Art of Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 3)

by Royal, Lauren

  And he still hadn't touched her.

  Her face was raised, her cerulean eyes fastened on his. Her breath washed over him from between her parted lips. Slowly, very slowly, she licked them. "Do you want to kiss me, Griffin?"

  "I do," he said.

  But first he wanted to put his hands on her luscious derrière.

  He did that, and then he used his hands to yank her against him, and after that a fever seized him, raging in his blood. Now that he'd touched her, he had to touch her everywhere. His hands skimmed her hips, her sides, her breasts, and he was kissing her. Kissing her mouth and nipping at it, claiming her with lips and teeth and tongue. He was mad for her. He'd always been mad for her, it seemed, but now she was his, and he was going to have all of her.

  Somehow they made it to the bed and rolled there together. Somehow the wedding dress came off, and Rachael was tearing at Griffin's clothes, frantic to get her hands on bare flesh. She'd thought she'd been in control of this relationship, but something had been unleashed in the man she loved, unleashing a wildness in her, too. She wasn't surrendering herself to him, not exactly. Maybe they were surrendering to each other. It didn't signify, and she didn't care.

  She ran her hands all over him, feeling his muscles jump beneath her fingers. Then she used her lips and her tongue, tasting his skin, savoring his flavor, warm male with a hint of salt. He dragged his own mouth over every inch of her, her neck and shoulders, her breasts and belly, taking what she was furious to give.

  She'd always been destined to be with him. Realizing that now, she cursed herself for all the wasted time, all the months she'd spent suppressing her feelings, thinking of him as a cousin or a brother and concentrating on things that didn't really matter. Happy as she was to have discovered new family, the person most important to her had been by her side all that time, and she was grateful beyond belief that she'd seen the truth before it was too late.

  He was poised above her now, his intense green gaze burning into hers. What she saw there made her heart squeeze. Passion and desire, yes, but also devotion and understanding. And bountiful, beautiful love.

  "This might hurt," he whispered.

  "I don't care," she said, and she didn't. She wanted to join with him. She wanted to belong to him, and she wanted him to belong to her, pain be damned.

  She wrapped her legs around his lean, bare hips, pressing herself closer, feeling an incredible urgency where he was ready to enter her. Slowly he lowered his head, and when he kissed her, she tasted her future. A future filled with possibility and wonderful days and endless, blissful nights.

  She felt glorious, and he felt hot against her hands, against her body. His mouth felt feverish and sent a matching fever singing through her. Her world narrowed to one of pleasure and give and take, and when he finally slid home she held tight and knew she would never let go.

  ALTHOUGH SEAN'S house was but a few minutes' walk from Hampstead Heath and the High Street, Corinna found herself amazed when the curricle started up the long, serpentine drive. The property seemed in a different world, the setting idyllic, a picturesque, pastoral landscape. As they approached the classical villa, the sun was setting low on the horizon, its last rays glinting off many glossy arched windows in the creamy white building.

  "Oh," she breathed, "it's beautiful."

  "It's glad I am it pleases you, a rún."

  Sean's melodic Irish lilt went right through her, and her veins thrummed with anticipation. She snuggled against him with a happy sigh. "We're almost there. You'll be able to touch me."

  His arm tightened around her shoulders. "I'm touching you now," he pointed out.

  "Not where I want."

  "My straightforward Corinna." His low laugh rang into the night as he slid his hand down her arm, stopping at her elbow. "Here? Is this where you want me to touch you?"

  "Not quite," she breathed on a frustrated sigh.

  He slid down to her hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb on her sensitive palm. "Here, then?"

  "Sean…"

  His fingers brushed along her side and down her hip to the outside of her leg. Liquid heat pooled in her middle. "Closer?"

  "Oh, yes," she said.

  He shifted to rest his hand atop her thigh.

  "You're getting closer," she whispered. His palm felt warm through her thin dress, and at the teasing sensation her stomach did a flip-flop. "I feel like I've been waiting forever."

  His hand went to the reins as he pulled the curricle to a halt. "Well, you're going to be waiting a lot longer, críona."

  "What?" She watched him agilely leap down and come around to her side.

  "I want this night to be perfect," he said, reaching up for her. "I won't be touching you anywhere more intimate for quite a while."

  It sounded like a promise or a threat, but he had to be fooling. Knowing he wanted her as much as she wanted him, she laughed when he scooped her into his arms rather than setting her on her feet. "Put me down."

  "Oh, no," he said, striding toward the house. "They say the husband must carry the bride over the threshold to protect her from evil spirits."

  She marveled that he carried her so easily. He was so strong, so masculine, so muscular. Feeling the heat radiating from his body, she linked her arms about his neck. "Do you believe in evil spirits, Sean?"

  "I believe they're a good excuse to carry you." He pressed a warm kiss to her mouth as the door opened, revealing a portly, gray-haired servant. "Good evening to you, Simpson," Sean said, stepping inside. "This is your new mistress, Lady Corinna Delaney."

  Simpson kept an admirably straight face as he shut the door. "Welcome, my lady."

  "I'm pleased to meet you." Corinna glanced around the entrance hall, a square room with a polished wooden floor and pale blue walls trimmed in white. "Put me down, Sean."

  He didn't. "If the bedroom is ready, Simpson, I'll thank you to make yourself scarce and see that everyone else does as well." While the man walked off in one direction, he carried Corinna in another. "You'll meet the rest of the staff tomorrow, mo chroí."

  She wondered what he meant by the bedroom being ready. "We're inside now, so you can put me down."

  "I think not." Holding her close, he carried her through a dining room with blue walls and a crystal chandelier. "I'm finding I rather like carrying you."

  In truth, she rather liked being carried. No one had carried her since she was a child, and the pure romance of it made her head swim. It made her heart sing. It made the blood pump through her veins at an alarming speed.

  Sean swept her through a drawing room carpeted in blue with blue sofas. "I don't want a tour," she said breathlessly. "Just take me to your bedroom."

  "Our bedroom," he corrected in a tone deep with meaning. He carried her past a library with white columns and plush ultramarine-blue velvet chairs, and on into a small, cobalt-blue lobby. "There's another wing and two more levels you can see tomorrow."

  "I expect all of those rooms are blue, too?"

  "Except for Deirdre's. I don't know what color it is. Maybe you can tell me."

  "Not tonight," she said, thankful his sister had gone to Daniel Raleigh's house.

  "I haven't any paintings," he said apologetically as he started up a grand staircase with a blue runner. "You can buy any paintings you want and hang them wherever you'd like."

  She turned her face into his neck, inhaling his clean, soapy scent. "I don't care about paintings, Sean."

  "And everything doesn't have to stay blue. You can have the rooms repainted any colors you'd like. You can have the furniture reupholstered or buy new."

  "I don't care what color the rooms are." She was melting. His heat seemed to penetrate her skin, making her liquefy in his arms. "All I care about is you," she told him as they finally reached the master bedroom.

  Set before a huge blue-toned tapestry, the bed was covered with a plush, sapphire blue counterpane and piled with lighter blue pillows. He walked to it, laying her upon it so gently, so reverently, that
every bone in her body seemed to dissolve.

  When he stepped back, her breath caught. He was so very male, so strong and toned, so darkly handsome. He looked better than a Greek god, but even better than that, he was the best man she'd ever known.

  And she saw what he'd meant by ready. Candles flickered everywhere—on the windowsill, along the marble mantel, atop every piece of furniture—bathing the room in shadows and dancing light. Dozens of them. He must have set them about before leaving to marry her, must have instructed a servant to light them when they arrived. Like a Minerva Press hero, she thought, her heart doing a slow roll in her chest.

  "Oh, Sean," she breathed. "It's a wonderland."

  "Every bride should have a wonderland, mo chroí."

  Sean thought she was a wonder herself, a vision in a simple white dress, those brilliant blue eyes hazy with desire. His necklace glimmered silver against her skin, and he found himself staggered by the raw possessiveness he felt at the sight. He couldn't believe everything had worked out so he could have her—it seemed a miracle, and much more than he deserved.

  He planned to go slowly and savor every moment. Before he touched her where she wanted, he intended to drive them both completely senseless.

  He wanted this night to be perfect.

  He slipped off her shoes, untied her garters, drew her stockings down, a sensual slide of silk. Slowly, watching her watch him, he removed his own clothes. Slowly he lowered himself to meet her, slowly he cradled her face in his hands, slowly he kissed her. Just a taste, a slow brush of mouths before it deepened and became long and slow and languid.

  Slowly, slowly, he reminded himself, maneuvering his hands to unbutton her dress. Slowly he nudged it off a shoulder. Slowly he tasted her there, nuzzled her warm skin, breathed in her fragrance, heady and overwhelming.

  He had such a need for her, a terrible hunger that made it hard to stay gentle. Through her dress he felt every tantalizing curve. He felt her quickening, felt her trembling, flooding his senses. He would never get over the wonder that a simple man like him had been gifted with such perfection.

  I won't be touching you anywhere more intimate for quite a while, he'd said, and Corinna's husband was a man of his word. In his quest to make this night perfect, it was a very, very long time before he touched her where she wanted.

  For forever, it seemed, he just kissed her. Kissed her mouth and her cheeks and her chin, trailing down to her throat. His utter lack of urgency proved transfixing. Feeling dreamy, feeling his slow pace drizzle into her, she tilted her head back in surrender and allowed him to take her where he would.

  Sweet torture it was, sweet torment. Sliding her dress off, he teased through her chemise, rolling her over, rolling her back, searing heat following his fingers. He drew her chemise off and explored her bare skin, his hands and his mouth and his tongue going everywhere but where she wanted them most.

  Every place he touched her she felt a glow, a swath of sensation that claimed her body and robbed her mind. Murmured endearments tumbled off his tongue while his hands went between her thighs, stroking and caressing everywhere but where she wanted.

  Candlelight danced as pleasure mounted, becoming unbearable, unendurable, unbelievable. Trembling with need, she reached down to give him the same. Stroking gently, she felt steel sheathed in silk, learning the length of him and the breadth of him and imagining him inside her. A glimmer of excitement darted through her, and her hands grew bolder.

  Slow down, Sean mentally ordered as she drove him to distraction, threatening to shatter his resolve. Wanting to make this night perfect, he struggled to center himself, tried to pull back, pressing his mouth to the delicious curve where her neck met her shoulder in an effort to find calm. But the rising need raged out of his control. It had always been this way between them, and he knew it always would be, and he thought perhaps he should be thankful for that…and then he ceased thinking at all.

  The world slipped away, leaving nothing but sensation and the passion that raged between them, powerful, fierce, and violent.

  And he touched her as she'd wanted.

  A slide of fingers, a slick caress, and she was arching helplessly against him. "Here?" he whispered. "Or…here?"

  "Oh, there!" she cried as he found a spot so exquisite a skittering of heat flashed through her. "Now, Sean," she breathed, arching again. "Take me now."

  She was shimmering, she was throbbing, and he was moving over her, nudging her entrance. Wrapping her legs around him instinctively, she sucked in a breath as he slipped inside her. A tiny burst of pain went as quickly as it had arrived, leaving her astonished at the wonder of being filled, of being possessed, of being utterly one with the man she loved.

  He was hers, and she was his, and nothing had ever been so right.

  And then he moved in her, and nothing had ever been so sublime.

  She raised her hips, straining to be closer to him, and together they sought a rhythm. Together they were lost, together they found oblivion, together they soared. They caught cries of pleasure in each other's mouths and, washed in candlelight, stayed locked together while the world slid back into place.

  And it was perfect.

  THANK YOU!

  Thank you for reading The Art of Temptation! I know there are millions of books out there, and I'm honored that you decided to read one of mine. I hope you enjoyed it!

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  If you'd like to learn more about the real people, places, and events in The Art of Temptation, read on for my Author's Note...

  BONUS MATERIAL

  Author's Note

  Books by Lauren Royal

  Regency Chase Family Tree

  Excerpt from AMETHYST

  Contest

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Jewels of Historical Romance

  Contact Information

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Dear Readers,

  During the Regency, a female artist like Corinna might have had her picture accepted for the Summer Exhibition—but it's a sad truth that she probably never would have been elected to the Royal Academy of Arts. In 1768, the founding membership did include two women, Angelica Kauffmann and Mary Moser. However, ladies weren't admitted to the Royal Academy schools until 1861, and the next female Academician, Dame Laura Knight, wasn't elected until 1936.

  Although we think of art from Corinna's era as classic, it was the contemporary art of its time, and the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition is the largest contemporary art show in the world. Held every year since 1769, the Exhibition is and always has been the place to see a wide range of new work by both established and unknown living artists. Admission cost one shilling in the nineteenth century, and the exhibit has been extraordinarily popular all along. Attendance grew from 60,000 in 1780 to 390,000 by 1879. In 2006, the show drew over 150,000 visitors (including me and my family!), and more than 1,200 works were included.

  The Summer Exhibition Selection Committee members who attended Lady A's reception were the actual committee members in 1817, with the exception of Thomas Phillips. I removed him to make room for the fictional John Hamilton. I do apologize to Mr. Phillips, but I had to choose someone, and he was the man with the least biographical information to draw on.

  I
t's been said that the modern novel was born in 1740, when Samuel Richardson wrote Pamela or Virtue and Reward. A tale of frustrated sexuality, it sparked controversy that created a thirst for more of the same. As a result, reading Gothic and romance fiction became a decades-long craze. Or maybe it still is a craze…as a romance reader, what do you think?

  In about 1790, an Englishman named William Lane saw an opportunity and established Minerva Press. For a number of years, Lane dominated the novel publishing industry. Over half the popular books were printed by Minerva Press, and Lane reportedly made a fortune. According to the poet Samuel Rogers, Lane was often seen tooling around London in a splendid carriage, attended by footmen with cockades and gold-headed canes. All of the lines from books that Corinna recalls in The Art of Temptation are real quotes from Minerva Press novels that Corinna could have purchased in 1817.

  Most of the homes in my books are inspired by real places. I modeled Lincolnshire House on Devonshire House, which was designed by William Kent and served as the London residence of the Dukes of Devonshire for nearly two hundred years. Because I wanted Lord Lincolnshire to live in Berkeley Square, I turned this house around—in reality, the house fronted on Piccadilly Street and its gardens backed up to the square. Devonshire House is no longer standing, but before it was demolished in the 1920s, many of the interior furnishings were moved to Chatsworth, the duke's residence in the countryside. You can still see some of them there.

  Sean's house was inspired by Kenwood House in Hampstead. Set in an idyllic landscape beside Hampstead Heath, the house was expanded by Robert Adam between 1764 and 1779. Although Sean didn't have any paintings, the real house is a veritable gallery. Edward Cecil Guinness, brewing magnate and first Earl of Iveagh, bought Kenwood House in 1925, and when he died in 1927, he bequeathed the estate and part of his art collection to Britain. The house is open daily all year round, and if you visit you will see important paintings by many great artists including Rembrandt, Vermeer, Constable, Turner, Reynolds, and Gainsborough. I like to imagine that, with Sean's vast fortune at her disposal, Corinna might have put together such a collection!