by Alyson Chase
“Could you pass the salt, please?” She didn’t mean to be rude, but his endless prattle acted like a tiny hammer tapping at her brain. Distracting her from her one burning question. Her gaze flitted to the empty chair three seats down on the opposite side of the table. It was the only chair missing a body. John’s body. Where the devil was he?
The woman on the poet’s other side proved a much more attentive listener, and the boy turned his conversation to her.
Netta blew out a breath as a footman removed her soup bowl and replaced it with a plate of squab, root vegetables, and a flaky roll. She was no longer hungry, but she picked up her fork in any case.
And put it back down. She frowned. There it was again. Something brushing against her leg. She moved to pull her foot back, and a large hand wrapped around her ankle.
Between the second of fright and the moment she understood it was John’s hand on her body, she almost shrieked. It would have served him right if she had. She would enjoy watching him try to explain his way out of hiding under the table.
But she would enjoy whatever he was up to even more.
He skimmed his palm up her calf, the motion soothing. Sweet almost.
The tongue he used to flick against her inner knee was decidedly not.
She sucked in a sharp breath. The only rule is to not make a sound. So this was his game. A public seduction. Did he think she’d shy away from something so wanton? That she wouldn’t be able to control herself?
His teeth scraped above her knee, and her insides quivered. Could she control herself? This game might not be easy to win. She bit her lip and looked around the table. Two dukes sat at it, along with their duchesses. All of John’s friends. Five other earls that she had been introduced to. She could be humiliated in front of nigh on thirty people.
John bit her calf, the sting disappearing quickly although his teeth did not. He seemed to wait for her to make a decision. As though even he recognized the risks of this game.
Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure others must hear it. But no one paid her any mind. Everyone was either engrossed in their meal or in nearby conversation.
She felt as isolated as an island in the middle of the sea.
On an island alone with John.
This was her last night. Her last game.
She widened her knees, and John’s breath gusted across her skin. He pressed a swift kiss to her leg. The game was on.
Her chair skidded along the carpet, jerking her body flush to the table and jostling it.
The contessa shot her a curious glance.
“I just want to get closer to my plate.” She gave the Italian a wide smile and picked her fork up. Her words were useless to the Italian and waving the utensil about didn’t add to the explanation. But the heavy piece of silverware felt good in her hand. She might need it to stab John if he put her on the spot like that again.
Any irritation slipped away as he dragged her skirts up to her hips. The pads of his fingers danced so lightly across her skin they tickled.
She shifted in her seat and poked at the squab with her fork. She would not make a sound. She would not—
She muffled a gasp by shoving the roll in her mouth. John swept his finger up and down her crease, and the decadence of the situation clouded her head. She understood now why he’d asked her to wear the peach gown. The double layer of sheer chiffon didn’t allow for any undergarments beside her stays. It was but a trifling for John to lift her skirts and have full access to her most intimate bits.
Clever man. She’d have to think of a way to make him pay for that.
He nudged at her knees, trying to prod them wider, and with a glance round the table, she obliged.
Elizabeth, bucking tradition and sitting next to her husband, smiled and raised her wine glass to Netta.
She returned the greeting, then froze as something soft and moist licked along her outer lips.
Oh dear Lord, not that. She could take a slow finger-fucking and keep a calm exterior, but if John used his tongue…
He nuzzled her clit with his nose and sucked one of her labia into his mouth.
Netta melted back into her chair. Oh, she was going to make him pay. She hooked one leg over his shoulder. She’d make him pay, and pay, and pay…
With his hands on her upper thighs, John used his thumbs to peel her open, his breath a heated contrast to the cool air.
She gulped down a breath, bracing for what was coming. She would remain still and quiet. She had control. She—
He pressed his mouth to her most intimate flesh, and her body jolted.
She was completely lacking in discipline.
The man next to her turned. “I say, this bird is uncommonly juicy.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
She couldn’t get into a discussion on squab with a poet. She would break under the pressure. “It could be juicier.” She felt rather than heard John chuckle against her, the vibration making her twitch. She buried her face in her wine goblet, and the poet took the hint and turned back to the dining companion on his other side.
She’d have to think of some way to make recompense to the boy for her unbearable rudeness.
A long slide of John’s tongue, from her opening to her clit, had her eyes rolling back in her head.
She’d buy his blasted tome of works. Her fingers went white around her fork. And one for John, too. Make him suffer through reading the trite musings on love and beauty that only a man too young to have real experience could write.
John scored her clit with his teeth, and Netta almost lost the game right there. The end of her fork hit the table, and the contessa shot her a worried frown.
Netta dropped the fork and tore off another bite of the roll. If she kept her mouth busy chewing, it couldn’t get her into any trouble.
With his nose nudging her clit, John slowly plunged his tongue in and out of her cunny.
She panted, pressing the half-eaten roll to her lips to muffle any sound. Nothing had ever felt so good. Or so wicked. Or reckless. One last evening of abandon before the real world intruded. Before her real life, with its fears and duties and frustrations, came knocking.
Her hips rocked into his devilish mouth. She didn’t want this to be her last game with John, but if it was, by God it was a masterpiece.
Her skin heated, sweat gathering at the small of her back. Her fingers clenched, crushing the poor roll.
John traced his way up to her clit, using the pressure at the tip of his tongue to flick that hard nub. Shivers shot from her core to her nipples, turning them into aching points.
“Oh God,” she murmured, softly enough she didn’t think John could hear.
But the poet did. “I agree. Byron’s behavior has been scandalous.” And he turned back to his other companion.
The tingling in her body pooled low. The rest of her felt numb; only her sex and John’s tongue existed. She was at the point where she needed the release. It was as critical as breathing. If John didn’t play this game all the way through, she would rip his ears off before taking care of herself.
She wanted to spread herself wider, take everything John had to give, but her body didn’t listen. It coiled tighter, tensing all of her muscles, drawing her legs together and trapping John’s head within her thighs.
Her breath caught once. Twice. And with one last swirl of his tongue, she went over the edge.
She bit into her lip, struggling to keep silent as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through her. John kept working his tongue, drawing out every crescendo until she could take it no longer. She shoved the remainder of the roll in her mouth, pretending to moan over its buttery goodness as she reached under the table and pushed at John’s head.
She might have poked him in the eye. So be it. She succeeded in disengaging him and that was all that mattered.
Her body calmed and she took her first deep breath since John had touched her.
&
nbsp; And starting hacking as flakes of bread went down her windpipe.
The contessa reached over and gave her a sound thumping on the back.
Tears streaming, Netta gulped some wine and held up her hand. “I’m fine,” she told the other guests. “He just went down the wrong way.”
John shook against her thigh.
“It!” She cleared her throat. “It went down the wrong way.”
Conversation around the table started up again, taking the focus blissfully off of Netta. She sagged back, all of her muscles succumbing to a satisfied languor. She was definitely counting that as her win. She reached beneath the tablecloth and John took her hand, squeezing it.
The poet started and looked at the table as though he could see beneath it. “I do believe something is touching me. This is the second time I’ve felt it.” He pushed his chair back and started to reach for the tablecloth.
“It’s only the family dog,” Netta said. “I’ve been feeding him table scraps.” She picked up the last of her roll and shoved it under the table.
John growled, but took the bread.
The Duke of Montague, Marcus as he’d insisted on being addressed, arched an eyebrow, shaking his head, but turned back to his wife.
Netta flushed. Her host knew there was something shifty happening at his table, and since he was good friends with John, he probably suspected its nature.
But with her body feeling as satisfied as it did, she couldn’t find it in herself to care overmuch.
She sliced a bite off the squab, her appetite making an amazing recovery after her impressive show of fortitude.
John tugged on her gown.
She cut off another slice and pinched it between her two fingers. Making sure no one watched, she raised the tablecloth and held the bit of meat to John. He clasped her hand with his own and brought her fingers to his mouth, taking the bite and licking her fingers clean.
Repressing a smile, she patted his head.
A dog under the table, indeed.
***
Clearly, he had not thought this all the way through.
John accepted the next tidbit from Netta, but his stomach yet rumbled. And his arse was going numb. His mind had whirled at the delightful possibilities of being hidden under a table at Netta’s feet, but after the game was over the reality of him being stuck under said table for the rest of the meal hadn’t crossed his mind.
He rubbed Netta’s bare knee. Her restraint had been magnificent. She deserved to win this one.
He blew out a breath. Which meant he had to confess his past.
He trusted Netta, but he had never told a living soul about his work as a spy. Yes, some people had heard rumors. Too many people. And his friends’ wives had all learned the truth, but John had felt nothing but irritation when his friends had spouted off about their jobs with the Crown to their women.
How they would laugh at him now.
And how would Netta react? Would she recoil from a man who had spent his adult life doing unspeakable things in the name of his country? Or would she accept him as he was?
The back of his throat ached. If anyone could accept him it would be Netta. She’d already seen more of him than every other woman of his acquaintance put together.
The Italian lady crossed her legs and bobbed her toe inches from his nose.
John eased away, and brushed the trousers of the man opposite.
Sod it all to hell and back. Montague needed a larger dining table. For a duke, it was positively disgraceful to have one under five feet wide.
The man in question said something at the end of the table, his voice muffled. All the chairs but Netta’s scraped backwards.
John heaved a breath. Finally. Dinner was at an end.
“I’ll be right there,” Netta called to someone. “There’s a pebble in my slipper I wish to remove.”
After a moment, she raised the tablecloth and waved him out.
“A pebble in your slipper?” he asked as he rolled out and to his feet. He stretched, a bone in his back popping.
“Better than saying a thorn in my side.” She rose and planted her fists on her hips. “Really, John. At a table full of guests? What were you thinking?”
As a delightful post-orgasm flush still graced her cheeks, and a smile twitched about her lips, he didn’t take her scolding seriously.
“Was that a whimper I heard when I first used my tongue?” He clucked that organ against the top of his mouth. “You disappointed me, Netta.”
“You heard no such thing and I never disappoint.” She patted her hair, making sure everything was still in place.
He grabbed her hips and tugged her into his body. “Of that, you are absolutely correct.” He rested his chin on top of her head. He didn’t want to lose this. Lose her. Would she be amenable to his offer of carte blanche? She should be. Their fun would go on and he was, after all, a desirable match.
But still a niggle of doubt wormed its way under his skin.
He kissed her hair. “You won. It is time for me to talk.”
“Must we?” She clutched his arms and looked up at him. “Can we wait until we get home at least?”
“The words won’t change depending on location.”
She sighed. “I know. But everything else will change. I just want a few more minutes of…this.”
John frowned. Did she know what he was to say? Did she care that much? Nevertheless, putting off unpleasant conversations was something at which he excelled. He and his brother were proof of that. That was a reckoning years in the making.
Cupping her elbow, he led her from the dining room. Montague and Sutton were standing at the doorway to the parlor, and when they saw them, peeled away to meet him at the front door.
“Leaving so soon?” Montague asked.
“And with no supper, either.” Sutton looked horrified at the thought.
“Have no fear.” John took his hat and coat from a footman, then turned and helped Netta into her spencer. “I ate.”
Pink crept up Netta’s neck, but John didn’t have time to enjoy it.
“We need to talk,” Montague said. He glanced at Netta. “Perhaps Miss LeBlanc could wait for you at your home.”
“While I languish in boredom here waiting for your guests to depart before we talk.” He shook his head. Netta’s and his conversation was more important. “If you insist on this discussion”—one they had chewed over endlessly before—“come over after your party. I’ll ask cook to put on a pot of coffee.”
“Very well.” Montague bowed over Netta’s hand. “Miss LeBlanc. I hope you had an enjoyable evening.”
Her flush crept higher. “Quite enjoyable indeed.”
Sutton bowed over her hand next, and John frowned.
“Enough with the petting.” He removed Netta’s hand from his friend’s and tucked it securely at his elbow. “I’ll see you both later.”
He handed Netta into his carriage and followed her in, sitting beside her.
“Your friends are most charming,” she said.
“Is that so?”
“And quite handsome, too.”
He swiveled his head to glare down at her. “I’m so pleased that you find my friends to your liking.” If his tone wasn’t enough to show his displeasure, he crossed to the opposite seat, dropping down heavily.
She stretched across the divide and grabbed his sleeve. He let her tug him back to sit next to her.
“You do enjoy your sulks.” She rested her head against his shoulder and sighed. “And I enjoy poking at you. But let’s not do that now. Not when it might be our last quiet moment together.”
His stomach dropped to the floor. “Do you see our time together ending so soon?”
She was quiet a moment. “Everything has an ending. And I fear our conversation will be the beginning of our end.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence. His mind churned. He didn’t like endings, not unless he ins
tigated them. Did she not wish to continue in his company unless there was a job? He blinked, the back of his eyes burning. Did she see so little value in him except for his blunt?
He didn’t want to believe it, but what other explanation was there? He’d rebuilt the Summerset fortune, he took any ballroom by storm with his sly manners and unparalled footwear, but truly, what else was there of him? He no longer assisted his country. He was too cowardly to experiment with chemicals again. And no one would accuse him of acquiring moral worth through benevolence to others.
His heart thumped, making his chest feel strangely hollow. He’d achieved what he’d set out in life to become. Wealthy. Powerful. So fashionable no one could ever look at him with disgust again.
He dug a knuckle into his breastbone. How absurd those ambitions now seemed.
They rolled to a stop in front of his home and a footman pulled the door open. John stepped out then turned to hand Netta down. The top of her head just came to his chin, and even though her spine was infused with steel, her womanly curves looked as soft and delicate as spun sugar.
Realization hit him like a hammer. Whatever her reaction to his past exploits, he couldn’t involve her in his present one. She was vulnerable, and he’d rather lose everything than see her come to harm.
He almost laughed at the irony of it. In order to offer her carte blanche, to keep her in his life, he’d need his wealth. And in order to keep his wealth, he needed her for his scheme. Something, apparently, his newfound conscience wouldn’t allow.
At the door to his study, she pressed her knuckles into her lower back, looking as threadbare as he felt.
He replaced her hand with his own and rubbed away her ache.
She leaned into him.
No. Not even to keep her by his side would he gamble with her as the stake. Taking her out of it was the right thing to do. He never should have involved her to begin with.
She dropped onto a chair across from his desk, ignoring the settee by the wall. Perhaps she was smart not to sit next to him. Best to keep this discussion business-like. Netta appreciated frankness, not mawkish sentiment and hand-holding.
