Sport of Baronets (6 page)

“Is it?” Her fingers squeezed his, tightly enough to be uncomfortable. “I'd like to be able to leave if I want to. And if I stay, it will also be because I want to. Do you see?”

The power of choice was what she wanted, in short. “I do see,” he said. “Yes, I do.”

He swung beneath the railing and stood at her side. “If you're given your head, I have no doubt you will win at whatever you attempt.” He held out a hand, and she placed hers in it, ducking with him back beneath the white boundary to stand outside the course.

They leaned upon the railing, still touching, as they watched the horses gallop. White rails drew the eye down the gentle slope of the mile and through the dip before the heave to the finish. The wide ribbon of turf narrowed, slowly, slowly, to funnel the horses to the final post.

There was so much more he wanted to say, but the pressure of Hannah's fingers silenced him. The last thing he'd said had, he thought, been right. He did not want to ruin the moment by following it with something wrong.

And anything that made her feel limited would be wrong. It would be wrong even to hold her hand if she did not want her fingers in his grasp. He had seen too many men treat women as lesser beings. He had seen too many women thwarted, made harsh and shrill with frustration.

Maybe Lady Crosby had been such a one, tied to the family estates. Had she wanted the responsibility? She had never tried to push it onto Bart. But until her apoplexy, he had never tried very hard to pull it away. Routine was easier. Familiar too.

Hannah made a powerful argument for its opposite.

“I used to wonder,” she said softly, “what you were like. What London was like. I couldn't really hate you because I did not know you—and yet I could almost hate you for getting to leave. And I could almost hate all the women you danced and flirted with too, for being where and what I wanted to be.”

“You wanted to flirt with me.” The words made blood rush hotly through his veins.

“Well…” She cleared her throat. “The idea of you. I didn't know you at the time.”

“What do you want of me now?”

She stopped walking and turned to face him. “To begin, I want another look at whatever marvelous waistcoat you are wearing today.”

“Ah. Happy to oblige.” With fingers made clumsy by haste, he slipped free a button of his coat to give her a better look.

Her freckled nose crinkled in a grin. “Red satin. Why do you hide it beneath a coat so plain?”

“A drab coat is practical for one who spends a great deal of time with horses. The fine waistcoat lets me feel I'm still myself underneath.” He leaned closer to her ear. Fine wisps of gold-brown hair pulled free to peek from beneath her cap, and they danced as he murmured, “I am far more exotic and mysterious than the world realizes.”

She pressed a gloved hand to her cheek, but it did not hide the blush. “Oh.” Her breath came short and shallow.

He savored the sight. Every bit of it. “Perhaps,” he said, laughing, “I am overstating the truth. To be honest, I simply like red.” His own fingers traced the line of her sleeve, hidden from the view of onlookers by his body. “And—I like this green. And the shade of your hair and your eyes. I like those too.”

This ought to have been far more difficult than asking a woman to dance, but instead it was easy. Under the silver-blue of a cloudy sky, bounded by track and cushioned by grass, everything fit together exactly as it ought.

Including—especially—Hannah's hand, slipping into his waistcoat pocket to stroke the muscles of his abdomen until he shuddered. “Let us find a place to be alone,” she breathed. “And I hope you will show me more of what you like.”

Yes, yes, good God, yes.
“If you will promise to do the same,” he said, “then I know exactly the place to go.”

They made some excuse to Sothern; Hannah hardly knew what. Bart was everything friendly, speaking with the groom briefly before Sothern led the horses away.

“We have an hour,” Bart murmured. His dark hair glinted with silver, his eyes with promise. “There is a place we might go on the July Course, if you'll accompany me?”

In a heartbeat. Without question.

“Yes,” Hannah said.

Little used until the summer months, the July Course was a dogleg off of which jutted the straight dash of the Rowley Mile. On the Rowley Mile, where the Two Thousand Guineas Stakes would be run in a few days' time, jockeys and trainers and owners paced off the subtle topography of a course that changed with every rainfall and every baking sun. Anything for an advantage in the Two Thousand Guineas or any of the other chances to prove one's worth.

Hannah was happy to leave it all behind for an hour, to stride through the grounds with an entirely different sort of topography on her mind.

She and Bart drew up before a white building that looked like a long cottage, with a thatched roof and half-timbering about the windows. “The jockey room?” she asked.

“And the weighing room and the winner's enclosure,” he confirmed.

Hannah had rarely wandered into such secret sections of the course. But this didn't seem like a building that belonged to the sport of kings at all. It looked more like a country cottage, down to the window boxes of spring flowers struggling to bloom.

But it was more than it seemed. It was a place to get ready for a race, a place to return in triumph. When a person was here, anything could happen. She might win anything, anything at all.

“It's perfect,” she decided. “Unless it is locked. Then it loses a large part of its perfection.”

“Doesn't matter if it's locked.” Bart did something complicated and furtive with the handle of the door, then pushed it open. “There we have it. It's all right to enter. I'm a member of the Jockey Club, and you're my—ah, my guest.”

“This building is for jockeys, and you are not an actual jockey,” Hannah pointed out.

“You can't be sure of that. You have never seen me ride.”

The final word sounded salacious. Or maybe everything sounded salacious. “I can tell even so, because you're far too…large.”

His brows lifted. “You win.”

“I think we'll both win.”

“I like the way you think.” Ushering her inside, he locked the door behind them.

They found their way into the weighing room, a plain space that would bustle during the summer season. Right now it was quiet and empty, cool and still and smelling faintly of soap and wax. Dominating the center of the narrow space, a great balance hung from the ceiling. On one side hung a seat of metal mesh; on the other, a weighing pan on which brass counterweights could be placed to check the jockey's weight.

She stripped off her gloves and tossed them onto a bench, and he did the same. His hat followed.

“There are fewer comforts than I had hoped,” he said. “But the seat offers possibilities. May I help you into it?”

When she agreed, he caught her about the waist and lifted her into the seat, quick as a hop.

It sank until her feet rested on the floor. “I weigh more than a jockey.” She sighed.

“You shall have a far better ride.” He opened cupboard doors until he found the stash of brass counterweights. Hannah watched, anticipation drawing her nipples tight, as he added a gleaming weight to the pan, then another, and her feet rose from the floor. She floated, weightless and balanced between ground and air, between the memory of past kisses and the expectation of more to come.

As she hung in the seat, Bart stepped back and raked her with a molten gaze. “I imagine you,” he said, “with your collar undone. With your habit shirt unbuttoned and your hair unpinned.”

She swallowed. “That is a lot of undoing.”

“It is.” His mouth curved. “And then I would watch your hair fall over your collarbone and into the shadow between your—well…”

He gestured vaguely, although his eyes were intense with desire. The contrast between passion and reserve was irresistible, sending heat through her every limb. Had she thought the room was cool? She wanted nothing more now than to be stripped.

Sense lingered, though. “If we undo too much, we will not be able to correct it in time,” she said. “But—whatever we can do without undoing too much…”

“Yes,” he replied. “Beautifully reasoned. This will allow us to be much more creative. But I do think I can safely shrug out of my coat.” He did so, tossing aside the dull garment. The red satin of his waistcoat gleamed, sleek and liquid over the strong lines of his body. His shoulders, broad in their shirtsleeves, looked capable of carrying anything.

She stroked him with her gaze, down, down, to the snug buckskin breeches that revealed the lines of his arousal. He must be vibrating with eagerness; she certainly felt as though she was. “Might I…” She trailed off.

“Yes.” He stepped closer, and she explored the planes of his chest, his ribs. She grabbed at his shoulders and traced the line of his hip bone. She tantalized him—and herself—by outlining his hardness. By dragging her nails along the buckskin fall of his breeches, making him groan.

As she touched him, he kissed her. It was amazing, the number of ways he found to kiss her without removing her clothing. He kissed the line of her neck; he kissed her temples. He bent his head to kiss the swell of her breasts, and she gasped at the erotic pressure through the layers of her clothing. When her eyes closed, when she pressed herself into his touch, he kissed her lids with such tenderness that she wanted to yield all, to take everything.

He drew back to arm's length, and her eyes struggled open. She was drugged by sensation, craving more.

“What do you want for yourself?” His gaze was steady and dark, like a river. She wanted to float away on his words, his touches.

She leaned forward, reaching for him as she swayed precariously above the checkerboard tiles of the floor. Digging her nails into the dip of hard muscle at the side of his buttocks, making him shudder again.

“What do
you
want?” he repeated, and she smiled. She loved the way he asked questions. He didn't ask nearly so many as she did, but for each one, he steadily awaited the answer. Not as though he wanted her to give his turn to speak; no, as though he truly cared.

“Do you truly care?”
About this? About me? About…us?
She could manage no more than a whisper. If the answer was
no
, she hoped he would have the kindness to overlook the question.

“Yes, very much,” he answered at once. Since she was not sure what she had asked about, she was not sure what he answered. But yes was good, and what he said next was even better. “I led you here. Now it is your turn to lead.”

He gave the seat a nudge, setting Hannah to swaying weightlessly. “You are the jockey, are you not? You must take control of the race. What do you like?”

“I…I'm not used to thinking about what I like.”

“Nor am I, I suppose. This is the perfect time and place to begin. Together.”

Every maiden had overheard tales of ruined servants, of babies out of wedlock. “Nothing—permanent. But anything else.”

“Anything?” One of his brows shot up, and a wicked smile she never thought to see him wear crossed his features. It suited him, for all its unfamiliarity. It was that touch of the mysterious he had referred to in jest.

“Anything.” Her heart galloped as it never had before.

With furtive touches under her bedcovers, she had learned what pleasure was, and how it could be brought to a crest. Even so, it seemed like something she ought not to do.

At the moment, she could not imagine why. Every bit of knowledge about her own body was precious, was powerful.

She tugged up the full skirts of her riding habit, revealing tidy boots, then the line of her calves. “Begin here, please.”

“Gladly—but that's only a beginning.” Crouching before the seat, he caught the hem of her skirts and rucked them up. He caressed her calves in their stockings. With a gentle tug, he pulled her down until her toes tapped the floor, then he released her, and the tension of the balance sent her drifting up in a sensual seesaw ride.

The pan of counterweights clattered against the floor, then swung up again as Hannah came down, hovering as equilibrium was reached.

For the balance, at least. Hannah herself felt coiled and eager, wanting to move, to press, to spring. Spreading her legs as wide as she could within the confines of the small seat, she rolled her hips.

Bart rested his forehead against her knee and heaved a great breath. “Hannah, you delight me.” Returning to his crouch, he stroked higher on her legs, finding the ribbons of her garters. A fingertip dipped underneath, relieving the pressure of that tight ribbon. It was startling, so intimate, to have him touch her beneath her garter without removing a stitch.

Again, he tugged her down until her toes tapped the floor, and this time she helped herself to spring upward, a tiny swoop of flight.

His hands found her inner thighs. “You said
anything
, yes?” He looked up at her, as tousled and heavy-lidded with lust as she must be, yet he asked again.

“Anything.” Again, she rolled her hips toward his touch, and one of his fingertips found her private curls, her most sensitive parts.

Those careful hands she had admired from their first meeting at his stable—those strong, flexible hands—woke her to shivering pleasure. They used her own slickness to slide about, teasing delicately, making her gasp and strain. Frustrated, she grabbed at the metal hoops holding up her seat and shook them. “More.
Please.
”

That smile; he was so wicked and kind at once. “That is the best request I have ever heard in my life. And the answer…”

He paused, adjusting his posture, and Hannah let her head fall back with a groan. But only for a moment, for he was touching her again, rucking up her skirts in a great pile of green wool, until the ribbons of her garters were exposed to her view.

Far more was exposed to his. She was not in the scandalous habit of wearing drawers, which meant he could see all of her now, a thought that made her squirm with embarrassed eagerness.

“The answer is yes,” he murmured, and he bent his head to lick where his fingers had just touched.

Hannah gasped, almost shrieked at the piercing pleasure of it. The tip of his tongue was hot and firm against her folds, lapping at the evidence of her desire. Then up he traced, finding the sensitive knot at the apex of her sex, sucking and kissing at it as one finger slid within her depths. She tightened about him, an instinctive clutch of inner muscles that made him moan against her skin.

He sat back on his heels, then pulled her seat downward as his finger thrust deep. Holding her poised, low, he plunged another strong finger within to stretch her tight. For a moment, they held this taut balance. His dark eyes met hers with delight, questioning.

“I want it,” she begged, and he did what she was too incoherent to request. Letting the seat shoot up, free; withdrawing with a featherlight touch. She felt nothing else in the world but his fingers and the heated memory of his mouth on her.

Another tug downward as he drove his fingers into her, and she gasped at the double jolt. Again, he released her, then pulled her back to him in an erotic cadence she wished she could ride forever. Too soon she tensed, like a coiled spring tightened to its limits, and pleasure burst its bounds, shooting through her in a climax that made her tremble all over.

As she sank back to earth, Bart's cradled her hips gently. “My God,” she said, sighing. “You delight me.”

It was easier to use his words than think up new ones from her sated, fogged brain. Especially when his words suited her feelings so well.

“The feeling is mutual.” Withdrawing his hands, he smoothed her skirt over her legs, then stood. “If you'll excuse me for a few minutes…” His voice was tight with strain.

Guessing he meant to bring himself off, she said, “No, please. I want to watch. I want to help you.”

Blowing out a labored breath, he smiled. “As I said, you delight me. All right—if you like, we shall try this.”

He grabbed a handkerchief from the pocket of his discarded coat, then fitted himself into the valley between her skirt-covered knees. Tidily, he spread the handkerchief over her lap. “I don't want to muss you.” She had to laugh at this fastidiousness from a man who had bunched her skirts to her waist.

At this level, she could easily reach the buttons holding closed the fall of his breeches. One by one, she coaxed them open until the buckskin parted, freeing him to her sight and touch.

His male shaft was larger, harder than she had expected. It was hotter too, she realized when she wrapped her hand about it. He clutched at the metal hoops on either side of her seat, eyes squeezed closed, surrendering to her touch.

She played lightly over his length, then worked it firmly, sliding from tip to base and back. Clear fluid beaded at the tip of his erection, and when she touched it, he groaned. She repeated the motion he had liked so well, then the slide up and down. Again and again, steady and quick, until his arms corded tightly within their thin linen shirtsleeves and his neck muscles strained.

Keeping the steady rhythm with one hand, she reached the other up to rake through his short hair. She guided his face to hers, kissing him gently on the cheekbones, the jaw, the lips.
Yes. Yes. I choose you.

Tilting his head, she caught one earlobe and nipped it with her teeth. Her hand below found the tightened sac at his base and stroked over that too.

His back arched and his grasp on the seat hoops shook, setting Hannah to rocking in her perch.