Scotsman of My Dreams (22 page)

At the moment she was nervous.

Her hand was cold, and when he put his fingers on her wrist, her pulse was racing.

Placing his hand flat on the door, he allowed himself one last instant of rational thought. Did he really want Minerva in his bedroom? Hell, yes. Did he want to be seduced by Miss Todd? That might be an interesting experiment, one he was eager to try.

After their kiss, she'd been at the forefront of his mind. Evidently, she felt the same.

It was as if Providence, in partial reparation for his blindness, had plunked Minerva Todd down in his house.

“Shall we discuss this idea of you seducing me?”

“It's your fault. You kissed me. I quite enjoyed it.”

“And that's why you're here? Because of a kiss?”

“Well, partially. It's the promise of the kiss. You kiss very well, Dalton. Better than I've ever been kissed, as a matter of fact. I wanted to know—­strictly as an intellectual pursuit, you understand—­if you loved as well as you kissed.”

“Couldn't you just ask me?”

He leaned against the door and folded his arms. In the darkness, she probably couldn't see his smile.

“Very well, I'm asking. Do you make love as well as you kiss?”

“Better.”

“You see, that will never do. Most men, I understand, are given to grandiose statements about their sexual prowess.”

“They are?”

“They are.”

“Who did you hear that from? The Covington sisters?”

“Does it matter? Anyway, I could take your word for it or I could experience it myself.”

“In the interest of scientific exploration?”

“Of course,” she said. “I have an excess of curiosity. At least that's what I've always been told.”

“You would challenge scandal for the sake of curiosity?”

“There have already been enough tales about me,” she said. “I'm not as feminine as I'm supposed to be. Or as ladylike. I am stubborn to a fault, intractable in several ways. I bray when I laugh. I slump when I walk.”

“And you say things no other woman I've ever known would dare to say.”

“See?”

He could hear her coming toward him.

“Ouch!”

“Minerva?”

“Just a moment. I'm nursing a broken foot. Really, do you need all this furniture in here?”

“Shall we discuss the placement of my furniture or seduction?”

“This isn't very easy,” she said, surprising him. “I suppose you have a great deal of experience in seduction. I don't.”

“I like your laugh,” he said. “It isn't the least donkeylike.”

“Truly?” she said.

“My honest opinion. How's your foot?”

“Better.”

“Shall I massage it?”

“Please don't. I can't imagine anything worse. Why do ­people always want to touch an injury?”

He smiled. “I can assure you I won't touch your foot. Other places, perhaps.”

She was close now, only a few feet away.

“You don't smell of cinnamon tonight,” he said.

“I don't? Well, I didn't have scones before I came.”

“Nor worked in your storeroom?”

“I couldn't concentrate.”

“I had the same affliction, I'm afraid,” he said.

“Truly? You were thinking of me?”

“I was. The kiss was memorable for me as well.”

“You're the Rake of London. You've kissed thousands of women.”

“Hardly thousands.”

“Hundreds, then. At least hundreds, am I correct?”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“But you haven't kissed anyone lately. Do you think that's why it's so memorable?”

“Perhaps, but it might just be you, Minerva.”

“I think it's due to your lack of release.”

His smile broadened. “I can only thank you, then, for your compassion in aiding me in seeking an end to my problem.”

“You're ridiculing me.”

“Minerva, I swear on my sainted mother that I'm doing no such thing. I've never been more serious.”

“Oh.”

“I don't think I've ever been seduced, however.”

“Well, there's always a first time for that, isn't there?”

“I suppose there is,” he said. “How shall we proceed?”

“Slowly, until my foot stops throbbing.”

He'd never pictured a seduction that began with wanting to laugh.

 

Chapter 26

S
he wasn't reluctant to be led into his bedroom by the hand, but she still couldn't see. The sensation was disturbing, more than the time she'd blindfolded herself in the parlor.

“There's a full moon out tonight. Would you have any objections if I opened your curtains?”

“If you wish,” he said. “Do you want me to light a lamp?”

“I've never made love in the light before,” she said. “I should think moonlight would be enough.”

He didn't say anything in response.

She turned. In the faint moonlight she could make out the bed, the bureau, and armoire. She could see his figure, suddenly startled to realize he was taking off his dressing gown.

Underneath, he was naked.

“Do you ever wear a nightshirt to bed?”

“Never. I detest them.”

He didn't move to cover himself nor did he say anything, merely stood there letting her look her fill.

She could have studied him for hours, but she felt odd looking at him when he probably didn't know.

“I'm watching you,” she said.

“Are you?”

“I thought Hugh was attractive, but you're even more so. I think you're as beautiful as a statue and perfectly proportioned.”

His legs were thickly muscled, as were his arms. Dressed as he was each day in a loose white shirt and black trousers, she'd only a hint of his physique. She knew his chest was broad and that he was tall, but who would have guessed he was so perfectly formed?

“I've never been called a statue. Hopefully, you'll find me warmer than that.”

“Can I come closer?”

“Who am I to deny you?” he asked, smiling.

A lock of hair fell down on his brow, giving him an even more wicked look, as if he'd just roused from a bed of debauchery. Or as if a satisfied woman had reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair.

She walked toward him, stopping a few feet away, her hands fisted in her trousers skirt.

“Will you turn?”

“Turn?”

“I have an intense desire to see your backside,” she said.

His laughter made her smile.

Moonlight was his friend. Or maybe his lover, caressing the planes and valleys of his body with a gentle touch, casting him in a pale light that only accentuated the magnificence of his body.

“Oh my,” she said.

“Do I meet with your approval?”

To answer him, she reached out and palmed one smooth buttock. It flexed at her touch.

“Oh yes, you do. But you must know how truly striking you are. Surely other women have told you.”

He turned to face her.

“Not in so many words. Nor as directly, Minerva. What are you wearing? Your trouser skirt?”

“I am,” she said. “That way I had no need for a crinoline or a hoop. I'm not wearing undergarments, though,” she said, feeling her face warm.

“No corset?”

“No. Or corset cover, I'm afraid.”

“So there is just one layer of clothing between you and nakedness, is that it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And you traveled through London nearly naked to come to me?”

“It's not all that far from my house, but yes.”

Before he could say anything further, she narrowed the gap between them, reaching out and touching his face much as he had hers. Her left hand trailed gently over the scars near his right eye, fingers dancing over the closed lid. Whoever had done this terrible thing to him should be punished, but it wasn't Neville.

Her brother, however, had no part in this moment or this night.

“Shall I take off my clothes?” she asked.

He smiled, the expression so sweet it made her heart swell.

“I wish you would. A little description would be welcome, too.”

“Why should I describe myself? In a few minutes you'll feel me. Wouldn't your hands be your eyes?”

“Then by all that's holy, Minerva, would you please hurry?”

“I'm supposed to be seducing you, Dalton,” she said, smiling.

Stepping back, she pulled her bodice out of the waistband of her skirt and began to unfasten the buttons.

“My breasts are quite large, too large for my frame, probably. You'll find that out in a moment. They're also very sensitive.”

He grabbed one of the four posters and swung himself up into the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. She wanted to reach out and stroke his leg, her fingers dancing along the hair there or through the dusting of hair on his chest.

“I'm removing my bodice now,” she said.

“Slowly,” he said. “Too damn slowly.”

Her smile widened.

“I have two buttons at my waist. I'm unfastening these now.”

“Thank God for progress.” He patted the mattress beside him. “Once you're naked, Minerva, would you join me here?”

She stepped out of her trousers skirt and left it on the floor.

“You sound as proper as if we're having tea,” he said.

“But I don't feel the least bit proper.”

Nor did he look that way.

She took two steps to the bed and reached out her hand, her fingers trailing up his erection.

“You have an obelisk,” she said.

His bark of laughter sparked her own smile.

“An obelisk?”

“Or a fertility statue. Or even a learning aid. The better to acquaint young maidens with what might happen on their wedding night. If they're fortunate.”

“You have the most unfettered imagination,”

“Oh,” she said bending her head. “I don't think it's imagination at all. Anticipation, perhaps.”

She bestowed a soft kiss on the tip of his erection.

He jerked, startled.

“Bloody hell, Minerva,” he said.

“I'm not a virgin. If you wish me to have had absolutely no experience in the act, I can pretend, I suppose.”

He reached out and grabbed her arm and before she could say anything else he had somehow lifted her and placed her on the mattress. Now he knelt over her, a study of shadows in the pale moonlight.

“You're going to call me astounding again, aren't you?” she said. “I do wish you wouldn't.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes me sound like I'm doing something terrible. Like I'm odd. There goes astounding Minerva Todd, with her trousers skirt and her yen to dig in the dirt.”

“There goes astounding Minerva Todd, with her ability to kiss like a demon and her surprising sensuality. Who would have guessed it, with her being all proper and proud?”

“Sensuality? I've never been called sensual.”

He moved so he was straddling her.

“There,” he said. “I have you trapped. You can't disappear like a dream in the night.”

“Did you dream of me?”

“I envisioned you here,” he said, surprising her. “But the reality is so much better than what I imagined.”

“I have to say the same,” she said, reaching up and placing her hand against his chest.

His muscles flexed as if to welcome her touch. She stroked upward to his shoulders, feeling the power of his arms and marveling at how muscled he was.

“Aren't you going to kiss me?”

“And lose my mind again? I think I'd rather touch you first, learn you.”

A thrill raced through her at his words.

“Only if I can touch you in return.”

“Not right now,” he said, bending and placing a kiss between her breasts. “Your breasts are sensitive?”

“Yes,” she said, and the sound came out a sibilant whisper.

He trailed a path with his lips to the tip of one breast. First, a gentle, acquainting kiss. Then, the touch of his tongue on her nipple.

A sound escaped her. Not quite a moan, but more an approving acknowledgment of what he was doing, of his teasing touch and the smile she felt against her breast.

“I quite like large breasts,” he said. “And the more sensitive, the better.”

“How very fortunate for both of us,” she said, the breath leaving her as he placed his mouth over her nipple and softly began to suck.

Her lower body wanted to move—­hips to arch, feet to plant themselves firmly on the bed, the better to offer her entire body to him. She stroked her hands up and down his arms, her short nails gently scratching at his skin.

He was spending entirely too much time on her breasts when there were other parts that wanted to be touched or kissed.

She felt molten inside as if her entire body was heating to welcome him.

Come into me.
Were those words too shocking to utter? But, oh, how she wished he would.

She reached down between them and grabbed his erection with both hands, stroking it, measuring it with her fingers. It was at least nine fingers long and so wide around that her thumb and forefinger didn't meet when she extended them around it.

How very much she wanted to experience him. Each time he drew a nipple into his mouth or grazed it gently with his teeth, the ache grew.

“Kiss me, please.”

He lifted his head from her breasts. “I am, Minerva.”

“On my mouth. I want your kisses.”

He raised his head again. “Are you a demanding lover, Minerva?”

“I suppose I am. Tonight, especially.”

He raised up, kissed her gently on the cheek and then on the chin. Once more on the nose.

“What about tonight is special?”

“You. You're driving me daft.”

“I haven't even begun, Minerva,” he whispered.

Softly, he placed his mouth on hers. Then his tongue was there, touching the tip of hers, dancing along her teeth, exploring and dominating, causing lights to flicker behind her eyelids.

She congratulated herself on her courage. Somehow, she had known what it would be like to make love with him. Somehow, her body had recognized that he was a master of all things carnal, that he could bring her pleasure with the stroke of a hand, now teasing the hair at the juncture of her thighs.

“You're very receptive, Minerva.”

“It's you,” she said against his lips.

“Do you want me?”

With that, he gently inserted a finger into her, his thumb still stroking, maddening her.

She nearly bit his lips.

“Yes.”

Her arms went around his neck to hold him tight.

She widened her legs for even easier access. He stroked his fingers against her while crooning soft words in her ear. Words of praise, seduction, teasing words that accompanied his middle finger gently stroking her. She shuddered, her breath uneven. Her heart thundered in her chest, her pulse racing.

This wasn't just passion, but something more. Something earthy and elemental, as ancient as the universe.

She was, at that moment, any woman, every woman. The urge to mate, to be taken, to reach satisfaction was dominant. If she couldn't have him, she knew she would die.

She reached one hand between them again, grabbed him like he was a club and pulled him to her. His gentle laughter taunted her.

“It isn't a handle, Minerva.”

“Then give it to me,” she said. “Now.”

“Minerva Todd, do you always get your way in all things?”

“Please. Dalton, please.”

Her hips rose. She was shaking.

“Please.”

He bent down and kissed her as he slid inside. Her hips arched, her feet planted flat on the mattress as she surged upward to meet him.

The pleasure was so acute she nearly fainted.

He filled her completely, banishing any thoughts of emptiness or longing. She would remember this moment, these seconds, the feel of him, forever.

His mouth left hers and she moaned as he drew back. But then he surged forward again, their hip bones bumping.

“Put your legs around mine,” he said.

She did. She would've done anything at that point. Her nails gripped his back and held on, awash in pleasure and need and the sharpness of something she'd never before felt.

He pushed up against her, each gentle press encouragement for the pleasure to ripen, to deepen, to spread throughout her body until her fingertips tingled.

She pulled his head down for a kiss. She sobbed his name, had the sudden horrifying thought that Mrs. Thompson or any of the servants might hear.

Then she didn't care.

Her body exploded from the inside out. She became a sparkling star and he was the only solid thing in her world.

H
E WANTED
her. He needed Minerva in a way that startled him. She was brazen and shocking, yet so essentially good and whole that to be near her purified him.

Their bodies met and merged in a perfect union even though their minds occasionally clashed. Spirit? If he were to consider spirit—­an odd thought, since he wasn't so inclined—­he thought they might have similar spirits. They were each daring, not easily cowed, determined to stand apart from society since they didn't fit well inside it.

He drew back.

She pulled him forward, insistent in passion.

He smiled and let Minerva seduce him.

Bliss filled him and he kissed her rather than startle all the neighbors with his shout of joy.

S
HE HELD
him in her arms, wondering which of them was trembling the most.

She could hardly draw a breath, her heart was beating so hard. She'd never known that passion could be violent, so elemental that she wouldn't have cared if the world saw them mating.

His arms were around her, pulling her close.

“I'm here,” she said, feeling the inexplicable need to offer him comfort. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her cheek against his chest.

“So long,” he said. “So long.”

“So long for what?”

“Someone touched me.”

She almost spoke then, to offer up a dozen instances when ­people had put their hand on his sleeve or taken his arm.

But that's not what he meant. He needed to be considered a man. A lover who experienced passion and pleasure. He needed to be held as she was holding him now as if she couldn't bear to be parted from him as her heart gradually slowed and her breath returned.