by Clee, Adele
It would not be a sacrifice; he was going to have to marry eventually. Why not Sophie Beaufort? He liked her, found her intriguing, interesting, and her passionate nature was more than a match for his own.
The memory of her examining Madame Labelle’s erotic engravings, of her panting and writhing in his lap, caused another stab of lustful desire. Of course, he expected such feelings to fade once his insatiable thirst for her had been quenched.
Mrs. Cox rushed to greet them in the hall, straightening her apron and cap as though she had just woken from a nap. “Will you be wanting anything from the kitchen, my lord?” she asked failing to suppress a yawn.
“Nothing for me, Mrs. Cox,” he replied, presenting her with his usual charming smile. The feel of Miss Beaufort’s soft thighs wrapped around him was the only thing he needed. “I believe I am in desperate need of my bed. What about you, Miss Beaufort? Can Mrs. Cox be of service or are you as eager as I to get to bed?”
Miss Beaufort smiled and her raised brow, showing amusement at his mischievous remarks. “If it is not too much trouble, I would love a glass of syllabub.” She stepped closer and touched Mrs. Cox affectionately on the arm. “But would you mind if I took it up to my room? You see, like Lord Danesfield, I too can think of nothing other than tumbling into bed. Yet, the thought of tasting something sweet is just too tempting an offer to pass.”
My God. For a woman of little experience, she was extremely skilled in the art of titillation, Sebastian thought. Had it not been for Mrs. Cox, he’d have said he would like to taste something sweet in his mouth too, and it wouldn’t be syllabub.
“I shall have Amy bring it right up,” Mrs. Cox replied.
“There’s no need. You may send Amy off to bed as I will not require her services tonight.” She waved her hand over the front of her clothes. ‘I shall follow you to the kitchen and then you must get yourself off to bed, too.”
Miss Beaufort was obviously determined to test his patience.
He watched them walk off down the hall before she stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Good night, Lord Danesfield,” she said softly. Her gaze swept over him: a look that made him feel as though she had stripped him of his clothes and was pleased with what she saw.
“Good night, Miss Beaufort,” he replied, refusing to allow the smallest spark of disappointment show.
He waited until she was out of sight before climbing the stairs to his chamber.
Once inside, he took the candle from the side table and lit the wall sconce. He removed his coat, waistcoat, and cravat and draped them over the back of the chair, which he casually dropped into in order to remove his boots.
Whilst visiting Labelles had proved to be fruitful and had given him plenty to consider, he could not seem to focus on anything other than his delectable guest.
No one had ever captured his interest to this degree.
Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he couldn’t predict her mood. She had shocked him when she’d thrown herself into his lap. So what the hell was she doing eating blasted syllabub when she should be in bed with him?
Perhaps he should go to her room and simply knock the door. But what would he say?
He relaxed back in the chair and closed his eyes, indifferent to the fact he was creasing his clothes. But even in the darkness, she was still there, straddling his lap, thrusting soft mounds of creamy flesh at him as the tip of her tongue traced her lips.
Bloody hell!
He stood abruptly and dragged his hand down his face in a bid to quell his raging desire. Perhaps she just enjoyed teasing him. Perhaps she’d thought on the matter and decided he was not worth the effort. Or more to the point, not worth her virtue.
How could he argue with that?
Pulling his shirt over his head, he stomped over to the washbowl and thrust his hands into the cool water, splashing it over his face and arms, yet it provided little relief. Perhaps he should secure a betrothal before seducing her, he thought, removing the rest of his clothes and climbing in between the cold sheets.
He laughed as he remembered something James Beaufort had said about trying to trap lightning in a bottle. He had a strange feeling securing a betrothal from Miss Beaufort would be even more difficult.
He was still awake when he heard the gentle tap on the door, but she did not wait for a response before entering. Feigning sleep, he watched her through half-closed eyes as she stepped inside and gently closed the door. She stood motionless for a moment, her back pressed against the jamb, her slow, deep breaths audible.
She came closer, her eyes drifting over his bare chest and he took the opportunity to study her.
Her ebony hair hung in loose waves and although it was much shorter than he preferred, there was something alluring about the way it danced upon her shoulders. He had no idea what she was wearing for she had wrapped a red plaid blanket around her shoulders like a cloak. Her eyes roamed back up towards his face and he noticed she was biting down on her lower lip. Guilt gently pricked his conscience, but he was far too intrigued to open his eyes fully. It was then that the blanket slipped from her shoulders, sinking to the floor in a pool around her feet.
He had died and gone to heaven.
It was either that or he was lying in his bed at the complete mercy of an angel.
Like a scene to rival any of Madame Labelle’s erotic paintings, she stood in a thin chemise, the outline of her curves visible, yet muted by the soft candlelight. He almost groaned in appreciation, but his mouth was dry, every muscle in his body taut with anticipation. When she stretched out her hand and let her fingers glide over the muscles in his chest, he stopped breathing. When they trailed down over the muscles in his abdomen to the sheet straddling his hips, his blood pumped through his veins at so rapid a rate he thought he may lose consciousness. He had never been so hard in his life.
No other woman had ever aroused his passions to this degree. No other woman had ever seduced him, mind, body, and soul.
As her fingers skimmed the edge of the sheet, he could no longer restrain himself. “You could have at least woken me so I may participate,” he said softly, his tone betraying his arousal. “Or are you simply hell-bent on pleasurable torture?”
She jumped back, her hand shooting up to her mouth to smother a gasp and when she eventually lowered it, he was greeted by the tips of two perfect nipples protruding through the fine fabric. He closed his eyes with a low, guttural groan.
“I wasn’t sure … I didn’t know if …” she stuttered.
One did not often find an innocent in the guise of a wicked temptress, one who sought to secure her own ravishment.
“I thought you’d changed your mind,” he sighed.
“I … I thought you might come to my room.”
“It would be unwise for me to be seen entering your room.”
Oblivious to the effect her undergarment was having on him, she placed her hands on her hips, drawing his attention to the dark shadow at the apex of her thighs. Unable to control his eager body, he threw back the sheets and jumped out of bed to stand in front of her.
Her eyes widened at the sight of his jutting manhood. “You’re naked,” she gasped.
“Obviously,” he grinned. “Isn’t that why you were peeking under the sheets?” He stepped closer and his hands settled on her waist. “As much as I find your chemise utterly enthralling,” he said, grasping the material and bunching at her hips. “I believe I would prefer to see it lying on the floor.” In one swift movement, he lifted the item up over her head and threw it over his shoulder.
She stood before him, wearing nothing but the finery of her birth – and how fine it was, he thought, as he took a moment to appreciate her creamy-white skin, her soft, round breasts, the delicate flare of her hips. Noticing her flushed complexion he raised his hand and cupped her cheek.
“You are beyond beautiful, Sophie,” he whispered. “But if you are not ready for this. If you do not wish …”
He noticed her finger t
remble when she placed it to his lips to silence him. “This is what I choose,” she said. Standing on the tips of her toes, she kissed him on the mouth in a slow, deliberate exploration that alluded to something deeper than physical desire.
“You cannot possibly know how much I want you,” he whispered, his body aching with need.
“Then perhaps you had better show me.”
Powerless to resist such an enticing invitation, he crushed her to his chest, felt her shudder as his throbbing erection pressed against her stomach. Her hands came around to rest on his back. The tentative touch of her fingers on his skin sent a shiver through his body, and he took her mouth in a desperate frenzy. Mere seconds later their kiss became a frantic mix of panting, breathless moans, and urgent hands scrambling over bare skin in a bid to find any place that would bring relief to the craving that consumed them.
He could not get enough of her.
The need to mate with her, the need to thrust himself inside her, engulfed him almost to the point of no return. Yet, somewhere in the depths of his mind he remembered she had never been with a man before and he did not want so hasty a coupling to dampen her passion for him. He wanted her to ache for him, to feel a hunger that could never be sated. So he drew upon years of practiced skill and tore his lips from hers.
“We should take it a little slower,” he panted.
She stared up at him, desire sparkling in her bright blue eyes.
“Come,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her down onto the bed. “Let me show you how much I want you.”
She went with him without saying a word. Her eyes locked with his in a look that spoke of longing, of lust and of something else — trust. The thought rocked him to his core. He would not disappoint her; she would never regret giving herself to him.
He lay on his side next to her, took a strand of ebony hair and let it fall gently through his fingers. As he leaned over her and placed a soft, tender kiss on her swollen lips, they parted on a sigh. He planted kisses along her jaw and down her neck, cupped her breast and traced around the pretty pink nipples until they hardened beneath his touch. Moving down, he took one in his mouth, his tongue flicking over the peak and she arched instinctively to meet him, her hands coming up around his neck, her fingers grasping his hair in an attempt to press herself more fully against his mouth.
It took every ounce of strength he could muster, not to bury himself inside her, there and then.
In a bid to prolong the moment, he let his fingers glide over her stomach, delving lower until he reached the dark, silken curls between her thighs. As his tongue flicked back and forth over her nipple, his fingers, in slow rhythmical movements, massaged the soft, damp flesh of her womanhood.
“Dane … I …” she panted.
Writhing in his arms, she moaned and panted, then she grasped his hair and guided him back up to her mouth. Their mouths met with a burst of unbridled passion, hot and wet, tangled tongues and guttural groans. Try as he might he could not slacken the raging fever coursing through his veins. Whenever he inhaled, he could smell her womanly scent; stimulating his senses, surrounding him, drawing him deeper and deeper into an abyss.
“I need to taste you,” he growled, breaking the kiss to move between her thighs.
“Dane,” she gasped.
The sound of his name falling from her lips, spurred him on. He did not give her a chance to protest, for his mouth found her with an urgency he could not control, and with the first circle and flick of his tongue she was writhing beneath him once again.
God, she was so sweet.
When she thrust her hips up to meet him, he quickened his pace. He devoured her, matching every soft whimper with a gentle suck and flick until her breath became ragged and she dug her nails into his shoulders, shuddering as she found her release.
The whole world shattered into a million sparkling pieces. Everything she knew, everything she thought, everything she felt had just been obliterated in a moment of overwhelming bliss.
Yet somehow it still was not enough.
She wanted more from him.
She stared at the man who had brought her such pleasure, at the man she had chosen to be her one and only lover. The seductive grin playing at the corners of his mouth conveyed a confidence in his ability to satisfy.
As though hearing her silent plea, he moved above her with panther-like grace: a slow, languorous prowl that made her pulse race and her inner muscles contract. Feeling the warmth radiate from his broad chest as he hovered over her, she raised her hands to caress the hard planes.
“You are magnificent,” she sighed, conveying what was in her heart without thought or censor.
His low chuckle held a hint of embarrassment. “I was just thinking the same about you,” he replied.
The heat in his eyes caused her heart to flutter. As she lowered her gaze, she noticed the thin scar running from his shoulder and across his chest, slicing through the dusting of dark hair. Raising her hand, she traced the smooth line with the soft pad of her finger and felt his body shudder in response. Her mind became flooded with various images: of a jilted lover exacting her revenge, of him being discovered in the arms of another gentleman’s wife.
As though sensing her disquiet he moved to her side, took her hand and brought it to his lips, placing light kisses across the tops of her fingers.
“It is nothing,” he whispered, taking the tip of her finger into his mouth, his tongue circling it before he pursed his lips and sucked gently, sending shivers sweeping through her body.
Suddenly, all thoughts became incoherent, disjointed, until all she could think about was the pleasure he gave her. With her free hand, she cupped the back of his neck and pulled him to lie on top of her, pouring every passionate emotion she had ever felt for him into a kiss that quickly became desperate and urgent.
With his knee, she felt him coax her legs further apart, felt the delicious weight of his hot body, felt the hard length of him nudge against her. He pulled away and she felt the loss like an empty void opening in the pit of her stomach. Until he took her nipple into his mouth once more, simultaneously pressing against her until she became so desperate for the feel of him that she clutched his firm buttocks and thrust herself against him.
“I’m sorry,” he panted, “but I simply cannot wait a moment longer.’’
“Please … please hurry,” she begged, not really understanding what it was she was pleading for.
Needing no further inducement, he entered her and she shifted slightly to accustom herself to the intrusion. How she loved the feel of his body against hers: large, warm, commanding. Instinctively, on the next slow thrust, she wrapped her legs around him, relishing in his groan of appreciation as the movement caused him to slide deeper.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, claiming her mouth with pure carnal lust. She was so lost in the dizzying heights of her own desire, it took a moment for her to feel the sharp pain as he gave one long, powerful thrust to bury himself completely. He stilled, as though not wanting to add to her discomfort, but the searing pain was soon forgotten, replaced with a stirring of deep emotion she did not expect.
She was joined with him in the most intimate, most sacred of acts, spread beneath him in wanton abandon, with a man she swore she would never show her vulnerability to again. And yet, she was not sorry. As he began to move, she closed her eyes: a moment to treasure the memory as her body hugged the thick length of him.
When she looked up, he was staring at her and with each slow rhythmical thrust those sinful brown eyes caressed her, as though to see into her soul increased his sense of pleasure. He rolled his hips as he drove deeper, rode harder. The tension built within until she was so tightly strung her body cried out for release. Aching in anticipation, her frantic hands clutched at the taut muscles in his back, grabbed his buttocks and urged him on.
“My God, you’re incredible,” he groaned between breathless pants.
“Dane,” she cried as an intense feeling of ecstasy r
ippled like warm waves through her body, leaving her shuddering and convulsing beneath him.
In the distance she heard his roar of satisfaction, felt the warmth of his body as he collapsed on top of her. He rolled onto his back, wrapped his arm around her and pulled her closer, his heart pounding beneath her hand as she placed it on his chest.
“Is it always like this?” she asked dreamily.
He wrapped his arms more tightly around her and kissed the top of her head. “Never as good as this,” he whispered.
Chapter 16
Madame Labelle was relaxing in her hip bath in front of the fire when the mantle clock chimed five.
She breathed a sigh of relief when the heaving and banging above stairs finally ceased, for they had been far more rowdy than usual. The young blood obviously had something to prove; else his friends were running a book on who could groan the loudest. Poor Beth would need considerably more for breakfast, she thought, as she scooped up a rose petal from the water and caressed it between her fingers.
For some reason, her thoughts were drawn to Mr. Shandy: a thornless flower of grace and beauty, whose strength was of the heart, not the fist. A woman to be admired and respected, a woman she could have been had her parents lived, and she’d remained in the pretty Sussex village. In some other life, where things were not tainted and corrupt, they may have even been friends.
The loud rap on the door did not startle her. There was nothing that could shock or surprise anymore. Indeed, when she opened the door to discover that the Comte de Dampierre requested her presence in her private drawing room, the only thought she concealed was disdain.
With no time to change, she threw on her dowdy nightgown and covered it with a silk wrapper then brushed her golden hair so it hung over her shoulder. As she placed the brush back on the table, her gaze fell to the small bible: a fragment of her other life. Her father had always said it was not for us to question the hand of the Lord. The path to enlightenment reveals itself to all in due course.
