by Nan Ryan
“I’d say it’s none of my business. Or yours.”
“Ah, but it is,” Caroline stated emphatically. “If the duchess chooses Lawson to be her lover, that leaves you for me.” She wrapped her arm around his, pressed her breast against his biceps, and whispered, “How about it, Hank. I’ll please you like she never could. I’ll do anything you want. Everything. Let’s leave. Go around to your cottage and—”
“Mrs. Whit, won’t you do me the honor? Dance with me?” It was the tubby, swarthy, mustachioed Gordon Lancaster who was worth untold millions and in the market for a wife.
“She’d love to dance with you, Mr. Lancaster,” Hank answered for Caroline, disengaging her arm and handing her forward.
Cursing Hank under her breath, Caroline danced away in the short arms of a smiling, puffing Gordon Lancaster.
Crossing his arms once more, Hank exhaled with relief and again found and focused on the vision in blue across the room. The duchess was no longer dancing. Her back to him, she was talking with a quartet of ladies.
While Claire stood talking to a small group of nodding, smiling ladies, she was conscious of Hank’s eyes on her from across the room. She knew he was watching her, so she laughed and tossed her head and pretended to be totally absorbed in conversation.
All at once the ladies began to fall silent.
Claire knew that Hank was crossing the dance floor, coming toward her. But she pretended ignorance and continued talking. She was in midsentence when a warm hand gently cupped her elbow and the tall, imposing Hank Cassidy, said, “Let’s dance, Duchess.”
He nodded to the group of ladies and commandingly drew Claire away and out onto the floor.
“You did not wait for me to accept,” she scolded, looking up at Hank. “Suppose I don’t wish to dance with you, Mr. Cassidy?”
“Suppose I make you want to dance with me, Duchess,” he said and wrapped a long arm around her narrow waist.
“Suppose that is impossible.”
“Suppose I show you that it isn’t,” said Hank with a devilish smile.
“Suppose I—”
“Suppose you shut up and see what happens.”
“Why, I—”
“Quiet,” he cautioned. He folded their enjoined hands down onto his chest and pressed his smoothly shaven jaw against her temple.
Secretly pleased, Claire pretended displeasure, refused to lift her free hand up around his neck, but instead let it fall to her side. Hank was undeterred. Confident of his dancing skills and determined to show her how it felt to be in his arms, he boldly drew her closer and began turning her slowly, seductively about on the floor.
Enchanted, Claire was vaguely aware of the speculative stares and behind-hands whispers swirling around them. And then she was aware of nothing save Hank. She quickly learned that beneath his fine clothes was a lean, hard body with the strength and power to both frighten and excite.
She learned as well that he danced divinely. His physical grace and gliding pantherlike movements made it easy to follow his lead. Together they swayed and spun and dipped as if they were one body. It was incredibly thrilling.
Claire finally lifted her free arm, moved it up over his shoulder and around his neck. He wore his hair a trifle too long, appealingly so, the lustrous locks touching the stiff white collar of his shirt. Of their own volition, Claire’s fingers eagerly tunneled through the silky black hair at his nape.
Hank lowered his head slightly, put his lips near her ear, and Claire was certain he was going to say something. He was going to ask her to leave the ball with him, to tell her he wanted her and no one else.
Hank said not a word but held her intimately close. Claire almost swooned with pleasure and excitement. The masterful manner in which his body pressed insistently against her own was surely a prelude to later physical action.
Breathless now, Claire could feel Hank’s heart beating heavily against her breasts and his long, steely thighs brushing hers through their clothing. Captivated, she closed her eyes and sighed. And willingly gave herself up to this man under whose masterful physical control she felt herself blossoming like an exotic flower.
Claire blinked in surprise and disappointment when abruptly the music stopped and just as abruptly her partner released her.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Hank said, before turning and walking away.
Her heart still pounding from the erotic dance, Claire stared after him in stunned disbelief. While she was weak in the knees and faint, he was walking away from her as if nothing had happened between them.
Claire’s brow furrowed. And she bit the inside of her lip when Hank stopped midway across the floor and took the red-haired Caroline Whit in his arms for the next dance.
Claire frantically searched for a dancing partner. A half-dozen hopefuls stepped forward. She accepted the first to ask. For the next hour Claire danced and laughed and flirted with any number of gentlemen.
At the same time she kept a close eye on Hank Cassidy.
Hank was outside on the hotel’s deserted veranda smoking alone in the summer darkness.
It was just past 11:00 p.m. and the dance was in full swing.
He couldn’t believe his eyes when the elegantly gowned duchess came out of the hotel, walked directly up to him, and said softly, “It is so stuffy inside. I had to come out for a breath of fresh air.”
Hank gazed appraisingly at her, lifted a tanned hand, sought the delicate golden chain resting around her neck, and slowly followed its length down to where it disappeared inside her low-cut bodice.
His fingers toying with the medallion where it rested between her full breasts, he accused, “That’s not why you came out here, Duchess.”
Feeling the heat of his fingers brushing her skin, Claire smiled seductively, and said, “No. No, it’s not. The truth is that if you don’t kiss me this very minute, I shall think you do not like me.”
Fourteen
Without a word Hank flicked his cigar away over the veranda’s railing, wrapped a long arm around Claire’s narrow waist, drew her to him, bent his dark head, and kissed her.
It was not a polite, gentlemanly kiss. It was at once the hot, commanding kiss of a highly sexual man who knew how to quickly set a woman on fire. Exactly the kind of man Claire was looking for.
His strong, encircling arm pressing her steadily closer to his tall, hard frame, Hank’s masterful mouth moved aggressively on hers. Claire’s lips eagerly parted and he took full advantage, his tongue thrusting deeply, giving to her, taking from her, dazzling her.
Trembling, shocked by how easily he could so excite her, Claire made a halfhearted attempt to pull away. Hank didn’t let her go. He wrapped long fingers around the back of her head to hold her still.
And the long, hot kiss continued.
Even when voices from nearby announced that party-goers were spilling out of the hotel and onto the veranda, Hank continued to kiss Claire into sweet submission. While his heated lips hardened with passion and his sleek tongue stroked hers, Hank slipped his hand down from her waist, let it glide over the curve of her hip and move lower to cup and clasp her rounded buttocks through the folds of her full chiffon skirts. He pressed her pelvis against his, letting her feel exactly what she was doing to him.
Eyes closed, flushed face turned up to his, Claire knew she had to put a stop to this incredible kiss, lest they make love right here on the hotel veranda.
She lifted weak arms and began to push on his chest. Hank finally took his lips from hers, raised his head, and gazed down at her through smoldering eyes, confident she was now his for the taking.
But his passion turned to anger and frustration when she disappointed him again.
With a stifled yawn, Claire said, “Now good night to you, Mr. Cassidy.”
And she turned and walked away, leaving him looking and lusting after her.
Claire unhurriedly crossed the veranda, went down the steps, and never looked back.
When she got into the waiting carria
ge, she released a held breath, leaned back against the soft leather seat, closed her eyes, and smiled with pleasure. In her twenty-seven years of life she had never been kissed the way Hank Cassidy had just kissed her.
Lips that kissed like that could surely overwhelm even the most jaded of women. So it wasn’t surprising that his kiss had easily conquered her. Still, she had to remember that she was not the straitlaced Claire Orwell. She was the seasoned Duchess of Beaumont. It was important that she continue to behave accordingly. Which meant that once she had Hank alone in her suite, she could not demonstrate any traces of shyness nor could she be shocked by anything he said or did.
Claire’s smile turned to a slight frown of concern. It had been relatively simple, so far, to convince Hank and everyone at the Springs that she was the sophisticated, fun-loving duchess. She’d encountered no Doubting Thomases. Had detected not an ounce of suspicion from anyone. Everyone took her at her word. But would she be able to play the part convincingly in bed?
Claire blushed at the thought. She knew very little about lovemaking. Her husband had almost been as reticent about making love as she. She had never been swept away on a tide of passion so intense it had made her lose all inhibitions. Had never spent blissful moments naked in bed with a thrilling lover. Had never made love with the lights on. Had never made love in the daytime. Had never made love anywhere but in a bed.
And she had never made love in any position other than the traditional one.
Claire sighed. She had never experienced the elusive mystery of orgasm.
By the time she reached the mansion, Claire was filled with self-doubt. At the same time she was almost giddy with anticipation.
Once inside, she lifted her skirts and hurried up the stairs. She took a couple of ivory roses out of their porcelain vase and rushed back down the stairs. She went out the front door and began plucking petals from one of the roses. She dropped the first petal on the wide front steps then moved back across the veranda toward the door, dropping petals as she went.
Inside she created an easy-to-follow path of ivory petals which went directly across the black-and-white marble-floored foyer to the grand staircase. Dropping at least one petal on each carpeted step, Claire was smiling mischievously when she reached the suite.
She dropped the remaining petals directly in front of the double doors.
She went inside and straight to the spacious bath. She undressed and took yet another hot bath. When she got out of the tub and dried off, she dabbed a drop of expensive French perfume behind each ear, between her breasts and behind each knee.
Naked, Claire walked into the suite’s sitting room. She took three more of the ivory roses from their vase and moved to the bed. She scattered plucked petals from two of the roses over the satin sheets and pillows. She broke off the stem of the remaining rose and pinned the fragrant blossom in her hair just above her left ear.
Killing time, waiting for what she hoped would be an exciting sexual adventure to begin, Claire walked out onto the balcony and inhaled deeply of the clean mountain air. The night was cool. But she was warm. No, not warm. Hot. She was hot for the man who would soon walk right into the suite and take her in his arms.
Or would he?
What if she’d misjudged him? Had overplayed her hand.
Half-fretful, Claire turned and went back inside. From the foot of the bed, she picked up a beautiful ivory lace nightgown. The gown she had purchased solely for this momentous occasion. She lifted it up over her head and let it slip down her body to her ankles. She couldn’t resist checking herself in the freestanding mirror.
She stepped before the mirror and bit her lower lip. She might as well have stayed naked. The lace gown concealed nothing. Claire glanced at the French mother-of-pearl clock resting on the white marble mantel.
She tensed. Hank should be receiving the note right about now.
Hank couldn’t sleep.
It was past two in the morning, but he was still wide-awake. And agitated. He lay in bed, arms raised and folded beneath his head, staring at the ceiling, silently cursing the cruel beauty who so delighted in torturing him.
Hank frowned and raised his head off the pillow when he heard a knock on the cottage door. He sat up, threw his long legs over the mattress’s edge and rose to his feet. He yanked up a black silk robe from the foot of the bed, slipped his arms in the long sleeves and loosely tied the sash at his waist.
“Coming,” he called out and walked through the darkened cottage to the door. Irritated that someone would be bothering him at this late hour, Hank opened the door and said, “What the—?”
A smartly uniformed hotel employee held out a silver tray upon which was a sealed vellum envelope. Before the puzzled Hank could respond, the messenger turned and left.
Brow furrowed, Hank closed the door, went into the sitting room and lighted a lamp. He tore the envelope open. An ivory rose petal fell out and fluttered to the floor. Hank unfolded the note and read: “I can’t sleep. And I know you can’t. Come to my house now before the day breaks. Let’s watch the sun come up together. Follow the white rose petals until you find me. Waiting. Waiting for you. Charmaine Beaumont.”
Hank laid the note on a table, bent and picked up the dropped rose petal. He held it in his palm and debated whether or not he would go.
Would he show up at her place only to find himself shut out? Did she so enjoy making a fool of him that she would be watching from inside while he pounded futilely on a locked door?
To hell with her!
Who did she think she was dealing with anyhow? Some backward schoolboy who’d never had a pretty woman? He was no puppet on a string, for god’s sake! He’d had enough of her and her tiresome routine.
But even as he told himself he wouldn’t go, Hank was tossing off the robe and starting to get dressed.
Less than half an hour after the missive arrived at the cottage, Hank was alighting from a hired cab in front the Duchess’s secluded estate.
“Stay here,” he instructed as he paid the driver. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, you’re free to go.”
Hank turned and stared at the darkened mansion. He could hear his heart beating in his ears when he climbed the wide steps to the veranda. Rose petals led to the front door. He crossed to the heavy door, wrapped his fingers around the brass knob and held his breath.
He gave it a twist and it turned easily.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
He paused in the wide, high-ceilinged foyer. Overhead a chandelier burned low, giving off diffused light. Hank looked down at the black-and-white patterned floor.
And he began to smile.
There on the marble, scattered ivory rose petals made a path directly to the grand staircase.
Hank raised his eyes to the landing above, then stepped onto the base of the stairs. Silently he followed the trail of petals to a set of white double doors at the top of the stairs. He paused there, looked down. The trail of petals stopped directly in front of those closed doors.
Fifteen
Hank didn’t knock.
He opened the double doors and walked inside. He quietly closed the doors behind him. He followed the petals across the white-carpeted sitting room and up three steps into the bedroom.
And lost his breath completely.
A lone lamp burned low on a night table, the white-frosted globe muting the light. The soft illumination revealed the beautiful Duchess of Beaumont kneeling squarely in the center of a large, ivory satin-sheeted bed.
An ivory rose adorned her glorious golden hair, which was loose and spilling down around her bare shoulders. She wore an ivory lace nightgown through which he could clearly see her large satiny nipples as well as the triangle of thick golden curls between her thighs.
Never taking his eyes off her, Hank kicked off his shoes and black stockings and followed the path of petals directly to the bed. He climbed onto the mattress and knelt among the scattered rose petals facing Charmaine Beaumont.
He gazed into her eyes for several long seconds before he asked, “How many times have I seen you, Duchess?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a smile of puzzlement. “A dozen. Two dozen. I’m not sure.”
“You get more beautiful each time,” he said honestly.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Still half wary, wondering what she was up to, Hank finally relaxed when the duchess said, “It’s warm in here, so warm. Take off your shirt, Hank.”
Hank shook his head. “No, Duchess. You want it off, you take it off.”
“With pleasure,” she said. She reached out, and began deftly unbuttoning his shirt.
While her nimble fingers worked their magic, Hank told her in a low, caressing voice, “All I want is to make love to you.”
“I know,” she said like the confident woman she was portraying. “I know you do, Hank.” She pushed the open shirt, leaned forward and began brushing soft kisses to his bared chest.
Hank held his breath and looked down on that golden head bent to him. He shrugged out of the open shirt, tossed it to the floor and reached for her. Clasping her upper arms, Hank urged her head up.
“Look at me,” he said.
Preoccupied, Claire was admiring the ripple of muscles in his arms and chest, the growth of dark crisp hair that covered his torso in an appealing fanlike pattern, the amazing tightness of his flat abdomen.
“I said look at me,” Hank ordered and Claire slowly lifted her eyes to meet his. He told her in tones brooking no argument, “Your game playing and my patience are at an end.”
“I know,” she said again.
“You summoned me. I came. You know what I’m here for.”
“I do, Hank.”
“To make love to you and for no other reason. Do you understand me?” Claire smiled and nodded. Hank didn’t return her smile. He said, “If you had something else in mind, if you figure on tormenting me and then backing out at the last minute, you’re now out of luck.” With that Hank raised a hand, hooked his thumb under a narrow lace strap of Claire’s nightgown and tugged it off her shoulder.
