly inconvenient.
One conversation in particular had been an eye-opener. She’d been seventeen, sitting in the Louvre beneath a large marble statue of a contorted Greek warrior wrestling some fierce snakelike creature. She’d been making a pen-and-ink study of a Piranesi architectural drawing.
Two young women had seated themselves on the bench on the opposite side of the statue. They clearly had no notion of her presence, because the first, whom Sabine quickly inferred was recently married, proceeded to launch into a litany of excruciatingly personal information regarding her intimate relations with her new husband. Her friend—also presumably married—tried to counsel her.
Sabine stopped drawing and held her breath, listening in rapt silence.
“I promise you, Clara, it was such a disappointment!” the first girl wailed. “I never want to do it again. It was awful!”
“And I promise you it will get better, my love. Men always botch the first time. Despite the fact that they’ve undoubtedly done the deed many times before with other women, when faced with a virgin on their wedding night they’re seized with some kind of temporary insanity that renders them completely useless. My own dear Edouard was exactly the same.”
“But what shall I do?”
Yes, thought Sabine, from the other side of the pillar. Tell her. I’m dying to know.
“Do you know what a climax is? La petite mort?”
“No,” the friend sniffled.
Sabine wrinkled her nose. The little death?
Clara, the friend, gave a sigh. “It is the pleasure you can experience with your husband in bed. It is, quite simply, the most wonderful feeling imaginable. Like racing to the top of a mountain and flinging yourself off.”
“That doesn’t sound very nice,” the friend said doubtfully. “It sounds dangerous.”
I agree, mouthed Sabine, chewing the end of her pencil.
“It’s quite hard to explain. It’s like a lovely throbbing, tingling explosion that starts between your legs, where your man is, and spreads throughout your whole body. It makes you feel all happy and glowing, like your veins are full of melted butter and honey.”
“Well, that does sound quite pleasant,” the first girl conceded.
“It is. Now I’m going to let you in on a little secret. The first thing you must learn is that no man can give you a climax.”
“What?!” her friend stuttered. “But you just said—how on earth do you get one, then?”
“I should have said, no man can give you one unless you know how to find it yourself.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“What I mean is, there’s very little chance of a man being able to make you feel that way if you, yourself, don’t know what it feels like. How will you know if you’re nearly there? It’s like asking someone for directions to Versailles and then not knowing to look for an enormous chateau when you get there. Am I making any sense?”
“Not really,” the friend said.
Sabine shook her own head in silent agreement.
“Fine. Then let me tell you this. There are any number of ways you can achieve pleasure in bed. Did Claude put his hand down there, between your legs? Or his mouth?”
The friend gave a scandalized gasp. “What? No! He just sort of fell on
top of me and squashed me and pushed his…his thing into me and…it hurt. And then he moved around a bit and then he went all rigid, and then he rolled over and fell asleep. He’d had a lot to drink at the wedding reception.”
Clara snorted. “What an idiot. But all is not lost, dearest. Things can only get better from now on. But it’s up to you. You must take responsibility for your own enjoyment. You must discover what you like, learn how to get this feeling on your own, and then train Claude to do those things to you. Let me tell you what to do…”
For the next half hour Sabine listened in rapt astonishment as her education in female anatomy was increased exponentially. There, at the stone feet of Hercules, or Achilles, or Perseus, she’d learned that a man could give a woman pleasure by placing his hand between her legs, and by kissing her there, too.
She also deduced that a woman could find her own pleasure, with her fingers, even without a man. The very thought made her skin flush and her stomach clench. Could she find her own pleasure? She’d left the museum in a kind of daze.
The first time she’d been brave enough to try it, alone in her tiny darkened attic room, she’d been amazed at what she’d discovered. With barely a touch she could make herself shiver and throb, gasp and explode. It was a revelation. If this was the feeling women got from lying with men—this wonderful, warm, breathless glow of repletion—then it was quite clear why they did it. And kept on doing it. Even with the wrong man.
The noises she’d heard emanating from Anton’s bedroom suddenly took on a whole new significance. Anton had never been short of female company. The walls of the print shop were so thin she’d often resorted to covering her head with a pillow to muffle the sounds of enthusiastic lovemaking coming from his room. He had a different woman every month—and not one of them seemed able to keep quiet.
Sabine knew what her body could feel. But until she’d met Richard Hampden she’d never felt the slightest desire to try it with a man. Recently, however, she’d spent an inordinate amount of time wondering what his body would feel like against hers. Their little contretemps in the garden had settled that question once and for all: absolutely wonderful.
A Counterfeit Heart Page 17
