Damnable man.
How could he do that to her so easily, especially when he’d just put clothes on her rather than taking them off?
As for him, an upward glance showed him looking calm, as if he’d just been discussing the weather with her rather than brazenly fondling her breasts.
Perhaps, for him, such acts had little meaning. But for a woman . . . for her . . . it meant more.
He would be her first, her only. And when he finally took her to his bed, she needed it to mean more.
“Shall we, my dear?” he asked, offering his arm.
She stared at his coat sleeve for a moment, then accepted.
Chapter 15
Esme ate sparingly despite the excellent quality of the food; she was too worried about the night to come to really enjoy the meal.
Mrs. Canby had worked miracles, particularly considering the limited amount of time and ingredients at her disposal. Yet somehow she had put a delicious meal on the table consisting of a piping-hot cream of potato soup with bits of browned onion and black pepper, slices of fine local cheese, cured ham and crusty fresh bread. She’d even managed to whip up an apple tart with brandied whipped cream to finish.
Not wishing to injure the older woman’s feelings, Esme had made an effort to try some of everything—everything, that is, except the ham.
“Is that all you’re eating?” Northcote said, pointing a fork toward her plate when he noticed her lack of appetite. “Here, have some ham.”
“No, thank you,” she said.
“Why not? It’s delicious. Or don’t you like ham?”
“Actually no. I do not eat meat.”
He stilled. “What do you mean, you don’t eat meat? Everyone eats meat.”
“I don’t. I find it repugnant.” She forced herself to swallow a spoonful of soup; it really was delicious.
He studied her for a moment. “This is because of all your furry creatures, I suppose? You don’t like eating the little friends you’ve just rescued.”
“Well, of course I don’t. I would be the most dreadful hypocrite otherwise, don’t you think? But before you grow alarmed, you needn’t worry. I don’t expect you to give up the consumption of animal flesh. Everyone in the family eats meat and I gave up trying to change their minds long, long ago.”
“Animal flesh, hmm? I suppose that’s an accurate way to describe it.” He cut a piece of ham, put in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Delectable.”
He smiled.
She applied herself to her soup.
“At least eat some of that cheese,” he urged a minute later. “You do eat cheese, I presume?”
“Yes. Cheese, milk and eggs, just not the animals who produce them. I have been known to eat the occasional clam or mussel, but I always feel rather guilty afterward, so I generally refrain.”
“Well, you’d better let Mrs. Canby know. She’s probably planning to stock up on dead beasts at the market tomorrow and slaughter any of our chickens who have recently quit laying.”
Esme set down her spoon. “I most certainly hope not. I shall tell her directly.”
She made to stand up, but Northcote reached out a hand to stop her. “Sit. There’s plenty of time to discuss the menu planning tomorrow. And I’ll mention your aversion to the Canbys tomorrow so there is no misunderstanding.”
“You would do that? When people find out about my dietary preferences, most of them think I’m either peculiar or overly softhearted.”
He leaned back in his chair, nursing his glass of wine. “Well, there’s no doubt you have a very soft heart, but there’s nothing wrong with that. As for being peculiar, I’ll reserve judgment for now.”
A laugh escaped her and, without even realizing, she relaxed a little for the first time in days.
She ate more soup and a small slice of cheese before he coaxed her to try the apple tart. It was as divine as the rest of the meal.
He refilled her glass of wine and they sat for a time in a silence that was almost companionable. Her weariness returned, her eyelids beginning to droop as a wave of sleepiness washed over her.
She came abruptly awake to the touch of his hand against the back of hers. Gently, he slid her wineglass out of harm’s way. “Why don’t you go upstairs? I’ll join you in a bit.”
Her eyelids popped wide, her sleepiness vanishing in an instant.
“Mrs. Canby will attend you.” He picked up the brandy snifter at his elbow and swirled the amber liquor inside the glass.
When had he gotten that? Just how long was I asleep?
She searched for some excuse, anything to postpone her return upstairs. But nothing useful came to mind. She supposed her efforts to delay were over.
They were alone.
With a fine tremor of nerves running through her, she stood and left the room.
Mrs. Canby was waiting for her when she entered her bedchamber. Burr was there as well, wagging happily as he came forward for a pet, which she gladly bent to bestow.
The older woman greeted her with a cheerful smile. She began chatting in a quiet, pleasant voice as she helped Esme change into the nightgown and robe that had been laid out across the bed.
While the housekeeper hung her gown inside the wardrobe next to the other dresses the servant had unpacked earlier, Esme moved to the washbasin. Carefully, she bathed her face and hands, then brushed her teeth with a mint tooth powder that left her mouth tingling and fresh.
And then there was nothing left to do but go to bed.
Esme stared at the smooth, clean sheets and coverlet that had been invitingly turned back but made no move to climb in.
Mrs. Canby extinguished all but one branch of candles, wished her good night and went to seek her own rest. Burr circled, then settled down on a rug near the fireplace and closed his eyes.
She considered inviting him to join her in bed but decided not to chance it. Not that she thought Lord Northcote would be mean to the dog, but he would surely be displeased to find his side of the bed occupied by the animal.
Her stomach jittered, her skin crawling with anxiety.
Don’t be so nervous, she told herself as she cupped her hands underneath her elbows and hugged her arms to her chest. It isn’t as if he is some despicable fiend or repulsive toad.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
Northcote—although she supposed she really ought to start calling him Gabriel since he would soon be sharing her bed—Gabriel was everything a man should be.
Attractive, intelligent, urbane.
Sexual and sophisticated, with a depth of experience she couldn’t even begin to fathom. Surely, he must like his sex in the normal way, whatever that might be. Then again, based on some of the rumors she’d heard . . .
A fresh tremor went through her and she hugged her chest tighter.
What would he expect of her? What if he grew impatient with her inexperience? What if she couldn’t give him the things he desired?
She’d seen stallions covering mares, witnessed the frenzied power, the near violence of their coupling. Surely it wouldn’t be like that?
Closing her eyes, she thought of his kisses.
She liked his kisses. More than liked them actually.
And his caresses . . .
Those were wonderful despite his unsettling boldness.
Her body warmed at the memories.
Maybe she was worrying needlessly. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
Hurrying forward before she could change her mind, she jumped into the bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Lying flat on her back, body rigid, she waited for him to come.
• • •
More than an hour after Esme left the dining room, Gabriel finished the last of his brandy and made his way up the stairs.
The house was dark except for the candle he carried.
&nbs
p; He listened to the silence, punctuated only by the sounds of the sea and the gentle brush of the wind against the windows and eaves.
He hadn’t brought a valet with him; he could do for himself here in the countryside. Entering the bedroom next to Esme’s, he set down his candle, then stripped off his clothes. He washed, brushed his teeth and shaved, then put on a robe and slippers and let himself out into the hall.
Esme lay in bed, the covers pulled so high he couldn’t tell if she was awake or asleep. Her long hair trailed over her pillow like a dark river. She didn’t move or acknowledge him in any way.
Asleep, he guessed, holding back a sigh.
Her dog Burr thumped his tail in greeting, however, and briefly lifted his head from where he lay curled near the soothing warmth of the fire.
Gabriel crossed to stroke his head. Burr closed his eyes with pleasure and settled back to resume his doggy dreams.
After blowing out all but one candle in the branch of candles on her dressing table, Gabriel carried his own light over to the bed. He set it down on the end table, then turned, his hands going to the belt on his robe.
She lay staring at him, her eyes as wide as those of a doe who’d just sighted a hunter.
“So you are awake,” he said casually, letting his hands fall to his sides. “You were so still I figured you’d drifted off.”
“No,” she whispered, her voice pitched high.
He studied her, abruptly aware how young she was—not even twenty—and how innocent. It was easy to forget what it was like the first time. His own first time seemed like centuries ago.
At fourteen, he’d been seduced by the wife of one of his uncle’s friends when the couple had come to visit that summer. He’d awakened one night to find her in his bed, her lips wrapped around his cock. By the time he’d gone back to school that autumn, he’d had little innocence left. Since then, he’d grown increasingly jaded, memories of the boy he’d once been dim and difficult to recall. Yet tonight, some lingering remnants resurfaced, along with an uncharacteristic compassion for Esme’s virginal fears.
He sat down on the bed, facing her. “You needn’t look so distressed. I’m not going to pounce on you, you know.”
She didn’t seem reassured. “What are you going to do?”
“Well, I keep hoping I’ll get to make love to my wife, but we can talk for a while, if you’d rather.”
Her forehead creased. “You want to talk? Now?”
He shrugged, a long, slow roll of his shoulders, as if they had all the time in the world. “Certainly. What would you care to discuss?”
She shrugged back, clearly at a loss.
“Hmm. What about fashion?” he suggested. “Most women love talking about fashion.”
Her lips twitched as though she found the idea of him discussing fashion amusing. Wouldn’t she be surprised to learn that he knew rather a lot about women’s attire? He’d bought enough gowns for his lovers over the years that he’d picked up quite a bit of knowledge concerning fabrics, styles and all manner of feminine furbelows.
She shook her head again. “My apologies, but the latest fashions are more my sister’s realm. Not that I don’t like pretty clothes. I do. But I’ve never been the sort who waits anxiously for the latest issue of La Belle Assemblée to arrive, then spends the next two weeks rhapsodizing over all the new dresses I want to order.”
His gaze lingered on her, imagining the body she was hiding beneath the covers—dressing it and undressing it. “I suppose I ought to count myself lucky, having a wife who won’t run up outrageous bills at the mantua-makers.”
A tiny smile curved her mouth. “I believe you are safe in that regard.”
“But I’ll bet not when it comes to art supplies. I suspect you spend a king’s ransom on pencils, paints and paper. Oh, and canvas, of course. You paint as well as sketch, do you not?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Oils or watercolors?”
A warm light brightened her eyes, her body relaxing subtly beneath the bedclothes as her thoughts moved off into pleasant territory.
“Both. Though I enjoy oil painting more since it’s so much more forgiving. And the range of colors is so vast with oils. You can paint any shade in the rainbow so long as you’ve the right primary colors and a good palette knife.”
“I’ve always admired people who are possessed of genuine artistic talent, such as yourself. I have no abilities in that regard myself, which is why I collect art rather than create it.”
She hooked a finger over the edge of the bed linens and traced the edge of the sheet. “Yes, I’ve heard about your collection.”
“Have you, now? And what exactly were you told?”
“They say you buy whatever takes your fancy, a few old masters, such as Vermeer and Raphael, and some newer artists like Constable and Turner, but that . . .”
“Yes,” he prompted when her words slowed. “Go on.”
Color slid into her cheeks, a glorious dusting of pink that was visible even in the low light. Her lashes fanned downward as she looked away. “Someone said you have an extensive collection of erotic art, nudes and bacchanalia and such.”
A slow smile moved over his lips. “That ‘someone’ wouldn’t happen to be your twin brothers, would it? You see, I rarely show my collection to anyone, and then only to a select group.”
Her eyes flashed up to meet his. “They weren’t boasting or gossiping, if that is what you’re implying. I overheard them one day, months ago at Braebourne. I am always interested in art, and when they mentioned Raphael, well, I . . .”
“Couldn’t resist,” he finished. “Of course you could not.”
He fell silent, waiting for her to start relaxing again before he continued.
“Now, as for the erotic works in my collection, nudes and bacchanalia and such,” he said, quoting her, “what would you know of such things?” He leaned closer. “Although, forgive me, my dear, for forgetting that nudes are a specialty of yours.”
“No, they are not,” she said defensively, making no attempt to misunderstand his reference to her sketch of him. “I’d never drawn anyone unclothed before that day at the lake, and certainly not a man. It’s just that you looked so . . . so . . .”
“Yes? How did I look?”
But rather than answer, she shut her eyes and shook her head.
“Forgive me again, my dear. I should not tease. It was very wrong of me. Here, I meant to put you at your ease but instead I’ve got you closed up against me again like a pretty little clam.”
He stroked a finger over her cheek and watched the color rise once more beneath her skin.
“Or are you an oyster, hiding your pearls?” He slid his finger across her other cheek, then along her throat. She swallowed convulsively as he moved lower, his fingertip moving in a leisurely downward slide.
“Perhaps I can make it up to you.” Bending, he dusted a kiss against her cheek, one side and the other. Then he continued on, planting a line of unhurried kisses against the skin he’d just stroked with his finger.
He heard her breathing quicken and smiled as he pressed his mouth into the curve of her throat. He licked her there in a tiny circle, savoring the fragrant taste of her skin and enjoying the hard beat of her pulse where it throbbed erratically nearby.
He suckled there, sure he would leave his mark.
Before this night was through, he planned to leave his mark all over her. But first things first.
Sliding his finger onward, he found the top button on her nightgown. She tensed as he slipped it free with the aid of his thumb. He moved to the other side of her neck and began suckling anew.
Her legs shifted beneath the sheets, her pulse beating wildly.
He opened two more buttons in quick succession, then moved on to a fourth.
Leaving the honeyed haven of her throat, he began kis
sing his way downward across her breastbone, where a sliver of her skin lay exposed between the open edges of her nightgown. He paused when he reached the place between her breasts just above her diaphragm. Without warning, he ran the tip of his tongue back up the flesh he’d kissed only moments earlier, leaving a wet trail in its wake.
Then he blew in a long line and heard her gasp and shiver.
“I wonder what pearls I might find awaiting me now,” he murmured, as he looked up and into her eyes. They were dark and lambent, her lids heavy with a surfeit of sensation.
Slipping a hand underneath the left side of her nightgown, he cupped her breast and discovered what he sought. Just as he’d hoped, her nipple was round and firm, drawn up like a bead. He flicked it, then flicked it again, watching the heat rise in her cheeks as she caught her lower lip between her teeth and sighed.
Deciding she was ready for more, he rubbed the tender peak between his thumb and forefinger, gradually increasing the pressure until she let out another little cry.
Abruptly, he pushed back the material of her nightgown with both hands and worked it down her shoulders and onto her arms. He wedged the cloth, buttons straining so that her arms were trapped against her sides, her naked breasts fully exposed to his view.
“Ah, look,” he said. “A second pearl. I am showered with a wealth of delights.”
And before she could react, he bent to feast on her, fondling one breast while he opened his mouth over the other and began to lick and suckle.
• • •
Esme arched uncontrollably, her body on fire, awash in waves of need and delight.
Ah gods, the pleasure. It was indescribable, more intense than any pleasure she’d ever experienced before.
A part of her knew she should be shocked, that she ought to be cringing with dismay at the brazenly intimate things he was doing to her body. But exactly like his other kisses, this new variety was something she could not seem to resist. Everything he did to her felt too good, far too wonderful to even consider telling him to stop.
His teeth scraped against her nipple and she arched again, pressing her breast more fully into his mouth, as if she were begging for more. He smiled, then complied, suckling with more force before he gave her aching nipple the slightest little nip.
Happily Bedded Bliss: The Rakes of Cavendish Square Page 16
