by Juliana Ross
“I was afraid. We’d known each other for such a short time.”
“You think I wasn’t afraid, too?” he said, his voice terribly bleak.
“I’m sorry, so sorry for hurting you. I...I simply couldn’t think past my fear. But now I see what I’m meant to do. And you are the one who told me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You said it. I have to climb past my fear. Otherwise it will rule my life.”
I dared not look up; what if he still regarded me with the same cold, lost stare? I closed my eyes tight, wishing against hope that he would say something. Would tell me I was forgiven.
I heard a chair being dragged across the room, then the unmistakable heat and presence of his body as he sat before me.
“Look at me,” he ordered. Obeying, I saw that his expression had thawed. Heat, not ice, now bloomed in his eyes. “I lied when I said I wanted nothing from you.”
He grasped my right hand between his own and pressed it briefly to his lips. “For I do expect something from you.”
“Name it,” I rushed to answer. “Anything—”
“I want you to come with me. Stay with me. Be my wife, if you wish it. Or remain my lover, if that’s what you want. Only stay.”
“I will,” I promised.
“I need to know something more. You said you were fond of me. Cared for me. Is that all?”
“I wasn’t precisely honest with you. Nor with myself,” I admitted. “I love you, Elijah.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard. And I love you, Alice. My Alice.”
“I’m very glad of it. Will you kiss me now?”
“If you insist.”
He bent forward, crouching low so his lips might meet mine, and kissed me soundly. I leaned forward, wishing he would take me in his arms, and it seemed that he had read my thoughts, for he grasped me around the waist and pulled me astride his lap. His hands came up to tangle in my hair, and I tilted my face back, pressing my mouth ever more avidly into his.
Elijah’s landlady had been very disapproving, and would no doubt be horrified if she knew what we were doing in her pristine salon. But neither of us could help ourselves. Not when we had come so close to losing one another.
“Any particular reason you’re wearing a ballgown at the crack of dawn?” he whispered against my throat, his lips provoking delightful shivers that cascaded down my spine and upper limbs.
“It’s not a ballgown. It’s an afternoon gown. And I...well, I knew you liked it.”
“Mmm,” he murmured, his lips moving to the tender spot just below my ear. “It makes you seem...edible,” he added, nibbling on my earlobe.
“What if your landlady comes in?”
“We’ll have to block her way.”
“I don’t understand—”
He lifted me to my feet and pulled me across the salon, in the direction of the door. But rather than pass through, he shut it gently and whirled me about until my back was against the solid wood panels, which fortunately did not squeak in the slightest.
“We must be very quiet. Quieter than the day we first met,” he whispered. “Do you know how often I’ve thought of that day? Wished I could do this again?” he asked, pushing my gown and petticoats to my waist, crushing my crinoline wires mercilessly.
“What do you mean precisely?” I murmured in reply, taking my skirts from his grasp and holding them even higher.
“This,” he said, then dropped to his knees before me. I couldn’t see past the mass of fabric at my waist, but I could feel his hands urging my thighs apart, opening the slit in my drawers, his thumbs rubbing softly along the seam of my sex. Then his mouth—oh God, his tongue—finding the exact place where every nerve in my being was focused, licking and pushing and circling until my knees were buckling and I was near to fainting because of Agnès and her cursed tight-lacing.
“Had enough?” he asked, not troubling to look up at me.
“Not nearly enough,” I gasped.
“I don’t have the sponge—”
“To hell with the sponge.”
He was on his feet again, his hands at the fall of his trousers, and then he bent his knees, pulled my leg over his hip and drove his cock deep within me. Just like that he was inside me again, and I’d never felt so full, so complete, and yet so wanting.
He straightened his knees and stood tall. I wrapped my other leg around him and held tight, my heart in my throat, desperate to feel him move inside me.
“This—you—this is all I will ever want,” he promised. “Christ, Alice...I want this so badly. But your arm...”
“Is perfectly safe in its sling,” I assured him.
His response was to angle his hips back and plunge into me again, gently, almost languidly. It felt wonderful, but it wasn’t enough.
“More,” I told him.
“Like this?” he answered, pulling back and driving forward so sharply that I cried out, despite my solemn promise to be quiet.
“Yes.”
“And this?” he asked as he moved his hands, taking my weight on one forearm while his free hand reached between us, his thumb caressing me relentlessly.
“Not a sound, Alice,” he whispered, dipping his head low so he might capture my mouth in a bruising kiss. I responded in kind, nipping at his lips until they were as swollen as mine, suckling at his tongue with all the hunger in my heart.
My release tiptoed ever closer, the web of bliss wrapping me tight and small. And then when I was certain I could bear no more, the world imploded in a shivering sphere of ever-brightening delight, a single, stark instant of perfection.
I could have stayed like that forever, but my release seemed to have pushed Elijah to breaking point. With a low growl he pulled free and came hotly against my thigh.
Unlike our first coupling, I felt not the tiniest shred of shame at what we had done, though I might have admitted to some embarrassment had his landlady suddenly knocked on the door. I was with the man I loved, a man who loved me in return despite my many imperfections, a man who would make love to me again, I hoped, before the morning was done.
I set my feet back on the ground and let my skirts fall into place after attempting, rather ineffectually, to wipe clean my thighs with the fine fabric of my drawers. And then, happy simply to be near him again, I pulled him close with my good arm, tilting my head up for another kiss.
He obliged with the softest of caresses. “How did you get here?” he whispered, his words hot against my mouth.
“I hired a carriage.”
“It’s waiting outside?”
“Yes. At least I hope it is.”
“Then let’s be off.”
“Off?” I asked, suddenly confused.
“On our next journey. But it won’t take us far. Only back to the Hôtel de la Couronne. I assume that’s where you stayed last night.”
“I did. And it’s a fine idea, if rather sentimental of you.”
“Bugger sentiment. My bed here is only meant for one. Much too narrow for what I want to do to you next. Will you come with me, Alice?”
“To the ends of the earth.”
* * * * *
Author’s Note
Now known as the Haute Route, the High-Level Route between Chamonix and Zermatt in the French and Swiss Alps was first popularized by walkers in the mid-nineteenth century. Since then, the route has altered in places as a result of glacier movement or rock fall, but in most respects the path followed by summer hikers today is similar to that taken by Alice and Elijah in 1866. The single best guide to the route as it currently exists is Chamonix-Zermatt: The Classic Walker’s Haute Route by Kev Reynolds, which provides detailed descriptions of every stage as well as alternate routes.
I loosely based Elijah’s exploits on those of two Victorian adventurers: Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton and Sir Edward Whymper. Burton is best known for his attempts to discover the source of the Nile and, later in life, for his translation of Eastern texts, among them The Arabian Nights
and the Kama Sutra. I recommend Mary S. Lovell’s A Rage to Live: A Biography of Richard & Isabel Burton to anyone looking to learn more about Sir Richard.
Edward Whymper, perhaps less familiar to most readers, was arguably the greatest of the Victorian alpinists in the golden age of alpinism that saw the first ascents of most of the highest Alpine peaks. Today, he is remembered best for taking part in the first ascent of the Matterhorn in 1865. I recommend his Scrambles Among the Alps to anyone seeking a greater understanding of alpinism in that period.
I drew my descriptions of Alice’s modified climbing attire from contemporary descriptions of the clothing worn by pioneering female alpinists such as Lucy Walker. Although women climbers in the late nineteenth century were known to wear trousers or, more commonly, divided skirts, earlier climbers such as Miss Walker rarely did, choosing instead to shorten their skirts and abandon such fashionable flourishes as crinolines and bustles.
If anyone is curious about the alpine flora painted by Alice, please visit my Pinterest boards, where I’ve pinned photographs of the flowers mentioned in Improper Arrangements. There you can also find a map of the High-Level Route as well as photographs of the magnificent views that Alice finds so entrancing.
Passion and education mix in this erotic historical romance novel that sets off The Improper Series by Juliana Ross, available now!
Improper Relations
Dorset, 1858
When Hannah’s caught watching her late husband’s cousin debauch the maid in the library, she’s mortified—but also intrigued. An unpaid companion to his aunt, she’s used to being ignored.
The black sheep of the family, Leo has nothing but his good looks and noble birth to recommend him. Hannah ought to be appalled at what she’s witnessed, but there’s something about Leo that draws her to him.
When Leo claims he can prove that women can feel desire as passionately as men, Hannah is incredulous. Her own experiences have been uninspiring. Yet she can’t bring herself to refuse his audacious proposal when he offers to tutor her in the art of lovemaking. As the tantalizing, wicked lessons continue, she begins to fear she’s losing not just her inhibitions, but her heart as well. The poorest of relations, she has nothing to offer Leo but herself. Will it be enough when their erotic education ends?
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About the Author
An editor by profession but an historian by inclination, Juliana Ross has an abiding interest in British social history that first took root when she studied at the University of Oxford. She now lives in Toronto, Canada, with her husband, young children, a cat, a dog and piles of laundry that refuse to fold themselves, no matter how much she glares at them. In her spare time she likes to cook for family and friends, make inroads into her weed patch of a garden, and read ebooks (the steamier the better) on her tablet.
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ISBN-13: 9781426897368
IMPROPER ARRANGEMENTS
Copyright © 2013 by Juliana Ross
Edited by Deborah Nemeth
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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