A cluster of those veins throbbed with more desire than others.
She seemed to change position, then tread water upright, climbing onto the rocks and dropping them into the water at intervals. How methodical! She appeared to be engineering a system for this!
And, sure enough, she returned to the waterfall, widening her hips and angling the water to her delicate place until she cried out with joy.
His hand found its way to his shaft as if drawn by an outside force. A few tugs of his pants and he was freed, the cloth fallen about his knees, hand stroking himself to the same place she sought, his release quick as he imagined his mouth on hers, hands roaming over those breasts, lips teasing one nipple, finding her pleasure center and –
He was done.
Damn her! Too quick, but so guilty, his need quenched in body but most definitely not in spirit. He made hasty moves to right himself, pulling up his trousers and tucking in the now-flaccid member that gave him so much trouble, and as he fixed his pants he lost his balance, falling a bit into the bush and making far more sound than he wished. He froze, hoping she did not hear him.
Snick. Was that a sound in the bushes? Terrified, she scrambled over the rocks and to her clothing, hurriedly dressing. If she were caught, the shame would be so great she would happily be married off to live in the Kingdom of Siam!
She fairly ran up the trail, measuring her breathing as best she could. What were those touches the water created? She felt as if her entire body might explode at once. Sara’s descriptions had been quite technical.
The results were most definitely not.
As she rounded one bush she was absolutely mortified to find a very familiar face staring back.
“Evan!” His sudden appearance along the trail startled her, as if she had conjured him in her fantasies. Her eyes narrowed but she said nothing. Oh, but he had matured these last few years, his features deepened by a gravitas that seemed to come from spending a year in battle with the French. He had purchased an officer’s commission just three years past, a noble act that befitted an honorable man. After a year in the field in Portugal and Spain under the Duke of Wellington’s command, the Evan who returned was somber, quiet, more contemplative and considerate than the rake who had left.
The news that Papa would not allow the marriage changed Evan once more, leaving him wizened and even more attractive to Claire, his countenance signaling a certain knowing that she craved to join. Paradoxically, once the potential for betrothal was ended he had been a regular in houses of ill repute and the homes of wicked widows, breaking Claire’s heart with the creeping flush of righteous frustration. And not just a touch of envy.
The Evan who smiled at her now, with a wanton flicker in his eyes, was the last person on earth – aside from Papa – she expected to encounter in this place and, especially, after what she had just orchestrated. A prickly numbness shot through her; of all the people to find her...
“What are you doing here?” he asked affably, as if they had merely encountered each other in Hyde Park during a leisurely stroll. He seemed nervous, shifting his hands to his hips, then cracking his knuckles, finally settling on leaning against the large trunk of the lilac bush.
She was befuddled by the question, her body still numb and glowing from what she had felt, her mind full of cotton and sweetness and confusion. Fearing she looked like a soaked maid, she touched her drenched blond hair, smoothing it away from her face, and patted her skirts, all frustration. Fearing she looked like a soaked maid, she touched her drenched blond hair, smoothing it away from her face, and patted her skirts, all-too aware of how wet her underclothes were against her skin, spots of water soaking through her thin cotton dress. She must look a mess; being this disheveled before him added to her general state of disappointment at the steady unfairness of the world.
Being forced to think and speak made her irritable, less charitable, and so her words came out with a bite. “What am I doing here?” she repeated, giving herself a second to consider an answer. “Well, the same thing you are doing!”
He grinned. “Oh, I very much doubt that.”
What did he mean? His smile was...different. Wolfish. Intimate. The look of a lover, not of a suitor.
“Well, then what are you doing here?” she challenged, now full of humiliation and shame, but not quite knowing why.
He watched her, his features flushed and intense. “Enjoying the view.” He broke eye contact then, giving her a few seconds to examine his face. Relaxed and confident, she liked this Evan so much more than the proper, polite officer who had returned from war a hero, then been spurned by the earl. Their most recent conversations had been stilted at best, beleaguered by an unspoken resentment at forces neither could shift.
Without the constraints of polite society, here among nature as God intended, Claire looked around, absorbing the richness of the alcove, the purple fire of lilacs filling the scene, her eyes purposefully avoiding the waterfall. “Yes, it is gorgeous, is it not?”
“Indeed. It obviously gives you great pleasure,” he said, his voice carrying a tone that made the skin on the back of her neck and shoulders tingle.
She did not reply, instead staring at him. They way he leaned against the trunk of the lilac bush seemed an offer for her to press her body into his, to lean as well, to relax and just be. His hips topped legs that were thickly muscled, bent just slightly at the knees, and she wondered about his scars. Injured in battle, at first Evan had been told he might not walk without a limp and cane. She had never seen his bare leg, of course, but while he had come home from the front with a slight limp, somehow he had overcome the injury, strong and steady as ever.
What did his skin look like? How did a man incorporate such pain, torn flesh ripped by metal and death, into a quiet domestic life? Were his scars deeper than she’d realized; had she not extended the respect he deserved? Never complaining, he had quietly worked through the burden of his condition. Where other men might preen and crow about their accomplishments in the war, Evan guarded his journey, his privacy, defending it as he had the kingdom. An ache for more than his flesh built within her, unresolved and unbidden.
Arms akimbo, the top few buttons of his shirt undone and revealing a smattering of dark hair peppering his skin, he made her skin tingle with the possibilities their privacy provided. Even when they had traded clandestine kisses before he left for war she had not actually touched him. As was proper – even when breaking convention – only his lips had stolen a few brushes of skin, a thief of limited affection.
“And the pleasure was all mine as well,” he added, his voice as smooth as silk, almost an invitation to something Claire could not pin down. Layers of a primal world of want and flesh and desire filled her now, her body having accessed a tiny world within her that had plumed into so much more under the water’s kiss.
A kiss. She wanted a kiss. Right now, right here, in the private, secluded little cove, the sound of the waterfall behind them, making more pleasure together than she just created a moment ago, her partner a real, flesh man like Evan instead of a stream of water aided by the fall.
Perhaps he saw the shift in her, for he stepped forward, took her hand, and touched her cheek. That simple act unleashed her fear, now pouring into her every limb, coursing through her as though her blood had been drained and replaced with liquid horror.
“We, we, we are unchaperoned! This is indecent,” she exclaimed. Oh, the words came forth so easily, yet were so wrong, and she hated herself for spitting them out reflexively. What she wanted to say was Yes! Now! Kiss me!, those words on the tip of her tongue, fighting for exposure even as her prim, do-right tongue said all the right (wrong) things.
He gently wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, as if erasing the imaginary kiss she craved, grinning while looking away. “Yes, I can see that we have experienced many indecent moments today.”
She bristled. Whatever did he mean? Had he caught her? What, exactly, had he seen? She opened her mouth to ask,
then felt her heart race, realizing she could not question him, stuck in that wretched place between knowing and not knowing.
“Well, sir, I will not be party to one more,” she announced, storming off, feeling his eyes boring into her back as she tread unsteadily home, her anger the only feeling she knew she was allowed to experience even as she pushed back so many other, more delicious emotions.
What was he to do now? Erasing the scene was impossible; in fact, he speculated, that image would drive him mad a thousand times over, stealing all hope of sleep for the next month. Her sensual curves, how her mouth opened in passion, the sounds her throat made, her legs open for a lover only Newton’s laws could create.
He was hard yet again, and it had been just two hours since he watched her.
Damn her. Damn her father. Damn his father.
Damn everyone.
That near-kiss. She wanted him. The feeling was mutual. Marriage was the least she would accept, and her father forbade it.
What she did, in the water – he had never seen such a thing. Had never heard of it, and he had spent more than enough time in Parisian brothels to learn of more sensual oddities than he cared to conjure. Claire, though, had found a way to find sexual release that used nature as an aid.
Any woman that adventurous would be a powerhouse in the bedroom.
He had to have her.
And, he suspected, if he waited for the right morning, he could find a way.
Oh, that wanted kiss! Oh, that maddening man! Why was he on that path? And what had he seen? She found herself blind with need, the rest of the day a flurry of piano lessons, French, and Mama’s fussing over the stitches on the new pelisse she had ordered, questioning whether the thread was the right match for both the cloth and the ribbons that went with her outfit.
Agonized and fraught with a humming that would not leave her body or mind, she sought out Papa. “May I have a word?” she asked, poking her head into the library.
“Of course,” he said, smiling. She and Sara took after Papa, with his light blonde hair and bright eyes, though his were sapphires while hers and Sara’s were closer to emerald. A few wrinkles lined his eyes as he smiled and he had grown a slight pot belly as the riches flowed in, but otherwise she thought he was one of the handsomer of the older crowd, even if he was six and forty.
“I wanted to talk about my match,” she said carefully. “For many years, I thought I might marry Evan Michaelson.” The next words were gone from her mind as the morning’s encounter flashed through her memory.
His smile faded. “That might have been the case once, but you can marry far better now,” he puffed.
“True.” She paused, measuring her words as if they were precious gold dust, careful not to waste a single bit. “But you married Mama for love.”
“You are in love with him?” Papa asked, tilting his head to the right and narrowing his eyes. She felt a light opening, as if Papa might consider the match if she said the exact right words.
But she could not say the wrong ones if they were not true.
“Love?” she repeated, trying to buy time. But her head was spinning and she wasn’t sure. Was she in love with him? Or was the thought of being married off to some prince too frightening, making her want Evan simply because he was comfortable, trading the unknown for the known? Papa’s piercing gaze made everything worse.
“I care deeply for him,” she answered. It was true. But love? She couldn’t say that.
Not yet.
She needed time.
Papa sat back and grinned, a self-satisfied smile that made Claire unsettled. “You are too young to know. That is why I will pick the right man for you, my little Claire. And Evan Michaelson is not that man.”
Her heart sank.
“How do you know, Papa?”
He returned his attention to his papers, but then looked up at her. “If you are not sure, then your feelings must not be very strong. That is all I need to know. When making a life decision for marriage two factors prevail: either marry for deep love, or marry for deep status and money. You have the money. I plan to have three daughters on thrones within a decade or two, and grandsons after that. A weak liking for Evan is not enough to stop that, my dear.”
Her mind went blank. What could she say to convince him? “But – ”
He looked at her, took a deep breath, then let out half, stopping himself, seeming to consider whether to say what came next. “Besides, Claire, I must say this – if Evan truly wanted you, he would fight for you. He has not.”
Now she knew exactly what to say. “You cut him off before he could even try, Papa! You and his father negotiated every step while Evan was at war, fighting against Napoleon.”
“He is on no battlefield now.” Papa’s eyes narrowed. “Think for a moment, my dear. He is home. He is well. He could come to me. Why has he not?”
Claire chose her words carefully, fidgeting and twisting a set of hair ribbons her mother had spent two weeks selecting, an agonizing decision that had made Claire go mad with exasperation at the overemphasis on such a petty detail. “Evan has never been the type to confront.”
Landsdown snorted. “Any man who won’t fight for the woman he loves isn’t worth having.”
Tears filled her eyes as she walked away, her own rudeness at not saying goodbye unnoticed as she quickened her steps, eventually running down the hall to hide in her room.
Because Papa was right.
“Lady Claire!” a voice cried out. Evan jogged across the small patch of grass on the common, behind where Claire sat with Julia, her younger sister. It was half past five o’clock and the sisters had taken a stroll through Hyde Park. Papa’s affairs brought him into the city and they had, with Mama’s permission, come to London with him for a short visit. Their promenade complete, with plenty of ogling and pleasantries exchanged, they had just settled upon a park bench for a much-needed rest.
“Oh, dear,” Julia exclaimed, then giggled in Claire’s ear. “Here he comes,” she whispered. “Two yards of muscle topped by China-blue marbles.”
Claire just rolled her eyes and worked to steady her heart, which chose to dance a quadrille within her chest at the sound of Evan’s voice. She focused her gaze on her sister as a method for calming down, taking deep breaths, like a child struggling to manage a tantrum. Julia took after their mother, with honey-brown hair and eyes that matched, wide cheekbones and a peasant’s strong build. She would be married off to some Eastern European prince, like Claire, and despaired of it. She had more time, as the youngest, though not much more. Papa was working furiously fast.
“Mr. Michaelson,” Claire replied. He nodded his head to Julia, who nodded back. When had they all become so formal?
“Evan! Whatever are you doing in London?” Julia shouted, jumping up to greet him, then halting, offering her hand. The shift from child to young woman had been a rapid one, advancing during Evan’s service in battle, and Claire wished that time would move more slowly, for her mind seemed too delayed to process all she needed to understand and experience.
He took Julia’s hand and grinned, lips pressing against her glove, his words muted as he said, “My father sent me.” Julia pursed her lips and then bit the lower, a coquettish affect that led to a slow crawl of territoriality in Claire. Do not even think it, sister, she thought to herself, covering her mouth with one hand to stop the words from making their way to air, the other hand curling into a cat’s claw.
“Might I have a word alone with you?” he asked Claire, those eyes so intense, his gaze melting the rest of the world away. “Within view of your chaperone, of course,” he said, smiling at Julia. “We wouldn’t want any rumors to float about that might cause a stream of discomfort,” he added, winking at Claire and pointedly making eye contact with the minor audience of fellow members of the ton, out for their promenade, who now gaped openly at the trio.
What? What? She fairly screamed in horror. Float? Stream? Detestable man. To think she ever wanted to marry him! Wa
s he trifling with her, making innuendos about what he might have seen the other day at the waterfall? His eyes twinkled with the merriment of torturing her with a secret, yet she could only grit her teeth and act as composed as possible.
“No, Mr. Michaelson,” she finally replied, steely eyes boring into his, Julia perking up with the preternatural sense that something was amiss – and worth watching. “Whatever you say to me must be said to my sister, as well.”
“Did you know that one of our cousins from South America is coming to live in England!” Julia declared, taking Evan’s arm. He seemed unbalanced by the gesture, so certain a moment ago and now a bit befuddled. Good, thought Claire. Julia was a wicked gossip and would find some way to keep them all talking with poisoned tongues in a few moments. She needed to discuss anything other than that morning with him.
“Really?” he inquired politely, walking with Julia and Claire around a small shrubbery. “And which cousin is this?”
“The triplets!” Julia cried out, as if Evan offended her with his failed memory.
“Ah, yes. The triplet daughters from your aunt.” His face closed off, and she realized he was unsure how to proceed. Their aunt Katherine had died seven years past, likely of some horrid disease caught in the filthy jungles of Venezuela. Claire’s mother always said Aunt Katherine had been too adventurous, and it had killed her in the end. Her father claimed Uncle Manuel told him it was a slow-moving disease of the belly that took five years to creep through her. Mama wouldn’t hear of it; she would always blame her uncle for luring Aunt Katherine off to that dangerous land.
“Yes! Our cousin, Anastasia, has married an earl!” Julia said breathlessly. Of all the Hanscombe girls, Julia wore the most distinguished bosom, which now heaved with the excitement of a juicy bit of information she clearly needed to express. Her brown eyes widened and narrowed with intrigue and importance. Claire, of course, knew what she was about to say, but did not spoil it for her sister. The climax was, for Julia, the fun of whispering scandalous things about town.
The Water's Kiss Page 2
