The Shadow and the Star (47 page)

Her bare feet, the swing of her hair as she swept it over her collar, the curve of her cheek when she looked away shyly… He simply stood, mute with the strength of his response.

He failed in what he'd intended to say. He'd meant to make vows, to pledge not to touch her, but he could not.

Not now—not yet.

"You left this downstairs." He held the veil in his right hand, the yards of lace doubled between his fingers.

"Oh! You should not carry it so." She reached for the mass of white froth and smoothed it out carefully. "You might have torn the net. It's Irish—the nuns make it specially, upon hundreds of bobbins. I have a receipt for washing it in milk and coffee to give it the proper color. It should never be starched, you know, nor ironed." She glanced at him quickly and carried it away to the mirrored wardrobe. Her jade-green robe rustled along the carpet. When she turned back, skittishly, she focused her look somewhere near his elbow. "Such a lavish dress! And the fee for the rush, over Christmas—it must have been dreadfully dear! I was never so amazed, when the trunk arrived. I fear that Lord and Lady Ashland have been much too kind. How I shall ever find a way to thank them, I don't know!"

"Do you like it?"

She drew in a breath, still not looking at him. "I couldn't imagine anything more lovely."

"That's sufficient," he said. "You don't have to thank anyone."

He saw the realization dawn upon her. She met his eyes directly. "Oh, sir—did you arrange for it?"

He put his hands behind his back, leaning against the door. "Madame Elise informed me that you'd need a wardrobe of untold proportions. I've opened a bank account for you—you've only to tell me when you need a draft deposited. The initial balance is ten thousand pounds."

"Ten thousand!" She gaped at him. "That's madness!"

"You needn't spend it all at once."

"I could not spend it all in a lifetime! Dear sir!"

"You're my wife." He came to his prepared speech. "You have a rightful claim to my support. What I possess is yours."

She said nothing, but wandered a few steps, skimming her fingers over the vanity and the fringed draperies in a bewildered way, finally sitting down with a plump on the vanity bench. "Well! I am vexed." She drew the jade-green wrapper closely around herself. "You've found me Miss Myrtle's dressing set, and kindly conferred ten thousand pounds upon me, and I have not got anything at all for you."

He tried not to look at the outline of her body beneath the silky cloth. "It doesn't matter."

She rubbed one thumb back and forth over the other, staring down at her hands. "I had thought of a razor, but I didn't know; I've heard that gentlemen are especially particular about such things."

"I have a razor," he said.

"I might have made you a shirt, or given you a new silk hat."

"I also have a tailor."

She looked down at her lap, smoothing her palm over the glossy jade fabric. "Perhaps," she said in a small voice, "you would like for me to massage your back?"

Samuel leaned harder against the door. He gazed at her lowered head. With a feeling like sliding from a height, he felt the image take hold of him.

"I'm not precisely experienced at massage." She buttoned and unbuttoned a single button on her robe. "In fact, I've never been required to execute the procedure myself. But when I was twelve, and had the influenza and ached so, Miss Myrtle would rub me with camphor, and it quite comforted me. Lady Tess said that massage is something married gentlemen enjoy—only without the camphor, of course. I would be honored to try."

"No." He put his complete weight back against the door, pressing on it. "I don't think that would be wise."

"You would not like it?" She looked up at him.

His body had already gone thick and excited: he adored her upturned face, her English voice, her jade-green robe, her toes peeping from beneath the fold of white gown. She was pretty. Maidenly. Her freshness aroused him, called to the devil inside him.

He shoved away from the door, turning toward the fire screen to hide himself "I wanted to speak with you about this connection. I've thought that the circumstances might lead you to fear that I won't view the marriage as a serious obligation. I do. You can depend on me for whatever you require."

He heard the rustle of her robe as she stood up. "Thank you. I should like to take the opportunity to say that—as you mention, the circumstances being untoward—and matrimony being a very solemn occasion, not to be entered into lightly—and myself being of—not to say perplexed, in the general way of things, as to what I ought to do—but in the present case in some uncertainty—that is to say, as to what a gentleman requires and prefers—not being very familiar with gentlemen, excepting yourself, of course—to which I feel compelled to add that I should not like—although I know that a man is troublesome in the house—" She took a breath amid the tangle of stilted phrases. "I wouldn't care for you to believe that I'm unhappy to be your wife!"

He stared down into the painted scene of powdered ladies and mincing gallants on the fire screen.
My wife
, he thought.
My wife, my wife
.

He found himself moving toward her instead of away, catching her wrists hard in his hands. Looking down into her startled face, into eyes wide and green and vulnerable, he felt how much larger he was; how he could hurt her; with one easy motion he could crush her, and in the same instant he wished to safeguard and please and worship her with his body.

He wanted to say something, but he did not know what. Even as he gave in to it, he wanted to promise her that he would never yield to what was burning up his heart and his body. He slowly pressed her hands together behind her back—as if he were pushing her away and bringing her closer at once.

The move caused her breasts to arch toward him. He couldn't feel it beneath his coat; he could only see the robe slide open and the white gown beneath tauten, outlining the swelling shape clearly. His chest went tight.

He kept her imprisoned against him, catching both of her hands in one of his. He'd meant differently. He'd intended to visit her, inform her that she was safe from any imposition of his, now or in the future, and go away.

But he thought:
God, only let me
…

She made no resistance. She lowered her eyes modestly, gazing ahead at the wing collar and white tie of his wedding clothes. He stared down at her eyelashes, the smooth contour of her face; he felt her acceptance of his hold and knew he'd lost.

"Leda," he whispered. He lowered his head and slowly and softly kissed her ear, the skin below it, pushing her hair back with his free hand. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'd never hurt you." He wanted to show her how he felt, but it was difficult, torturously hard to keep the drive of his passion in check.

Her body held the yielding arch. He slid his fingers down the curve of her throat, awed at the delicacy of it, tasting her skin where his fingertips passed. His hands knew how to do this, like calligraphy, like shaping wood to its own spirit: move with the life in her, take it into himself and give it back.

She had the same wonderful fragrance, female heat, more stirring even than he remembered, not so chaste, not so innocent… a shock of pure lust rocked him as he realized what he perceived: her body's response to him.

If he could only show her that he didn't mean to harm her, that all he felt was this fervent tenderness; he only wanted to touch every part of her, taste the radiant, lovely life that scented her skin with a sensual glow. He shaped her breast with his palm, passing his thumb across the nipple.

She made a little sound, resisting his hand, pressing to free her wrists.

"No—please don't stop me." His voice was infinitely mild, shaking with what he held back. His touch was reverent as he caressed her. "I want to make you see how beautiful you are to me. I won't harm you. I swear to you."

"I'm not afraid," she whispered. "Dear sir. I only feel… as if I've been drinking cherry brandy."

He felt the vibration of her murmur beneath his lips. She was quivering in his hold. Where his grip on her wrists made her hips curve into him, his arousal pressed hard against her.

He lowered his other hand, sliding it down the arc of her back. His fingers spread over the swelling curve below, felt the soft reality of a female figure, without skirts or pads or distortion, only the fine layer of gown and robe between his hand and her naked form.

He let go of her wrists and caught her to him for a moment—only a moment—that was all he could bear of the explosive sensation of her buttocks in his palms, his stiff sex squeezed by the pressure. He expelled a harsh breath and released her, pushing her back against the edge of the vanity, spreading his legs to control her.

He cherished her, stroking and fondling and kissing, everywhere he could reach, her cheeks and eyelashes, her shoulders, her breasts. She began to make small sighs in her throat, her head tilted back, her hands grasping the gilded edge of the vanity. The tips of her nipples changed, stood erect; he could feel it through the gown.

"Leda. Let me see you." He brought his mouth closer to hers, tasting her with his tongue, holding her taut nipples up in the arc of his open thumb and fingers. "I have to see you."

She lifted her lashes. He did not wait for an answer; he dropped his hand and slowly, carefully, worked the pearls free from her waist to her throat. White skin gleamed in the shadows, seductive contours, lush swelling.

Gently he pulled the gown apart. Her bared breasts were round and pale, flowering with the rich brownish-pink nubs, lifting and falling with her breath. He slipped both the gown and robe off her shoulders, allowing them to fall down to the vanity at her hips.

Leda gazed at him. The dreamlike sensation enveloped her. She was not herself, Miss Leda Etoile, standing indecently, scandalously unclothed before a man… she was someone else. The Leda of mythology, a woman with a god for a lover—the story Miss Myrtle had never taught her, but that Leda had learned secretly, and kept in a book beneath her bed, not understanding fully, but knowing it for a pagan and forbidden mystery.

A lover. No Zeus, no huge and magnificent swan, but a man, who looked at her as if she were a goddess, at her body as if it were precious.

Softly, he touched her breasts, so softly and sweetly that she closed her eyes against the shame and delight of it. He moved closer to her; she felt him slide downward, kneel, his legs open across her, his body holding her against the hard edge of the vanity.

His thumbs caressed the tips of her breasts. She tilted her head back. And then he touched her with his mouth, and she felt sunlight bloom inside her. His breath blew warmth; he played with her, searching and toying; his teeth and tongue closed with a tug that sent a shot of sensation down her tummy.

"Oh!" She pressed down on her arms, lifting herself toward him.

He sucked harder, pulling at her gown as she moved her hips, dragging it down below her waist.

He laid his cheek against her, sliding his hands up and down her torso. "You're lovely." He turned his face into her and laughed, a quiet, incredulous laugh, blowing his breath on her skin. "Your breasts are lovely, your shape is lovely, your skin is so beautiful."

Leda put her arms around his head, cradling him, ashamed and exhilarated with the velvety tickle of his hair against her bare skin, his cheekbone and temple firmly pressed to her. He caught her wrists again, spreading her arms open, trapping her with the heels of his hands braced on the edge of the table. He licked between her breasts, moving downward.

With her arms imprisoned against the table, Samuel caressed her with his tongue. He wanted to show her how delicious she was to him; he wanted to kiss her everywhere. He could taste the pleasure on her; he savored the hot woman-scent as he worked his way down her belly. Her calves shifted and twitched between his open thighs.

She whimpered softly. He nuzzled the soft rosy bush of hair, breathing her body deeply. Her arms were resisting his grip, shaking with the effort, but he would not let her go. Nothing in his life had impelled him like this. Nothing had ever felt like this. Her legs pressed against him just where all sensation centered. Her fragrance kindled flame.

He kissed her. Gently. So gently. He opened his mouth over that secret, silky place, pushing his tongue into the taste.

She jerked against him with a wordless sound of protest.

"Shhh." He blew a whisper. He wasn't going to stop. No power on earth was enough to make him resist the delight of stroking her. He kissed the arch where her skin disappeared beneath sweet curls. Bending his head, he licked deep, and then upward, and then the soft skin around. She was trembling all over; each time his tongue crossed upward, she shivered and gasped, her hands working against him.

He relished the sound of her agitation. He found the place that drew it most hotly and celebrated it with his tongue, over and over, until she pushed each time beneath his mouth the way that he wanted to push himself inside her.

He liberated her hands suddenly. He rose in the same motion, kissing her thighs and her belly and then her breasts. She put her arms around his shoulders and bent her head into his chest as he straightened.

"Oh, sir! Oh—sir!" She sounded faint. Each breath was a pant. She wilted against him, her cheek pressed to his heart. He held her there, throbbing in every limb, feeling her naked back beneath his sleeves, the fragile shape of her in his arms.

After a few moments, he trailed his hand down her hip. He spread his fingers, touching the place he'd kissed. It was slick and succulent, full of moisture; he bent his head and closed his teeth on her neck as he pushed his fingers in.

She whimpered again, stiffening beneath his entry. He withdrew his fingers and freed his trousers. The curls between her legs touched him; erotic, teasing; he closed his eyes in excitement, shoving slowly forward.

The abundant moisture welcomed him. Her legs spread. She clung to him, exquisite, hot, smooth and yet tight. Her head dropped back; he opened his eyes to the vivid sight of her breasts rising with the flexion, her hair falling backward off her bare shoulders.