The Bewitching Hour (21 page)

    Priscilla allowed him to escort her over to a small linen covered table in the corner. Most of the tables were empty and she decided that, for the moment, there were no prying eyes to take notice. “I have a great deal of trouble believing that you frequent teashops.”
    “You doubt me?” he said as he pulled out a chair for her. “I’ve been known to frequent a tea shop on occasion. The females in my family require an outing every so often and the local taverns aren’t really appropriate.”
    Irked that this consideration for his family gave her another reason to love him, she muttered, “I suppose not.”
    He grinned. “Do you find the air more tolerable in here?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “The coal dust in the air that made you appear as if you’d been crying. Are you more comfortable in here?”
    
Blast and double blast!
“Oh. Yes.” The difficulty in telling lies was remembering what one had said.
    “Did you have productive meeting with your solicitor?”
    She placed her reticule in her lap and attempted to retain her composure. “How would you know I was with my solicitor?”
    “Because, my love, you just came from a solicitor’s office.”
    Sometimes, the logic in his reasoning was maddening. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
    “Why not? It’s true.” He glanced past her and his grey eyes took on a darker cast. “Unfortunately, I believe I’ve just been given a taste of my own medicine. Bertram’s here.”
    She turned in her seat as a lanky young man wearing a gold striped jacket and blinding white cravat approached them. The gold tassels on his boots swung rhythmically with every step.
    Stratton muttered a mild oath beneath his breath as he rose from his chair.
    “Lord Bertram,” Priscilla said as the young man reached their table. “It’s a pleasure to see you. Have you met Lord Stratton?”
    Bertram bowed awkwardly. “Yes. We met recently. I was not aware that the two of you were acquainted.” His eyes narrowed as he gazed more closely at her. “Miss Hawthorn, has this cur brought you to tears? If so, I will demand an accounting, here and now.”
    
God save me from chivalrous males.
She placed her hand on Bertram’s arm. “I applaud your concern and your gallantry, but you mustn’t think that. Lord Stratton has been very much the gentleman. I’m afraid the coal dust has been bothersome for me today.”
    “If you are certain.” He appeared unconvinced.
    “I am quite certain.”
    “I trust you are well, Bertram.” Stratton tone was unusually jovial for someone who had just had his character called into question. He gestured to an empty chair. “Would you care to join us? I believe they’re bringing our tea right now. An extra cup would be no trouble at all.”
    The young man made no move to sit down. “I’ve been very well. Thank you. But under the circumstances, I must refuse your hospitality.”
    Priscilla accepted a cup of from their server. “Why is that, Bertie? I was hoping you might sit down and update me on how Mary has been. I haven’t heard from her in ages.”
    His face grew pinched; his lips thinned to a tight line. “As you know, Miss Dearborn is quite delicate and I fear that the mineral waters of Bath don’t agree with her. I am most anxious for her return.”
    In truth, Priscilla didn’t understand how the foul tasting mineral waters of Bath could agree with anyone or why her aunt could possibly think they would be of any benefit to Mary. “Will that be soon?”
    His expression turned glum. “I’m not certain.”
    “Do sit down, Bertie. I’m apt to get a crick in my neck from looking up at both of you.”
    “I apologize. I cannot stay. I--um--have a prior engagement.”
    “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t do to be late.” She glanced up at Stratton as she reached for the sugar bowl. “Would you care for sugar, my lord?”
    “No, thank you.” Stratton winked at her and grinned. “Just a bit of cream will suffice. And one of the raspberry tarts. Do you mind if I have a seat, Bertram? I do wish you would join us. How could you refuse such delightful company?”
    “He has a prior engagement,” Priscilla reminded him.
    Stratton seated himself and picked up his cup of tea. “Ah, yes. Well, it was pleasant that you stopped by to say hello. Don’t be a stranger. Perhaps when your fiancé returns, you will both come to tea. My aunt is ever the romantic. An upcoming marriage would thrill her no end.”
    A slight tic jumped at the corner of the young man’s eye. “Might I speak with you, my lord?”
    Stratton frowned on him as if he were chastising a schoolboy. “At present, I am having tea with Miss Hawthorn.”
    “I beg your pardon. Perhaps we might meet at a later time.” The young viscount cleared his throat. “We do have matters to discuss.”
    “Well.” Stratton appeared to consider the request. “I haven’t my engagement book with me but I doubt I shall have any free time until my sister’s ball has taken place. If you would keep that in mind, I should appreciate it. These things are terribly important to a young lady. Once that has taken place, I shall get in touch with you.”
    “Of course. That is a concern. I also have sisters and quite understand. I suppose I should be off, then.” Bertram sketched a bow. “Miss Hawthorn. Lord Stratton. I wish you both a pleasant day.”
    Waiting until the young man was out of earshot, Priscilla said, “That was quite masterful. I’ve never seen an impending difficulty so well averted. If he will leave off until Cecelia’s ball, perhaps there will be time to smooth this thing over.”
    He grinned at her. “I hope so. Fortunately, the lad’s a bit immature and not all that bright. That said, we make a good team.”
    She smiled back at him then felt her pleasure fade away. For a brief few moments, her troubles had been forgotten. But if Bertie had seen them together, who else might come along? “I’m sorry. I can’t stay.”
    Lines formed in his forehead as he frowned. “You’ve barely drunk your tea. I wish you would tell me what this is about.”
    Her resolve was waning, but she shook her head. “I cannot.”
    “Very well. I have promised to take Cecelia and Aunt Mirabella to Vauxhall to see the fireworks this evening. Will you be attending?”
    “No. Olivia has an early supper engagement and I have decided that an evening at home will be a welcome relief.”
    A long sigh escaped his chest. “This is intolerable.”
    
So intolerable it hurts.
She closed her eyes and took in a long, uneven breath. “I will see you tonight.”
    “At Vauxhall?”
    “No. I’ll wait for you in our back garden. At midnight. Olivia and the rest of the household should be asleep by then.”
    Before she could change her mind, she quickly rose from her chair, motioned to Sally and left.

O
ther than the chime of the grandfather clock in the library, the house had been quiet for the past hour. Priscilla opened the back door and slipped into the night. The air was chilled and damp and she hugged herself beneath her old velvet cloak. There was no sign of anyone, but she could hear the approaching sound of boots on gravel.
    “Hello, love.” Stratton materialized beside her. Wisps of fog swirled around his boots and she could hear the swishing of the caped greatcoat against his legs. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. She shivered in response.
    “Are you cold?”
    She nodded. “A little.”
    “I have a carriage waiting."
    "A carriage? But where are we going?" She hadn't dressed, hadn't expected to go anywhere other than the garden.
    "Nowhere in particular," he said evenly. "I simply thought we would be warmer and more comfortable in my carriage than remaining in your garden."
    "You aren't stealing me away to Gretna Green are you?" What would she do if he said yes? A small part of her hoped that he would.
    He laughed softly, the sound muted in the night air. "Only if I have your permission."
    She had to stop herself from nodding. "Well, you don't." A shiver of cold traveled up her spine and she hugged herself for warmth. "I will, however, welcome the warmth of your carriage."
    "Let’s go before you become too chilled.” He put his arm around her and led her around to a side street the where the waiting carriage was parked.
    The carriage lanterns had been turned down low but Priscilla could see the silhouette of the driver who was hunched over the ribbons. His collar had been pulled up around his neck and a curly beaver hat was slung low over his forehead. She hadn’t taken the time to consider that someone else might have to be involved. Stratton couldn’t very well take the ribbons if he were in the coach with her.
    “Who’s driving?” she asked.
    “Someone who will remain deaf, dumb and blind,” he assured her. “Knowledge of this evening will go no further.”
    “Are you certain?” She chewed her lip nervously.
    “I promise.” He handed her into the carriage. “You should be warm enough inside. I’ll be right back.”
    Priscilla found herself encased in velvet darkness, the heavy curtains at the window insulating her against the outside world. The interior was plush and large enough to accommodate six passengers in full court dress, the wide bench seats were topped with deep velvet cushions and the sides were covered with leather. Her head sunk against the velvet squabs and she tried to relax, but it was near impossible. She was too tense, every muscle in her body taut and her nerves were twitching in anticipation. If she had any sense, she'd open the door and leave.
    She heard the sound of his footsteps as he came around and climbed inside. Shutting the door behind him, he sat on the edge of the seat next to her. “Did you have any problems getting away?” he asked as he peeled off his gloves.
    “No, the household has been asleep for some time,” she answered. “And I don’t expect anyone to be up and about for hours.”
    “Good.” She watched as he shrugged out of his greatcoat, tossing it on the seat across from them, then adjusted the curtain. The moonlight caught the edge of his white cravat and Priscilla realized that he was still in full evening dress. She had simply thrown her blue velvet cape over her night rail. Lord, what had she been thinking? Perhaps, she didn't want to know.
    Stratton tapped his cane against the roof of the carriage and they rolled onto the streets of Mayfair accompanied by the rhythmic clopping of hooves.
    “Did you enjoy Vauxhall?” she asked.
    She swore she could hear his scowl. “Vauxhall wasn’t bad but the dinner afterward was hellish. The food and drink was about as appetizing as that at Almack’s and Aunt Mirabella came dressed as an eggplant.”
    He sounded so annoyed, she couldn’t help laughing. “An eggplant? How does one go about dressing as an eggplant?”
    “It takes a certain skill, I suppose,” he said. “She wore a dark purple taffeta gown with an enormous floor length cape and a puffy green hat. It was hideous. Cecelia wanted to hide Ulysses in the cellar again, so Aunt would stay home, but I thought it was too soon to pull the same trick." He grunted. "And then Lord Miller got completely foxed and proposed to Cecelia. Twice. I put him in his carriage and sent him home before he could propose a third time. But the worst of it was that you weren’t there to share any of this nonsense with me. If you had been there, I’m certain I would have had a much better time.”
    “Well, I’m here now,” she murmured.
    “Yes you are,” he agreed. “And I’m most grateful.” She could not see him clearly, but glimpsed the glitter in his eyes, knew he was smiling. He pushed the cape from her shoulders and fingered the bodice of the thin lawn gown. “What are you wearing, my love?” His hand trailed lowered and nails grazed her nipples.
    She closed her eyes to regain her thoughts. “I um... I was in a hurry.”
    With nimble fingers he unfastened the short row of pearl buttons holding her gown together in front. “It doesn’t really matter what you wore,” he whispered as he pulled her arms through the sleeves, then lifted her easily and with one quick motion had the garment over her head and lying on his greatcoat. “As you aren’t wearing anything at the moment.”
    She gasped as the night air touched her nakedness..
    “I’m not quite done,” he said softly. “There’s still this ridiculous little cap.” He felt for the hairpin securing her cap and pulled off the puff of lace that held her hair bunched at the top of her head. He threaded his fingers through her curls and a heavy wave of hair fell loose gently caressing the bare skin of her shoulders and back. She shivered at the sensation. Her nipples tightened, her belly clenched.
    “Cold?” he whispered.
    “Yes.” But she wasn’t. Not cold exactly. Her skin tingled; her breathing was short and erratic. No, she definitely wasn’t cold.
    “Do you want your cape?”
    “No.”
    “I will warm you.” He took her into his arms and captured her mouth in a gentle kiss. She sunk into his embrace, scarcely aware when he slid his arm beneath her legs and lifted her into his lap. Without breaking the kiss he pulled off her slippers and caught both feet with his hand. He tickled the arch of her foot and she pulled away trying her best not to giggle.
    “Such delicate little feet,” he observed. “You’re very tense, love. You know I won’t do anything you don’t want me to, don’t you? All you have to do is tell me.”
    “I know,” she whispered.
    “Then relax,” he murmured. He cupped her breast with one hand as he traced the length of her thigh with the other, his fingertips barely touching the skin. “As long as we bring pleasure to one another, nothing we do is wrong. These moments belong to us. No one else will know. No one else will judge us.” His hands played over her as he unhurriedly stroked her thigh, her belly, the soft curve of her hip; circling and flicking the taut peak of her breast with his thumb. He nuzzled her cheek, placed gentle kisses along her jaw.
    She shut her eyes and nodded. Other than a prolonged sigh, a faint intake of breath, she remained quiet.
    He placed the palm of his hand flat against her belly. His hand drifted lower until he cupped the mound of curls at the junction of her thighs, his fingers caressing the entrance, his thumb and forefinger pressing and nipping at the folds of throbbing flesh. She bit her lip and shuddered, her body lurching of its own volition.
    Two fingers slipped inside as he covered her mouth with a searing kiss. His arousal was cradled beneath her bottom. She wiggled and rocked against him, tightened her muscles around his fingers searching for release. It came quickly; her body arched convulsively, suffused with pleasure. She moaned softly into his mouth; clutched at him, pulling him closer, knowing the fulfillment was short-lived and there was more to come. She felt the heat of his body surround her, the stiffness of his jacket against her bare skin, the scent of tobacco in his hair, the taste of brandy on his tongue. He broke their kiss, withdrew his fingers, lifted and set her on the cushion. An irrational sense of panic set in and she reached for him. “Don’t leave me.” She didn’t care what he did, as long as he kept holding her, touching her.
    “Shhh,” he said softly. He knelt before her and looked up into her eyes. “I’m not leaving you, love. I’ll never leave you. Do you trust me?”
    “Yes,” she whispered.
    “Scoot down,” he ordered.
    She did as he asked. He parted her legs and pulled them over his shoulders. Holding her hips firmly in his palms, he lightly ran his tongue up her open cleft. Shocked, she gasped as a throbbing current cut through her and her flesh quivered beneath his lips. She stopped breathing. Stopped thinking. She slid her hands into his hair, holding on, making soft whimpering noises as he teased her with his tongue and lips, kissing, tasting, gently nipping at her with his teeth, bringing her to the brink but not letting her cross. It was an exquisite torture that seemed to have no end.
    He held her tightly, keeping her hips immobile. She moaned, frustrated with the need to move, to find her climax. Instinctively she drew her knees back, allowing him greater access. He stretched the glistening folds with his thumbs, found the tight nub with the tip of his tongue. An implosion of searing heat coursed through her and she arched her back, giving in to the waves of sensual delight flowing from the core of her body, knowing she was powerless against them, rejoicing in the pleasure they brought her. Flooded with sensation, she rode until the waves receded and her arms and legs went limp. She sat motionless, legs sprawled over his shoulders, unable to move.
    Slowly her senses returned. She took in a deep breath and exhaled, aware that his cheek was resting against her thigh, his breath washing against her belly. He leaned in kissed the dew drenched curls between her legs then sat back on his heels. She watched through half closed eyes as his shadowy figure pushed aside the pile of clothing, raised the lid of the bench and pulled out a satin lined quilt. He spread it out on the floor of the carriage then slid his arms beneath her and laid her on the quilt. The satin was cool and slick beneath her skin. Shadows hid the planes of his face, muted the glitter in his eyes, but she felt the intensity of his gaze. He made no move to touch her.
    Her heartbeat quickened and her breathing came ragged and shallow. She had no will, no strength, no sense of reason. They were alone in the darkness, cut off from the world. Her only awareness was a deep aching need to have him inside her. Without thought, she moistened her lips and her thighs fell open.
    He continued to stare at her then uttered hoarsely, “I love you beyond words, Priscilla. What magic have you worked on me?” He loosened his cravat, then knelt in front of her and removed his jacket and waistcoat, the white linen of his shirt shimmering where a strip of moonlight shone through the edge of the curtain. His hands went to his trousers where he quickly freed himself. Slowly he eased himself over her, his palms on either side of her, his erection nestled between her legs. Curious, she reached out to touch him but he pulled back and groaned. “Not yet, my sweet. I’m too close.”
    She dropped her hand to her side and nodded. He entered her slowly. Painstakingly so. She felt the trembling of his muscles, vaguely understanding what it cost him to stay in control. He bent down and covered her lips with his, sweeping her mouth with his tongue, allowing her a brief taste of herself before he lifted his head again. He groaned and sank deeper into her passage until completely submerged, buried in her flesh, the feeling heightened by the slight swaying of the carriage and the rumblings of wheel on cobblestone beneath her. With a groan he withdrew and then eased back in again, his motions slow and deliberate. Other than the joining of their sex, they did not touch. His face still in darkness, she could feel his eyes burning through her and was enthralled by the power he welded over her. He was the aggressor, physically more powerful and far more skilled. She willingly surrendered; her trust in him absolute.
    Heat flowed through her as he kissed her again, his tongue demanding and possessive. Her arms went around him. She was his to do with as he wished. She shifted her legs, tilted her hips, gloried in the sensation he brought as he moved in and out of her body. Their rhythm was seductive, almost hypnotic. She slowly ran her hands over his back and shoulders feeling the corded muscles flex then lengthen as he moved over her. But impatience set in, he shifted his weight and his thrusts came faster and harder, less controlled. She could feel his need as he drove deeper inside the warm moist sheath of her body. He plunged into her, every stroke building a current of desire within her. Her thighs tightened as she spread her legs wider, raised her hips higher to meet his ever-deepening thrusts as she became feverish with need. The tension coiled inside her sprang free and she felt the pulsing between her legs, a spreading warmth in her belly, a return of the glorious waves she had ridden earlier. She wrapped her legs around his waist and held him tightly against her as he groaned and climaxed.
    They drifted to earth some time later. With reluctance, he withdrew, and slowly eased over on his side and murmured, “Sorry. I must be crushing you.”
    A rush of cool air hit her body and she crossed her arms and shivered. “You weren’t crushing me, you were keeping me warm. Tell me exactly why is it that I’m naked and you’re not?”
    He laughed and reached for his greatcoat. “I planned it that way,” he said as he drew it over her and gathered her up on his lap. “Do you have any complaints?”
    “No.” She gave a sigh of contentment. “It was glorious. But I was surprised.” She stopped suddenly.
    “What surprised you?”
    “I didn’t expect you to put your mouth,” she buried her face in his shirt, “there.”
    He snaked his hand beneath the coat and touched the dampness between her legs. “Where? Here?”
    Her nerves jumped and she felt herself quiver beneath his fingertips.
    He laughed softly and said with ill-concealed satisfaction, “I felt that, Priscilla. You’re delightfully responsive.” The touch became a tickle and he received the same response once more. “I don’t believe we’re done here.”
    She tried squirming away from his persistent touches, but it only served to make things worse. Between his skillful hands and the rumbling of the carriage floor beneath them, she was having a difficult time holding still.