“Perhaps two can participate in your little diversions, Altea.” Madeline rolled to her knees, shaking back her hair.
It was gratifying to see the surprise in his eyes when his usual cool sophistication so often made her feel like an ingenue again. She was well aware he could resist at any time and she could do nothing about it, but when she placed her hands on his shoulders and ordered him to lie back, he complied with no more objection than a quirk of a brow.
The beauty of his body was enough to make her stop to admire the hard, muscled contours of his torso, the long length of his legs, the trim, flat plane of his stomach, and, of course, the splendid, rigid length of his penis, smooth and erect, the swollen tip glistening. She wasn’t bold by nature, but this sexual sparring with Luke was different. She was not a submissive wife learning about sexuality in small, subtle ways; she was a
mistress
.
Odd, it gave her a special sense of enlightenment and power. This was her choice—all of it. And if she wished to walk away tomorrow, she could. He would let her—she knew that—and maybe that was part of why embarking on this journey felt . . . safe.
Power was a heady intoxicant.
Reaching over, she slid her hand up the unyielding length of his erection, surprised that the pulse of his heartbeat was discernable under her exploring fingers. Luke said in a strangled voice, “What if I apologize now for being autocratic?”
“You don’t like this?” She glided her grip down the impressive, springing length of stiff, heated flesh, squeezing gently at the base.
“I absolutely like it, but I have a feeling you are intent on exacting some revenge.” His heavy-lidded eyes regarded her warily. “And I am in a somewhat vulnerable position at the moment.”
He was too extraordinarily handsome, she thought, with his tousled hair and patrician features, not to mention that fleeting smile that rarely surfaced unless he was being deliberately charming. Propped against the lace-trimmed pillows on her bed, he looked more masculine than ever. “I won’t hurt you,” she promised in a low purr.
Then she lowered her head. Only once had she plea-sured Colin with her mouth, and that was after they’d been married for well over a year, when he whispered the suggestion in her ear and shocked her to her core. Yet, if she remembered correctly, he’d enjoyed it immensely, and Luke certainly deserved to be rendered as positively shameless as she had been by his wicked manual manipulation.
The swollen head of his cock slid past her lips and she licked gently, hearing a satisfying groan. His skin was satin over steel flesh, and the essence of his sexual fluids salty against her tongue. He whispered huskily, “Madge ...”
Brawny thighs were taut under the pressure of her palms, and she moved her tongue carefully up his shaft, cognizant that she wasn’t particularly skilled at what she was doing, but improvising as she went along. If his erratic breathing was any indication, her lack of practice didn’t matter.
“You . . . shouldn’t.” His fingers threaded into her hair in contrast to the words, his cock pushing a little more into her mouth.
Did he mean no real lady would ever do such a thing? Perhaps, but in bed, she was finding being a lady had no real advantages, while doing as you pleased—and what pleased your partner—was much more enjoyable. For instance, at the moment, Luke was entirely at her mercy, his neck arched back against the pillows, his chest lifting rapidly, the outward hiss of his breathing audible.
How nice to bring a man of his impressive control to his knees, even if only in a figurative sense.
“I’m almost . . . there . . . stop.” His voice was choppy but his hands insistent as he tugged her head up, then toppled her over to her back, his eyes gleaming in the lamplight. “Minx,” he muttered, and kissed her as he adjusted his position, using his knees to push her thighs apart. His entry was heated and forceful enough to make her gasp, but not in pain; more like sublime sensation as he sank deep and forged their bodies together.
“This won’t take long,” he whispered in her ear, his breath hot, his skin also on fire beneath the press of her hands.
It was feverish, wild, and erotically satisfying, and, as he promised, over quickly. Both of them were so aroused they expired in mutual intense pleasure, shuddering together, and lay in the panting aftermath, slick against each other.
“I blame you entirely for my adolescent impetuousness just now,” Luke finally murmured, his voice full of amusement. He brushed her hair back from her brow, his smile a glimmer. The gesture was tender and gentle in contrast to his insistent possession.
“Do you?” She laughed, loving the feel of him, so large and sleek, his weight balanced enough so that he wasn’t crushing her. “Should I apologize?”
“For being gloriously sensual and uninhibited? I should think not.”
“You are a bit reckless yourself, my lord.” She ran a hand over the muscled curve of his shoulder.
“Speaking of which, I should go.” He turned his head and glanced at the window, where through the parted curtain the first faint, reddish streaks of dawn were visible. “Let me correct myself: I should have left an hour ago.”
Madeline would have objected . . . she wanted to drift to sleep in his arms again, but he was right. Trevor rose early enough that at most she’d get a few hours of sleep. She refused to miss breakfast with her son.
So she merely nodded and watched as Luke rose from the bed, washed quickly with the water in the basin by her dressing room, and, with deft, efficient movements, donned his clothing. A tall figure in the shrouded bedroom, he hesitated a moment and then walked over to give her a swift kiss good-bye. A delicious one, too, with the lingering pressure of his lips bringing forth a telling sigh.
And then he was gone. No promises, she thought, physically content and pleasantly exhausted, but emotionally not so stable. Luke didn’t give promises. He’d made a point of saying there would
be
no promises.
I knew it all along
, she chided herself, lying there with his scent still on her skin.
This journey had been her choice, and if at the end, the journey itself was her only reward, that had to be enough. Luke might protect her, he might desire her, but his self-proclaimed disinterest in marriage was something she’d known before she’d invited him into her bed.
Yet she knew some perverse part of her wondered if she couldn’t change his mind.
Chapter Fifteen
M
ore flowers. It made him want to put his fist through a wall. Miles plucked the card from one of the new arrivals and saw it was from an earl nearly twice Elizabeth’s age. “Letch,” he muttered.
“Do you always read other people’s private communications?” The voice behind him was cool.
He turned, chagrined, not even sure why he’d ventured into the drawing room in the first place, and certainly not willing to admit he did it every day to see what new suitors were vying for Elizabeth’s attention. “It’s a particularly ostentatious bouquet,” he drawled with as much aplomb as possible for someone so fairly caught. “It smells like an overblown garden even out in the hall.”
Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest and arched a brow upward. “I am sorry if the floral odor offended you. So, tell me. Who is it from?”
“Let’s just say he’s old enough to be your father and leave it there. Shall we?” He tucked the card back in among the blooms and took out his handkerchief to studiously wipe some yellow pollen from his fingers.
It was the best ploy he could think of to keep from looking at her. It was only moderately successful, he found, when he was forced to glance up for the sake of politesse. In a simple white gown, she stared at him with those eyes that haunted his dreams—erotic dreams no innocent young maid should ever guess existed—and said, “I can’t imagine you care who sends me notes and flowers.”
Evasion was easy enough. He was becoming practiced at it. “Perhaps you should open your own conservatory, or better yet, a shop for unwanted arrangements. I’ll even help you think up a name. Let’s call it El’s Discarded Bouquet Boutique, or perhaps The Rejected Roses Repository, or—”
“I advise you to stop trying to be amusing, Miles, as you are sadly failing.” She moved into the room, not looking at him, seemingly intent on the sprays of chrysanthemums and various other blooms in crystal vases. One fingertip touched a yellow rose. “You don’t approve of gentlemen sending ladies flowers, I take it. What do
you
do?”
Her profile was pure, perfect, and so familiar he could close his eyes and see it. Miles couldn’t remember his life before her, and certainly couldn’t imagine it when they went their separate ways. Distracted, he forgot to answer her question.
Actually, what the devil
was
her question?
“What do I do about what?” he asked stupidly, admiring the slender ivory column of her neck. The hollow between her collarbones was delicate and perfect, and he could so easily imagine pressing his mouth to that very spot. . . .
Silver eyes flashed amused annoyance. “Don’t be obtuse. When you are courting a lady, how do you go about it?”
He didn’t court them, of course, not in the sense she meant. Oh, he wasn’t celibate, or at least he’d had his share of sexual encounters on the most casual level possible, but he didn’t
court
anyone. He’d been in love with Elizabeth so long he really couldn’t imagine being serious about anyone else, but maybe, he’d told himself, once she was married and irrevocably out of his reach, then he would forget her.
Forget? No, not possible. Then he’d adjust to her absence in his life.
Probably not possible either. All in all, the looming experience promised a lesson in pure misery.
“I don’t waste my money on pots of posies. That is for certain. Very unoriginal.” He pointed at a small silver vase full of delicate violets. “Lord Peter doesn’t agree.”
“Are we going to argue over that tiresome subject again? Besides, you are avoiding answering my question.”
In profile he could see the lacy fan of her lashes and the charming—or it was to him—slightly elfin shape of her nose. He summoned an answer. “I haven’t exerted myself to attempt to win one specific lady yet. I’m only twenty-two.”
“I’m only nineteen,” she pointed out accurately, turning to glance at him. “Yet I am supposed to race to find a husband like the hounds of hell are nipping at my heels.”
He couldn’t help it—his mouth twitched at her acerbic tone and the less than divine comparison. “I thought all young women wanted nothing more than to ensnare some unsuspecting male into a lifetime of carping at him for his bad habits and spending his hard-won money on female fripperies.”
“If that is what happens,” Elizabeth retorted with her predictable fire, “it is because we are forced into it. Quite frankly, I envy Lady Brewer. If she and Luke are lovers, it is her choice, and she is not required to marry him.”
The word
lovers
evoked a predictable fantasy, and Miles eyed the doorway with longing, though Elizabeth stood closer to it than he did and he would have to brush by her to exit the room. “I don’t think we should speculate on their relationship. It is their business and their business only.”
“Is that how you think of your liaisons?”
Was she jealous, or was she just jealous of his greater freedom as a male in a society where men held the power? “I decline to comment.”
Even as he started to walk to the door—damn her for looking provocative somehow in that virginal, pale gown—Elizabeth asked in a completely different tone, “What is it like?”
“Can you be more specific?” He stopped involuntarily, for what he wished most was to leave her presence as soon as possible.
And, perversely, to stay with her always.
A damned dilemma.
She shifted so she leaned back on a mahogany library table, her arms crossed over her chest. “Let’s not dissemble. You are beginning to acquire a certain reputation as a rakish sort. I admit I found it disconcerting at first, because ... well—let’s face it—you’re
you
. But now I wonder if I shouldn’t just ask you all the questions I can’t seem to get my mother to answer.”
Apparently the hounds of hell were also interested in his heels, for he couldn’t imagine wanting to run any faster. The Pyrenees were probably delightful this time of year. If he emigrated there . . .
His voice sounded oddly strangled. “May I ask what prompted this sudden combative attitude?”
“No.”
Perhaps it was from dealing with their mothers, but most males instinctively knew when they were in trouble with a female. Miles stood there with his hands at his sides, wondering just what he could have done to provoke her sudden antagonism. It wasn’t that Elizabeth had never been angry with him before—quite the contrary—but he didn’t think it had anything to do with him reading a simple card on a bouquet of flowers.
He refused to ask the simple but deadly question:
what did I do?