Secrets of a Perfect Night

by Stephanie Laurens

  Wide stairs rose in a single sweep to the next floor. Lifting her skirts, Abby climbed them. At the top, she paused, pressing a hand to her chest, trying to ease the pain there. It couldn’t be true—he wouldn’t hurt her—not again, not now. Heart pounding, she looked about; a flicker of candlenight beyond an open door drew her down one corridor.

  Beyond the door lay an elegant parlor; she might have thought it deserted but for the shadows thrown on the opposite wall. Abby peeked around the door. The room was long; Adrian stood before the fire at the other end. Before him, facing him, stood the lady in blue.

  Adrian held the lady’s hands clasped in his; he was looking into her face with rapt attention. She was speaking excitedly, her tone just above a whisper.

  Abby slipped into the room. Clinging to the shadows along the room’s side, avoiding the heavy furniture, she edged nearer, finally halting in the deep shadow at the end of a large bookcase. Adrian’s back was angled to her, but she could see the lady clearly.

  How bold she was, smiling up at him like that, her face shining with delight, with a teasing light.

  “So, my lord, the babe will be born by midsummer. Now, say yes—do say yes! Please?”

  Adrian chuckled, warmly, fondly. “What can I say?” He lifted her hands to his lips. “My dear, I’d be delighted.”

  The lady squealed with happiness, then threw her arms around Adrian’s neck. He closed his arms around her slim figure, and bent his head—

  Abby tried to choke back her anguished cry.

  Adrian heard. He turned, the lady in blue held protectively to him.

  His amber eyes locked on Abby’s.

  Adrian’s impulse was to smile and hold his hand out to Abby—the stricken look in her face, in her wide eyes, struck him to the heart. He froze. For an instant, time reversed, and they were seven years younger, but now he saw what he hadn’t seen then. Saw the hurt, the pain. Saw in Abby’s eyes the helpless question: Again?

  With another choked cry that shredded his soul, she whirled and fled, blindly dashing for the door.

  “Wait here!” Leaving Pamela by the fire, Adrian strode after Abby. Gaining the door, he looked, then cursed and broke into a run. He’d forgotten. This was Abby—she recognized few of the constraints of lady like behavior. She didn’t scurry—she ran. Flat out.

  She reached the stairs well ahead of him. Heart in his mouth, he saw her plunge down. She’d break her legs, her neck—

  He reached the top and flung himself after her, taking stairs three at a time, closing the distance.

  She hit the marble floor and skidded, caught her balance and flung a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder. She saw him, and took off like a hind for the front door.

  He caught her—grabbed her around the waist and yanked her back against him—just as she reached the threshold. He calmly nodded to the butler, startled out of his usual impassivity enough to stare, and turned Abby back in to the house. “Upstairs,” he murmured into the curls by her ear, with what he considered commendable restraint. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  Her tone gave him warning—she struggled furiously. Adrian relaxed his hold not at all, then he sighed, stooped, and lifted her in his arms.

  “Adrian!”

  She continued to struggle; he tightened his hold and started toward the stairs.

  “Put me down this instant!”

  He glanced at her, at her stormy face, at her eyes filled with righteous fury, and hurt. So much hurt. Her breasts swelled as she drew in another breath. He inclined his head to their right. “Wave to the interested people.”

  “Wh—” She looked. Shock snatched her breath. The three double glass doors leading to the ballroom were lined with faces, some scandalized, others intrigued—all eagerly drinking in the action.

  She sucked in a breath and shrank against his shoulder. “For God’s sake,” she hissed, “put me down.”

  He shook his head. “You had your chance—we’ll play the rest of this scene my way.” He started up the stairs.

  Abby cast one last glance at the ballroom, at the hundreds of eyes watching them avidly. She moaned. “Just think of the scandal!”

  “With my reputation?” He caught her gaze. “Why worry?”

  She held his gaze, searched his eyes. He arched a brow at her, then looked up the stairs.

  “I don’t want to meet your mistress.”

  “Pamela Waltham is not my mistress. I haven’t had a mistress for years.”

  He reached the top of the stairs.

  “Who is she, then?”

  “She’s one of Frederick Ramsey’s sisters.”

  After a moment, she ventured, “The late Frederick Ramsey—the friend who shot himself?”

  He nodded. “Pamela married Robert Waltham, who’s down in the ballroom waiting for her to come back. He’s probably now wondering what she’s doing, seeing as she was supposed to be with me.”

  “Why is she supposed to be with you?”

  “I’ll let Pamela answer that.”

  Silence greeted that terse statement.

  He did not put Abby down until they reached the parlor hearth. Her corresponding silence struck him as fragile. So very vulnerable.

  He felt the same way. “Miss Abigail Woolley—Mrs. Pamela Waltham. Pamela, Abby will soon be my viscountess. Please tell her what I just agreed to.”

  Pamela’s face lit. She looked from him to Abby, delight in her eyes. “Oh, how wonderful!” She clapped her hands, then caught his eye. “Oh—what I just asked.” She turned to Abby. “I asked Adrian if he would stand godfather to our first child. It seemed so appropriate, you see, because it was Adrian who managed the fund—the fund Freddy’s four friends set up when he died to see to our welfare and our dowries—and without that, I couldn’t have married, well, at least not so well, and probably not Robert, whom I do love so terribly much—and so, you see, Adrian is in a way responsible—”

  “Yes, yes—thank you, Pamela.” With a hand on Pamela’s shoulder, Adrian steered her to the door. “Now you’d better hurry down, because I’m sure I saw Robert on the way past the ballroom and he was looking a trifle anxious.”

  “Was he? Well, I’d better go.” Pamela peered around him to beam at Abby. “I’ll look forward to speaking with you again, Miss Woolley.”

  Abby forced a smile in response to Pamela’s cheery farewell. Adrian all but thrust Pamela out the door, shut it, and locked it. Abby’s smile faded as he turned and stalked toward her.

  She couldn’t tell what was in his mind, but his face was hard, his features set, his amber eyes glowing. As he neared, she had to quell an urge to flee. To where? She’d never reach the door.

  And she owned him an apology. Clasping her hands, she lifted her chin. As he closed the last yards between them, his physical presence broke over her like a wave. She had never seen him so focused, so intent. Was he really that angry that she’d doubted him?

  He halted before her, raised both hands, and framed her face.

  Eyes the color of molten amber captured her gaze.

  “I love you, Abby. I would never, ever, do anything to hurt you. Not knowingly, not willingly. I know, now, that I did in the past, but I didn’t know, didn’t understand, not then.” He searched her eyes. “Eight years ago…you were so young. That was such a special moment—I felt it, but I didn’t know what the feeling meant, and it frightened me. Even so, if I’d had any inkling…but I never realized, never imagined you loved me. You were sixteen. I was so much older. If I didn’t understand what love was, how could you?” His lips twisted self-deprecatingly. “Well, so I thought.”

  Abby raised her hands to touch, then cradle his as they gently held her face. His heart was in his eyes as he held her gaze.

  “Our fathers were wrong in trying to force our marriage, but they weren’t wrong in thinking we would suit. I never meant to hurt you, but I know I did. Can you forgive me?”

  Emotion b
locked Abby’s throat, so she let her eyes speak, absolving him of the past, turning to the future.

  Adrian read the message, drew in a shuddering breath, then bent and touched his lips to hers. “We need each other, you and I. I want you—I need you—I love you—and I always will.” Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead against hers. “For God’s sake, put me put of my misery—say you’ll marry me.”

  A moment passed, then he drew back, to look into her face, to hear her answer. Her eyes met his, then her lips lifted, her eyes lit with a joy that held all the answer he needed. Yet her reply when it came was quintessentially Abby.

  “When?”

  A smile curved his lips—he felt a joy to match hers rise within him, felt the weight of his loneliness, his rakish life, lift away. He released her face, drew her into his arms, and bent his head. “Soon.”

  Her lips were parted when they met his; he slid into the honeyed warmth and drew her sweetness deep. She slid her arms up and wound them about his neck, and held him to her, pressed herself to him. I love you. She had said it with her body often enough for him not to need to hear the words. But he needed, wanted, to have her reassure him in the way he most coveted, by wrapping him in her arms, holding him to her heart while she took him deep inside her.

  He let his hands slide, down over her hips, caressing the smooth globes of her bottom. He gripped, kneaded, then lifted her to him so she could feel his erection hard against her soft belly. She sighed into his mouth, then drew him deep again, tangling his tongue with hers. She pressed herself to him, flagrantly urging him on.

  Setting her on her feet, he held her tight within one arm while he searched and found her laces. Practice had long ago made perfect; they were loose in less than a minute—the neckline of her gown gaped. With out breaking their kiss, he eased back, angling so he could slip his hand beneath the loosened bodice and lift her breast free.

  He closed his hand about its warmth, let his thumb brush its peak. Abby gasped. She pulled back and looked down. He ducked his head; an instant later she moaned and clutched his shoulders.

  Adrian feasted, teasing, taunting, then suckling while her fingers sank deep and her body bowed to his. He repeated the torture with her other breast until both were swollen, peaked and aching. Straightening, he took her mouth again in a long, urgent, heated kiss.

  They were both breathing raggedly when he drew back. Abby clung tightly, eyes almost closed. “Adrian?”

  The word was a sob; her tone stated very clearly she wasn’t sure what answer she wanted.

  Planting a kiss beneath one ear, Adrian closed his hands about her waist and backed her. “Where’s the benefit in marrying a master seducer if you don’t get to enjoy my skills?”

  He felt the fight she waged to gather her thoughts. “But…here?”

  “We’re already damned—if we do or we don’t.”

  An instant’s hesitation followed, then, “How?”

  He reached out and snagged a straight-backed chair. “Just follow my instructions.”

  Abby tried not to notice how deliciously wicked he sounded, how his voice seemed to whisper through her mind, to rasp along her nerves. She heard a thump, and caught a glimpse of the chair he set down behind him, then he turned back to her, and kissed her.

  Thoroughly. Her head was spinning when he drew back just enough to whisper, “Lift your skirts in the front.”

  She was so shocked—so tantalized—by the order, she didn’t immediately move. Adrian’s lips cruised along her jawline. “I’d do it myself,” he murmured, “but if I didn’t rip them, I’d crush them beyond all hope of passing muster when we return downstairs. Master seducers never forget such things.”

  The thought of all the people in the ballroom below—the majority of whom had seen him, master seducer that he was, carry her upstairs—sent a most peculiar shiver down her spine. It was a thrill—a dare. Her hands were gathering the soft material, swiftly raising the front hem, before she’d made any conscious decision.

  Adrian’s lips claimed hers. The kiss spun her away, into a realm where nothing existed but the heat swelling between them. Cool air feathered across her stomach; she stopped gathering her skirts. Then he touched her, fingers splaying over her stomach, then sliding down, through her soft curls to slip between her thighs.

  Heat flared across her skin.

  She nearly dropped her skirts. Her knees threatened to buckle as he stroked. The hand at her back slid lower, cupping her bottom, supporting her as the wicked fingers between her thighs continued to fondle, stroke, caress. She was quivering inside, and tense, and suddenly very warm. The continuing kiss made it impossible to think; she could only feel.

  Feel him large and strong and so very male before her. Feel his hardness, his muscled strength surrounding her. Feel the possessiveness in his grip as he held her steady while his artful fingers probed. The kiss had turned demanding, demanding all her wits as his tongue claimed her softness, a tangible echo of the claiming to come.

  A deeper echo sounded as his hand shifted between her thighs; one long finger entered her. She gasped, then shuddered in his arms. The finger withdrew, then returned, even deeper. Another finger joined the first. The intimate probing continued; her nerves tightened, coiling like a spring. Her skin flamed.

  Then he drew his fingers from her and she ached.

  He broke their kiss and lifted his head. Raising her heavy lids, she watched as he slipped the buttons at his waistband free. She couldn’t resist; she reached for him, closing her fingers about his length, thrilling to the strength and the promise of pleasure to come.

  He groaned, and tried to catch her hand. She brushed her thumb over his velvet head and he shuddered.

  “Enough.” He sounded hoarse. Shackling her wrist, he drew her hand from him and returned it to her rucked skirts. “Hold your skirts.”

  “How…?”

  He sat on the chair and drew her to him. Abby saw how. She straddled him eagerly, lowering herself, letting him guide her until she felt the familiar blunt pressure at her entrance, then she took control, drew in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and slid slowly, smoothly down.

  It was even better than her memories—he seemed to fill her until he nudged her heart. She felt him slowly, tightly exhale; lips curving, she rose, up, then higher. Instinct told her when to stop, then she took him in again.

  Adrian sensed her fascination; she hadn’t taken him this way before. He mentally gritted his teeth, held back his raging impulses, and let her experiment.

  Let her love him. Five fraught minutes later, he realized that was what she was doing—eyes closed, her face a mask of passionately blissful concentration, she used her body to pleasure him and exulted in the act. The realization nearly shattered his control.

  She chose that moment to press down, then tighten about him.

  He broke, groaned—and reached for her, fingers sinking into firm flesh as he held her down. He managed to draw breath, managed to wrest the reins from her grasp. And knew he had to keep them. “Wait.” He prayed she would, that her curiosity would play into his hands. Once again, she’d jockeyed him into doing something he hadn’t intended to do. Exposing her to a deeper level of sexual surrender hadn’t been on his agenda for this evening. However…

  Easing his hold on her hips, he traced her long legs. “Lock your ankles around the chair legs—like this.” He showed her and she complied—then swallowed a shriek when he grasped her hips, tilted her, and shifted within her. Before she realized that losing all leverage left her completely in his control, he took her lips in a searing kiss. Then he lifted her, rocked her—loved her.

  Her body was his, his to fill as he wished, deep one minute, less so the next. He brought all his skills to bear, concentrating on loving her. Pleasing her. Pleasuring her.

  Her unexpected surrender, the sudden change of pace and intent, momentarily shocked her. Then, tentatively at first, then with greater confidence, she softened in his arms and gave herself up to his loving.
Gave herself to him.

  Still clutching her skirts, Abby clung to their kiss and let him love her as he would. Let each calculated slide, each rolling thrust, fill her and sweep her away. Let him coax her body into a deeper surrender, let him press upon her pleasures still more intense.

  Then he released her lips and ducked his head; she smothered a cry as he found one ruched nipple. The intensity of their sensual dance escalated. Pleasure and passion coalesced, capturing them both, claiming them both—nothing existed beyond the moment, beyond their heated bodies and the urgency drumming in their veins.

  Then a tidal wave of yearning, of sensual longing, of desire, need, and love, rose through them both, merged and exploded, flinging them high. Abby gasped. Releasing her skirts, she wrapped her arms about Adrian’s shoulders and held him fiercely as they flew, then fractured, then slowly tumbled back to earth.

  He groaned softly, then lifted his head and found her lips. “Just love me, Abby—always.”

  She closed her arms about him, drew him into her mouth, held him deep within her. And did.

  The day after the Wardsleys’ grande ball, the ton was atwitter, flush with rumors of the latest lascivious doings—and the attendant, impending marriage—of Scandalous Viscount Dere.

  Coming in February 2001 from Avon Books

  All About Love

  Stephanie Laurens

  Six notorious cousins, known to the ton as the Bar Cynster, have cut a swath through the ballrooms of London. Yet, one by one, each has fallen in love and married the women of their hearts until only one of them is left unclaimed…the most rakish of Stephanie Laurens’s captivating clan…and he’s not about to go easily.

  Alasdair Cynster—known to his intimates as Lucifer—decides to rusticate in the country before the matchmaking skills of London’s mamas become firmly focused on him, the last unwed Cynster. But an escape to Devonshire leads him straight to his destiny in the irresistible form of Phyllida Tallent, a willful, independent beauty of means who brings all his masterful Cynster instincts rioting to the fore. Lucifer isn’t about to deny his desire for Phyllida, and he’s determined to use all his seductive skills to enjoy the benefits of destiny’s choice—without submitting to the parson’s noose.