“Politics, then? Who will be the next prime minister?” She’d made her way to the far end of the room again, close to the door. But she hadn’t left. Her continuing presence had to be an encouraging sign.
“No, now stop pacing like a frightened cat and come here to me a moment.” His tone was unmistakably authoritative, but he sat on the edge of the settee, a supplicant, arms extended, waiting to see if she would come to him of her own accord and take his hands.
She did walk to him, but placed her hands on her hips, looking not a little like a beleaguered nursery maid.
“What, my lordship, have you been wondering all evening?”
“Whether your lips really do feel like rose petals or I just imagined that.”
He could see she remembered the kiss as well as he did. Her arms fell to her sides, hands balled into fists. The hunger in her eyes was indisputable, but something battled with desire.
“You should not speak to me so.”
“I cannot seem to help myself.”
“What can you possibly be thinking?”
He couldn’t very well answer that. If he gave voice to his increasingly erotic thoughts, she’d surely flee the room like a cornered rabbit.
“I think you are unlike any woman I have ever met. You hold contrary views. You speak to me as if you are intimidated by no one. You intrigue me. Surely you would not begrudge one kiss, one meek, cordial little kiss? What harm could that do?”
She leaned down to him, whispering, “Curiosity can be fatal. I don’t know why I’m doing this.” Then she touched her lips to his softly, chastely.
“Ah, rose petals . . . soft, velvety . . . but also warm and supple.” He exhaled the words against her lips. They were every bit as delectable as he remembered.
She raised a brow and asked, “Do your lips often touch rose petals?”
The pulse at the base of her neck belied her sardonic tone. When he felt her start to pull away, he gently grasped her elbows, just enough to hold her there without making her feel trapped. And she stayed. God in heaven, she stayed. He kissed her again and ran his tongue lightly between her lips, testing, requesting access. When the tip of her tongue met his, a stab of lust ran through him, straight to his groin. One hand reached up to the nape of her neck to pull her closer, to open her deeper to his kiss.
Her hands braced his shoulders, not pushing away but rather gripping tightly. So she wasn’t immune to emotion. Still, this was not enough. He needed more. He wanted to explore every inch of her and wanted her to ravish him in kind. His mouth slid along her jaw, his tongue darting out in teasing forays as he made his way to her ear. He took her earlobe in his mouth and sucked ever so gently. She gasped. When he used his teeth lightly, she shivered, her hands now massaging his shoulders, as if restless and seeking stable ground.
Good. More of that, please
.
“This means nothing,” she whispered, followed by a whimper. “Physical sensation is fleeting.”
“Then we should take what we can get.” His mouth returned to hers, with all its heat and sweetness. If he kept her mouth occupied, maybe he could quiet that skeptical corner of her brain. Through layers of silk and cotton, he felt her nipples tighten against his chest. He slid his fingers across one, and she moaned into his mouth.
Yes, the perfect height. He’d known it the moment they walked into the room. Sitting here, he was perfectly level with her most excellent breasts. And suddenly he was determined to lavish attention on them, to taste them, to learn her exquisite texture and weight and scent.
His mouth traveled down her neck, nibbling and licking, as her cool skin was warmed by his lips and breath. His lips pressed against the hollow at the base of her throat, that spot he’d been obsessed with all evening. He tasted her pulse there. His hand caressed her collarbone, drifting lightly across her in concert with his mouth. By this point, she was practically lying horizontally upon him, her posture dictated by her corset.
She panted softly and said, “I don’t know why you would want someone like me. Silly, really.”
“I have never wanted anyone like you. Let me clarify—I have never wanted anyone as much as I want you right now.” He couldn’t stand it. In a swift motion, his roaming hand dove under her neckline and slipped a generous breast free of her clothes. So soft, so pale, so full. He would show her how seriously he desired her.
His mouth captured a rosy peak, causing her to shudder and gasp, “Oh, my!”
Yes.
The sensations rocketing through him were unspeakable, his erection struggling against his trousers. He sucked more of her into his mouth and teased her taut nipple with his tongue. His hand caressed the other breast, nails gently raking back and forth across the tip. She arched her back, giving him greater access as she moaned and ran her hands through his hair.
Then abruptly, with a hard shove against his shoulders and a loud smack of suction broken, she was gone.
“Stop this!” She’d pulled out of arm’s reach, red-faced and breathing heavily. She turned her back to him and fussed with the front of her dress. When she faced him again with her face a bright and blotchy red, she was fully covered and more composed, but just barely.
“What are you doing? I am old enough to be your mother,” she said, furious. “This is your mother’s dress, for heaven’s sake. And you would suckle me like a babe? What is the matter with you?”
“Clearly, I must correct several erroneous assumptions,” he replied calmly. “First, you are younger than my mother, as I believe you have already estimated. Second, I believe this dress rightfully belonged to my sister, Amelia. And perhaps most importantly, can you not tell the obvious differences between the practicality of feeding an infant and the decadence of engaging in a distinctly carnal act?” As Honoria sputtered insensibly, he continued. “The pleasure that spiked through you just then . . .” His eyes dared her to contradict him. She did not. “That’s undeniably a carnal pleasure, one common to lovers in the heat of passion. In no way could it be confused with maternal care or infantile craving. I am rather surprised and disappointed that your husband, may he rest in peace, never performed such a service for you.”
Honoria gave him her back, silent.
“I am sorry,” he said, instantly chagrined. “How vulgar of me. I would never dishonor your husband’s memory, Mrs. Duchamp.” He wanted to go to her, embrace her in apology, but her shoulders were forbidding. He added softly, “I only mean it is not such an uncommon act. If anything, it is a common, simple way to derive mutual pleasure. Forgive me if I overstepped my bounds.”
Still well out of reach, she gave him a tentative, sidelong look and said, “We should return to the parlor.”
He sighed heavily, almost laughing at himself as he did so. For him to sigh like some heroine in a penny-mag! Her emotional baggage was heavier than he’d surmised. And he couldn’t completely account for why he wanted her, but undeniably he did. He would get what he wanted eventually, he was certain, because he was reasonably sure from her reaction that she wanted it too. His friends had occasionally joked about the pliability of widows, experienced yet neglected, and he trusted this one would be swayed eventually, not because she was a widow, but because of whatever current ran between them. Why he felt the need to persist, he couldn’t really begin to consider.
“I apologize, Mrs. Duchamp, for my . . . what did you call it previously?”
“Taking liberties?”
“Ah, yes, ‘taking liberties.’ Sometime in the future, you’ll have to explain to me how exercising our liberties is a bad thing.” When she opened her mouth to argue, as of course she would, he immediately added, “But I still haven’t shown you the work we came for.” He strode to a corner shelf, slid open a false panel, and pulled out something wrapped in velvet. He went to the desk to unveil the contents.
Of course, she came to stand next to him. Of course, she bent down to get a closer look at the gold leaf on the illuminations.
“Can that be real? Is that truly a First Folio?”
“It is indeed and verified by the Royal Shakespeare Society. They have been trying to convince the Devins to part with it for over a century.”
Of course, as she leaned over the bound parchment for a closer look, he could see far down her truly spectacular décolletage, which he knew would haunt his dreams.
“It’s breathtaking,” she whispered reverently.
“Yes, it is.” He agreed, but he wasn’t referring to the manuscript. The view from his vantage point did steal his breath away. In point of fact, as he thought more and more about the way her body responded to his kiss, he knew she wasn’t indifferent to him. He wasn’t ready to give up, and he knew she appreciated directness.
“Honoria, I want you.”
“Mrs. Duchamp to you. I’m right here. What is it?”
Woman, is your obtuseness natural or deliberate?
“No, I mean, I desire you.”
“I gathered that a moment ago, Lord Devin,” she replied archly.
So . . . deliberate then. Maddening siren.
“But we can’t always have what we desire,” she continued primly. “Surely you’ve experienced some rejection, some privation in your lifetime. Haven’t you?” At his amused nod, she continued. “After all, children don’t get candy or toys whenever they desire—some things just aren’t good for them.”
His temper flared at her condescension.
“Do not dismiss me. I am a grown man, fully aware of my desires and motivations and of what is or isn’t good for me. And what—who—I desire is you.” His eyes held her own, direct and unblinking.
“Why?” she asked, her voice dubious.
“Because you fascinate me. You intrigue me. You excite me to a degree I have never experienced before. If you knew me, you would understand how significant that is. And I want to know you.”
She shook her head and said, “I don’t engage in dalliances. Bad for business.”
“I do not either,” he said. And it was true, after a fact. He’d had fleeting encounters with amenable women, but he didn’t keep them. This was different. “But I have a proposition for you, one that I think would be mutually agreeable.”
“Any propositions you have don’t interest me,” she said, coldly. “I don’t want your money, and I am no one’s mistress.”
“Ah, but I was not thinking of money.” He looked down at the exquisite manuscript before them, ran his hand along a page, and heard her gasp in surprised understanding.
“The Folio?” she said, incredulous. “You would trade the Folio—God only knows how much it’s worth—for a night with me?”
“Based on our recent experience, I can say with certainty that one night would not be enough to satisfy either of us. But, yes, that is the basic idea.”
“And how would you explain such an exchange to your mother or to your brother? Or to anyone who knows your family owns this? That you handed over possibly the most valuable English document in history besides the Magna Carta for
that
?”
“Well, of course I cannot make known the whole circumstances. As viscount, this belongs to me, not to my mother or my brother. It is mine to dispense with as I wish.”
“You don’t deserve to own it if you would trade it so carelessly.”
She began to flip through the Folio’s pages gently, silently. He considered it a good sign. When she got to the end, she closed the volume with a light touch.
“No, thank you.”
“Pardon?”
“No. I’ll admit your offer is tempting. This is a dazzling work of art, one that probably belongs in a museum. And I would be a fool not to take possession of it, whether for my own pleasure or for the tremendous income it would provide.” She smiled wistfully for a moment, and then her face turned serious, brows knitted. “But just as you don’t deserve to own it if you’d make such a tawdry trade with it, I wouldn’t deserve to own it if I bought it so shamelessly.”
“But it is priceless.”
“So am I,” she said with conviction. “I know my worth. I won’t be bought.”
He was stunned. He’d been so sure she couldn’t resist the offer. And, if he were being honest, his pride stung just a little. But he had to admire her self-possession, and so he took the mature course of action.
“Well,” he responded, “surely, you understand I had to try.”
She looked at him surprised, and perhaps a little amused, as if to say, “
That’s all?
”
“Really,” he added, “I think we would both find such an arrangement incredibly enjoyable, but if you are not interested, then that is all there is to say.”
“Thank you,” she said tentatively, “for being such a . . . gentleman about this.”
They both laughed at her choice of words.
“I hope this does not mar our acquaintance, Honoria. I enjoy your conversation and would like to continue our association.”
A few seconds passed before she conceded, “Talking seems innocuous enough,
my lord.
Of course, then, we can maintain our acquaintance. You may visit me at the shop, as you choose. But I have provisions.”
“Oh? You would dictate terms for our association?”
“Given our recent, uh, encounters, I think that’s wise. The shop is my life, and I cannot risk anything that would lower my credibility or professional reputation. So here are the terms: You shall not take such
liberties
again. You shall not speak to me as if I am one of your paramours. In all interactions, you shall treat me as a professional.”
“Let me amend your terms thusly: I will not take any liberties you do not freely give. I will not flirt with you or compliment you in an insincere manner. I will treat you as a respected compatriot. In return, you will not be skittish around me.”
“Skittish?”
“You look ready to bolt at any moment. I am not so threatening, am I? You enjoy my company, do you not? So allow yourself to relax. I will not press you for anything you do not wish to give. Do not fear me.”
He could almost see her mind turning the words over, weighing them on invisible scales.
Finally, she said, “That is acceptable. Now we really must rejoin the other guests.” She nodded her head once as a final stamp of her decree and then quietly walked out of the room, leaving the door ajar.