Tempting a Proper Lady (12 page)

She should have pulled away. But the heat of his skin surprised her—that and the way the curling hair tickled her palm. She trailed her fingers along his flesh, lured by his warmth, the solidity of his form. She leaned forward, pushing farther beneath his shirt, brushing his male nipple in her exploration. He hissed, and she pulled away.

“No.” He grabbed her hand and flattened it against his chest again. “It feels good. Don't stop.”

“It sounded like I hurt you.”

He gave her a tender smile. “No. Let me show you.” He cupped her breast right through her dress and rubbed his thumb across her nipple.

Pleasure sliced through her body, centered on her womb, and squeezed. Her eyes closed as she gasped for breath.

“It works both ways,” he said. “You touch me. I touch you. We set each other on fire.”

“Please.” She opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on his face. “Please show me.”

“Ah, my sweet Priscilla. That's exactly what I intend to do.” He leaned in and licked her throat, never removing his hand from her breast.

She slid her hands up around his shoulders, pulling him closer as he licked and nibbled his way from her throat to her other ear. When he took the lobe between his teeth, she let out a soft cry.

“Yes, that's it,” he murmured. “Let it happen. Let go.” He slid down her body, rubbing his cheek against one breast as he fondled the other with his hand. “I liked your evening gown better. It seems a crime to hide such beauty beneath so much cloth. If only I could taste this sweet flesh.” He closed his mouth around one nipple and teased it with his tongue. Her body reacted even through layers of clothing, and she, too, wished she were wearing anything but her high-necked traveling dress.

She let her head fall back, surrendered to the heaviness sweeping into her limbs, and opened herself up to his touch. She clung to his shirt as the only safe harbor to be found in this wild storm of sensation. He continued to savor her nipples as if the layers of cloth were not even there, sending streaks of pure fire straight to her loins. When he reached for the hem of her skirt, she had given up pretending that she wanted him to stop.

“Shall I kiss you?” he whispered, lifting her skirts until her stockinged calf was bared to him.

“Yes, kiss me.” Anything to ease this growing ache.

He brushed his fingers along the underside of her knee, teasing the sensitive flesh. She trembled, her breath coming in short pants as he slid his both hands beneath her skirts, easing his fingers beneath the edges
of her drawers to toy with the ties to her garters.

“What are you doing?” she asked, though it came out as more a plaintive wail.

“Touching you. Learning you. Making you feel good.” He leaned forward, gently squeezing her cotton-clad thighs. “Trust me.”

His fingers trailed up and down her thighs, each time coming closer and closer to the heat between her legs. Dear God, was he going to touch her there? He wouldn't—would he? Did she want him to?

God, yes.

“Please,” she whispered.

“What, sweet Priscilla? What is it you want?”

“Please touch me.”

“I am touching you.” He drew circles on the very tops of her thighs with his fingers. So close.

“More. Please, Samuel. Please.”

“What do you want, Priscilla? This?” He traced her inner thighs right up to her center…

…then stopped. A whimper escaped her lips. So close. Right there. Right there. “Right
there
.”

She hadn't realized she had spoken until he said, “Right here?” And pressed his palm against the ache between her legs.

“Yes. Dear God, yes.” She bent her knees, digging her heels into the seat of the chair as she raised up to better feel his touch. “More. Please, Samuel. More.”

“All right, beautiful Priscilla. I know what you need.” He took her ankles and hooked her bent knees over his shoulders.

“What…what are you doing?” She gripped the arms of the chair, fearing she would fall off the seat.

“Giving you what you need.” He nipped the inside of her thigh through her drawers. “God, you're so ready for this, aren't you? The scent of you is intoxicating. Let's give you what you need, sweet Priscilla. Let's show you what you've been missing.”

Then he leaned in and kissed her, right between her legs.

She nearly screamed. He was really…How could this…Dear God, it felt so good.
So good.

She could feel his tongue slipping past the slit in her drawers. Teasing her. Licking her. Rubbing against that one spot that burned, that one spot that sent tremors through her entire body. The pressure built. She should make him stop. Surely this wasn't right…

The hell it wasn't. She clenched her fingers around the arms of the chair, arching toward him, pulling him toward her with her legs hooked over his shoulders. He chuckled, and the vibration against her sensitized flesh sent her over the edge. Her world exploded. Her mind went blank. Her body burst into flames hotter than the sun.

She didn't realize she was crying until she came back to herself to find him murmuring soft words of comfort and dabbing at the tears on her cheeks with the edge of his shirtsleeve.

Her loins still throbbed, though the sensation had started to ebb. Her arms and legs tingled. At some point he had set her skirts to rights and now knelt
beside her chair, his brows furrowed with concern. She looked into his eyes and let out a long sigh.

“Oh,” she said.

“‘Oh' indeed,” Samuel said. He helped her sit up. “There you are. Not so much as a hairpin removed.”

“You cannot say the same.” She slid her gaze over his bared chest, and the hunger in her eyes nearly made him burst his trousers.

“True, but the wager said nothing about removing
my
clothing.” Quickly he did up the buttons of his shirt. He dared not look at her as long as she had that just-pleasured flush to her cheeks, else he would be unable to resist finishing what he'd started.

“Why, Samuel?”

He glanced up at her soft query, tucking his shirt back into his trousers. “Why what?”

“Why did you make the wager?”

He shrugged on his waistcoat and began to button it by touch. “Because I wanted to show you how wrong you were about a woman's pleasure. What you would be missing by not marrying again. A beautiful woman like you should not allow your passions to die simply because you have never been loved properly before.”

“So I should marry again simply to satisfy my physical passions?”

“Why not? It's as good a reason as any if you don't believe in love.” He picked up his glass of wine and swallowed the last of it. “I had best check on John. If he is doing well, I will be able to take you home.”

She started to rise. “I shall come with you.”

“No.” He held up his hand. “Stay here and finish your meal. I shall be back directly.” He reached for the door handle.

“Samuel.”

He paused and looked back at her.

“I happen to think you are very capable of love.”

“Sex isn't love, Cilla. But thank you anyway.”

S
amuel drove Cilla back to Nevarton Chase himself, playing coachman in John's absence. Alone inside the coach, Cilla watched the scenery pass by, her mind a whirl of confusion.

Samuel had returned to the dining room with news that John was resting comfortably and that he would see her home. He made no mention of the intimacies they had shared, nor had he attempted to collect on his wager. Instead he had efficiently escorted her out to the waiting coach and handed her in before climbing up to the coachman's box.

His calm dismissal of their passionate interlude puzzled her. He had instigated the wager, as she recalled. He had indicated that he found her attractive, but immediately afterward he had regained his aplomb as if nothing had happened. She had heard from other women how men could indulge their sexual curiosity and then walk away without guilt. Was it that curiosity had led Samuel to touch her so intimately?

She should never have let it happen. She knew very well that as sincere as he appeared, this man might
still be a trickster. She liked to think that she had learned something from being married to Edward, but deep down inside, she didn't really believe that. She still worried about being fooled by a man. About having her heart broken.

Yet here she was, her body still humming with the pleasure he'd brought her, having allowed him liberties she'd never imagined she would.

He threatened everything she was trying to build, yet somehow he had convinced her that Lord Raventhorpe meant Annabelle harm. She was actually considering helping him stop the wedding based merely on the facts he had given her and her own evaluations of the two men involved. He made Raventhorpe sound like a heartless villain, and Cilla was starting to believe him. Certainly the earl had not impressed her with his generosity to humankind. But did that make him dangerous?

She didn't want to believe the worst of Samuel. He appeared to be honorable and loyal, and she was impressed with his determination to protect the people he considered family. As she had seen herself, he cared—deeply. On top of all that, he was handsome and made her head swim whenever he was near. But was that physical attraction getting in the way of her common sense? She must have gone a little mad to agree to his wager, but the combination of the wine with the shock of John getting shot had lowered her defenses. Was she such a slave to her emotions?

Heaven help her, but had he given her pleasure
as a way to soften her toward his cause? She didn't like to think he was so devious, especially after all that talk about keeping things businesslike between them, but she could not ignore the possibility. Was he using her as much as Edward ever had?

The thought chilled her. He had admitted he did not think himself capable of real love, and she had to confess that he seemed to have more control over his impulses than she did. If she was going to make a sound decision regarding Annabelle, she would have to keep a level head. The girl's future was at stake, and if Cilla felt Samuel was telling the truth, she would help him. If she decided he was a liar, she would block his attempts to stop the wedding.

Even though her body still cried out for his touch.

 

What the hell had he been thinking?

Why had he given in to the temptation to touch Cilla? He knew it was a bad idea to get involved with her on a sexual level, especially since he needed her help. What was it about this woman that drew him so strongly? Was it her stubborn determination to stand on her own that sparked his reluctant admiration? Her willingness to learn the truth about Raventhorpe, though it threatened her own future? Or the fact that he could tell that she was a sensual woman who had never been correctly initiated into the world of passion?

Watching the startled pleasure spark in her eyes had excited him so much he had nearly climaxed
himself. He could barely resist the innocent lure of her unawakened sexuality, especially with the taste of her still on his lips. The wine had not washed the sweetness away. He had wanted to bury himself inside her, to watch her face as he took her.

Stopping the wedding should be his focus. Annabelle's life depended on it. He could not allow himself to be distracted by his powerful attraction to Cilla.

Maybe John had been right. Perhaps he had been too long without female companionship. How else to explain his outrageous behavior with the lovely widow? Her declaration that had betrayed her lack of experience with lovemaking had proven a nearly irresistible lure.

He knew she had probably drunk too much wine, and coupled with the trauma of the robbery and John being shot, he was certain she had been in a vulnerable state. But watching those sensual lips say the words that made him realize she had never truly experienced sexual pleasure, had made him reckless.

John Ready was his close friend, the one man he could trust implicitly. John's brush with death had left Samuel shaken himself. Bantering with the widow Burke had seemed a good way to blow off some steam—until it had ignited the sexual attraction already simmering between them.

Not that he hadn't enjoyed being the first man to introduce Priscilla Burke to the world of sensual pleasure. What man wouldn't relish the taste of her
as she had climaxed for the first time? And the look on her face…

Damn, just the memory was making him hard again.

He shifted in the driver's seat and adjusted himself. He needed to focus on the business at hand. Annabelle. Raventhorpe. The wedding.

Cilla had seemed quiet when he'd fetched her from the dining room. She'd been happy to hear about John, of course, but other than that she had said little to him. He'd been too intent on getting her to the coach to think much of it—and somewhat relieved she hadn't attempted to talk about what they had shared. But the farther they got from the inn and the closer they got to Nevarton Chase, the more his concern grew.

Had his actions tonight alienated his best ally?

Blast it. Sex ruined everything. He knew that, knew better than to let his loins overtake his brain. But that logic had flown out the window tonight.

He stopped the coach in the drive of Nevarton Chase and hopped down from the coachman's box, then opened the door and extended a hand to help Cilla down.

“Thank you,” she said. But she did not look at him.

He frowned as she walked past him toward the door. “Priscilla.”

She stopped but did not turn. “My name is Mrs. Burke. Or Cilla. Good night, Samuel.”

He started to go after her. Then a footman opened
the front door. She hurried up the path, and he turned away, not wanting the footman to recognize him. He hated the way she darted into the house as if eager to get away from him. Damn it all. Had he ruined everything with one passionate impulse?

He climbed back into the driver's seat and, once the front door had closed behind her, snapped the reins over the horses' backs and set them to a lively trot.

The sooner he got back to John, the better.

 

Cilla awoke the next morning still wrestling with her decision. The notion that she might be manipulated by her own desires shamed her nearly as much as being married to Edward had. Her husband had gotten into one scrape after another, but he had always had a charming smile ready and an explanation at his disposal. And she had always believed him—had always
wanted
to believe him—because she simply could not face that she had been foolish enough to wed an untrustworthy man.

But once he had died and left her scarred by scandal and burdened with his debts, she had made herself face the facts. Edward had been handsome and persuasive enough to convince an angel to buy a house in hell, but he had always cared more for himself than anything or anyone else in his life.

She had chosen him. She had gone against her family's wishes and wed him, so certain that love would make everything all right. She had turned a blind eye to his flaws, made excuses for his lack of consideration. Everything that had gone wrong
in her marriage could be laid straight at her door. Clearly she did not know how to discern a decent man from a scoundrel.

Yet now she was being asked to make that same decision about Annabelle's fiancé, based solely on her own instincts and observations. Raventhorpe intended to move forward with the wedding, and Samuel intended to try and stop it. Either way, Cilla had to choose a side. A neutral position was not an option.

If she chose to align with the Baileys and Lord Raventhorpe, Annabelle would marry well and become a countess. Cilla would earn a reputation that would help her start her business and launch her to success. However, if Samuel was right, Annabelle might well come to physical harm at the earl's hands.

If she chose to be Samuel's ally, Annabelle would be safe, though she would have lost a titled fiancé. Still, the girl was young, beautiful, and rich, so finding another husband would not prove difficult. But Cilla would be destroying everything she was trying to achieve for herself. Certainly the Baileys would not trust her to work for them any longer, and once rumors got out as to why she had been discharged, she would never be able to have her own business. Heavens, she would be lucky to even find a new position, especially with the scandal of her marriage still lingering in the memories of the London matrons.

The question came down to how much she was willing to risk to potentially save a girl's life. The answer: Whatever it took.

The decision was clear. She would help Samuel. She had trusted him enough that she had allowed him liberties with her body. She knew the potential consequences of her choice. As long as she went into the situation with her eyes open, it would have to be enough.

Samuel had said he wanted her to talk to Annabelle and build doubts about Raventhorpe to give him some time to find real evidence. No better time to start than now.

She found Annabelle seated on a stone bench in the gardens, reading a book. As she neared the girl, she could make out that it was one of those romantic novels that so enchanted the young girls these days. “Annabelle?”

Annabelle jerked her head up and stared for a long moment, her cheeks flushed with color. “Mrs. Burke!” She snapped the book closed.

“May I join you? I had wanted to discuss the guest list for the wedding.”

“Of course.” Annabelle shoved the book aside—cover facedown, Cilla noticed—and made room on the bench. “Would you prefer to go inside?”

“Not if you do not want to.”

“I love being outside.” Annabelle raised her face to the sun and closed her eyes for a moment, as if worshipping. “I miss the outdoors now that we are always off to some ball or another.”

Cilla sat down on the bench next to her. “But I thought you enjoyed being out in society.”

“Oh, it's quite fun.” She flashed a smile. “I enjoy meeting all the people and seeing all the beautiful
dresses. But I grew up on a farm, Mrs. Burke, so I'm used to spending a lot of time outside.”

“Once the season is over, you will probably spend more time in the country. There are many events—house parties, horse races—”

“Picnics,” Annabelle finished for her. “I do adore picnics.”

Cilla pushed aside the distracting memory of a certain memorable picnic. “There will be many opportunities for all sorts of outdoor activities once you are a married lady.”

“I can hardly believe it is less than a month away. I often dreamed about who my future husband might be.” She laughed. “I certainly never imagined myself marrying a real lord!”

“What did you imagine your husband to be like?” Cilla busied herself by pulling out the pages of her guest list.

“Well…” Annabelle's eyes sparkled. “Handsome, of course. Kind. And someone with a solid trade so he could provide for a family.”

“Well, an earldom is hardly a trade.”

“You're right about that. But now that Pa is so rich, I don't have to worry so much about money.”

Cilla laid the list flat on her lap and smoothed her hands over it. “You're very lucky.”

“That Pa found that coal mine? Don't I know it!”

“I wanted to ask you something. You seemed angry at Captain Breedlove while you were dancing with him at Lady Canthrope's ball a few days ago. I imagine you are still upset about his defection.”

Annabelle sighed. “Yes, I was angry. I didn't realize how angry until I saw him again, big as life.” Her normally animated features dulled with remembered pain. “He humiliated me.”

“He seems genuinely apologetic.”

“Can you believe that? He was gone for almost two years, Mrs. Burke.
Two years.
”

“He claims he did not abandon you.”

“I know, but he insists on trying to make me believe that ridiculous story that Richard left him on some island. I don't know where he was for those two years, but I know where he
wasn't
—and that was with me.”

“What if he is telling the truth?” Cilla asked.

Annabelle gaped at her. “Have you heard the story? Painting Richard as some kind of monster out to kill him?” She shook her head. “Richard has never been anything but a gentleman to me. I have a hard time believing he is some sort of villain.” She traced the binding of her book, her expression pensive. “I don't know why Samuel could not simply tell me the truth, even if it meant he found…someone else.”

Cilla frowned at the girl's odd hesitation. “If he had found someone else, he would hardly have come here to claim your hand. And you cannot say it is for the money because apparently he has his own.”

Annabelle shrugged. “Money hardly matters anymore. If I marry Richard, I can become a countess, and no one will ever tell me I'm not good enough. If I had married Samuel, I'd just be rich—well, richer than I am now.”

“Who would ever tell you that you are not good enough?” Cilla shook her head. “You are bright and beautiful and kind. That is more than I can say for many of the so-called quality of English society.”