She caught him off guard with that comment. It took him a full three seconds to process it, and thenâ
He laughed.
A real laugh; a laugh that used up all of his breath and wouldn't stop; a laugh that tugged his hands from her body so he could brace them on his thighs, heaving for air. An unfettered, free, graceless, genuine laugh.
God, it felt good to laugh without the strictures of a Numbered Expression. Just as he'd imagined.
He gulped in a breath and pulled himself up straight. Louisa was looking at him with an expression of great curiosity. “I assume something I said amused you?”
“That wasâ” He was still wheezing for breath. “Marvelous. I can't remember the last time I laughed like that. If ever.”
“Then you haven't been holding the right sorts of conversations.”
He shook his head, drinking in the sight of her, and she folded her arms around the body he'd been touching moments before. “You are veryâ” He broke off. No. Neither of them was ready for him to complete that sentence.
More lightly, he finished, “You have a unique way with words.”
“Not really.” She smiled, that tight little crescent moon of brilliance. “I'm merely curious about you. Alex.”
With a swoop of limbs and a swift rustle of fabric, she pressed herself against him. Lips crushed against his; fingers wound through his hair. His eyes flew open for a startled instant, then closed again.
Mmm.
Another brush of his lips over hers; he couldn't pull away from their soft welcome.
A flicker of conscience intruded. Made him think for an instant.
This is not a novel. She is not a lady of scandal
.
He lifted his mouth from hers and tried to speak. “We needn'tâ”
She pulled his face down again.
Mmm.
There ensued a foggy interval, during which he learned the shape of her waist and hips.
Oh. Conscience. Yes. “Louisa. Thisâweâanything we do will have consequences.”
She gripped his shoulders as though he was worthy of holding fast to. “I only want to know more of you.” She whispered in his ear. “Alex.”
His name sounded like a secret, precious and intimate.
“Besides,” she added, “who's to say this isn't your imagination? Who's to know, besides us, what happens in this room?”
“That makes no sense.”
“It doesn't have to,” she said. “It's our story, isn't it? We can twist the plot however we wish.” Her hot tongue found the rim of his ear, and he shuddered, his hands tightening on the gentle curve of her waist.
When she put the matter like that, how could he resist her? She had brought tidings of comfort and joy on this unsteady night.
With his hands on her body and his heart in her hands, they toppled away from the fireplace toward a chaise longue, to write the next scene in his remaking.
Chapter 13
Containing a Most Seductive Reality
This is not like you
, Louisa told herself as her calves hit the gold velvet seat of the chaise and she collapsed onto it, Alex's waistcoat fisted in her hands.
Yes, it is
, she argued back.
Yes, she was decidedly herself: holding an internal argument even as Alex nudged a knee onto the chaise at her side, crushing the bronze silk of her gown beneath his weight. She'd always been a creature of imagination and observation; now she dared to knit those wisps of fevered longing into reality.
She scooted on the chaise until she reached the sloping back; her full skirts
whished
over the velvet as she moved. Then she reclined, holding out her arms. “More of you, please.”
He laughed, and lust shot through her like a lightning bolt. He settled his long body next to her.
“I'm going to crush your skirts,” he commented.
“I doubt it'll be the first time such a thing has happened.”
He propped himself on his forearms and looked down at her with a dire expression. “Louisa, this has nothing to do with anyone else.”
“Come now,” she said lightly over the swift beat of her heart. “I was only guessing that someone, somewhere, at some time in this house party, has had rumpled skirts.”
He looked wary. “Yes. Well.”
She wound her fingers around the back of his neck, holding him fast. “You didn't think I would refer to your past experiences with women, did you? How terribly unappealing.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Are you getting at something?”
“Your bare skin, I hope.”
The look of shock on his face was most gratifying, as was the speed with which he unknotted his cravat. Without its starched prison, the collar of his linen shirt stretched to expose the hollow of his throat, the sleek lines of his collarbones.
“That's all I wanted,” she murmured. She shut her eyes and
noticed
: the long, solid weight of Alex's body; the cradle of his arms on either side of hers. The scent of his skin was a revelationâspice and soap and something indefinable that made her want to breathe him in until she knew it by heart.
So she did. She lifted her head and kissed the angle of his neck and shoulder, the spot where one solid muscle met another. She inhaled, deeply, just there.
Yes
.
He bent his head, his lips finding her jaw, her ear, the curve of her neck. The pressure was gentle, like the tickle of petals. All she had to do was breathe, soak in the scent and the sensation and let her body melt. Already, her intimate parts had become slippery with desire. And as Alex kept up his kisses, as his long body nudged her legs apart, she felt emptier. Wetter. Greedy for more.
“Stop messing about with my jawline, please,” she said roughly. She'd learned this trick from her aunt, Lady Irving: brusqueness as a cover for vulnerability.
At once, he pulled back, then dropped his forehead to her bosom. “Yes. We should stop. You're right.”
Louisa allowed herself a secret smile, unseen by the proud earl. In a small way, she'd mastered him. It was a pleasure to know such a thing was possible.
“Don't stop,” she whispered. “Move on, please. I have so many parts you haven't kissed yet.”
She felt a bit hot at these bold words; words that could have been spoken by Fanny Hill, or someone like Signora Frittarelli. Women who were used to mastering men with their own desires, while she was beginning to feel that her desires were mastering her.
As he groaned and nipped the edge of her bodice with his teeth, she almost cried out at the abrasion, gentle but sharp against her skin.
“In a novel,” he said, “I should lick you everywhere the firelight touched your body. And then I'd slide my hands beneath your clothing and shift it so the firelight touched some more.”
A tremor ran through her, and her eyes fell closed. “I should like to read that novel.”
She
wanted
, so desperately; a want that made her press her legs against his hips, that made her tug up her skirts when they bound her legs too tightly. Yards of bronze silk were wadded and crushed as he settled himself above her, hips on hips, and through his breeches she could feel his hot length against her gartered thigh.
Her whole body went tense. This wantâwhat should she do with it? If she unleashed it, it would devour her. Consume her present; destroy her future. She could not succumb to it.
Not entirely.
“Is there something we can do,” she managed, as his hand began to slide over her breasts, down her ribs, over the swell of her hips, “that would not be . . . irrevocable?”
He paused. Looked down at his hand, as though he wasn't sure what it was doing on her body. “Yes. Many things.”
“Shall we proceed?”
His eyes met hers. Now she wished for more light; a lamp at the side of the chaise that would reveal every nuance of his expression. Was he as eager as she? Obliging? Like she, did he have a blessed nuisance of common sense that would not allow him to shut thought off?
“As you like it, muffin,” he said, and even in the dim light, she could see his smile. Not the too-wide one that was meant to be charming. This one was a bit wistful.
But there was nothing wistful about his hands. They slid down her legs, swift and sure, tossing aside folds of skirt, of petticoat. A wall of fabric rose above Louisa from hip to thigh: a fashionable evening dress reduced to a crushed barrier. She lifted her head to see what the hands were going to do next, behind the fabric wall.
“Lie down,” Alex said. “Let me surprise you, if such a thing is possible.” His straight dark brows yanked down in an expression of great concentration.
“You look like an archaeologist uncovering a fascinating old relic,” Louisa said.
“What a dreadful comparison,” Alex said without looking up. “Why, I haven't found anything fascinating yet under all this cursed fabricâah, there we go.”
Fingers fumbled against the thin linen of her shift and peeled it back so nothing lay over her skin except the fine knit of her silk stockings. The ribboned garter. And above . . . she sucked in a sharp breath. Her upper thighs were bare, and his hand was dancing over her skin, hot and strong and startling.
“Now this,” he said, “
is
fascinating. But it's hardly archaeology. Perhaps it's anatomy?” His fingers slid down the curve of her thigh, then up again. “Perhaps it's poetry.” One finger tickled through her private hair. “Or theology. Philosophy. Something no one fully understands.”
His fingertip slid downward, and Louisa shuddered. “I . . . I don't know,” she stammered. “This is a new field of study for me. With a bit more research, I could identify it properly.”
He shot her a skeptical look, and then he shook his head, laughing low under his breath.
He didn't laugh often enough. That was for the best, for when he did, she felt a little squeeze in her chest. A tenderness that was almost unbearable, and though it was too, too late for her body, she could not abandon anything else to him. Why, he ought toâ
oh
.
He ought to do that thing with his finger again.
“Do that thing with your finger again,” Louisa said. “Please.”
He obeyed. It was a slow glide through her folds, a flick on the sensitive nub. A stroke of sheer pleasureâa pleasure that kindled greater want.
More.
With every brush of his fingertips the need flared, fueled by his touch, hot and demanding, and she ground her hips up into his caress so he would not stop, never stop that intoxicating sweep of sensation.
“Alex,” she moaned. “Please . . .”
“You become most polite when there's something you want desperately,” he commented. He bent over her body, pressed a hard kiss onto her collarbone, and plunged a finger inside her.
He was
in her
and
over her
and his fingers were doing those wondrous things and there was his mouth moving over her skin in a hot trail of need, and it was too much, all of a sudden, and she split into pieces, quivering and gasping.
He must have felt her shatter, because his hand stilled at once. He sat up straight.
For an instant, it was a relief to have it over, the onslaught of overwhelming, indescribable sensation.
And then she felt boneless and hot, and a little ashamed.
She pushed herself up onto her elbows, then up to a sitting position. Now they faced each other on the chaise, and if her skirts weren't rucked up to an alarming height, she could almost pretend that nothing had happened. But between her legs, she throbbed. Never had such a desire wakened in her; never had she imagined how pleasurable it would be to sate it.
Had she forgotten herself, or found herself?
She could ask the same question of Lord Xavier. For all that she called him Alex, he was owned by the world. This burst of passionâthis was no more real or lasting than the pages of a novel.
She must show him she placed no more significance on it than that.
“Thank you very much.” She stood, smoothing and shaking the layers of her clothing back into place. Not a wall anymore, but a different type of barrier. “That was a very pleasant Christmas gift.”
Alex stared at her. His left hand hovered an inch above the fabric of the chaise, still wet from her excitement.
She looked away as he stood, a protracted unfolding of his long limbs. But when he remained silent for far too long, she glanced back at him.
Alex stood with his back to the fire. Hands at his sides. Shoulders square. Simply stood, his posture unreadable, his expression in shadow.
“Please turn so I can see your face,” Louisa said. She crossed her arms over her heart, wishing she had worn a gown with long sleeves. There was a distinct chill in the air.
He made a precise quarter turn. His faceâso perfect, like the profile on a Roman coinâwas as much a cipher as the ledger they'd studied together.
She blundered on. “I admit, this isn't how I expected to celebrate a breakthrough in cryptography. But it's not inapt, wouldn't you agree? I breach a code, you breach my skirts.”
His head dipped; an unwilling smile scuttled over his features.
“And I asked you for nothing false. That felt quite real, indeed,” she finished. “Soâthank you.”
If he'd let out a breath that long and slow through his mouth, it would have been a sigh. Instead, his exhale sounded like an unburdening, as though he released tension along with air.
Oh. Of course he was tense. He hadn't . . . emitted.
Should she offer to help himâno, her mind shied from the idea. She'd had enough new experiences for one day. She had to sift through these and sort them out into her Louisa catalogue before she could accept any more.
Finally he spoke. “Was it everything you wanted, Louisa?”
Â
Â
There was no air to say anything more; his lungs simply heaved fruitlessly.
She studied him with those dark witch-eyes. “For now.” She looked wary. Her fingers played with the lace at the edge of her bodice.
He hadn't even seen her breasts. He'd barely removed any of her clothes before stroking her to life, to the little death.
He sagged against the mantel, letting the fire toast him from back to calf. “For any other woman, I'd say that you didn't know what you were talking about. But since you always know what you're talking about, then I must ask you what you want next.”
She gave him a tight smile. “Don't worry that I shall make demands upon you. We haven't done anything irrevocable, so I assure you, I don't require anything more from you.”
He couldn't have felt cheaper if she'd handed him a fistful of guineas and told him to return at the same time next week. “I assure
you
that I am completely uninterested in being
required
to make any gesture of regard.”
She drew back a half-step, almost out of the fireplace's nimbus of light. “Oh.”
“I said
required
, Louisa.”
She turned her head, looking at him aslant. “Oh?”
“I don't want to be used,” he muttered. “And I don't want to use anyone.”
“Oh,” she said again. This time it was soft and wondering. “Yes. I see.”
“Do you? I don't know about that.” He turned to face the fire, wishing its heat would slice through the chilly numbness that seemed to freeze him from the inside.
His hand felt sticky. She had trusted him, and he'd stuck his hand up her skirts. It didn't matter that she liked it. He shouldn't have done it. He would never prove that he was more than Lord Xavier, child of scandal and lust, as long as he gave in to either one.