To Lure a Proper Lady (18 page)

“No, it's perfectly fine.”

One of his brows lifted, and he grumbled something that sounded like
save me from innocents.
“Trust me, it's not.”

She opened her mouth to demand an explanation, but his raised hand forestalled her. “Do me the courtesy of not asking me why. The reason is more than unseemly. Suffice it to say, should Lady Whitby read this, you'd send her into paroxysms.”

“Oh.” Shame scored at the back of her neck, causing her cheeks to heat. Good heavens, this was worse than him reading the kitten scene—not that she wanted him to catch a glimpse of that, either. She averted her gaze.

“You can always fix it.”

But she wasn't so sure. “No, you're right. It's rubbish. There are probably other passages that are just as bad, and I don't even know.” She slipped the page from his fingers and crumpled it into a ball. “I suppose this proves I've no special talent, after all.”

He pushed himself out of the chair and came to stand before her, placing his hands on her arms. “None of that, now. I can think of several things you've got a talent for.”

“Such as?”

“Getting in my way, for one thing.”

She jerked her shoulders. “Don't tease me.”

He maintained his grip. “You are extremely good at all this hostess business. Throwing together a party, taking care of disasters in the kitchen, arranging for a ball on short notice because your papa requested it.”

“That is not a talent.” Not when she'd been performing most of the tasks without thought for years, as her father's hostess. “I was brought up to do those things.”

As were any number of young ladies born into families like hers, she'd been raised to be the perfect wife to the right husband. And he well knew it, since he'd been born to a similar station.

She'd been bred to grace the arm, the table, and the bed of an aristocratic man. Or, in her case, Snowley. No wonder she'd tried to find something, anything else she could do. She'd needed that escape. And now even that had been denied her.

When are you going to live up to the family name?
The way she was going, never.

Dysart seemed to sense the change in her, for his grip tightened until he'd pulled her into a full embrace. “Perhaps not a talent, but your graciousness, your warmth—those are completely genuine.”

She ought to thank him, but no words would come. So she responded with her body. Her arms sliding about his shoulders, she settled herself against his solid warmth. His hands splayed across her back, molding her to him. His head came to rest on top of hers.

He didn't care, she realized, whether she possessed any feminine accomplishment at all. He simply offered her comfort for who—not what—she was. And here, she'd begun this encounter with the intention of soothing him.

She closed her eyes and rested against him, breathing in the scents of male intermingled with a fleeting hint of tobacco and brandy.

This. This is what I want.

That thought stung as no other had tonight. If she chose this—chose him—she would disappoint so many others.

He hasn't offered, and he won't,
she reminded herself firmly. He might give of himself for a few moments, but that was all she'd have of him.

She tightened her grip, not wanting to let go. From somewhere deep in his chest, a sound rumbled. Not a protest but a groan that spoke to something deep within her. Heat unfurled in her belly—and he hadn't even kissed her yet.

Please, God, let him kiss her. Let him touch. Let him do all manner of forbidden things to her body.

Or, perhaps, she should make her intentions clear and kiss him.

She raised her head. At the same time, he lowered his, and somehow their lips found each other. He kissed her long and slowly with a thoroughness she'd never before experienced, as if he was trying to learn every tiny nuance, every texture, every contour of her mouth. His tongue against hers was both a tease and a promise, a sensuous dance more scandalous than any waltz.

She responded to his every stroke with one of her own, until they were fairly devouring each other.

All too soon, he pulled away, his breathing ragged. “I shouldn't touch you. God knows I want to, but I shouldn't.”

The hard evidence of that desire thrust against her belly. She shouldn't acknowledge that scandalous bit, but her mind focused on nothing else.

“I want you to touch me.” Capturing his gaze, she picked up his hand and laid it fully against her breast. He sucked in a breath. “Please. For once in my life, let me have what I want.”

I want you to touch me.

Such simple words, but every last syllable delivered a knockout punch to Dysart's resolve.

When he'd wed Sally, he'd known he was joining himself to a woman who would never be in a position to give of herself. He'd accepted that without considering the long-term. Year after year, he'd had to seek female companionship outside the bonds of his marriage, the encounters ephemeral and tainted with their illicitness. Even after Sally's passing, he'd not looked for anything more permanent.

Not that this situation was, but Elizabeth's stiffening nipple beneath his palm was fast burning that reminder away.

God, for years he'd longed to hear such words of desire, of pure, hot
need
from a woman, and he hadn't even known.

The thought made his hand flex. Elizabeth emitted a tiny little noise in the back of her throat, almost a purr.

Yes.

What he wouldn't give for her full, honest response, even with her beneath him as he drove into her sweetness again and again. As he made himself part of everything that was her. Everything forbidden. Everything he now wanted more than he'd ever yearned for anything else in his life.

He rubbed his thumb over the peak, hard beneath fine silk. Her purr turned into an outrush of breath. Need arched her spine, and her head fell back, baring the column of her neck.

He couldn't resist the temptation of that smooth, sensitive skin. He craved this taste of her the way his lungs craved air. He slid his lips along her throat, nipping and soothing with this tongue.

A tremor passed through her, the lightest of ripples, before she sagged against him. Surrender. And when had he ever experienced such a genuine, open gift from a woman?

Whatever was about to happen between them, they couldn't do it standing, but their current circumstances presented few practical choices. For a moment, he considered his bedchamber. The wide mattress he'd barely occupied since his arrival fairly begged for more pleasurable activities than sleep. But that would mean stealing through the slumbering manor, risking rousing a servant or, worse yet, a houseguest. All he needed was for Lady Whitby to catch them sneaking, already disheveled, through the corridors at such an hour. She'd alert the entire household with her cries of scandal.

The unforgiving wooden table it was. Exerting pressure with his full body, he pushed her back, step by step, until her delicious little arse came flush with the table edge. A sweep of his arm cleared the surface. Pages of his precious notes drifted to the floor.

Elizabeth let out a throaty laugh that settled directly in his groin. “You'll have to make sense of that mess afterward.”

“Later.” He rested his forehead against hers. Leave it to her to choose such a moment to point that out. “At any rate, it wasn't making sense. This can only help. Now up you go.”

He grasped her by the hips and lifted.

“What are you doing?”

If he hadn't already suspected her complete inexperience of all things physical, that comment alone would have closed the case. “Making sure you don't tumble to the floor in a heap.”

“Why would I do that?”

God, her particular blend of innocence and curiosity would kill him in the end. “Because I intend to make you melt.”

“Melt?” Pure intrigue infused that single syllable.

“You've already started. I felt how you shook in my arms just now. When I did this.” Once more, he palmed her breast, the soft weight filling his hand.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and a moan escaped her lips.

“There, you see?”

“You aren't making me melt. It feels like you're winding me tighter like a clock.”

Damn.
His fingers itched to touch beneath her skirts, to test the fullness of her response, certain he'd find her slick and ready.
Soon.
“If I do that, I can promise you'll come completely undone. You might even scream.”

“Scream,” she echoed, her eyes half-lidded, her tone dreamlike. No fear tinged that reply, only fascination. Hunger to match his own. His body flared with an ache to fulfill every last one of her desires, the known and the unknown alike.

“We've only just started.” He leaned close for a single brush of his lips across hers. While he burned with the need to bury himself deep, another desire overrode that baseness. He wanted to stoke her fires slowly, to build her up, to see just how high he could drive her before she shattered. “Imagine how it will feel with your gown off. Bare skin against bare skin.”

He ran his fingertips down her bodice, the silk smooth and cool against his flesh. “This is lovely, but this…” He repeated the caress over the upper swells of her breasts, where the pale skin had already flushed and heated. “This is far more pleasurable.”

“Mmmm.” Her fingers tangled in the lapels of his topcoat. “Does this mean I might remove some of your clothes?”

He groaned. Such enthusiasm, and not an iota of it feigned. He pulled her close for an intoxicating kiss. “By all means.”

Lizzie had never done anything so bold as placing a man's hand on her breast. Encouraging his touch. Demanding it. Daring to help him disrobe ran a close second. But she did dare, and with the realization came a surge unlike the heat blazing in her midsection. This was different, an intensity that filled her with a buoyance and a joy. It made her feel as if she could accomplish anything she set her mind to.

At her urging, he shrugged, and his topcoat fell to the floor in a heap of rough wool. Her fingers tangled in his cravat until the swath of linen hung free about his neck. Along with the burst of power came a curiosity about the naked male form, which she'd never before experienced. No man in her circles had driven her mind to such speculation.

A revelation, that, and to think it came at the behest of someone society would deem beneath her.

But Dysart wasn't beneath her. If anything he was a far better person for the kinds of sacrifices he'd made in his life.

He caught her gaze, compelling her hands to still on his chest. Beneath the barrier of his shirt, muscles rippled. His own fingers crept to her nape and the line of buttons that fastened her gown. With deliberation, he undid the first tiny pearl from its silk mooring. His was no perfunctory touch of a lady's maid, but the slow calculated movements of a man determined to prolong the process until she shook in anticipation of the next brush of his knuckles against her bare skin.

At last her bodice sagged. He peeled the loose fabric down to her waist, the backs of his hands brushing over the sensitive peaks of her breasts. Then he reached into her stays with both hands and drew her out. After a single light caress, he stepped back.

Before she could voice a protest, he unbuttoned his collar and pulled his shirt over his head.

So much skin, all planes and angles, firm muscle, and a dusting of hair. Her mouth went dry at the sight. And then she caught his expression, as he stared at her half-naked form. Awe and desire combined, darkening his eyes, firming his jaw. Utter, utter masculine beauty. She couldn't have described it if she tried.

Somehow she found her voice. “Why did you stop?”

He pulled in a shaky breath. “I haven't.” Raw need turned his words to gravel. “I simply need to take in your perfection and wonder what I did to deserve this moment.”

Moment, yes. She must remember that. He'd only be hers for this short span of time. From deep within her chest came a protest at the unfairness that she couldn't hold on to him longer. And then the rest of what he'd said sank in, and a blush heated her cheeks.

She almost glanced down in an effort to see what he saw. “I'm hardly perfect.”

Other young ladies of her acquaintance would have tittered while pronouncing such a thing, but not Lizzie. She couldn't because she was sincere.

“In my eyes, you are.” The reverence in his tone backed up that statement.

He returned to her and pulled her into his embrace. The shock of all that skin, all that muscle, all that heat against her jabbed at her pulse, making it throb all the harder. Making her more aware than she ever had been of the space between her legs, at once empty and alive with ache. Yearning for him to fill her.

His lean hips fit between her thighs, or she would have clenched them. Still, she tightened them about him, holding him as much with her legs as her arms. The hardness she'd felt against her belly earlier pressed to a far more intimate spot, but somehow that only worsened the throbbing pulse down there.

A low chuckle rumbled from the depths of his chest, reverberating through her. “There is nothing sweeter than a woman's true desire.”

Before she could reply to that, he captured her lips in another long, savoring kiss. His tongue invaded to taste every inch of her willing mouth, and she gave herself over to its lovely, stroking heat.

Closer. She wanted him closer, his earthen scent surrounding her, the only thing she breathed. Her fingers dug into the firm planes of his back. He grunted into her lips, then tore himself away, trailing down her throat once more but not stopping there. Down and down, pressing heated kisses against her collarbone, her breastbone, nuzzling until her nipples ached for attention. He turned his head and drew one peak into his mouth.

“Ah!” Her cry seemed to echo in her ears.

He suckled her, harder, one calloused palm fondling the other breast, winding her tighter and tighter. Her hips shifted restlessly, seeking friction with his arousal. With another grunt, he pushed back and hit a sweet, sweet spot that sent a jolt of lightning through her core.

More.
Her spine arched beneath him in demand.

“Your servant,” he muttered against her breast.

Heavens, had she cried that aloud? She'd never imagined relations between a man and woman might be sufficient to drive her out of her head.

The next thing she knew, cool air struck the bare flesh of her thigh above her stocking, followed by the hot brand of his palm. She ought to be shocked at his actions, but her entire being sang with anticipation. Her working mind might not know what it wanted, but her body did. Even better,
he
knew.

Gathering her skirts, he pressed the heel of his hand to the thatch of curls between her thighs.

The caress burned through her, and she gasped.

“Easy, love,” he said, his baritone rough and low and sensuous. “I'll take care of you.”

Dear Lord, she believed him. Over and above their current circumstances—pleasant as they were—he'd done nothing but take care of her since the day they'd met. More than that, she knew him for a man of his word.

His fingers delved, parting her intimate flesh so sweetly, stroking, circling, until…
There.
Another thunderbolt of sensation had her crying and arching her back.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

The sheer force of his determination compelled her to obey. He held her gaze captive, his face a study in utter, utter focus. She recalled that expression from the very first day on Bow Street, but only now did she understand its full potential.

“You're close to coming apart.” Again he stroked, and she grasped the truth behind his words.

Melt,
he'd said, and he'd been right. She wanted nothing more than to tumble into a boneless heap and let him take care of this raging need.

“So close,” he repeated. “And I want to watch. I want to enjoy every last second of your crisis.”

Over and above the maddening rhythm of his fingers, she felt as if the mere words would unhinge her. Then his stroke dipped lower, penetrating, thrusting into her.

“Look at me,” he said again.

Her eyelids fluttered open; they'd drifted shut without her notice or conscious command.

His finger withdrew to circle her entrance once more before returning to that other place, the center of all this tightness and need. He concentrated his attentions there, driving her in an ever-higher spiral of yearning.

Her breath tore from her lungs in harsh little pants, like a runner at the end of a hard race. But she hadn't crossed the line yet. It loomed ahead, somewhere in the heights. Relentless, he spurred her onward, but, like an object in the fog, the goal remained farther off than she imagined.

Somehow, he divined as much. His head dipped, and he placed his mouth over her breast, sucking in rhythm with his fingers. Hard, harder. Her hips moved with him, trying to capture that elusive summit.

Suddenly she was there, chasm yawning at her feet. And then nothing supported her, nothing but Dysart. With a cry, she shattered.

Panting, Dysart watched her float. Her face and breasts were flushed red, her eyes closed, her skirts rucked up to her waist. He'd never witnessed anything more beautiful.

His cock pulsed with the need to bury itself inside her, to find the same release she'd just experienced. To show her another, if they were fortunate.

You can't.

His brain knew it. His conscience knew it. The only part of him that didn't know it was that one damnable bit of his anatomy. He should pay it no more heed and step back, before it was too late.

Elizabeth's eyelids fluttered open. With a satisfied sigh, she pushed herself up on her elbows. He forced his eyes away from the sight of her bare breasts bobbing in the candlelight.

Only a complete scoundrel would push matters to a fuller completion. A lady like Elizabeth required a bed. For that matter, she required a wedding, or at the very least a reasonable offer—something he was in no position to make.

Gritting his teeth, he reached for his discarded shirt.

“You should arrange yourself.” He made a vague gesture in the general direction of her bodice. For some reason, he couldn't find any better words.

The dreamy expression melted from her face. Damn. Even he knew a woman expected more in the way of romance than that—a kiss, an embrace. But he couldn't let himself near her again. His need for her would win out, and he'd take her.