His blue eyes slid towards the decanter warming on the hearth. ‘Did you want a drink?’ His voice hinted at decadence. That suited her fine. She planned to be very decadent in the next few minutes.
She rose from the chair, her own tones husky. ‘Yes, I did. Now, if you would lie down?’
‘Stand up, take off my clothes, lie down. You are quite the tyrant,’ Haviland scolded with feigned sternness but he complied, managing to look even more alluring horizontally in front of the fire than he had vertically. The firelight showed him to perfection. Years of fencing had honed his thighs to muscular solidity, defined the form of his arms and the lean length of his torso with its ridges and planes.
She straddled his legs and reached for the decanter, feeling the warmth of the glass beneath her hand as she pulled the stopper and wafted the decanter under her nose. She smiled at Haviland. ‘Cognac. It’s perfect.’ Alyssandra tipped the carafe, trailing cognac along his rigid phallus.
‘By Jove, have mercy!’ Haviland groaned. ‘That’s divine.’
She gave a him wicked grin, eyes locking with his for a moment. ‘Then what would you call this?’ She bent to him then, her tongue flicking over the caramel rivulet.
‘Paradise,’ came the single hoarse word. It was probably all he could utter. Heaven knew she was nearly overcome with the pleasure of this intimacy as well. This was pleasure in its best and highest form, pleasure in the giving and in the receiving. Cognac and man combined to create salt and sweet on her tongue. Never had she found a taste to be so completely arousing, but this one was and it goaded her to extremes; she licked and sucked, bit and nipped, her hand squeezed, her tongue caressed until they were both groaning, her own breath coming in little pants as she brought him to climax, nearly as excited as he.
She held him then, with her eyes, with her hand as he spent, his own eyes holding hers intense with silent messages. Haviland raised himself up on his elbows. His gaze took on a mischievous cast, a spark dancing in his eye. ‘Your turn.’
In a fluid movement he had her beneath him, their bodies pressed length to length before she could do more than register her surprise in a breathy gasp. He sat her astride, painting her in cognac, his fingertips brushing fairy-light circles around her breasts, tracing a line to her navel, leaving a thimble-sized puddle behind. ‘I will smell like a drunkard,’ she scolded half-heartedly. She was enjoying the feel of him too much to complain.
He leaned over her, stretching his body out above her, his mouth close at her ear. ‘No one drinks cognac to get drunk. Cognac is for sipping, for savouring.’ She gave a shiver at the words and their intent. She was for sipping, for savouring. His arms were taut brackets about her head as he slid down her, his tongue sipping and savouring as he went; breasts, sternum, navel, ohhh! She arched at the delicate sensation of his tongue dipping into her navel, of the pressure of his mouth covering it, creating suction as he drank the tiny sip.
Then he travelled lower, his breath warm against the damp nest of her curls. That was when she knew she was in danger of the worst sort—the danger of losing herself. It would be too easy to lose herself in this pleasure, to believe who she was, who he was inside this sensual affaire was the sum of them, the sum of her reality, when in fact this was a fantasy come to life for a short time. It was what she had promised herself when she’d actively begun this—if he was only here for a short while, what would it matter if she indulged? It could mean nothing and that had been the original beauty of her plan. But when he blew on her mons, when his fingers parted her folds and his tongue flicked over the nub of her clitoris, those rationales were paper dolls before flame, crackling to cinders. She raised her hips to meet his wicked mouth, to encourage it. She let herself burn. She would worry about the ash later.
She was hot and wet beneath his mouth, wanting him with a free abandon that was positively intoxicating if the heady scent of her arousal and the cognac wasn’t enough to send him over the edge. Again. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been over that edge twice already. Haviland steadied her, his hands firm on her hips as he felt her approach fulfilment. She gave a little scream, and he lifted his head to watch release take her, a shiver that moved down her body in ripples of pleasure, leaving peace in its wake. He liked this, he realised, as he stretched out beside her. He liked watching peace settle over her features—features that weren’t usually at peace. Her face was constantly on alert, constantly expressive, constantly thinking about situations, weighing, assessing. But not in these moments. In these moments, her body and her mind were free.
She is like you in that regard. He balked a bit at the thought. It was far too provoking. He knew he felt that way, but did he show it? Did he look like that—all peace and contentment—after she finished with him? He knew the demons he needed respite from: the pressures of family, the title, the pressure to give his life to others, saving nothing of himself for himself. He knew precisely what he sought to escape. Did she seek to escape something as well?
It was hard to imagine. As a mature Frenchwoman, she had an almost unlimited amount of freedom compared to an Englishwoman. As a woman of noble birth, that social freedom was enhanced by her financial advantages. With her beauty she could attract any lover who appealed. And yet, her experience in that venue had excluded a certain level of quality up until now. Whatever lovers there had been in her past, they had been lukewarm at best in their abilities to sate her passions. Additionally, there seemed to be no apparent pressure for her to marry. From his perspective, she had it all. What could she possibly want to escape?
‘What are you doing to me, Alyssandra? I’ll be nothing but a shadow by tomorrow.’ He gave a low laugh, but he was only half-joking. ‘More importantly, whatever are you doing with me?’ He understood he was an excellent catch by English standards— Christina Everly’s family certainly understood that. But for a Frenchwoman who understood he was merely passing through? He was not quite an excellent catch for that woman.
Alyssandra’s eyes dropped briefly to what was visible of his groin in the small space between them. ‘What am I doing with you? I thought that was fairly obvious.’
Haviland gave his head a shake. If he wanted her to be brave, he had to be brave, too. It was hard to be open when he’d spent so much of his life projecting a certain image even if it meant closing part of himself off. ‘All teasing aside, Alyssandra, you know what I mean. Why me when there are so many better choices for a lover?’
She gave a throaty laugh. ‘Better than you? That is doubtful. Every woman in every room you’ve ever walked into knows there would be few better.’ She was serious now. He could see the change in her eyes—those brown eyes would remind him of cognac for ever after tonight. All of her would, in fact—from her eyes to the caramel of her loose hair resembling the shimmer of the liquor held to the light, and the taste of her where his tongue had slid along her skin.
He felt a moment’s disappointment. ‘I am a temporary lover? That is all?’ He was nothing more to her than a warm body to service her needs. It was hardly different than what his family expected from him—stud service as Archer had once put it.
‘Can you afford to be more than that to me? Can I afford it?’ Her answer was sharp, those eyes of hers flashing, some of her peacefulness receding. She was on guard again, assessing again, as if every conversation was a duel.
Tell her your dreams, came the urging from his mind. But how could he? Those plans were too nascent, too fragile, as was their affaire, to bear the burden of his dissembling. Telling her his hopes meant also telling her about his past, about his obligations. And yet she was right. If he was to go on letting her believe all this was temporary, it was unfair to expect her to commit to the emotional aspects of a relationship if he wasn’t willing to do the same.
But he didn’t want to lose this. The way she responded to him, the way she physically made love to him, was far beyond anything he’d experienced with his mistresses, or anything he could imagine sharing with his bride who had made it clear to
him last year during one of their two annual dances that sex would be for purely reproductive purposes.
Haviland pushed up and took to his feet. The bubble was coming off the wine of their evening. He’d rather take his leave before it had gone flat entirely, while he could still remember the warmth of her hands, the feel of her mouth and how incredible it had all been before words had got in the way. He’d asked for too much. She’d given him an honest answer. It wasn’t her fault he didn’t like it.
Alyssandra’s hand reached up and curled around his, giving him a hard tug, her voice soft. ‘I think you misunderstand me to your detriment.’ She had all of his attention now. Just a few inches to the right and she would have been tugging something else. His member had the bad form to stir, apparently aware that those magic hands of hers were in close proximity. Damn it, he was trying to make a dignified exit.
Haviland looked down into her upturned face. She blushed, suddenly unsure of herself. Her dark eyelashes lowered. ‘Come sit down. I’m not ready for you to go.’ Her lashes flicked to the right ever so discreetly. ‘And I don’t think you are either, not really. You’re just trying to salvage some pride that I never meant to damage.’ She looked up again. ‘Do I have the right of it?’
He didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Answering would require telling her too much, telling her too many things he didn’t talk about. And why? She was right, too, about expenses. There was a limit to what they could afford with each other. But he could sit and so he did, across from her on the floor, watching her draw a throw from the chair around her nakedness. The fire was starting to die and the room was cooler now. But she took his hands in hers and they were warm.
‘You should know, I’m not in the habit of taking many lovers. I do not want you to think I am. To do so demeans me without justification. But it also demeans you. I would not want you to think so poorly of yourself as to define your merits strictly by your ability to perform in bed.’
Haviland wanted to say something but her eyes shone in earnest. If he interrupted her, he might miss something very important, so he remained silent and waited for her to continue.
‘There has been only one other.’ She looked down at her hands as if she feared he would find the confession shocking. Haviland watched her shoulders rise as she drew a deep breath. ‘We were engaged. It was all very traditional. We courted for a year, our engagement was a year. We were to be wed the month after Antoine was hurt. We postponed the wedding, of course, but Antoine’s recovery took longer than expected.’
‘Longer than he was willing to wait?’ Haviland finished the thought, grinding over the words with thinly veiled dislike. What man left a woman he was pledged to in the midst of crisis? Did the words ‘for better or worse’ mean so little to the man who had aspired to her hand? He hated, too, that Alyssandra was still protecting this man with her words, trying so carefully to not paint him with blame. Longer than we expected.
‘Life flies by, Haviland. He is not to be blamed for wanting to reach out and seize that life any more than I am to blame for choosing not to. I chose to remain with Antoine.’ She gave a wan smile. She leaned forward, taking his head between her hands, her fingers combing back his hair. ‘You asked me what you are to me, and I shall tell you. You, Haviland North, are my escape.’ She kissed him then, full on the mouth, and for the third time that night his body roused to her. He took her beneath him, bracing himself above her, sliding into her with the slow confidence of a lover who knew he had come home and was sure of his welcome, her words hovering on the periphery of his lovemaking. You are my escape. But he rather thought she had it backwards because he was more sure than ever she could be his.
Chapter Sixteen
What if she could be more than an escape? Did he dare indulge in all that she offered him, whether she understood she offered it or not? If he made his choice, this passion between them could be sustained beyond the confines of a purely physical affaire, he could give free rein to developing the emotional connection that simmered beneath the surface; the one they repressed so thoroughly because it had not been part of their original intentions.
It was the emotional indulgence Haviland debated with himself as the sun came up, throwing its spring morning rays into the courtyard of his apartments. He’d seen Alyssandra safely home after they’d unlocked the door of their impromptu lair and slipped through the ballroom, fifteen minutes apart to avoid notice that they were with each other.
She would be asleep in her bed by now and the very thought conjured images in his mind of her hair spread across a pillow; perhaps an arm thrown across the empty span of bed. These were images of peace and contentment and while they roused him, it was not in an erotic sense, but in a sense of comfort and a surge of protectiveness. He wanted to be in that bed with her; wanted to draw her against him, to feel the curve of her, wanted to match that curve to his, to feel the soft rise and fall of her breathing, wanted to watch the sun fall over her sleeping form and know she was his.
These were new feelings, stunning feelings in their own right when he took them out and examined them in the morning light, a cup of coffee at his elbow. These were not responses he’d had with any of his mistresses, not even the last one whom he’d kept for two years. Not once in that entire time had he contemplated anything resembling permanence with her. In converse, the permanence he contemplated with Christina was cold and empty. There were no images of sunlit mornings spent cradled together in bed, no images of nights spent behind locked doors indulging their senses until they were utterly spent to the point of exhaustion.
He’d come to France to fence, to escape for a time, and even to indulge in a physical affaire if it presented itself. He’d not come looking for this. But having found it, it compounded the decisions he had to make. Could his destiny include Alyssandra? Now, what had once only been a choice affecting him, now affected her. The equation of leaving his old life behind had just become more complicated and more tempting.
A door opened on the opposite side of their garden. Archer stepped out, a banyan over an untucked shirt and breeches. His feet were bare, his hair tousled, all indicators he hadn’t been out to ride yet. His hands were wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee—a habit they’d all seemed to pick up in Paris.
‘Good morning,’ Haviland called out in hushed tones. All four bedrooms opened onto the courtyard. If Nolan and Brennan were home, they’d just have fallen asleep.
Archer took the old wooden chair next to him and settled his long form into it. ‘A good morning it is. The sun is out, our rustic garden is showing to its best, the coffee is hot and, if I don’t miss my guess, something or someone has kept you from your bed. Would I be wrong in assuming it was Miss Leodegrance?’
Haviland sipped his coffee and chuckled. ‘No, you would not be wrong.’ He blew into the steam rising off his mug. ‘Paris is everything I imagined it would be and more. Leaving will be more difficult than I anticipated. I suppose I hoped that being here would satisfy my cravings, not increase them.’
Archer nodded solemnly. ‘Paris is a witch of a woman to be sure. She has spells aplenty, even for a horseman like me who prefers the wide-open downs of Newmarket. And Miss Leodegrance? I would suspect she’s a large part of that reluctance.’
‘There’s not much point in pursuing her, is there? I would just have to leave her.’ Haviland side-stepped the question.
Archer was too astute and would not be distracted. ‘It seems to me you’ve already caught her and the real question is what to do with her.’ He paused, his eyes locked on Haviland’s. ‘Don’t look so shocked. I know she was here. I saw her with you the other night when you went through the courtyard. It seems you’ve chosen to pursue the lovely Alyssandra Leodegrance despite your misgivings about the future.’
Archer chuckled when Haviland refused to answer. ‘I don’t envy you, old friend. Now she’s got you spinning and you haven’t a clue what to do about it.’ The silence stretched out between them before Archer spoke again. ‘Unl
ess, of course, you’ve already decided that leaving is your only option.’
Haviland gave a wry smile over the rim of his mug. ‘You’re more right than you know. She does have me spinning. But you’re wrong about the other.’ He did have some ideas about what to do about it, rebellious ideas as nascent as the morning itself. He drew a deep breath and tried them on out loud. What would Archer think? ‘I was contemplating staying in Paris for a while longer.’
‘And then go home?’ Archer asked tentatively. Haviland knew they were both cautiously thinking about the letter. If he honoured his parents’ plans and returned home in time for the wedding there was no opportunity to go to Italy and make it back, nor was there any reason to go on to the Alps.
‘I thought I might try my hand at fencing instruction, maybe see if Leodegrance or some other salle would take me on.’ This was the riskier idea to voice out loud. He was certain even Archer’s tolerance would find the idea bordering on the insane. He did and they were his ideas. They were either crazy or courageous. He’d not realised before how very thin the line between the two could be.
Archer’s face broke into a broad grin. Haviland had not expected that. ‘Very good. Then you haven’t decided to give up yet? I’m glad to hear it. I was worried yesterday that you might have acquiesced to the pre-ordained order of your life. I see there is hope still. You aren’t the sort of man who’d ever be happy walking in another’s path, but it won’t be easy to carve out your own.’
‘I know,’ Haviland said solemnly. ‘But thank you for the support, all the same.’
Archer nodded. ‘It will take a brave man. What does Alyssandra think about all this?’
‘I haven’t told her yet.’ Haviland looked out over the garden, not wanting to meet Archer’s eyes. The longer he was with Alyssandra, the guiltier he felt about that particular secret. It wasn’t supposed to have been relevant.
Rake Most Likely to Rebel (Rakes On Tour Book 1) Page 13
