by Heather Boyd
Lady Warminster brushed at a pale curl, one newly escaped from her elegant coiffure. Jonathan itched to set the remaining mass free. “Not even his father behaved with such managing control,” she said.
Jonathan settled deeper into the cushions. He really didn’t want to discuss her late husband—a man many years her senior when she’d married him—or whether she missed or did not miss him. He’d rather discuss her intention to take a lover. “What is it you want, Lady Warminster?”
“To make my own choices,” she whispered.
Jonathan patted her hand. “If choosing Plimms was your choice then I fear you might need some guidance.”
Lady Warminster stared out at the sea of swirling revelers. At first, he didn’t think she’d continue their conversation, but then she took a deep breath, forcing her breasts higher in the gown. “What would you suggest?”
Perfect! Jonathan smothered a grin. “I believe you should lay down some guidelines for your lover.”
Lady Warminster turned. “Such as?”
Her pale green gaze fastened on him, kicking his pulse higher. He could sense the reaction sliding over his skin. To hide his unsettled state, he shifted in his chair and offered a lopsided grin. “Well, if it were me, I’d pick clean as a first condition.”
She blinked and looked about them, discreetly checking that they were not being overheard. “And is that easy to discern?”
Her delicate hand landed on the cushion beside his thigh. Just one more inch and she’d have touched him. “Not always. That’s why I’m offering my insights. Gentlemen do gossip.” Jonathan shifted his leg until the material of his dark breeches brushed her fingers.
Lady Warminster withdrew her hand. “Ah, I had surmised as much already. Warminster’s tongue is hinged in the middle.” She focused on the dance floor again. “Tell me about the men here.”
Eager for an excuse to touch her again, he climbed to his feet then held out his hand. “Let’s walk for a bit. We’re drawing attention.”
As Lady Warminster slipped her small gloved hand in his, Jonathan tugged her to her feet. They were mere inches apart when her gaze rose to meet his, but he managed to behave and hold out his arm. The temptation to act improperly grew as she licked her lips before curling her arm about his. He guided her through the ballroom, away from her friends’ curious glances.
When they arrived at a less crowded spot, Jonathan leaned close to her again. “I assume you also want a man of considerable skill to, ah—” he searched for the right word—“dance with you?”
“That is what I hope,” she whispered.
Her timid admission dragged another bubbling laugh from his chest. “That should be the whole point. Hmm, there are few suitable gentlemen to choose from at your son’s house party. But there are men here who would pleasure you in a chamber lit to brilliance and still proclaim you the brightest star.”
At Lady Warminster’s shocked gasp, Jonathan drew her out onto the terrace where darkness hid her embarrassment from any witnesses. “Or would you prefer the comfort of darkness for your daring escapade?”
He drew closer, slid the tips of his fingers along her arm, over the thin strip of skin exposed to the night between her glove and gown to gauge her reaction. Lady Warminster shuddered, her hitched breath loud in the dark night. Unfortunately, his body reacted too. Her velvet skin stirred a hunger in him that he strove to control. “You prefer the darkness, I see.” Lady Warminster didn’t answer, but she didn’t draw away from his fingers. Jonathan smiled and continued to caress her. “Darkness can be delightful too.”
“You’re trying to make me feel better. How very like you.” Her wine-sweet breath brushed his jaw, and Jonathan’s pulse hammered erratically through his body.
“I aim to please.” Reluctantly, Jonathan increased the space between them so anyone stumbling onto the terrace wouldn’t suspect their conversation as anything but polite chatter between friends. He also needed time to master his body before he was fit to be seen. “So, clean, skilled in the bedroom, and not adverse to a clandestine tryst. Is there anything else you want from your lover, madam?”
“Yes, absolute discretion. I don’t want anyone else to hear of it.”
CHAPTER TWO
Lord Selwood’s sigh rattled Phoebe’s strained composure. She was already pushing the boundaries of propriety enough to discuss such a personal matter with her stepson’s bachelor friend. The young man must be positively scandalized to hear an older woman, such as herself, speak of taking a lover. But there was something in Selwood’s manner that set her mind at ease and encouraged her to share confidences. Lord Selwood couldn’t be more different than her stepson.
Where Warminster frittered and gossiped about everything, Selwood held his tongue. Unfortunately, Selwood’s physical presence had quite the wrong effect on her nerves. She’d never met a man—and a much younger man at that—who rattled her senses the way he did. One glance from his dark eyes made her long for the intimacies of the bedchamber, no matter her location.
Luckily, Selwood had no idea how she struggled to keep her composure around him. It simply could not be decent for a woman her age to stir with lust for a man so many years younger.
“Secrecy makes your desire a little harder to accommodate. But not impossible.” Selwood glanced about them. “There is one particular gentleman who should be agreeable and willing to meet with you. I assume you’d like something arranged for this evening?”
Phoebe let out the breath she’d held. Despite how wicked the conversation, she was somewhat excited. At least Selwood didn’t consider her desire impossible. How had she thought to encourage a man—the right man—without his insights? “Thank you.”
The young man’s gaze burned with a strange intensity but then he glanced away, shuffling restlessly on his feet. “We should return to the ballroom soon, but are you certain you want such a secretive arrangement? You might never discover whom I send to you.”
“I trust you.” And she did. Of all Warminster’s friends, Lord Selwood’s serious nature set her mind at ease. His friendly presence, his obvious esteem had proven she placed her trust in the right gentleman. It was simply her problem to hide that she desired him.
Selwood offered a little bow. “I’m honored.”
Despite the pleasant civility, Phoebe chuckled.
Selwood offered his usual boyish grin before escorting her inside the ballroom. Many an eye turned in their direction, speculative glances followed them, an old lady on a young man’s arm. Her cheeks heated at the image they must present. She hoped no one ever guessed she lusted for the man at her side. She’d be beyond mortified.
Selwood remained with her when they rejoined her friends, participating in a lively discussion on furnishings that would have bored any other man to tears. The other matrons—pleased to have a young, handsome man join their circle—flirted with him shamelessly. Selwood flattered her friends’ outrageously in return, casting sidelong glances at her when she laughed at her friends blushes. Phoebe found those little looks and flirtatious remarks more than a little disconcerting, yet she couldn’t find the nerve to join in. After a while, Selwood took his leave, wishing them all a pleasant evening.
As he departed, Phoebe followed his retreat. Selwood’s dark form cut a wide path through the gaudily dressed gentlemen in attendance. She let her gaze stray lower, admiring the movement of his muscular thighs encased in dark silk. An unwise wish flittered through her mind. Phoebe cursed her foolishness under her breath as Lord Selwood departed the ballroom with a spring in his step, no doubt eager to find someone younger to charm.
Once his dark head disappeared from sight, anticipation and anxiety clawed at her belly. Could she really go through with this? Could she really make love to a mystery gentleman this very evening?
The gentlemen about her—some wearing more finery than she—didn’t really appeal. Yet she wasn’t acquainted with every man here tonight. Selwood must have someone particular in mind for her midnight rende
zvous.
A trilling laugh grated over Phoebe’s senses as her stepson entered the ballroom with Lady Jocelyn Clifford hanging on his arm. Wonderful. Warminster could parade his future wife on his arm openly before his friends, yet she couldn’t attempt to engage in a clandestine tryst herself without him alerting his oldest friend.
When Warminster became detained in conversation with a somewhat dull-witted acquaintance, Lady Jocelyn approached her, all shy smiles and clinging hands.
“Lady Warminster,” Lady Jocelyn gushed. “You are positively radiant tonight.”
“You are too, my dear. Peach brings out the blue of your eyes.”
Lady Jocelyn bounced on her toes. “Mamma said it was perfect for this evening, and I do agree with her. Yet I wondered if my blue silk might have pleased Lord Warminster more. Did I make the correct choice? I do think you will have the right of it.”
Phoebe recoiled from the girl’s simpering. Would her stepson really tie himself to this brainless, indecisive chit?
Luckily, Warminster’s approach saved her from further conversation.
“Ah, Lady Warminster,” her stepson began, “how are you enjoying the evening?”
“Very well, Warminster. I am amply entertained.” Phoebe glanced about the ballroom. Despite her irritation with him for inflicting Lady Jocelyn on her daily, and sending his friend to spy on her behavior, she would not cause a scene. She had to play along with his charade of worthless fop until the last guest departed. But that moment couldn’t come soon enough. “The evening has been a delight. You must be proud that all your efforts have borne fruit.”
“Yes, my party is an unqualified success.” Warminster chuckled, glancing down at Lady Jocelyn with a smile. Then he leaned closer. “People shall talk of this house party for many years to come. And not because of some petulant, tawdry affair either.”
At the superior glance Warminster cast at her, Phoebe decided she would open her bedchamber door to whatever gentleman Selwood sent her tonight. Yet she affected a laugh as if she agreed with her stepson.
“Have you seen Selwood?”
Given that both Warminster and Lady Jocelyn asked the same question at once, Phoebe felt certain she could be forgiven for gaping. She glanced between them and noticed discomfort on both sides. “I’m unsure. He left the ballroom a short time ago.”
Warminster smiled at the news.
A frown creased Lady Jocelyn’s brow. She sidled up to Warminster. “Is he avoiding me?” she whispered.
“Of course he isn’t, my dear.” Warminster captured her arm. “I’m sure he’s simply been detained by conversation elsewhere.”
Lady Jocelyn glanced about, a hopeful expression lighting her features. Why would she be so keen to become better acquainted with Lord Selwood when she had Warminster dangling on her arm?
Phoebe stood between the pair for sometime while they remained silent. Quite discomforted by the lack of conversation, she excused herself. Yet she couldn’t shake the idea that Lady Jocelyn had designs on Selwood too. She already had Warminster eating from the palm of her dainty hand. If she set her sights on Lord Selwood, they could be at each other’s throats.
The two men—now both twenty-two—had been great friends since childhood.
A woman shouldn’t come between them.
When Phoebe eventually retired, she was a bundle of nervous energy. She changed for bed, dismissed the maid then turned to extinguish the candles. But her hands shook as she snuffed each flame until she stood in the weak illumination from the fire.
She stared at the glowing embers a long time before picking up her pitcher of water to douse them. If she saw who came to her bed tonight, she feared she’d never go through with the endeavor. Selwood appeared to be correct: she’d be uncomfortable seeing her lover’s face. Darkness definitely appealed.
Once the room harbored nothing but shadows Phoebe stumbled to the bed, slipped from her nightgown, and settled against the carved headboard to wait. After a few minutes, her door creaked open. A spill of light brightened the chamber briefly, and she caught sight of a tall form entering her room. The floorboards groaned as the man came closer, fabric slithered in the dark, and then the foot of the bed dipped.
“Enchantée, ma belle.”
A Frenchman? Phoebe wracked her brain for his identity. There had been none on Warminster’s list that she could remember. Phoebe inched up the bed.
“Do not be afraid, S’il vous plait. Your Lord Selwood ‘as sent me for your pleasure.”
Although surprised Selwood had sent a Frenchman to her bed, the stranger’s cultured accent reassured her. Phoebe relaxed and moved her legs from the sitting position she was in towards her midnight guest.
After a brief slither of sound, he captured one foot. “You ‘ave such délicat toes. Perfection.”
The stranger pressed a kiss to the tip of her big toe. Then another, and another. When he surrounded her toe with the warmth of his mouth and sucked, Phoebe gasped. No one had ever touched her feet before with such reverence. To her surprise, she liked her mysterious Frenchman so far. When he released her toe, he did not stop kissing. He bathed her whole foot in soft kisses. Some—like the ones pressed into the arch with more pressure—made her squirm. When he released her right foot altogether it was so he could turn his attention to her left.
The Frenchman’s hot breath rasped over her senses and when he was done he raised her leg. Phoebe gasped as he perched her calf on his hot, bare shoulder. Shocked that her lover might be completely naked already, Phoebe wriggled higher up the bed.
“‘Ave you ‘ad a change of ‘eart, ma belle?” Her Frenchman stilled, but his churning breath rang loud in the room.
“No,” she whispered. “Not at all. I like this very much.”
“Dieu merci!”
The fervent exclamation drove a laugh from her lips. She didn’t want this french stranger to go, she’d just been surprised to find him as naked as she. At least her first foray into scandalous pleasure would be quick.
The skin under her leg shifted as he continued to kiss a path up her inner thigh. “If only I could see you, ma belle.”
Given the way the Frenchman had her arranged, Phoebe was grateful for the blanketing darkness. She couldn’t have borne this pose in the light.
Her Frenchman shifted again, dragging her other leg onto his other shoulder so her feet rested on his back, her knees open wide. A breath of air brushed her curls. Phoebe tensed, anticipation lifting her hips restlessly. The Frenchman dragged in a deep, loud breath, and then his lips touched her inner thigh, high up where her leg joined her body. That kiss wasn’t where she’d expected it to be. She’d expected he’d go straight to her nub first, but he took his time, pressing light kisses around her lower lips, teasing but not fulfilling her wish for more.
Phoebe crossed her ankles behind his head and nudged him forward.
Her reward—resistance and a deep laugh. “We ‘ave all night, ma belle. I want to feast on you the way you deserve. Slowly—” he pressed a kiss low down, next to the entrance to her body—“and with reverence. You deserve nothing less.”
Phoebe shuddered, her body rippling with pleasure at the slow loving her Frenchman lavished on her. She was in the hands of a master of seduction. His words set her body aflame. As the urge to beg for him to finish filled her mouth, she pressed her head harder against the pillow, determined to control her impatience.
As if sensing her capitulation, the Frenchman slid a warm hand under her bottom and tilted her hips. His waiting, hot mouth dragged a long moan from her lungs at the brief touch against her skin and she buried her hands in the sheets to rein in her need for more.
Warmth flooded her senses, and then the unmistakable brush of a wet tongue. The Frenchman parted her lips with his talented mouth, sliding upwards to briefly touch her nub before retreating. Phoebe would die. He did it again, repeating that soft touch so often that she growled aloud at the incompleteness she felt. Another chuckle, and then he applied fir
mer pressure.
To her relief, he moved higher to her nub. At the sensation of suction, Phoebe curled up from the mattress to hold her lover’s head firmly in place. The soft, silky hair threaded through her fingers was long enough to grip. Phoebe tightened her hold as he ate at her greedily, laving with his tongue, sucking hard on the nub then biting gently on her lower lips.
The furious assault on her senses pushed her dangerously close to the edge. She clutched his hair tight, pulling his face harder against her need. The edge loomed. She was going to come right now. Any moment. She burst to—
The Frenchman removed his lips, and pushed her knees apart. “Non. Do not rush, mon amour. We ‘ave all night for pleasure.”
Phoebe panted. “No!” She’d been so close.
Her lover wriggled from her clutching hands and turned her to her side, wedging his thigh between hers as he slid in behind. He captured her restless hands. In this position Phoebe couldn’t even clench her thighs together to finish what he’d started.
Frustrated by his dominance, by the withheld release just moments away, Phoebe ground her backside into his lap. The hard ridge of his erection burned her skin, and a warning growl rumbled behind her.
“I never would ‘ave imagined you so impatient.”
Soft kisses caressed the apple of her shoulder, hands smoothed over her thigh as Phoebe struggled to get her breathing under control. She glanced over her shoulder but, given how dark she’d made her own chamber, she couldn’t discern who held her. “Bossy Frenchman.”
Lips pressed to her turned cheek and then another growl rumbled through her lover. The Frenchman dragged Phoebe to her hands and knees then moved in close behind. Something heavy, hot and eager settled into the crease of her bottom. Phoebe eagerly widened her stance and tilted her hips to better receive him.
But as before, her lover wouldn’t rush. Her hips were grasped gently, thumbs kneading her lower back in slow circles, as he rubbed his erection into the crease. Blast it all, this man would torture her forever. She needed more than torture. She needed release. Phoebe shifted her weight to one hand and moved the other between her legs to build her desire once more.
