Chapter 8

8

NUMBER TWO AND NUMBER THREE

Everything was exactly as Lady Ashby had predicted. Mrs Singleton – who didn't strike Leo as the sort of woman anybody would care to argue with, or, at any rate, not more than once – mustered her guests and shepherded them firmly into her music room. Cassandra took a seat quite near the front, in order to support Lady Silverwood, no doubt, and waved at him in a friendly fashion to indicate that she had saved him a place, but he feigned not to see and suppressed a smile as he saw the resigned expression on Hal's face. He didn't believe that his cousin was any fonder of opera than he was himself. He thought that Irlam would make a fuss about passing an evening in a deadly dull manner, while all along not truly minding because he was doing it for and with Cassandra. He was a lucky fellow, but tonight he, Leo, was also to have his share of good fortune. It might never lead to anything, it might end in heartbreak as he had feared the other night, but at least he would be able to hold her in his arms, to kiss her – yes, with tongues – and to know as he did so that further delights, as yet unspecified, lay in store. It might be a painful situation in which to find himself, hurting him now with the anticipation of greater hurt to follow, but it was also damnably exciting.

She stood close by him but did not look at him, and as the chattering crowd began to settle she slipped away; he was willing to swear that nobody saw her go. She had a talent for intrigue; if her plan was to go smoothly, she would need it. She could be a spy, he thought, and a good one. Were women spies? Probably. He felt slightly feverish.

A few moments later he followed her. She was waiting outside the door and took him by the arm, drawing him swiftly across the hall into what appeared to be Mr Singleton's library. A shrewd choice, as he doubted any of the other guests would be seized by the overwhelming urge to read a book in the next half-hour or so. Singleton, though appearances could be deceptive, he knew, looked like a man who hadn't so much as opened a volume in twenty years.

There was a key in the lock, and she turned it. She was in charge, and there was something undeniably arousing about the fact, something he had never experienced before, or not for many years, but found he liked. She wanted him; she had chosen him above all others. She'd said she could never love again, she'd said there was no future in it, but to be chosen by a woman like this was a hell of a thing.

She was in his arms. He was prepared for it this time and didn't hesitate for a second. His hands were about her waist and his lips fused with hers. It was different, it was much better, because before they had both been a little unsure, for their own separate reasons, but now they both gave rein to the hunger they shared and devoured each other shamelessly. It was his turn to bite her gloriously full, sensual lower lip, and to hear her let out an adorable little moan when he did so. He felt the whisper of it against his tender skin. And then her tongue came out and sought his; she teased him with the tip first, then withdrew, and it was his time to moan, but then she relented and gave him the length of it, and he did the same. It was hot and wet and erotic, messy, urgent, wonderful. Her hands came up and tangled in his hair and held him close and tight, a hold he would have struggled to escape from if he'd had the least desire to do so, while he felt the softness of the velvet and of her under his palms.

His left hand was fixed about her waist; his right was inexorably drawn upwards to cup her breast. His fingers spanned and held it, their tips found the edge of her velvet bodice, and brushed velvety skin. He felt a jolt run through her, and she pulled away a fraction to gasp against his lips, ‘That was supposed to be next!'

She was a little incoherent, but he understood her. His hand stilled, though he did not quite have the strength to remove it, and the pads of his fingers still lay warm on her bare, pliant flesh. ‘Do you object?' he said unsteadily.

‘No!' she said. ‘Don't stop!'

‘I won't. I need…' He raised his head, and saw a convenient wall of books close by; he pushed her up against it and pinned her there with his body, and thus freed his other hand to cup her other breast. He had the fleeting thought that all of it – their seeking hands, hers as well as his, her ripe breasts, the sensual softness of velvet, the very existence of walls – was designed for this very purpose and no other. Their tongues still tangled together, he ran the tips of his fingers across the perfect lush curve of her upper breasts and felt her shiver at the contact and press fiercely back to fill his palms, to urge him wordlessly to give her firmer caresses. He held her and squeezed her; she pressed her body into his, and he pressed himself against her as she clung tightly to him. His fingers slipped under the velvet neckline of her gown and encountered flimsier fabric, which he pushed down ruthlessly.

His lips explored the rich curves of her mouth, then feathered across her cheekbone, and when he reached one deliciously plump pink earlobe he bit it gently. She jolted again, and he took this as encouragement to draw the little bud of flesh into his mouth and suck on it. This was both enjoyable in itself and a tiny foretaste of further, more intimate delights. It seemed that it was pleasing to her too, for she threw back her head in response and bared her throat to him. He licked the tender spot behind her ear, which made her gasp again, and commenced kissing his way down her throat. He had no idea if this was or was not a separate entry on the list; just now he didn't care, and it seemed she didn't either.

But it wasn't all plain sailing. He desperately wanted to push her sleeves down from her shoulders and release her breasts from her bodice so that he could see as well as touch them. He wanted his mouth, his lips, his tongue on them more than anything. But her sleeves were long and quite tight, and he found he couldn't do it. His right hand had slid fully inside her bodice and cupped her warm naked flesh, his thumb and forefinger had found her nipple and encircled it, it was erect under his touch and she made a wonderful low sound in her throat as he played with it. But he couldn't see it or taste it, and the bodice was tight-fitting too and restricted his movement considerably. He wanted to kiss it, to lick it, to fucking eat it, and he couldn't. Life was manifestly unfair.

He raised his head a little and said, ‘I want to worship your lovely breasts with my mouth. This gown is very becoming, but it won't let me. And I don't want to tear it.' He did want to tear it, in truth, he wanted to rip it off her with his teeth, but he still retained some shreds of sense and would not do so. Not here.

‘Number four, I think that was number four,' she moaned. And then, soft, aroused, infinitely alluring, ‘No, don't tear it. We should stop soon, and go back, but not quite yet. What is to be done?'

His eyes darted around the room, examining the furniture and rejecting most of it as useless for his purpose. But there was a low, odd little chair a few feet away, plainly meant for a gentleman to lie back at ease with legs stretched out, reading or drowsing; it looked comfortable, and fortunately, it did not have a high back. ‘Sit down,' he said hoarsely. ‘Sit in that chair.'

She sank into it, and he came to kneel behind her on a footstool. ‘Oh!' she said as she understood. ‘Oh goodness, yes!'

He reached over the low chair-back and slid his hands down under the edge of her bodice once more so that he could cup both of her breasts fully; in this position, he could also kiss the back of her neck. And lick it. And bite it. There were a few wispy strands of honey-blonde hair that had been too short to be caught up in the elaborate plaits that crowned her head; for some reason, they affected him deeply, and he tugged at them with his teeth. All the while he held her warm, heavy breasts in his hands and played with them in a way that seemed to give her a great deal of pleasure, judging by the noises that she was making and the way she was moving in her seat. Almost all of him was focused entirely in the moment, in the wonderful sensations that came from touching her with his fingers and his mouth, but his erection was hard and urgent, almost painful, and some insistent part of his physical being was screaming in a language older than mere words that making love to this woman, when he finally did make love to her fully, would be like nothing he had ever experienced in his life.

After a little while he realised that he must stop, or risk discovery; slowly, reluctantly, he withdrew his hands, and after one last lingering kiss where her neck met her shoulder, he stood. She still lay sprawled in the chair, her hands clutching its arms, her bosom heaving, straining at the fabric of her gown. He thought that he had never in all his life seen such an enticing sight. In a voice he hardly recognised as his own, he said, ‘You should go back. I will wait here a moment.'

She rose a little unsteadily and shook out the velvet folds. She was flushed, and visibly struggling to regain her composure, plainly unwilling to face the eyes of others. ‘Should you not go first?' she said in little more than a whisper.

‘Look at me,' he ground out. ‘I cannot go into company in this condition. I don't mean my cravat, my hair – that's nothing, I can mend that in the mirror. Please do look at me. I want you to know exactly the effect you have on me.'

Her wide brown eyes ran down his body and halted where he had meant them to halt, where his erect member stood visibly proud, stretching the fine black silk of his evening breeches. She bit her full lower lip at the sight, a characteristic gesture, and a number of all too readable thoughts flitted across her face. Not a single one of those thoughts helped his sad predicament to lessen in the slightest. She looked as though she was about to lick her lips, he would swear he could see the tip of her pink tongue creeping out, and if she did so he wouldn't be answerable for his response. She must be a terrible card player; but then, it wasn't faro he wanted to play with her, but a far more dangerous game, with much more than money at stake.

‘Number six,' she said a little breathlessly. And she was gone.

He groaned and closed his eyes for a moment before he went to find a looking-glass to show him what a wreck she had made of him. Number six. If his calculations were correct, and they easily might not be, that left four and five still undone. Four he'd been told, and God knew he could picture how wonderful it would be to have his mouth on her where his hands had just been, but five remained a mystery. He could speculate, but it would perhaps be better if he did not just now. He needed to be alone and in his bed before he could indulge in a healthy bout of speculation. In a moment, he would have to go back among people and see if he had escaped the threat of opera entirely, or still had a few arias to endure.

Number four, number five, number six…

For the first time, it occurred to him to wonder just how many items her list contained. Ten? Surely not. Twelve? Fifteen? More? How many more? It was an interesting thought, even an absorbing one, but he couldn't really say it helped in the attempt to recover his composure.

Jesus, but he was in a woeful state.