Chapter 27

You know that you lose what few wits you have when you have your hands on him , the voice of reminded her.

Stacia did not care. Earlier she had told Lord Shelton that it was near enough to Christmas that he should indulge.

Well. She would indulge, too. If she did not, she suspected she would regret it for the rest of her life.

"Very well," Stacia said, getting to her feet.

Lord Shelton held out his arms and Stacia swallowed and took her position.

He stared down at her, his face unsmiling and his blue eyes glittering beneath lowered lids. Stacia wasn't just indulging herself, she was courting danger.

She did not care.

He did not bother to hum, and neither of them seemed to need it. Stacia kept pace with him easily.

He was so much taller than her that it should have been uncomfortable to look up at him—and it certainly should have been awkward gazing into his eyes without talking—and yet she had never felt more at ease with him. The sheer physicality of the dance—his moves more daring and demanding the longer they danced—would have made talking difficult in any case.

Only when she noticed the sheen of perspiration on his forehead did she realize her own skin was hot and damp, the air in the room more like a summer day than the end of December.

"Tired?" he asked her in a voice that was a little breathless.

"No," she lied, cocking an eyebrow. "You?"

He laughed. "No."

Now that Stacia had both the measure of the dance and also knew what it was like to have a superlative partner, she could read his body well enough to anticipate his moves.

Or so she'd believed.

Then he spun her into a turn and allowed the momentum to carry her into a twirl, only his fingers lightly holding hers.

Stacia laughed with delight as he smoothly captured her free hand and resumed the dance. "I have never done that!"

He smiled. "There are a number of other starting positions—would you like to try them?"

"Of course."

For the next half hour he demonstrated variations, some quite scandalous. But none quite so enjoyable as the one they adopted last, where Stacia's hands rested on his shoulders, near his neck, and both his hands were on her waist. Their rather significant height difference meant their bodies were close together, far too close for a ton ballroom.

"This is my favorite," he murmured, his eyes glinting down at her as he slowed their pace, their perfectly synchronized movements taking on a dangerously sensual feel when his leg brushed against the inside of her thigh as he turned her.

Stacia swallowed, her heart pounding and her breasts tightening.

His lips curled into one of his lazy, mischievous smiles and she just knew that he knew what she was feeling.

It was difficult to breathe, even though they were not moving fast. Indeed, they were moving so slowly they certainly would have attracted the wrong sort of attention on a normal dance floor.

The next time he turned her, he slid to a halt, and she found her back pressed up against the room's only door.

His eyes blazed down at her, hungry and hot, his smile of only seconds earlier nowhere in sight.

They stared, frozen. And then his grip on her waist loosened.

He was stepping away from her!

Stacia yanked him down while standing on her toes, all but thrusting herself at him.

His big body resisted only for a second before he groaned and took what she offered, seizing possession of her mouth with a carnality that robbed her of breath.

As she had with their waltzing, Stacia initially struggled to keep pace with him, his lips, tongue, and hands shattering what few wits she had.

And then his knee pressed against the juncture of her legs. With hardly a thought, she opened to him.

It was Stacia's turn to groan at the delicious friction.

"Yes," he murmured into her hair. His hands slid to her bottom and he lifted her until she was straddling his hard thigh.

The wantonness of her position should have left her red-faced with shame, but the jagged pulses of pleasure were too powerful to ignore—too delicious not to chase.

"That's right," he said, his voice gravelly and his breath hot on her ear as he rocked her hips with both his hands, moving her with ease until her body fell into the rhythm. "Just like that, Stacia." His hands slid beneath her thighs and he spread her wider, adjusting the angle of his leg until the sensation was unbearable and she clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her hips writhing and bucking.

She whimpered, struggling to get away from a pleasure that threatened to undo her. "I can't—"

"You can." Again, his hands urged, rocking her at the perfect speed and angle, until Stacia was unable to contain the explosion of sensory pleasure that shot from her sex up her spine.

Over and over the bliss rippled, her muscles stiffening and then going limp between each wave. She had just begun to float back down to earth when he slid a hand between his thigh and her sex, cupped her mound and used one finger to unerringly find the source of her pleasure.

The second explosion was less of a surprise than the first, but the muscles inside her stunned body clenched even harder.

Stacia was vaguely aware that Andrew had lifted her in both arms and was carrying her, the sounds of his boot heels drumming the insensibility from her and bringing her back sharply to reality.

"Oh, no you don't," he said when she tried to sit up. He kissed her ear and took her not to the settee or bed, but to his wingchair and then sat, with Stacia cradled in his lap. "Shh, shh," he murmured when she tried to cover her scalding face. "You did nothing wrong and everything right, darling." He covered every part of her face—at least anything that was visible between her splayed fingers—with kisses. "Leave guilt for other people, Stacia. For boring people."

She gave a watery laugh, suddenly noticing that her cheeks were wet.

"Here then," he said, gently pulling one of her hands away. "Why are you crying? Did I hurt you, sweetheart?"

"No," she snapped, or at least she tried to, but it came out as more of a snivel, which only angered her. "I am embarrassed—surely you can understand that?" This time she did manage to snap.

He shifted her and reached into his pocket, drawing out a handkerchief. "Here."

"Thank you," she muttered, her tone distinctly ungrateful.

Naturally, he laughed. And then kissed her. "Never be embarrassed of your sensuality, Stacia. I wish you could have seen what I did—a beautiful, erotic, magnificent woman taking what she wanted." He ignored her mortified groan and caught her hand, keeping her from covering her face again. He claimed her mouth, giving her a deep, drugging kiss that left her wrung out.

"There," he murmured when she sighed and went limp in his arms. "That is much better." He rocked her gently, kissing and murmuring.

Stacia did not recall ever feeling so cared for, so…cherished. And loved.

But it was an illusion, she was not so far gone as to not realize that.

Even so, she decided that for once, she would simply enjoy the moment rather than look toward the cold reality that would come afterward.

***

Andrew smiled when he saw that she'd fallen into a doze, her lips parted, breath coming in soft, even little puffs. He knew he should tuck her into bed and let her sleep. She would be mortified when she woke up in his arms. But he decided to please himself and keep her. What a delicious little armload of passion she was. Watching her orgasm not once, but twice, had been bloody erotic. He'd been a hair's breadth away from spending in his breeches. It was a good thing he hadn't. Not just for his pride, but these were the only pair he had.

As he studied her face, so much younger looking in repose, he remembered that he had promised himself not to touch her again after last night.

So much for that.

He wanted to touch her again. And again. All kinds of touches—especially the ones that would leave her with no choice but to marry him.

Andrew had no idea where this sudden desire for marriage—not just with anyone, but with her —had come from. It seemed insane to admit it, even in the privacy of his own head, but he felt like he knew her.

He snorted softly. According to Stacia, they had met dozens of times.

Andrew lightly traced the gently curve of her jaw. How could anyone forget this woman? True, she was small—tiny, in fact—but she was so self-assured and seemingly self-contained, two characteristics that were rare in any person, but especially in a young woman who'd been cast out into the world by the only family she had left.

It took true strength of character to reject an offer of marriage when the alternative was working for harridans like Lady Addiscombe.

Which made him recall their current predicament. Andrew grimaced when he thought about the countess's reaction once they finally got out of this attic.

"I could throttle you, Kathryn," he muttered.

If he managed to break the door open and get them out tonight—which was his intention—was there any story they could concoct to justify their absence?

Andrew snorted. Christ. What sort of story could they come up with to explain a two-day absence for both of them ? There simply wasn't one.

Well, at the very least Stacia could sleep in her own bed before the circus commenced tomorrow morning. He glanced down at the woman who was as good as his wife and smiled. As much as he hated to admit it, Kathryn had chosen well for him. Never in a hundred years would he have imagined himself falling for a woman so much cleverer than him. Not that Mariah had been stupid, but they'd both been so young and in love that nothing else had mattered, certainly not mere practicalities. Would their marriage have been a happy one? Or would their physical passion have burnt out and left nothing but two people who had little in common?

Not that he had much in common with Miss Martin—other than he genuinely enjoyed being with her. Even getting drubbed in every damned game they'd played had been amusing. He liked watching her brain work far more than he cared about winning or losing. And he loved watching the joy that transformed her normally stern mien when she trounced him.

Andrew snorted. Sylvester would never believe that he had become besotted with a woman's mind.

Besotted. Is that what he was?

He wasn't sure that was accurate. Entranced might be better. He wanted her body—fiercely—but he wanted to see her blossom, not just for those rare moments when she forgot herself, but to bloom in a way he suspected would happen naturally when she was secure and had some stability and didn't need to fetch and carry for a demanding harpy.

Because you are so good at creating security and stability for those you care about.

He winced at that accusation, unable to deny it. Andrew Derrick and stability had long been strangers. But a man could change, especially if he had a reason to do so. Andrew already had at least two reasons: regaining his people's trust and his cousin's respect. Making Miss Martin happy would be a third.

What about your discovery from earlier that she is in love with somebody else? You said you would never marry a woman who loved somebody else.

Andrew frowned at the reminder. He would just have to ask her outright. Obviously, there must be some obstacle to her love or she would not be working as a companion. For all he knew, whoever had her heart might be dead.

In any case, her reputation would be shattered after this episode. She needed a man's protection. And it should be Andrew who offered it. She might not love him, but he knew when a woman wanted him sexually, and Miss Martin wanted him badly. What she felt for him was not love—perhaps it wasn't even liking—but it was an opportunity. If he was careful—also not his forte—he might be able to forge something more enduring from sexual attraction.

Unless she simply rejects your offer. She rejected a peer—and a wealthy one, at that—once before, after all.

Andrew scowled surprisingly disgruntled by the thought. It had scarcely been more than a day, but he had come to like the thought of being married to her.

She clearly does not feel the same way about marrying you—she has already rejected you at least twice.

He would have expected to feel considerable relief at the thought of escaping marriage and responsibility. Instead, he felt an almost howling emptiness at the thought of leaving Wych House in another week and never seeing Miss Eustacia Martin ever again.

Good God. When had that happened? More to the point, what had happened? It wasn't love he felt for her. It couldn't be. It felt nothing like the feelings he'd harbored for Mariah for so long.

If not love, then what? Lust, surely, but that—at least—was an emotion he knew inside and out. This was something different.

Something more.

Something confusing.

Something more than a little alarming.

***

Stacia blinked up into a pair of smiling blue eyes, her own face immediately forming an answering smile.

She shifted and felt something beneath her that was neither a chair nor a bed. Something warm and…hard.

Stacia was still lying in Lord Shelton's lap.

Memories of how she'd gotten there led to other memories. Of what she had done on one of his legs.

He chuckled softly. "I thought we already went over this?" he chided, reading her expression—likely one of mortification—correctly.

"How long did I sleep?" she asked, not wanting to think about her behavior.

"Not long—a half-hour."

"I should get up."

His arms tightened. "I will let you up when you promise me no more guilt or embarrassment."

"I cannot promise that."

"Why not?"

"Because—" She ground her teeth, choosing and discarding words, all of which sounded more embarrassing even in her own mind. "Just because."

"Not good enough."

"I can't help feeling embarrassed."

"Why?"

" Why ?"

"Yes, why ? And just because isn't good enough."

"Because of the way I just—just used you like that."

His smile was slow and wicked. "Would it make you feel better if I used you the same way?"

Stacia thought her eyes might roll out of her head. " What? No! "

He grinned. "I will leave the offer open."

She squirmed and this time, to her regret, he let her get away.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"Not really. You?"

"Not for food."

Stacia frowned.

"I apologize for that remark," he said.

"You don't look very apologetic." Indeed, his blue eyes glittered with poorly suppressed amusement.

"Would you like to play more vingt-et-un ?"

Stacia eyed her cobnuts, which she had gathered up and put in a bowl, and the empty space on his side of the table. "You don't have any more counters."

"We don't have to play for cobnuts." He lifted one eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

"There is other…currency."

"Such as?"

He shrugged. "Clothing."

"You cannot be serious."

"Deadly."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"If not clothing then you could extend me a loan."

"A cobnut loan," she said flatly.

"It is called accepting vowels. "

" Hmph ." Stacia stared at her bowl of cobnuts, her mind stuck on his first suggestion. She cleared her throat and then looked up to find him giving her the sort of knowing smirk that told her he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Well, who cared if he knew?

"How does one play with clothing as counters?"

Forty-five minutes later…

Stacia looked from her cards to his. And then looked at them again. And then she looked up at Lord Shelton—who was still fully clothed.

She shook her head. "I-I don't understand what I am doing wrong this time. I did so well before—with the cobnuts."

"Lady luck is fickle," he said, giving her a sympathetic look that she did not believe for an instant.

Stacia could not seem to catch her breath. Nor could she meet his gaze, which had gone from lazily amused to distinctly predatorial. She looked instead at the pile of garments beside her. And the shoes on the floor. Although he had allowed her to don her bonnet, gloves, pelisse, scarf, and cloak before they began playing, she was still down to her dress, petticoat, stays, stockings, and chemise. Six more items.

A thought struck her. "What about my g-garters?"

He grinned. "Those count."

"And my hair pins?" she asked, not caring that her face was flaming at having said garters. "Surely they count?"

" Hmmm." He tapped his chin.

"Two pins equal one garment?" she asked hopefully.

He cut a glance at her hair.

Something told Stacia that he knew more about how many hairpins a woman needed than she did.

"Three pins equal a garment," he said.

Stacia exhaled raggedly. Surely her luck would turn by then. Earlier, when they had used cobnuts, she had beaten him every sing—

Her head whipped up. "You—you've tricked me!"

His eyebrows rose and his expression grew haughty. "Are you accusing me of cheating, Miss Martin?"

"No—of course not. I didn't mean—" And then she saw the slight curve of his lips and gave a huff of disgust. "You know exactly what I mean. You purposely lost earlier, didn't you?"

"Now you are calling me a Captain Sharp?" He gave her a hurt look.

"I cannot believe you!"

He grinned. "All is fair in love and cards."

"You are abominable. How far would you have allowed this to go? Until I was n-n—without any clothing." Her face was doubtless fiery at her inability to articulate a simple word.

Lord Shelton, naturally, looked delighted. "I would have stopped long before you were n-n—without any clothing."

She laughed before she could catch it. "You are a horrible man!"

"I am trying to be better," he said meekly.

"I don't believe that for a minute." Stacia threw her cards at him, and he laughed. "How could you be so sure of your skill? I might have had a run of luck, after all."

"True," he said, gathering up the cards and then tidying them into a stack before setting them on the table. He shrugged. "The trick is not caring if I won or lost."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that as much as I wanted to see you naked , I would also enjoy taking off all my own clothing in front of you…Stacia." The laughter that had been brimming in his eyes was gone and the same hunger she had seen before replaced it.

The memory of her hand on his taut nipples and hard muscles slammed into her.

Stacia swallowed down the moisture that flooded her mouth.

"Come, Stacia…be brave. Life does not offer a person opportunities like this very often." He gestured to the room around them, as if she didn't know exactly what he meant.

"I—" the word came out a choked squeak. She cleared her throat. "I am not going to marry you just because Lady Kathryn forced our hand."

"So you have said. What I am suggesting is not marriage, Stacia. It is sensual pleasure."

If you don't take what he is offering, you will regret it every single day for the rest of your life, Stacia.

She would.

And yet… Stacia knew that she could not look at his naked body—and certainly not touch it—with the twin blue flames of his eyes burning into her.

Why do I want this so much?

Stacia suddenly, and vividly, imagined herself years from now, a faded specter of a woman who was still a companion, walking some ill-humored dog, and dreaming of her past, reliving the memory of these few days over and over again. Wishing there was more to remember…

She wanted this. Maybe she even needed it.

She risked a glance at him. "Nothing we do would mean more than what it is."

"If that is what you wish."

She did wish it.

Darkness, which had so emboldened her the night before, would hide what she so wanted to see, so there would be no point—

"A blindfold," she blurted.

His eyebrows arched. "Er, you want to wear a blindfold while I undress?"

Stacia snorted. "I want you to wear one."

Rather than look shocked or uneasy or anything a normal man would likely look, he appeared thrilled.

"I would love to wear a blindfold while I strip for you, Miss Martin."