She could not tell him. She would never tell him. Better to let him think she loved him than that he knew the truth.
Oh, how could she have done something so stupid as fall in love with Braden Granville? Because in spite of what she’d told Emily—that Braden Granville was not the grand seducer everyone thought him, but actually a very kind, thoughtful man, who had tried, at least, to say no to her when she’d first come to him with her ridiculous plan—there was no getting around the fact that he was a Lothario—
the
Lothario, actually. The Lothario of London.
She reached up and snatched the curl of hair from his fingers. “Nothing happened,” she said, carefully avoiding his gaze. “I am not
not
in love with Hurst.”
“But you just told me,” he was swift to point out, “that the pants don’t fit.”
She cursed herself. Why had she opened her mouth to him about that? She tried a different track.
“Well,” she said. “Maybe it wasn’t that the pants didn’t fit. Maybe I just did it wrong.”
When, a second later, he slipped one of his strong hands around the back of her neck, she knew she hadn’t said the right thing.
“I think,” he said, his deep brown eyes very steady and warm on hers, “you’d better show me what you did, so we can ascertain the source of the problem, and attempt to repair it.”
Caroline was torn between an almost overwhelming desire to feel his mouth on hers once more, and a very strong suspicion that she was just some sort of cog in an elaborate wheel of manipulation he was spinning for his own entertainment. But really, when she thought about it, it was ridiculous to think he’d have any desire to seduce
her.
What could
she—
Lady Caroline Linford—ever do for someone like Braden Granville?
“It’s only a kiss, Caroline,” he said, chidingly.
“I know it.”
Now
she’d summoned up some indignation.
“Then what are you afraid of?”
“You, turning wild again.”
“Me?” He sounded wryly amused. “Wild? When did I turn wild?”
“Last night, in the Dalrymples’ garden, of course.”
“I wasn’t a bit wild. I was a perfect gentleman.”
She snorted. “A perfect gentleman who put his hand down my shimmy.”
Now he was grinning, evidently heartily amused by her. “I rather got the impression you
liked
it when I did that.”
“I did not,” Caroline lied, primly. “And if I’m to kiss you now, you’ve got to promise not to do it again.”
He sighed. “So very strict for someone so very young . . . and so very inexperienced. So be it, then. I promise not to put my hand down your—What was it?”
“Shimmy,” Caroline said, beginning to suspect she was being made fun of, and not certain what to do about it.
“Ah, of course. I promise very faithfully not to put my hand down your shimmy this time. Now, why don’t you scoot over a little closer to me?” He put an infinitesimal amount of pressure on the back of her neck.
Caroline obliged him—although scooting, with her stiff crinoline, was not entirely as easy as he’d made it sound. She managed to get near enough to him, however, on the curricle’s narrow seat, so that her shoulder fit into the space beneath his arm, and her hip was again touching his—through, of course, layer upon layer of clothing, not to mention the steel bars of her crinoline.
“All right,” she said, deciding swiftly that if he really was manipulating her, well, she didn’t care. No man could manipulate her out of as many clothes as she happened to be wearing at that moment. “Now what?”
“Now,” he said, “show me what you did to Slater.”
She sighed to show she thought the whole thing very tiresome indeed, then, slipping one foot beneath her to give her more height upon the seat, tilted up her head and placed a series of featherlight kisses on Braden Granville’s mouth.
Only this time, instead of keeping his mouth firmly set, the way Hurst had, Braden let his lips fall apart, just a little. Just enough for Caroline to slip in her tongue. She did so tentatively, perfectly conscious of what had occurred the last time she’d kissed him.
But when seconds passed, and nothing happened— nothing at all—Caroline pulled back her head and eyed him, uneasily.
“I’m doing it wrong, aren’t I?” she asked. No wonder. No wonder Hurst had looked the way he had!
Braden’s eyes had been closed. Now the lids drifted slowly upward, and she was surprised to see his normally sharp-eyed gaze looking a bit distant.
“I’m not sure,” he said, in a voice that wasn’t quite steady. “You had better try again.”
Caroline nodded, and, slipping her other foot beneath her for balance, so that she was now on her knees beside him on the narrow bench, went back to work. This time, she reached up and laid a hand upon the back of his neck, for better support as she strained to reach his lips.
And when she began her second assault upon his mouth, she had better luck. The fingers he’d placed at her nape tightened a little. Caroline thought this a good sign, and proceeded to kiss him with more energy, attempting an even bolder approach with her tongue, thrusting it quite confidently into his mouth.
She was in no way prepared for the violence of his reaction.
The tip of her tongue had barely flicked his before she found herself thrown completely off her balance by the sudden introduction of his other arm wrapping around her waist. Crinoline rings collapsed and her skirt was crushed as he lifted her from the bench and deposited her upon his lap, her legs straddling his. Alarmed, Caroline tried to pull away, but he’d kept one hand on her neck, neatly preventing escape. Caroline only had time to be thankful that the afternoon dress she wore was a particularly high-necked one before she became conscious of the pressure of his mouth on hers, and felt that all too familiar melting sensation once again, and was lost.
R
eally, but it had to be sinful, the way he made her feel. As if there were just the two of them in the whole world. As if there was nowhere more important she had to go, nothing more important she had to do, than sit inside this curricle and lazily explore this man’s mouth, and let him do the same to her.
And yet he wasn’t doing the same to her. Caroline realized too late that while she had been busy enjoying the sensual plundering he was performing of her mouth, a plundering of quite a different kind was occurring beneath those very steel bands she’d counted on to protect her. Braden Granville’s hand—the one that wasn’t behind her neck—had slipped beneath her crinoline and somehow found the ribbons that held her pantaloons closed.
Caroline tried to protest as she felt the bow, in which those ribbons had been neatly tied, tighten suddenly, then spring apart. She tried to say stop. Really, she did. But it was just so . . . difficult. And not only because of his tongue being in her mouth. It was because . . . well, she didn’t want him to stop.
Still, it wasn’t right, this business with her pantaloons. Putting his hand down her shimmy had been one thing, but
this
. . . .
“Stop squirming, Caroline,” he drew his head back from hers to say, abruptly. “The hoops from your crinoline keep sticking me in the ribs.”
“What are you
doing
down there?” Caroline demanded. “You can’t
do
that.”
“Of course I can. I’m trying to show you something. You
asked
me—”
“I asked you to tell me whether or not I had kissed Hurst right.”
Even as she spoke, her lips felt pleasantly tingly from the bruising manner he’d returned that kiss. She had kissed him right. She knew she had kissed him right. The person there was something wrong with, she’d decided, was Hurst, who had never kissed her like that, nor expressed the slightest interest in the bow that held her pantaloons closed.
“I didn’t ask you,” she pointed out, “to
undress
me.”
“I’m not undressing you,” he said. “Kiss me again.”
“No, not unless you move your—”
He silenced her by doing some kissing of his own, bringing her face up hard against his with the hand he’d kept anchored at the back of her neck, and fairly devouring her mouth, it seemed, with his. Caroline, wanting not so much to pull away as to
want
to pull away, was horrified to find herself kissing him right back, hungering after his lips and tongue with as much enthusiasm as he appeared to hunger after hers.
Well, and how could she be expected to help herself? Here she was in his arms—in his
lap,
actually— surrounded by him,
enveloped
by him. He was all she could see, all she could touch, all she could taste. His breathing—somewhat ragged—was all she could hear, if you didn’t count the not-very-steady pounding of his heart, which she could not only hear but feel, even through the material of his coat, and the high-necked bodice of her gown. All she could smell was the rich, masculine scent of him, mingling odors of soap and clean linen and, more faintly, gunpowder, a smell she was sure, years and years from now, would always bring back memories of Braden Granville. It was ridiculous—totally ridiculous—to imagine that something like that—the smell of gunpowder—would make her cling to him even harder, kiss him with even more wild abandon, but that’s exactly what happened. She couldn’t explain it. She didn’t care to explain it. There it was, and that was all.
And then she figured out exactly what his hand was doing in her pantaloons . . . figured it out when that hand brushed—and not at all accidentally, she was quite certain—a certain part of her that had lately been behaving very strangely indeed, tending to go damp quite a bit in his presence, most especially when he kissed her. It was damp now, damp and extremely sensitive, so sensitive that when his fingers brushed it, Caroline’s back arched reflexively, and she tightened her fingers around his neck, and let out a murmur against his mouth. . . .
But not of protest. Not of protest at all.
As if this were a sign for which he’d been waiting, Braden let his hand slide there again. Only this time, instead of brushing casually against her, his fingers pressed there with the most definite of intentions.
And that caused an even greater sensation. Caroline, who had hardly ever touched
herself
there, much less allowed anyone else to do so, was unprepared for her immediate and very physical reaction. Instantly, she found herself flooded with longing, and that longing seemed to be rooted in a desire to press herself even more firmly against those hard, calloused fingers. So firmly, in fact, that it seemed as if one or two of those fingers might actually have slipped inside her. . . .
And
she didn’t even care.
Quite suddenly, Lady Caroline Linford had been transformed—by the merest touch of a man’s fingers—into a wanton, sluttish thing, who could think of nothing but. . . .
Well,
this.
But who could blame her? It felt so heavenly, having his hand there, and his lips on hers, and his other hand, oh, his other hand had slipped away from her neck now, and had settled over one of her breasts, and it was too bad she was wearing so many clothes, because it felt divine, the way he was cupping her breast, but there was all that
material
in the way. In the future when she went out with him she’d have to remember to wear nothing but short sleeves and her lowest necklines and. . . .
What was he doing
now?
Petting her, it seemed like. And it felt so good, the way he was petting her, so sweetly and so tenderly, only there was still that
longing,
that feeling that if he’d only put a little more pressure
there
. . . .
And quite suddenly, he did.
And Caroline’s world, which had been spinning quite steadily out of control, seemed to explode into a thousand shimmering bits. It was a little like the sensation she experienced every time she slid into an extremely hot bath—for a few seconds, her entire body, from the top of her scalp to the soles of her feet, felt as if it was on fire. It was almost unbearable, the sensation, but perfectly delightful, too. And, lost in the throes of it, she jerked her lips from his and clutched at his shirtfront convulsively, unable to keep from crying out. . . .
And then, just as suddenly, the fire was out, and she felt as if she were shivering all over, like something newly born.
Shivering and completely limp, dazed by it all, she slumped forward until she fell against him, panting.
“What,” she wanted to know, when she could bring herself to speak, “was
that?”
His voice wasn’t so steady either. “Your lesson for the day,” he replied.
“Lesson?”
she demanded. “Is that what you call it?”
But she couldn’t summon up any real indignation, since she felt so deliciously lethargic. If only, she was thinking, she could sit like this forever, with her cheek upon his shoulder and her arms curled around his neck, listening to his heartbeat, and the sounds of the horses’ hooves as they went round and round the park. . . .
A sound that, even as it was registering on her consciousness, abruptly stopped.
Braden moved his hand from between her thighs and gave her bare backside a slap that went a long way toward bringing her out of her happy stupor.
“Get up,” he said. “You’re home.”
She raised her head to blink at him. “Home?” she said, stupidly.
“Yes.” Even as she sat there, staring at him, he was putting her clothing back in order, neatly tying the ribbon to her pantaloons back into place, and jerking her crinoline hoops down again. “We’ve been gone over an hour. We wouldn’t want to raise your mamma’s suspicions now, would we? She might lock you in your room again, and that would adversely affect tomorrow’s lesson plan.”
Caroline shook her head confusedly. What was he talking about? Didn’t he realize what he had done? Taken her to the heights of heaven, that was what. And now he expected her just to go
home?
To walk in her front door as if nothing had happened? As if he hadn’t, as far as she was concerned, touched her soul?
“But—” she began.
“Here.” He plucked at a curl that had slipped out from beneath her bonnet, doubtlessly when she’d thrown her head back in ecstasy. “You need to fix your . . .” He made a gesture around her face. “Yourself. Your hair has gotten all . . .”
Mechanically, Caroline reached up, and began tucking her hair back where it belonged. “But I don’t understand,” she said, as she tucked. “I only asked you to tell me whether or not I was kissing correctly.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I believe you’ve quite mastered kissing. That’s why I moved on to the next step.”
“The next step? Is
that
what that was?”
“Well, we might have skipped a few in between,” he said, and there was, she thought, something distinctly odd in his expression. “But that wasn’t your fault. We’ll go back to them, one of these days.”
“But—” Caroline shook her head, trying to clear it, and nearly undid all the hair tucking. “But you were supposed to be teaching me how to . . . to . . .” She broke off, not sure how to put into words what she meant.
He looked down at her, questioningly, one eyebrow raised. But since it wasn’t his scarred eyebrow, she figured she hadn’t angered him. Suddenly, she knew exactly what she meant.
“You were supposed to be teaching me how to give a man pleasure,” she said, all in a rush. “You weren’t supposed to be pleasuring
me.”
Up went the scarred eyebrow.
“Is that so?” he said . . . mildly enough, she supposed, for someone who looked so . . . well, intimidating.
“Yes.” Sadly, the lovely glowing feeling she’d been experiencing was growing faint. “How am I supposed to learn anything about making love to a man when all you ever do is make love to
me?”
For some reason, he seemed to find that amusing. Both corners of his mouth were twitching as he took her by the waist and lifted her from his lap, placing her onto the seat beside him once again.
“That,” he said, his voice rich with an emotion she could not identify, “is the first time I have ever heard that particular complaint from anyone I’ve—how did you put it? Oh, yes. Pleasured.” He could barely say the word, he was trying so hard not to laugh. “Go home, Caroline,” he said, leaning down to give her a distinctly unromantic peck on the forehead. “We’ll see to my pleasure next time. Go, before the esteemed Lady Bartlett discovers you’ve gone—”
Caroline didn’t hesitate. She slipped from the curricle, and, after pausing just a fraction of a second to adjust her skirts, which had gotten woefully tangled, ran fleetly up the steps to her front door. . . .
And only then realized what he’d said.
Next time.
They would see to his pleasure
next time.
But there could be no next time! Hadn’t she explained to him that the lessons could not continue?
She was about to return to the carriage to make sure he understood that there could be no next time when, to her consternation, the front door was wrenched open by a tight-faced Thomas.
“Caroline,” he said, urgently, slipping a hand beneath her arm.
Caroline threw a hasty glance over her shoulder. The curricle hadn’t moved. There was still time—
“Just a moment, Tommy,” she said. “There’s something I’ve got to—”
Tommy’s hand tightened on her arm. “You’ve got to talk to Ma,” Thomas said. “Please. I’m begging you.”
“Ma?” No! The curricle was going away! Slowly, but surely, heading down the street.
“She’s having one of her fits,” was Thomas’s surprising reply. And Caroline forgot all about Braden Granville, and swung the full strength of her astonished gaze upon her brother.
“One of her fits?” she echoed.
And then they were inside the house, Caroline undoing her bonnet strings as Thomas closed the door behind them.
“She noticed,” Caroline said, trepidatiously. “She noticed I was gone, didn’t she?”
“No,” Thomas said. “It’s nothing to do with you, for a change. It’s only that I told her . . . well, I told her this afternoon that I’m going back. To school. I’m going back the day after tomorrow, just for the weekend. And she went mad.”
Caroline’s eyebrows went up. “Well, I can see why. You know what the doctor said, Tommy. You might feel better, but your wound’s not completely healed yet, and you’re supposed to be resting as much as possible—not that you ever do it. What did you expect Ma to say—Go with my blessings, son?”
“Will you talk to her, Caro? I know she’ll listen to you.”
Standing in the marble-floored foyer, Caroline stared up at her brother. For a long time, she’d been the taller of the two, until one memorable summer he’d sprung up four inches in three months. Suddenly, he’d been able to best her at all the games she was used to winning.
When word had come that he’d been shot, Caroline had thought that the bottom had dropped out of her world. If he had died, and left her alone, alone with their mother . . .
She would not have been able to stand it. She loved her mother dearly, but without Tommy . . .
Without Tommy, she’d have no one.
“Why is it so important to you to go back, Tommy?” she asked him. In the late afternoon light slanting through the long, narrow windows that bordered the front door, she saw that there was color in his face, freckles across his nose, because despite the doctor’s orders, he would not stay inside. “School isn’t even in session right now. None of your friends will be there.”