Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 05]

by The Rogue

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I find I’m in a black mood tonight.” He released her hand and leaned back. She lost sight of him in the shadows of the carriage. “So, my lady, where are you off to this evening?”

  Jane sighed. “I am representing the family at Sir Arnold’s musicale this evening. Aunt Lottie and the girls decided not to venture out tonight and it was left to me, since we had already accepted the invitation.”

  Actually, the girls had been forbidden to attend by their father for some unfathomable reason and had spent the evening drowning each other in tears of protest.

  Except the reason suddenly wasn’t unfathomable, was it? Mr. Damont’s presence as escort explained a great deal. Uncle Harold was throwing them together, hoping to use her to further draw Mr. Damont into his traitorous snare.

  “What is your explanation for being here, Mr. Damont?”

  He shifted slightly but she still could not see his face. “I believe I have become something in the way of a family retainer to his lordship,” he said. “I am not to accompany you inside as a guest so I believe my role is to be something of a guard through the city streets.”

  “Ah.” It sounded plausible enough, but for the fact that no guardian would ever submit his ward to being unchaperoned in a carriage with an attractive young bodyguard. Mr. Damont did not seem quite clear on that point, however, and Jane decided not to enlighten him.

  She made a face. “I’m beginning to believe that one’s level of impropriety depends solely on if anyone is watching,” she murmured to herself.

  “You’re becoming as cynical as I am,” Mr. Damont said.

  “Impossible,” Jane shot back. Then she sighed. “Still, I do wish we had not such a plethora of rules governing us. I trust you, but this arrangement—”

  “You trust me?”

  She gazed at him for a long moment, a small smile playing on her lips. “I find you entirely trustworthy, Mr. Ethan Damont. Does that truly surprise you?”

  It did surprise him. It shook him to his very soul. “But—but why? You know who I am . . . you know very nearly everything about me!”

  She crossed her arms. “What would your point be?”

  “No one trusts me! Not after the first quarter of an hour, anyway!” He ran a hand through his hair. “Nor should they—and nor should you!”

  Jane gazed at him, true perplexity on her face. “Ethan, what are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about my being a cad, that’s what I’m talking about!”

  “You? A cad?” She laughed in disbelief. “Where did you get such a notion?”

  Only from everyone he’d ever encountered in his life—apparently, with the exception of Lady Jane Pennington.

  Disturbed, he turned to look out at the passing night. He did not deserve her trust—did not even want it! After the way he’d practically assaulted her yesterday, how could she claim to have such faith in him?

  The silence stretched between them as the carriage moved slowly on, making Jane feel every shift and jostling of her thighs. She forced her awakening body to desist and turned her attention outside.

  There was a great deal of traffic out tonight. She could have walked to Sir Arnold’s in half the time of course, but ladies did not walk the city at night, not even in the rarefied area of Mayfair.

  She felt restless with the physical tension between them. Did he feel it too? He seemed not to, for he sat motionless and silent in the shadows opposite her. She, on the other hand, could not seem to keep still. She found herself leaning forward to peer through the small square window every few seconds and her fan was going to be in shreds long before they reached their destination.

  “You look very nice tonight, Janet.” His voice came low and velvety across the darkness to her like a touch.

  Yet how could he see—

  Jane looked down at herself to realize that her constant leaning forward had pressed her breasts high into the neckline of her gown until they nearly spilled out. The square of light from the passing of other carriage lanterns threw her bosom into high relief framed by the black outline of the window.

  She quickly pressed herself back against the seat, out of the light, but it was too late. Those few words, in that softly suggestive voice, had set her pulse to pounding. She could feel his eyes on her. She knew he was admiring her breasts, probably thinking about how he’d held one in his hand—

  She closed her eyes against that memory, but she could not shut it down the way she had over the past day. Now, here, with him, the heat came flooding back, washing over her, melting her deep down inside until her thighs relaxed involuntarily in response to the pressure within.

  “Ethan . . .”

  Hearing his name murmured in Jane’s husky voice sent bolts of arousal ricocheting through Ethan. She’d never called him that before.

  “Say it again,” he urged, his voice low and hard with heat.

  “Ethan,” she said obediently, coating his name with a sensual obedience that promised much, if he dared to take it.

  If he dared . . .

  If he dared to make her hate him. After all, she was a lady, gently born and sheltered. It shouldn’t be too hard to offend her so deeply that she’d never claim that ridiculous level of trust again. He was a cad, by God, and he was quite prepared to prove it.

  “Lean forward, Jane,” he ordered in that same heated murmur. “Lean forward and let me see you.”

  She did, slowly, so that the light crept over her bodice and dipped gently between her breasts, turning that perfect skin to milk in the lamplight.

  Ethan leaned forward as well, and watched distantly as his own hand reached to trail one finger along the lace edge of her bodice. He halted just before making contact with her skin, then drew back. She swayed forward as if to follow his touch.

  “Milk and satin and strawberries, Janet,” he murmured.

  He could hear her deep longing breaths. He had power over her at this moment. In her innocence and trust, she had handed him the keys to make her wish she’d never laid eyes on Ethan Damont.

  “Touch your skin, Janet,” he coaxed. “Let your fingers be like the light that travels over it.”

  Slowly, hesitantly, she raised her hand to her neck. Ethan wished he could see her face, but she was half in shadow. He was forced to imagine the way her closed lashes lay on her pale cheeks, or how the pink tip of her tongue might come out to moisten her parted, panting lips.

  His arousal surged at that but he made no move to touch her. “That’s right, stroke that place just there, below your ear. I want to kiss you there. I want to move behind you and lift your hair to press my lips just there.”

  He watched her fingers trail slowly over her own skin, imagining his own there, or his mouth. “Let your hand trail down now.” His own breath was coming fast now. “Touch the soft valley between for me, Janet.”

  Jane followed his every direction slowly but willingly, entranced by his low voice and by the fact that she knew he watched every motion. It was a wicked, tantalizing game that fell just within the bounds of decency. Not truly wicked, really, at least not yet. And she was so warm inside, so liquid smooth and dreamy, as if she were asleep in her bed and this was all some blameless midnight imagining . . .

  “The lace is covering too much, darling. I cannot see. Tug the lace down, just a bit . . .”

  Jane inhaled deeply as she obeyed, knowing that her breasts would swell to the limits of the bodice. She wanted to tantalize him, wanted him to see, wanted him to watch.

  She heard his breath catch and felt power surge through her. She was the one he wanted, the one he watched, the one making him take broken breaths.

  “More,” he begged, and she obeyed. She pulled the lacy edge of the bodice down to her nipples, going weak at the feeling of the cool evening air on her sheltered skin.

  “Yesss,” he hissed urgently. “Show me, Janet. I want to see.”

  Almost without thought, she tugged ever so slightly more and allowed he
r hardened nipples to spring free of the bodice.

  “You’re so beautiful, Janet. So fine and lovely, like a goddess in a garden. I love to look at you.”

  Jane dropped her head back, letting him look his fill. She could hardly bear the need that pulsed within her but she could not break the erotic spell he cast. She wanted him to tell her what to do, how to tantalize him. If he told her, if she was only obeying his mesmerizing voice, if he stayed there in the darkness—then it was only a dream, only a wicked, luscious dream of what might be.

  “I can’t touch you, Janet. I want to, but I can’t. You must touch yourself for me, darling. You must put your hands on yourself once more, just for me.”

  Jane felt her own chilled fingers move to rest over her own heaving breasts. The sensation made her shiver.

  “Does that feel good?” His voice was so urgent, so full of dark command, yet so gentle she could not resist him. She could only make a tiny obedient sound of agreement, a small animal cry that seemed distant and alien to her own ears.

  “Touch your nipples, my love. Take them between your thumb and forefinger, yes, just like that. Can you feel how rigid they’ve become? That means that you like this. Do you like this, Janet? Do you want more?”

  She could only breathe an aching sound.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, Janet. I’ll take that as a sign that you want to roll your nipples between your fingers gently for me. Are they hardening still more? Can you feel the way the sensation goes directly through you, to that warm, soft place between your thighs?”

  She could feel that very thing, and she was grateful to him for putting words to the sensation for she’d forgotten how to speak, how to think, how to do anything but obey that wicked deep voice that seemed directly connected to her will.

  “Free your breasts completely, Janet. Pull your pretty little cap sleeves down to your elbows and set your breasts free. I want to see them sway with the motion of the carriage.”

  She did it gladly, for it was difficult enough to breathe without the confines of her gown. The sleeves captured her upper arms tightly to her torso, lending a further helpless element to her dream state. She was bound, captive, she was not responsible . . .

  “Hold them high, darling. Cup them in your hands and hold them, feel how heavy and warm they are. I love your breasts, Janet. Hold them for me.”

  She did so, offering them up for him. Would he never touch her? Would she never feel his hot hands on her chilled skin—would he never ease this throbbing ache within her? She squirmed on the seat, unable to bear the mounting pressure of her own excitement.

  “Do you want more? Let me help you.”

  Yes, oh, please yes . . .

  She waited to feel his hands on her. Instead she felt her skirts rustling and then the cool evening air was on her thighs above her garters. She drowsily opened her eyes to find the hem of her gown piled high in her lap and Mr. Damont back on his side of the carriage, veiled in darkness as before.

  “Let your breasts down now, my lovely one. Let them move with the motion of the carriage while the cool air makes your skin crinkle up, just for me.”

  Jane let her hands fall to rest in her lap. Her elbows were still trapped by her drawn sleeves and she could feel the velvet of the seat against her bare back, brushing softly with every jolt of the carriage.

  “Let your knees drop open just a little for me, Janet. Melt for me, darling . . .”

  Her thighs opened and she was thankful, for it eased the throbbing just a little.

  “Run your fingers along the tops of your stockings, pet. Show me how high they ride above your knees . . .”

  Jane let her fingers trace the small scalloped edge of the stocking tops from the top down around the outside of her thighs.

  “Now the other way, darling.”

  Her fingers trailed obediently between her thighs. When her wrists made glancing contact with her center she flinched at the jolt of pleasure that went through her.

  “Slide your fingers higher, darling. I wish I could stroke your silken thighs, but I cannot. I can only watch while your hands do what I cannot. Where would you like my touch, sweeting? Would you like to move higher?”

  Jane spread her hands flat over the insides of her thighs, wishing they were his large hot hands instead. He had a delicate touch for such a big man. If he were stroking her thighs, he would move slowly higher, moving his fingertips in small circular motions, just like that.

  “Higher, darling . . . higher. Do you ache for me? Show me where—show me where you want me to touch you . . .”

  Gasping with need, Jane pressed her crossed hands against the very center of herself. A delightful surge of pleasure coursed through her at even her own touch.

  “Your pantalets are lovely, Janet. I like the old-fashioned ones that hang separately from the waist. I like the way they part just so . . .”

  She could hear how breathless he was, how strained his gently commanding voice had become. He ached as much as she did. The thought fired her arousal higher.

  “Part them for me, Janet,” he whispered, his voice gone quite hoarse. “Part the cotton with your fingers—”

  The carriage jolted to a stop in the traffic. The bump joggled Jane’s fingertips past the parting of the pantalets, dipping her touch deeper—

  She gasped in surprise and almost withdrew her hands, almost awoke from the spell . . . until Ethan’s voice pulled her back.

  “Shh. Don’t fret, darling. I want to touch you there. I want to feel your flesh turn damp on my fingers.” His tone was no more than a hoarse whisper now, a dark, desperate voice putting words to her most base fantasies. “I wish I could slip into you, past your velvet mound, past your soft gates, to that secret place . . . do you know that place, Janet? Can you find it for me?”

  She did know, for she’d found it before, in the dark, guilty privacy of night. Yet this was different, better, more. Ethan was with her, watching her, sending her body far beyond her own previous fumblings with pleasure. The knowledge that he watched her, aching for her until he could barely speak, owning her with his erotic commands—this captive performance for him was something she could never have conceived of alone.

  “Touch yourself there, darling. There, where it has begun to swell and harden, just like your sweet strawberry nipples—stroke yourself for me. Let me see you come apart for me . . .”

  She did it, everything he asked of her and more. She abandoned herself to the pleasure of her own hand, barely aware of the way her head rolled on the cushion back, scarcely conscious of the small, hungry cries coming from her own panting lips.

  “Faster, Janet. Fly for me.”

  She could feel herself nearing the edge, so close, so desperately, achingly close—

  “Now, Janet!” His voice was a searing, feverish growl.

  As if she’d only been waiting for his command, she felt herself flung from that precipice, flying quivering off into a starry sky, falling, crying, sobbing . . . to drift slowly to rest, her heart pounding, her mouth dry, her thighs still twitching as the last tiny shocks ran through her body.

  She took a gasping breath, then another, as if only just now remembering how to breathe . . . remembering her name, remembering herself . . .

  Remembering that she rode in a carriage traveling the streets of London with Mr. Ethan Damont sitting across from her, watching her every move.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ethan, sitting in a state of torturous arousal across from her, could see the moment that Jane came back to being Jane. She inhaled sharply, released a panicked, humiliated whimper, and began to desperately wrestle her gown back over her exposed body.

  Ethan watched shamelessly as her crushed skirts were pushed down over her limbs. He did not even pretend to avert his eyes as she struggled to pull her bodice up over her bare breasts. No, he deserved every moment of such agony. He wasn’t going to spare himself a moment of it.

  Besides, he was quite sure he’d never see Jane again after to
night, much less be privileged to gaze upon her full, pale breasts or soft, milky-white thighs . . .

  Had a man ever died from unfulfilled arousal? He deserved to die, he thought distantly as the pounding in his swollen groin refused to abate. Jane hated him quite thoroughly now, he had no doubt. He’d accomplished his mission. She would now be sure to keep her blue blood far from his bad blood, no matter if he begged her for forgiveness on his knees—not that he would ever have the heart to try to reach out to her again.

  The carriage pulled to a stop. Blearily, Ethan realized they had reached their destination. Had it truly been only a half hour since they’d left Maywell House? Three quarters of an hour at the most, he realized. He felt as though he’d lived a lifetime in this carriage with Jane—the lifetime he’d never be able to have with her, perhaps. Was that hell? An eternity of not having what you most wanted in life?

  Light from the house warmed the interior of the carriage. Across from him, Jane had repaired herself better than Ethan would have believed, considering her riotous abandon only a few short minutes ago. Aside from a few loose strands of hair and somewhat crumpled skirts, she looked much the same as when she’d entered the carriage that long lifetime ago.

  Robert had scarcely touched the door before Jane bounded from the carriage and into the waiting doorway of Sir Arthur’s house. After handing her over to the butler waiting there, Robert came back to the still-open carriage. “Will you be going in, sir?”

  “No.” Ethan didn’t elaborate. Jane would be inside for hours . . . hours that he needed to himself at this moment.

  Robert only blinked, then went to the front of the horses to lead them back around to where the others waited for the guests inside. Robert and the driver would join the Boswells’ servants for a bite and a pint of beer, if the hostess was a kindly one.

  Left sitting in the dark, Ethan finally allowed himself a single, dragging, pained inhalation. Jane had defeated him as well, if she only knew it.

  He’d always known there was no chance for him to have what Collis had, or what Etheridge had. He wasn’t that sort of man—the sort that women came back to, at least for more than momentary satisfaction. None had ever loved him. Why would they?