Their chat had left an edgy restlessness humming through her. Her carriage awaited outside, the driver ready to take her wherever she pleased. If only she knew where that might be.
Diana gathered her reticule and pelisse and left the shop. The air outside was pleasantly warm, and she turned her face up to the pale May sun. It was too lovely a day to waste in simply going back to Waverly House and going over menus with the cook.
She lingered, looking in the shop windows. A glorious fan painted with swans—she could nearly imagine herself with it at some ball, laughing and dancing. Or that bracelet set with sapphires, clasped about her wrist. It was frivolous, the gems sparkling beautifully in their settings. Still, she turned away from the window. No purchase could soothe her restiveness.
She had just resolved to return home when she caught sight of a certain broad-shouldered, brown-haired gentleman striding toward her. Sparks raced through her entire body. Mr. Jameson! The loveliness of the day exploded into fiery brilliance.
He met her eyes, a smile spreading across his face as he made his way to her side.
“Viscountess.” He doffed his top hat. “It’s a fine day. Would you care to join me for a stroll in St. James’s Park?”
“That would be,” —ill-advised, besotted as she had become with him—“…delightful.”
He offered his arm and she tucked her hand through with no hesitation. She was keenly aware of the places their bodies touched, and it was difficult to resist the urge to lean too close.
They walked side-by-side down Bond Street to the park. The feel of his firmly muscled forearm was not disguised even through the layers of his coat and her glove, and she found it deliciously distracting. The rest of him seemed as toned and muscular as his arm. Diana shot him a sideways glance. His well-fitted breeches showed his thighs flexing taut with every step, and his stomach seemed perfectly flat beneath the blue silk of his waistcoat. Lucy’s words echoed through her. Passion. Delight.
The green trees of St. James’s closed over them as they entered the long promenade. A lazy pond curved to one side, insects buzzing beside the water. The day was fine, the scene peaceful, but Diana felt unbalanced and strangely giddy.
There were so many questions she dare not ask. They scalded her tongue. She wanted to know everything about him, yet was afraid the answers would spoil the perfection of the day. Where are you from? Have you a wife? A mistress? She swallowed them unspoken.
“Do you enjoy teaching the piano?” she finally asked.
He nodded, his twilight eyes regarding her. “I’m finding a great deal of satisfaction in it. Miss Samantha is a quick study, and a fine musician. As are you, my lady. Have you ever considered taking lessons on the piano?”
“Taking lessons myself?” She blinked up at him. “I have always simply sung, Mr. Jameson. That is enough for me.”
“How do you know?” His hand covered hers. “You should try something new. You might find that you like it very well.” His smile held more than a little wickedness. Goodness! Was he suggesting…
Diana dropped her gaze, hoping her blush was hidden by the fashionable plumes in her bonnet. It seemed to be an afternoon for improper conversations.
With a sudden daring, she asked, “If I were to become your pupil, when might these tutorials occur? Before or after Samantha’s lessons?”
“Not on Wednesday.” His voice was warm honey, drizzling over her senses. “My instruction would require sufficient uninterrupted time. Perhaps Thursdays.”
“Surely your other pupils would object to the change of schedule.”
The pressure of his hand over hers increased. “It’s all a matter of priority.”
They were passing a weeping willow, the leaves tender and newly green, swaying lightly in the breeze. Diana took a deep breath of the soft air to steady herself.
“I would be your priority on Thursdays?”
He stopped and gave her an intent look. “You would be my priority every day.”
Oh, it was the purest flirtation, she knew it, but still her heartbeat stumbled in giddy joy.
“Really, Mr. Jameson—”
“Call me Nicholas.” He drew her off the pathway, beneath the sheltering canopy of the willow tree.
“Nicholas.” She half-whispered it, a bold exhilaration tingling through her. “Then you must call me Diana.”
Suddenly they were not tutor and lady any longer, but only man and woman. The air between them was alive with possibility, the spaces where bodies were, and were not. And could be.
Had she had taken complete leave of her senses? She did not care. In one twist of an afternoon a gate had opened that she had thought closed forever. A pathway back to herself. Not the young widow. Not the capable stepmother, but her, Diana, who had once been full of passionate dreams.
Her senses were sharpened by an almost unbearable anticipation. Everything was magnified—the light breeze, the scent of his bergamot cologne, the sound of water quietly lapping the shore. There was something excruciatingly wonderful about knowing she was about to be kissed. He leaned forward, a smile dancing in his eyes, and she tilted her face up to him.
His mouth brushed hers, their lips meeting, parting, meeting again—like a musician sounding a note, over and over, until it was perfect. She slid her hands up to his shoulders, learning the shape of his mouth against hers.
He increased the pressure of his lips. The smooth slide of his tongue against her lower lip made sparks scatter through her, and she willingly opened her mouth to him. Nicholas dipped his tongue inside. He tasted of tea and desire, and something inside her gave way, melting like late frost before the sun.
This was no debutante’s kiss. It carried the full knowledge of how a man and a woman fit together. The plunge of his tongue into her mouth, her yielding softness—all this was part of the dance, a promise of deeper intimacies. She pressed herself closer to him, yearning spiraling out from her center.
Nicholas Jameson was a wonderful kisser.
It was more than the way he fitted his lips so perfectly over hers, or the velvety warmth of his tongue. More than the feel of his hand curving around her shoulder, the brush of his thumb over her bare collarbone. His kiss flared through her entire body.
She was aware of her toes, warm and content in her buttoned boots. Her legs, cased in silk stockings with ribbon garters above her knees. The soft cotton of her chemise where it lay against her skin. The fine silk of her drawers, heated at the juncture of her legs.
And she was aware of him. Wonderfully aware of the slight roughness of his jaw as he kissed her, the warm maleness of him as they leaned into one another, the smell of spring willows and fine wool, and arousal. His. Hers.
They kissed and kissed, and then it was over. Diana opened her eyes and smiled up at him, as though she had just woken from a perfect dream.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Diana set a smile across her face and nodded at the conversation flowing past. Oh, she should never have agreed to come to Lucy’s musicale. She had no heart for it. It had been too long—she did not know any of the current on dits and was relegated to standing awkwardly at the edges of the company.
Besides, how could she possibly be a witty conversationalist when all she could think of was Nicholas’s hands at her waist, drawing her into that intoxicating kiss?
With his talk of “piano lessons” had he truly been suggesting that they become lovers? Her pulse sped at the thought. Her sleep had been restless, her skin too sensitive ever since that kiss. Even now the slide of her petticoats against her legs sent a shiver through her. What if Nicholas touched her there—and everywhere? How would it feel to embrace without the constraints of coat and skirts, to lay together skin-to-skin? Her throat went dry with longing at the thought.
“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Lucy stood at the front of the room and clapped her hands together. “Please take your seats so the musicale may commence.”
Diana sidled to the end of the back row. Perhaps, once they put
out the lights, she could make her escape. She did not think she could bear more awkward conversation during the intermission.
The featured performer of the evening was introduced—a young harpist who was the newest musical sensation. The room darkened, and Diana let out a breath of relief. Now she could lose herself in thoughts of Nicholas. She closed her eyes as the harpist plucked the first chord.
Someone took the seat next to her, startling her from her reverie. Cloth rustled, and then the familiar scent of bergamot cologne tickled her nose. Her eyes flew open and she turned, surprise jolting through her as she glimpsed the white gleam of Nicholas’s grin. It was as if her thoughts had summoned him here.
He leaned close. “Good evening, Diana.” His breath was warm against her cheek.
“Nicholas—whatever are you doing here?”
His hand found hers in the dark, his clasp sure as he twined his naked fingers through her gloved ones. The intimacy of it made her gasp. Surely her heart was beating so loudly that everyone could hear.
“Come,” he said.
A glissando of harp notes shivered through her. What were his plans for her? What if he had no plans?
She would never know unless she went with him into the wicked shadows. For a moment fear held her in her seat. She could not, she could not…. Then he tugged gently at her hand and desire rose up in a wave and lifted her to her feet.
Nicholas drew her out of the darkened drawing room. The lamps in the hallway shed a beckoning light, their flames echoing the excitement flickering through her. No-one was there to mark their illicit departure. He led her down the hall and up a short flight of stairs, the music growing fainter behind them. Without pause, he opened a door and ushered her through.
They were in the library. Lamplight glinted on gold-lettered spines and she breathed in the scent of books and leather. And Nicholas. He closed the door, shutting out the last lilting notes. When he turned back to her his expression was intent, his grey eyes lit with desire. For her.
Diana caught her breath, heat blossoming inside her.
Without a word, he strode forward and took her in his arms. Her breasts pressed against his silver-embroidered waistcoat—softness against hardness, woman against man. Her breath swept between her lips, flavored with passion. When he bent his head, she eagerly opened her mouth.
It was as delicious as she had remembered. His tongue played against hers, sweet and hot, and she felt her fears dissolve into acceptance. A low, insistent pulse began within her, as if she were an instrument responding to his touch.
She slid her hands to his shoulders, then dropped them in frustration to tug urgently at the fingertips of her gloves. She needed to feel his bare skin beneath her palms, the planes of his cheek and jaw, the softness of his dark hair tangled between her fingers.
He helped her strip the gloves off, as hungry as she. For a moment he held them dangling in his hand and gave her a penetrating look.
She stepped forward and kissed him. By heaven, she had made her choice, and she was going to embrace it with all the long-banked fire in her soul. She tasted his laughter, and then his arms came around her and the kiss deepened.
So sweet and fierce. Embers flickered to flame, scorched to need. His palms smoothed the emerald satin of her gown and she leaned into his touch. There was no doubt he found her desirable—his body proved it, the hardness of him pressing against her center. He bunched her skirts in his hands drew them up, cool air caressing her legs.
Wordlessly, she stepped back and let him pull her gown off. Her chemise tangled in her arms, and then it, too was gone. She stood before him, naked but for her undergarments. It was outrageous, and wonderful.
“So beautiful,” he said, his eyes alight with hunger.
He stroked his hands up her sides, then covered her breasts. She sucked in a sharp breath. Little fires quivered beneath his palms, and she could feel her nipples tauten under his touch. She arched into his hands, threw her head back, and sighed. What a picture she must make, wearing only her stockings and drawers, wanton and sensual under the hands of this darkly handsome gentleman.
But he was wearing too much clothing. Her hands went to his cravat, making quick work of the elegant knot. Next, the buttons of his waistcoat, his fine linen shirt. She tugged the fabric free of his breeches and, hands trembling, pushed his shirt open. His chest was firmly muscled, a light dusting of hair tickling her fingertips as she stroked his skin.
He made a sound of longing, then pulled her to him, his chest hot and hard against hers. It was as delicious as she had imagined. Another blazing kiss, and then he stepped back. She helped him pull off his coat and shirt, then he scraped his boots off and removed his breeches.
Diana peeked between her lashes, curious and eager, then caught her breath at the sight of him. He was erect and strong, and she felt suddenly powerful, to bring him to such a rampant state.
Henry had always insisted on taking his husbandly prerogatives with the lights off, the two of them securely between the sheets. He had never made her feel like this, had never openly admired her, or told her she was beautiful. It had been pleasant enough, their marital relations, but nothing like the fire that now seared through her.
And that fire was nothing compared to the sensation that engulfed her when Nicholas took her in his arms and dipped his hand between her legs. This tempest of want scorching her to her soul—this was new. This was passion.
“Ah!” she cried as his fingers stroked and played beneath her drawers. She gripped the strong sinews of his arms—she was going to fly to bits if she did not hold tightly to him.
Nicholas withdrew his hand and she moaned in protest. With a devilish smile, he stripped off her drawers, then maneuvered her backward until her legs bumped the settee. They tumbled down together onto the gold velvet cushions and he braced himself over her, setting his member where his fingers had been. Slowly, inexorably, he pressed forward, opening her. Their gazes locked as their bodies fitted together, imperfectly at first. Then easier as he slid back, and forward again.
“Yes,” she breathed.
It was lovely and heated and, oh, she couldn’t bear how deliberately Nicholas moved in her. She caught at his shoulders and tilted her hips up, urging him to stroke deeper, faster. His breath hitched as he quickened his pace, the pulse at the side of his neck beating urgently.
More. Yes, and more, until the pressure she felt coiling inside her finally released, exploded like an errant firework to spangle her senses with light and color.
He let out a muffled shout and pulled free, spilling himself on the fine linen of his shirt. Sweat gleamed on his arms, his chest.
She let out a sigh of pleasure, her body sated, her whole being utterly, perfectly content. She brushed her fingers through his silky hair. Nicholas Jameson—masterful and tender, patient and passionate. The door to her heart swung open.
A smile illuminated his face and he brought one hand up to cup her cheek. “Now that, my Diana, was splendid indeed.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It was Wednesday.
Diana sat in the music room, waiting for the sound of the knocker to reverberate through the entry. Nicholas would be here at any moment. Anticipation fluttered all the way down to her toes.
Samantha played another run of notes, then glanced at the clock. “Perhaps Mr. Jameson has forgotten,” she said. “He has not developed the habit of coming to Waverly House.”
“Nonsense. He’s been our piano tutor for weeks now.” Diana infused her voice with certainty. “He has only been delayed twenty minutes. There could be any number of reasons for it.”
“Perhaps he has been crushed by a carriage, or—”
“Samantha, enough! I’m certain Mr. Jameson will be here momentarily.”
After the lesson, she would ask him to stay for tea. She would ask him everything, and have no fear of the answers.
He had brought music and light into Waverly House. He had coaxed her from behind her comfortable bou
ndaries and shown her what true passion was. Every day from now on would be richer because of it. She would be richer. The memory of his touches, his words, flared through her. She had never felt so beautiful.
“It’s half past the hour.” Samantha sounded glum. “He’s not coming.”
Diana bit her lip. Where was he? Anticipation curdled into apprehension. “Practice a bit more, dear. I’ll go check with the butler.” Though of course he would have shown Mr. Jameson straight in.
The heels of her boots clicked across the marble floor of the entryway. When she pulled the heavy front door open, the butler raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
The street outside was quiet. No handsome grey-eyed man striding up to her door, no cabs to be seen the entire length of the block. She stood on the threshold for several minutes, the distant clamor of London washing past her, but the street remained empty.
The butler cleared his throat, and she slowly shut the door. Head high, she re-entered the parlor.
Samantha’s expression lit. “Is he…?”
“No. Not yet.” She couldn’t help but glance at the clock. The entire hour had run. Did she mean nothing to him? An ugly sob rose in her throat.
“Mama?” Samantha sent her a concerned glance.
Diana swallowed. “I suppose something important has detained him. You may go.” She blinked rapidly against the sting of tears.
Samantha gave her a hug, then slipped out of the room. Diana bowed her head. Had she been such a fool to listen to Lucy? It had not felt that way at the time. But it seemed she had made a dreadful mistake.
She had practically seduced him. The piano tutor. He must be too embarrassed to face her, here with her stepdaughter, after what had been between them. He must despise her, think her a woman of exceedingly loose morals, to take such base liberties with her employee.
Yet he was far more to her than that. Her heart ached with lost possibilities.
They had, neither of them, promised more than a single hour of unbridled desire. Their banter about tutoring had hardly been talk of courtship, of love. If her actions had been spurred by deeper feelings, as she must now admit, what had she been to him? Only a willing female—one whom he evidently had no more use for.
The Piano Tutor - A Spicy Regency Short Story Page 2
