by Sahara Kelly
It had been the most amazingly erotic experience of his entire life.
He dropped light kisses on the shivering woman in his arms and gently eased her bodice back into place, sighing as her breasts with their now-softened nipples disappeared beneath the gold silk.
He cupped her face, and spoke the first words that came into his mind.
“Marry me, Abby.”
Chapter 5
Philip’s words acted on Abby like a douche of ice-cold water, and she dropped her rumpled skirts to the floor.
“No. No. A thousand times no.”
Her body, of course, screamed yes, yes, anytime. Right now would be good, in fact.
She stiffened under his gaze, watching as he refastened his breeches, a look of puzzlement on his face.
“Why not? There is great pleasure to be had for both of us, Abigail,” he said gently.
“That’s why not, Philip. You called me “Abby”. Several times in fact. And I called you Philip, and you never batted an eyelash. You knew I wasn’t under any kind of mesmeric spell, yet you used it as an excuse to get me in here.”
Her conscience rose up and shook a finger at her. Hadn’t she done the very same thing?
She blushed. “And yes, I did the same thing.” Her conscience nodded approvingly. “I wouldn’t have let you…um…all right, encouraged you to do those things if I hadn’t wanted to. But…”
“But?” he asked, crossing the small distance between them.
“But,” she said firmly, backing away and holding out a hand to stave him off. She couldn’t let him touch her again. That way led to trouble. Very nice trouble, but still trouble.
“I’m not looking for a husband. And even if I was, there would need to be more than just a few moments of…intimate contact.”
“Oh there is more, Abigail. Much more. Hours, if not days, of intimate contact.”
Abby’s eyes crossed at his sensual purr, and it took a few moments to get her thoughts back onto their original track.
“Be that as it may. The fact remains that I don’t know you, Philip Ashton. The real you. The person behind the hands, and the lips and the…” She waved her hand at his breeches. “I am not looking for a husband.”
“You repeat yourself. Perhaps you should ask yourself who you’re trying to convince.”
Abby gritted her teeth. “I would like to go home now.”
Philip’s expression hardened and he refastened his shirt. “Oh, I see. You’ve had your fun at the expense of the country bumpkin, and decided the eccentric Philip Ashton is not good enough for Miss Abigail Foxworth?”
“That’s not it at all. You misunderstand.”
Philip’s eyes held hers, fire flashing from their depths. “Really? What am I to think? You come in here of your own accord, let me bring you pleasure, respond wildly, wildly—make no mistake—and then turn down my quite respectable offer of marriage. What the hell am I supposed to think?”
He frowned now, an angry twist to his lips. “Or am I out-of-date in town ways? Is this what you do with any man who catches your interest?”
Abby crossed the room in two strides and swung her arm, landing a solid slap across his face.
She gasped at herself. Never had she let go of her emotions like that before.
The imprint of her palm reddened his cheek.
He backed away, a blend of confusion and pain in his eyes.
Abby was horrified at herself, and choked back a sob. “I…I think I’d best leave.”
“I’ll see you to your carriage.”
The words were abrupt and tore at her already-shattered heart.
Before she knew it, she was tucked into Lady Rachel’s carriage and looking out the window at Philip, who stood in the doorway watching her depart.
She leaned back against the squabs as the horses picked up their gait and carried her away from him.
From the first man who had ever touched her soul.
The tears gathered in her eyes and fell unchecked down her cheeks as she felt the stickiness between her thighs and the ache around her heart.
She could never marry Philip Ashton. It would be much too easy to fall in love with him.
If she hadn’t already.
* * * * *
“You look like you could use a brandy,” said an amused voice behind Philip as he slowly shut the door on the night.
His breath whooshed out of his lungs. “I’m not the best company right now, Rach,” he growled.
His sister giggled. “My goodness, she made an impression, didn’t she?” Her glance took in his disheveled clothing and the fading mark on his face. “Of more than one kind, too.”
He glared at her.
Rachel took pity on him. “Come on, big brother. Let’s share a drink—if you promise not to tell George on me, I’ll have one as well.”
She tucked her arm through Philip’s and led him firmly into her small parlor, where a book lay open on a desk and a fire burned merrily.
“Were you waiting up for me, Rachel?” he grunted accusingly.
“Of course. I had to make sure that Miss Foxworth got home safely. I did promise her aunt that I would, you know.”
Rachel crossed to a sideboard and fussed with the decanter, pouring two healthy glasses of brandy and passing one over to her brother.
His mind rambled as he swirled the amber liquid around in his glass and let the fumes seep up his nose into his muddled brain.
“I asked her to marry me, Rach,” he said quietly.
Rachel hissed a breath out through her lips. “You did?”
“Yes. She turned me down flat.”
Rachel chewed that comment over for a few moments, sipping her drink and settling herself more comfortably into her chair. “Did she tell you why?”
“Some nonsense about not looking for a husband. About not knowing me, as if after what we’d done…” He stopped short, realizing that those things were best not spoken to his sister.
“Philip.” Rachel sat up in her chair. “You didn’t—you didn’t deflower her, did you?”
Philip snorted. “I’m starting to wonder if she’s got any flower left.” He gazed moodily into his glass. “She was fire in my arms, Rach. Burning, seething fire. Then suddenly, she’s a proper miss, telling me she doesn’t know me well enough and turning my honorable proposal of marriage down like it was a load of yesterday’s fish.”
Rachel suppressed a snicker. “Reeeally.” The word drawled from her smiling mouth.
Philip rose and paced the room. “Yes, really. I’ve never touched…um…I’ve never ki…damn it, Rach, you know what I’m trying to say here. Something special happened between the two of us in your study tonight, and apparently it meant more to me than it did her.”
He frowned mightily.
“Oh, I doubt it, brother. I really doubt it.”
He glanced up at her. “Why? She allowed me the liberty of taking her in my arms, of—of—kissing her, and—stuff, and then she marches out of here when I make the obvious suggestion. What else am I supposed to think?”
He was whining. He knew it, and he couldn’t stop himself.
He raised his glass to his lips and caught a hint of the scent of Abby’s body that still lingered on his hand.
He shuddered all over again as he recalled her coming apart as she reached her peak.
He let the feelings sweep through him, closing his eyes against the still-aroused fierceness of his desire for the brazen goddess who’d succumbed so willingly to his touch.
And his mouth, and his hands.
He sat down abruptly, as his cock stirred once more at the memory.
Rachel was watching him. “How much do you know about Abigail Foxworth?”
He raised his head. “More than I’d care to share with you, sister mine.” His lips curved slightly.
“Not that way,” snorted Rachel. “I mean, how much do you know about her?”
Philip shook his head. “I only met her tonight, you know that. I’ve neve
r even heard her name before. And yes, before you say it, it’s because I’m buried in the country. I know, I know. Consider the nagging discussed and done with, will you? I’m just not in the mood.”
Philip glared at his glass, chastising himself for his rudeness. But if one couldn’t be rude to one’s sister, who could one be rude to?
“Hmm.” The sound purred from Rachel, who was looking at him rather smugly over the top of her brandy. “Well, dear brother mine, perhaps you should know a little more about your intended wife.”
“Hah.”
In spite of his snort, Philip’s ears pricked up and he gave in to Rachel’s tempting statement. “So what don’t I know?”
Rachel grinned. Oh God, he was going to pay for this.
* * * * *
It was a somber and tearstained Abigail that quietly slipped into the Foxworth mansion under cover of the darkness. Fortunately, her aunt had not yet returned from her evening’s entertainments, so there was no one to see Abby as she carefully mounted the stairs and sought the sanctuary of her room.
It took but a moment to shed the golden gown and reach for the pitcher of water her maid always left for her.
She’d long ago told her maid not to wait up for her. It was unfair to have the poor woman sit through the dull hours of the night only to rise again at daybreak the next day, and truthfully Abby liked the time alone.
She doused the cloth with the cool water and slipped it over the drying stickiness that still rested between her thighs.
The touch of the cloth against her tissues was heaven and hell. It reminded her of the soft wetness of Philip’s mouth as he’d caressed her there, and done such wonderful things to her. She’d never imagined that a man would love her with his mouth like that, or that her whole body would go up in flames when he did.
She sighed, a long shuddering breath, as she rinsed away the last residue of his seed, and her own juices.
Her nightgown was cold and her bed empty.
Her heart, however, was neither.
She slipped between the sheets and lay her head down on her pillow, trying to restore her usual aplomb from the comforting familiarity of her own room, her own belongings, her own smell.
But tonight, it was impossible.
She inhaled and could only sense the fragrance of Philip Ashton. Something musky, with a hint of vanilla perhaps, and very male. She closed her eyes, only to have a vision of his wonderful blue and gold irises glittering around inky black pupils, blazing as he’d touched her and brought her to fulfillment.
Without conscious thought, her hand slipped between her thighs and she touched herself there, the place he’d found that was so sensitive, so aware, and so damned ready for the touch of his lips.
She shivered once more at the memory.
He’d asked her to marry him. Those words had stunned and terrified her, even as she still shook from the force of the emotions he’d aroused in her.
Her hand moved gently but firmly over her mound, and she pulled her nightgown up and away, freeing her body to the touch of her own hand.
It felt strange, daring, forbidden and yet exciting. Not as good as Philip’s mouth, but combined with the memories dancing in her head, enough to once again bring forth a moisture from her body.
Her hand moved of its own volition, seeking out those places that had yielded such an explosive response. Why had she never realized that lovemaking could be so incredibly wonderful?
Her breasts ached, and she turned onto her back, tossing modesty to the winds.
She slid her nightgown all the way up to beneath her chin and brazenly stroked her breasts, finding the nipples hardening again beneath her fingers.
It was lust. Plain and simple lust. It had to be.
She’d been awakened to her body’s responses, and she was now exploring them. All it had taken was the touch of a man’s body.
So why hadn’t it happened before?
Why hadn’t any of the men who’d kissed her before made her want to bare herself and plaster herself against them, like a quivering, desperate, lust-filled wanton?
Why had Sir Philip Ashton been the one to rouse the hidden passions inside her?
The thought of Philip made her even wetter, and she found herself panting now, as her hand slid faster and faster over her swollen flesh and her fingers tugged and pinched at her own nipples.
A tingle tightened her buttocks, her muscles trembled and a gasp hovered on her lips.
Once more, an explosion took place inside Abigail Foxworth. She sobbed and moaned with the pleasure of it, body writhing and legs clenching on her own hand as she rode out the waves of orgasm.
Relaxing at last, Abby slid her nightgown back down, and turned over on her side, nestling her face into her pillow and sighing.
It was no good. Her hand was no substitute for his. Her fingers were no substitute for his lips and his tongue.
She had learned a great deal from his lecture and little of it had to do with Mesmerism.
She had learned that she could respond wildly to a touch, desire a man beyond belief, and reach an orgasm without taking his cock inside her.
She trembled.
She’d also learned that she had a heart. And it was aching horribly because she’d had to turn him down. She could not conceive of doing anything else.
Hot tears fell into her pillow as Abby tried to hide from her sorrows in sleep.
Chapter 6
The following morning brought rare sunshine, cool breezes and soft scudding clouds over London, and the usual parade of floral tributes to Foxworth House.
Abigail, however, was nowhere near as bright-eyed as the bouquets that arrived in a steady stream. In fact, as her Grandmama acidly remarked, she looked like death-warmed-over.
“Little too much to drink last night, gel?”
Abby raised her head from her teacup and glanced at the old woman across the breakfast table. She managed a rueful grin. “No, just a hard time sleeping. Probably too many lobster patties.”
The Dowager’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm. Usually when a healthy young woman has a hard time sleeping, there’s a man involved.”
Abby fought to contain the color she felt sweeping up to her cheeks.
Thankfully, the butler chose that moment to enter, with yet another bouquet of flowers.
Abby glanced at the card and waved him away with a sigh.
“Still a much sought-after young miss, ain’t you?”
“Oh Grandmama, it’s such a…a…bloody nuisance,” sighed Abigail.
Grandmama snorted. “Pah, gel. Let them worship you. It’s only the ones who’ll touch your heart you need be interested in. And it doesn’t sound like there’s many of those yet, hmm?”
“Only one, Grandmama. Only one.” Abby’s whisper was almost lost as the long-suffering butler reentered, bearing yet another tissue-wrapped package.
This one, however, was not an enormously colorful arrangement of flowers presented fashionably by some local florist.
With a slight frown, Abby unrolled the tissue, curious now about this unusual offering.
Inside lay a single rose. Brilliant flares of orange and pink dazzled her eyes, and the fragrance was lush and overwhelming. The stem was carefully wrapped and tied with a glittering golden ribbon.
Abby touched it carefully with her finger. “How beautiful,” she murmured, entranced by the unusual bloom.
“My,” said the Dowager. “Someone knows his flowers. “
Abby paid no attention, having reached for the sealed letter which accompanied the rose.
She read its contents silently and leaned back, the lace on her gown rising and falling more rapidly than the arrival of a mere rose should warrant.
“Dear Abigail,
Forgive me. I moved too fast last night. Will you give us a chance to get to know each other? To find out more about how we think, what ideas we share? Let me make amends for my behavior?
I do hope so. I shall take the liberty of calling at Foxwo
rth House at eleven, in the hopes that I may persuade you to drive with me today.
Please say yes, Abby. It’s my dearest wish to spend time with you, but if the answer is ‘no’, I shall do my best to respect it. Just send the message back with the delivery boy, and I shall return to the country. Alone. And lonely.
Yrs, Philip
P.S. The rose reminded me of you.”
“Well,” said the Dowager. “Sounds like this Philip fellow might be an interesting companion.”
Abby gasped and snatched the note back from her grandmother, but too late to prevent her from reading it.
“Grandmama. How could you? That was private.” Abby felt her cheeks color and couldn’t quite meet her grandmother’s knowing gaze.
“Sweetheart,” said the old woman. “Some things are certainly private. But my old eyes tell me that you’re far from happy this morning. I want to know why, and this…” she nodded at the note, “gives me a pretty big clue.”
Abigail pushed back from the table in the small breakfast salon and did what she always did when uncomfortable. She paced.
“It’s from Sir Philip Ashton, Grandmama. I met him last night. He’s the one who gave the demonstration and lecture on Mesmerism at Lady Rachel Greenhough’s.”
“Ah,” answered her grandmother, settling in her chair and patiently waiting.
“Ah what?” said Abby, twisting her fingers as she walked.
“Ah as in he’s the man who’s got your corsets in a knot this morning, is he?”
“No. Yes. Perhaps, I don’t know.”
“Excellent,” grinned the Dowager wickedly.
“Excellent? Excellent? It’s no such thing,” retorted Abby. “The man’s a dull and boring scientist. He lives permanently in the country messing about with scientific things, according to his sister.”
“Ah,” said her grandmother again.
“You’re repeating yourself, Grandmama,” said Abby dryly.
“And I’ll do so for as long as I choose, miss, until you say something useful, and stop spouting silliness.”
“Silliness? What silliness? What do you want me to say?”
