“Perhaps a small token.” He reached forward to raise a curl between them, caressing the lock of hair between his thumb and forefinger. “Something to remind me I haven’t drunk too much liquor and imagined this little nighttime escapade.”
She almost laughed. How was it he read her thoughts, peered into her heart and realized her secrets? “Of course.”
He bent to his left boot and removed a dagger that quickly caught the firelight on its blade. Her breath snagged, realizing late she’d been far too trusting and more than foolish. Perhaps her father was right of mind to secure her a future where she would never be tempted by wanton adventure. This remembrance prodded her to act, mindful of the scarcity of her time in Brighton. While she considered this, he sliced through the crimson ribbon at her collar, removing the length to twist tight with a strip of leather meant for his hair. He tucked it into his pocket, the gesture confusing and…intimately romantic.
Sudden heat consumed her. She must be too close to the fire. Again, she caught the scent of his shaving soap and breathed deep, wanting to keep the memory. She watched his face in the enveloping silence, his smoldering gaze, golden brown, fixed as if she were his only focus, as if he memorized her somehow, etching a permanent picture or wishing to divine her intentions. Indeed, this man likely gained anything he wished for. He exuded confidence and strength—a man who conquered those around him, allowing little disruption, akin to a captain who commanded his crew and the high seas.
The crack and sizzle of fresh wood in the hearth overrode the sound of raindrops on the roof. Perhaps the weather cleared at last. The breath-robbing realization that she’d no longer have an excuse to stay cozied in this cottage took hold. A ridiculous, addled thought. What was she about anyway, every thought a contradiction?
A hot spike of desire reminded her that she sought a kiss this evening. Her eyes dropped to his lips, full and sensual, crafted by the devil for kissing and seduction, and she grasped hold of her adventure with both hands, her fists clenched in her skirt with determined vehemence.
“I, too, have a request.” Her voice sounded unlike her own. Who was this bold woman who dared ask for kisses?
“I will escort you home. There is no need—”
She stayed him with a raised hand, her now steady palm lowered flat to rest on his chest, the linen against her fingertips soft and damp, the muscles beneath hard and smooth.
“I want a kiss.” Her voice almost quavered. In an unexpected twist of circumstances, she swore she saw his eyes widen before his puzzled expression transformed into one of assured complacency. When she spoke, he placed a fingertip over her mouth to stall her words. He tugged softly on her bottom lip, dragging his touch to trace over the fullness to the arch of her upper lip and delicately across her skin, down again, the subtle pressure of his caress resonating through her body instead of solely where they connected.
He swept his palms across her cheeks, brushed his knuckles down her neck and rested his palms on her shoulders. His hands were firm, possessive, and at once her body responded, full-knowing every action beyond this point was new territory, long wished for and much desired.
The warmth of his exhalation against her temple signaled he’d stepped closer, yet his hands still rested against her nape as if waiting for her to bolt, measuring whether she’d change her mind and scurry from his clutches. There was no chance of that.
She didn’t know his name and didn’t need to. She hadn’t planned on this kiss, but she wanted it nonetheless. Nothing could remove her from this moment. It was the one lifeline she’d treasure when her future changed altogether.
A kiss? Kellaway knew women. All kinds. And although the young miss in front of him had a bolder approach than the trussed-up ladies in London, he could easily decipher she was out of her depth. And scared. She trembled beneath his touch and it wasn’t from his intimate attentions. He had no doubt he could bring her to such a point, but that wasn’t important. At least not now.
She appeared too innocent to be accustomed to the predicament of requesting a kiss from a man, gathering the affection as one might collect rare coins or decorative salt spoons. He’d have much preferred to participate in the first kiss of her life, but why would he deserve the right? He’d kissed a shameful amount of females in his lifetime. Debutantes and virgins excluded, and rightly so.
Her expression shifted to one of discomfort. Gone was the valiant confidence, replaced by a glimmer of panic in her eyes, her mouth pressed tight as if she suffered from a debilitating bout of collywobbles. He almost laughed. Best be done with her request quickly.
The rain subsided, a noticeable hush enveloping the cottage as the patter of a light drizzle tiptoed across the roof, the perfect weather for tarrying in bed. He should grant her the boon and see her home otherwise he’d be tempted to invite her to his chambers, as even the weather conspired with his lust.
Unsettled by her reaction, he searched her face for any clue as to why she would wish to proposition a complete stranger, but Lord, desire won out. This was no time for intelligent deliberation.
He took her mouth with anxious intent, unwilling to allow doubt or some other emotion to change her mind before he tasted her lips and discovered her flavor. How much could a man endure? At first sight of her in the moonlight his body had reacted. The drenched image of her now, wet and gleaming from the sudden rain, convinced him he wanted to devour her more than anything else.
He held her firmly, his mouth sealed to hers, unable to pull away, somewhat bewitched and bedeviled. Somehow the controlled favor he meant to deliver quickly unraveled into something else altogether…an unknown entity, a spell of pleasure. He had no explanation other than he wished it would never to stop, whatever it was. This kiss proved life wasn’t all regret and resentment; it assured a sliver of hope prevailed. He’d gone overlong without genuine affection and, somehow, this kiss offered the very comfort absent in his soul.
Yet too soon the carnal physicality of her soft curves chased away unexpected notions. Lust reigned.
His hands settled at the slope of her waist, his thumbs pressed against the soft underside of her breasts. His muscles tensed. A rush of heat flooded his veins and his cock grew hard. Without thought, he pulled her against his length, relishing her gasp. Her lips parted, stunned by the strong demand of his desire and he used her subtle surprise as his entry to taste. His tongue found hers—timid at first, so he rubbed and twined in an invitation to pleasure. She hesitated, one heartbeat, two, before she acquiesced and the leash on his desire snapped. He licked across her bottom lip before his tongue plunged inside her hot wet mouth, sliding with sensual friction against her tongue, boldly meeting his stroke with one of her own.
This was fragile bliss. That rare phenomenon believed only by the foolish or otherwise affirmed. Kismet: he’d heard it whispered in Arabia, a force beyond anyone’s control, an enlightenment elusive and precious, unlike anything he’d experienced in his jaded twenty-nine years.
He slid his hands down her arms and across her ribs to lock her closer. His mouth broke free to allow a singular chance to object, the thought of stopping an aching impossibility. Instead her head tipped back in surrender, exposing a tender length of neck inviting his attention, her skin smooth as expensive silk. He didn’t refuse and traced kisses across her jaw, nipping her chin in his hurry to her nape. Her breath rushed out and he inhaled her scent, his lips hot against the pulse below her ear.
He was caught in some unfathomable spell, all equilibrium lost, and simultaneously driven to continue. One word pounded relentlessly in his brain. More. More. More. But she hadn’t asked for more. Hadn’t offered. He’d be every kind of libertine society believed if he pressed the lady. If he ground his groin against her sweet curves or fondled her lush bosom…if he lowered her neckline and rubbed his thumb across her tight nipples…if he flicked his tongue there next.
What the hell was wrong with him? What happened to his control?
He jerked back as if knifed in
the heart, the motion enough to jar loose the peculiar sensation in his brain, similar to a muted joy or otherworldly effect experienced as one fell into a dream. He was a man of vast life experience. He’d never been caught so off guard or unprotected.
He searched the lady’s face for any sign she’d encountered the same. Her slim brows were pulled together in a troubled vee—a reflection of the curious stunned silence stretched between them. Yet his pulse, and worse, his raging erection, ceased to calm and he turned toward the hearth to prod at the burning wood and present a façade of necessary fire tending.
God’s teeth, he should leave, ride straight to a brothel and cure this irrational reaction. The idea provoked humor more than rational thought. In Brighton, he knew little relief other than the most hospitable serving miss at the local town tavern. And that was more habit than anything else.
Perhaps upon morning he’d summon one of his mistresses to visit. Damn Bitters for complaining about his company and damn himself for taking heed. Inhaling deeply and exhaling in measure, he willed his body to relax, the turnaround fueled more by anger and frustration than unrelenting desire. He stood, smoothing his palms down the legs of his breeches, fully aware he remained with his back to the lady, but the action served a dual purpose. No doubt, she needed a few composing moments to recover her dignity in kind.
Aiming for sangfroid, he pivoted; a practiced smile in place, but the room stood empty, the door slightly ajar. His grin dropped away. It mattered little how long he’d bent near the fire trying to order his thoughts and begging his body to calm. The lady had disappeared as if she’d never existed.
A hearty chuckle forced his shock to fade. Had he met his match—a mermaid who possessed the elusive cunning of a pirating rogue? She’d slipped from his grasp, yet confidence assured him the situation remained temporary. Their meeting again was as inevitable as the ocean and sky married on the horizon.
Chapter Six
Angelica woke the next morning, swiftly left bed, and padded to the washstand to splash cold water on her face. It was a dream, most certainly. She hadn’t kissed a devastatingly handsome man, composed of solid muscle and irresistible charm. She hadn’t allowed his arms to wrap around her nor had she nestled closer to his very hard body. She gasped and sputtered, water trickling into her mouth to bring with it a rush of similar circumstance, the rain pebbling her face last night, her heartbeat thrumming an erratic rhythm in kind to her fists against his back as he carried her across the beach. Surely, it was a dream. Otherwise the truth that she’d allowed a stranger to fondle her, kiss her, to rub his tongue against her—
She grabbed the towel from the stand and pressed it to her face with fierce pressure, biting into the linen as if to prove she was awake, alive, and in clear reason. She dropped the cloth soon after, discarding it to the floor without a care, and shot her chin upward to view her reflection in the oval cheval glass hanging on the wall.
She looked much as she always did. She leaned the slightest bit closer. Nothing appeared amiss, aside from faint violet shadows under her eyes, evidence of lack of sleep and reckless midnight jaunts. She bent to retrieve the towel, ordering the room as she would order her thoughts, and her gaze fell to her day gown crumpled in a heap near the corner of the bed. Lifting the garment by the shoulders, she held it at arm’s length, her scrutiny honed to the collar where only one crimson ribbon dangled, the other sliced clean.
A disquieting flutter echoed within her stomach. She’d known all along last night had been real, but here was proof she couldn’t deny, confirmation of her wanton adventure. After hanging the gown on a wall hook, she perched on the corner of the mattress, her arm wrapped around the thick bedpost as if it were a supportive friend. Her temple rested against the wood. She closed her eyes and summoned the memory that had carried her into sleep the night before.
She had promised herself an adventure and she’d found one on the beach. The pirate’s kiss had been nothing she’d expected and something she’d never forget, and it lived within her still. Oh, she’d fled the groundskeeper’s cottage thinking to abandon the consuming heat of passion found in the pirate’s arms, but running had not extinguished the incredible pleasure and overflow of emotion. The kiss ruined her for any future her father had planned, but that was the point wasn’t it? To capture a moment and cherish a memory. She hadn’t intended to permit the tall stranger such intimacy, but wrapped tight in an unexplainable nuance of circumstance, she’d allowed it and didn’t regret it now.
With a long sigh, she smiled and rose to ready for the day. What time was it anyway? Sunlight danced through the narrow gap of the drapery. The single window allowed an abundance of light only to have the curtains confine and narrow the offering. An apt example of before and after, a glaring reminder that soon her life would change.
She glanced to the small clock on her three-drawer chest and noted it was almost noon. Good heavens, she’d become a slugabed. It didn’t matter she’d returned home in the wee hours, hurrying down the length of beach and up the short trail to her grandmother’s cottage. She’d only stumbled twice in the dark as she brought herself home, safe if one could consider her conflicted heart and mind of that category.
Thank God no one had discovered her late-night strolls. Grandmother would never excuse blatant careless behavior, no matter that they shared the same impish spirit. This crossed the line. Adventurous or not, she’d be concerned for her granddaughter’s safety, and how could Angelica argue with sound reasoning? Her father? Well that didn’t bear exploring. He’d have her shipped to a convent before she could gather her slippers and bonnet. Banishment. The word brought with it a rush of definition.
Dressed and prepared to fabricate an excuse for sleeping late, Angelica left her bedchamber and went downstairs to find the cottage empty. The only activity was the dust motes afloat in a ray of light through the kitchen window—neither Grandmother nor Nan inside.
She selected a plum from the wooden bowl on the table and bit into the fruit before moving to the window to peer into the backyard. Perhaps Grandmother and Nan worked with their plants. The day seemed fine for gardening tasks. She chewed and swallowed thoughtfully as she considered the explanation.
With surprise she spied her father walking the length of the yard aside her grandmother. For the second time this morning her breath snagged; albeit now there was no satisfying memory to accompany this disruption.
Lord Egan Curtis, Earl of Morton, stood nearly six feet tall, his narrow frame ramrod straight, his elongated stature in parallel to the thin black walking stick he used at all times. He didn’t need the stick for support as much as for effect. Angelica couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t carried it, the threat of being whacked with it across her bottom for some disobedience in character sufficient to instigate her observance of its existence at all times.
As a child she’d imagined its demise in a variety of vivid scenarios: secretly placing it in the hearth to burn, dropping it down the well, or burying it behind the hillock of walnut trees at the north edge of the property. These fantasies jockeyed for popularity among her thoughts. Didn’t he know how much it stung to be struck across the shins? Surely if he did, he would refrain.
As an adult she realized her fantasies were futile. Father likely had a plenitude of sticks at the ready. Were a tragedy to befall one he’d only have to reach into the closet for another. Once she’d grown to a mature age he’d refrained from the threat of punishment, confident he’d rid his daughters of all rebellion, and instead, he’d adopted the habit of punctuating sentences with a severe stab to the floorboards in equal proclivity. At times he emphasized his point with a sharp swing. The stick had become another appendage, a part of his presence as much as his short clipped beard—which he wore in spite of the fashion to be clean-shaven—and perspicacious surveillance. In all her memories, she’d never suffered overlong from that walking stick, but the threat of the damage it could inflict were she to disobey kept her tied to a narrow path of sensibl
e decision, which enhanced the smallest freedom whenever she visited Grandmother in Brighton.
Now mother and son stood in deep conversation and Angelica wondered of the exchange, unable to decipher their expressions from the distance. Should she move to the door? Crack it open and attempt to hear crumbs of conversation? The risk of detection rooted her to the floorboards, a shadow of disappointment stifling her mood. She exhaled thoroughly and placed the plum on the counter, no longer interested in the fruit.
She had hoped to finish the week in Brighton before her return to London. It was somewhat of an agreement, never solidified as her father freely changed his mind and expected her to accept his contrariness without objection, but implied nonetheless. After the tumultuous confrontations in their past, Angelica had wisely approached her father with an attitude of compliance, though a slice of injustice urged she leave through the front door and not look back. She discarded the foolish notion as soon as it formed. There was much to weigh in concern of her future and she wasn’t a coward. Failure was not an option.
Returning her eyes to the garden, Angelica watched her father command the conversation, the words overflowing as he jabbed at the ground with punctilious gesticulation. A nearby sparrow took wing to avoid being skewered. Father pivoted and advanced a few steps and Grandmother followed. The conversation had seemingly progressed to a more heated level if their expressions were any indication. Grandmother didn’t approve of Father’s dedicated zeal for religion and Angelica wondered if Father had shared his plan and thus prompted the switch in congenial discussion to vehement diatribe. Her father screwed his face into a scowl of condemnation she’d come to know well. His steps stalled a second time. How could he behave so to his mother?
Angelica loved her grandmother above all else. Her affection was the only maternal influence she’d experienced. Her grandmother’s nature was in contrast to her father’s, a strict pious man who raised his daughters with reserved obedience.
Society's Most Scandalous Viscount Page 5
