Love and Other Scandals (24 page)

It was a little disappointing that they hadn’t both fallen over in raptures of envy, but Joan resolved not to think of that. Wanting to wear what other women would envy had never served her well. She thought the gown was lovely, and if even just one other person did . . . for instance, perhaps Tristan . . . she would count it a success.

Abigail and Penelope excused themselves a few minutes later. Their mother, fretting over their lack of dance partners recently, had impressed her son into finding gentlemen for them to dance with, and they were now required to stand with her until the assigned partners arrived—or so Penelope described it. Abigail rolled her eyes and murmured something about her father being more upset than her mother, but they left, and Joan was once again alone with her aunt. She scanned the room as discreetly as possible, and had just caught sight of Tristan’s dark head when another man made a very elegant bow in front of them.

“Good evening, Lady Courtenay, Miss Bennet,” said Sir Richard Campion.

“Good evening, sir.” Joan curtsied. Her aunt just dipped her head.

“You look exceptionally lovely tonight.” He included both of them in his compliment, but Joan noticed that his eyes lingered a moment on Evangeline, who looked remarkable in a gown of brilliant blue.

“Did you come over here just to express the obvious?” asked Evangeline lightly. “My niece looks magnificent, and I warrant everyone recognizes it.”

Joan blushed. Sir Richard smiled, his eyes crinkling. “I recognized it from the most distant corner of the room. I wonder if Miss Bennet would do me the compliment of partnering me in the next dance?”

She smiled in surprise. He was the one complimenting her. He was one of the guests of honor tonight, and gentlemen like Sir Richard Campion did not need to dance with spinsters, for any reason. And from the way her aunt looked on in approval, she was most certainly permitted.

“I would be delighted. Thank you, sir.”

He led her out for the quadrille. “Are you enjoying the ball?” he asked as they took their places with the other couples.

Joan could feel the weight of the surprised glances they were drawing. “Yes. I wish my aunt would enjoy it more, though.”

He paused in the act of tugging his glove for just a split second. “How so?”

She looked across the room and saw Evangeline watching them. “I think she gave up much she holds dear to play at chaperone.”

He gave her a long, searching look. “Has she expressed any discontent?”

“Not a word.”

The dance began and they said no more for a while. “I heard you had a great adventure the other day,” remarked Sir Richard when they had a quiet moment while the other couples performed the figure.

“You must mean ballooning.” She lowered her voice. “It was thrilling beyond words! But I gave my aunt quite a scare, which I regret very much.”

“I daresay she was able to understand, once she’d got over any surprise.” His eyes were kind.

Joan ducked her head. “Perhaps. But I had such remorse . . . would you do me a great favor, sir?”

“Of course.” He took her hand and they circled the couple to their left, then their right.

“Would you ask her to dance?” Joan saw his mouth tighten. “For me. I would be so glad to see her enjoy herself.”

He was quiet again for a long time. When the dance ended he led her from the floor and bowed again. “I would ask her for every dance, if she would only consent to one,” he murmured. “I am not the party you need to encourage. Thank you, Miss Bennet, for a most enjoyable set.”

Evangeline stepped up beside her as he walked away. “How did you find Sir Richard’s dancing?”

“Very accomplished.” On impulse, Joan seized her aunt’s hand. “Dance with him.”

Evangeline blinked. “Don’t be silly, dear. I’m here as a chaperone—”

“And nothing will be amiss if you dance once.”

“It would cause talk,” murmured the older woman. “And he hasn’t even asked me.”

“Because he knows you will refuse.” When her aunt merely pressed her lips together, Joan added, “Do it to please me, then. I hate to think you’ve given up all enjoyment for my sake.”

“My dear, I would not dance with him anyway. I dare not.” Evangeline steadfastly faced away from where Sir Richard had retreated to stand with their host, although his eyes veered her way more than once.

“That’s rather cowardly, don’t you think?” Joan caught sight of Tristan. He was winding his way through the crowd toward them, his gaze intent on her. Just the sight of his face made her heart jump and her lips curve. “Haven’t you been telling me love is worth some risk?”

Her aunt glanced at her in amazement, but before she could speak, Tristan was in front of them. He bowed with a flourish. “Good evening, Lady Courtenay.” His voice warmed a degree as he looked at Joan. “Miss Bennet.”

“Lord Burke.” Joan didn’t care that everyone was staring at her anew. She couldn’t keep the smile off her face as she curtsied.

“I hope you’ll save the supper dance for me, Miss Bennet.”

That meant he would also escort her in to supper. Joan, who had eaten most suppers at balls with her parents or with her friends, felt almost giddy. “Of course,” she said, trying to sound poised and gracious instead of breathless with excitement.

He grinned, and raised one hand. “Excellent.” A servant, who must have been waiting for his gesture, hurried forward with a tray of champagne.

When Tristan turned to take the glasses, Joan hissed at her aunt, “Dance the supper dance with Sir Richard. Please, Evangeline?”

Her aunt’s face grew pensive as she took the glass Tristan offered her. “Very well,” she said under her breath.

Joan exhaled, and managed to catch Sir Richard’s eye. She gave him a quick, bright smile, tilting her head slightly toward Evangeline, before accepting her own glass of champagne.

They talked lightly through the next three sets. She had never seen Tristan so charming, so relaxed. He had a wry way of putting things that made her smile, as long as he wasn’t trying to infuriate her. Evangeline seemed quite taken by his manner as well, which wasn’t too surprising; she was fairly certain her aunt was doing everything possible to encourage him. And tonight of all nights, Joan had no wish to dampen her enthusiasm. Her skin seemed to tingle every time he looked at her, which was often. His gaze slid over her golden gown with obvious approval. He gazed at her with a brilliant intensity every time she spoke. All in all, the evening seemed to grow brighter and happier every moment. Although that might have been due in part to the wine; every time her glass was empty, a footman seemed to appear with another. Joan had drunk champagne before, but she had never before felt this same sort of thrill, as if the bubbles continued to fizz in her veins. When she took her third glass, her aunt put up a hand. “Yes, it’s my last,” Joan whispered to her. “I know.”

“Your pardon, Lady Courtenay,” said Sir Richard, who had come up behind them. “I beg you to honor me with the supper dance.”

“Oh, do!” said Joan before her aunt could speak. “As you know, I am already engaged, so you are quite free to dance yourself.”

After a long pause, Evangeline gave her hand to Sir Richard. “I would be delighted, sir. I will see you in the supper room, Joan.” With a quick glance of pure gratitude at Joan, Sir Richard led her off.

“Excellent work.” Tristan drained his glass before taking hers as well and handing them off to the attentive footman. “At last, a moment alone.”

Joan laughed, although it sounded more like a giggle. “Oh, no! I only wanted her to dance, for her own pleasure.”

“I hope she enjoys it very much,” he returned, taking her hand and leading her out. “I intend to as well.”

“Oh? How?” She seemed to have a bit of trouble getting her feet lined up. “Curse that champagne.”

“I’ll steady you.” His arm went around her waist, pulling her shockingly close. He grinned down at her. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said breathlessly as the music began. “Much.”

Joan gave herself up to the pleasure of the waltz. Her borrowed shoes seemed to have been made for dancing; she felt willowy and graceful in them, and not even a quarter inch too tall. Her gown might look unfashionable or daring to some, but all she cared for was the avid admiration on Tristan’s face.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

She smiled dreamily. “Nothing, really. I was merely savoring the dance. You do waltz very well, my lord.”

“That’s something, not nothing.”

“But I didn’t think it until you asked, so when you asked, the correct answer was nothing.”

He grinned. “Thank you. You are my most desired partner.”

She blinked. “For . . . the waltz?”

“Yes,” he murmured, although his jade-green eyes seemed to convey a larger answer.

Her pulse leapt. “I might say the same.”

“I am very, very gratified to hear that.” Without lifting his head he scanned the room. The waltz was winding down. Joan also glanced around; Evangeline and Sir Richard were on the other side of the dancing area, nearest the supper room. They seemed to be absorbed in each other, and she felt a moment’s hope that Sir Richard would persuade Evangeline to marry him. She was sure he wished it, just as she was sure Evangeline wanted it, too, if she could only allow herself to say yes . . .

“Do you trust me?” Tristan murmured, his gaze still flicking from side to side.

If he hadn’t been sweeping her about in the dance figure, Joan would have stopped dead. “Why?”

His lips quirked. “Is that no?”

“No,” she said slowly.

“Is that yes?”

She hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”

Chapter 23

W
ithout another word he turned her around a pillar and through the servants’ doorway, almost colliding with a footman as he did so. With a quick excuse to the startled servant, Tristan pulled her down the plain corridor until they reached the back stairs. Heart thumping, Joan followed him up and up the winding stair and then down a long corridor. This floor was not open for guests, and it was quiet and deserted. Tristan tried a door, and swung it open to reveal a small library or study. The walls were lined with shelves of well-worn books, and a comfortable-looking sofa, positioned in front of the fireplace, had more books stacked on one end. A pair of French windows opened onto a tiny balcony at the other end of the room, with the rooftops of London visible in the moonlight.

“What is this?” Joan turned to Tristan. “Did you know this room was here?”

“Yes.” He closed the door softly behind him. “It’s Sir Paul’s private library. I was at school with his son Tom, and came to visit on holiday one term. We sat up here and drank his brandy one night until we were sick.”

Yet another lonely holiday for him, brazening his way into a friend’s home and trying to act like a man. She put her hand on his arm. “Such a bold boy you were.”

“Well.” He smirked. “We were nineteen, not quite babes in arms.”

Joan blinked, then laughed. She laughed and laughed, even as he gathered her into his arms and pressed his face against her neck.

“Christ above, you smell good,” he breathed, his lips whispering over her skin.

“Bergamot.” She let her head fall to the side to better revel in his attentions. “And orange.”

“I could devour you.” His teeth grazed her earlobe, and she had to cling to his jacket to remain on her feet, she felt so unsteady. “Would you let me?”

Her head was already spinning—cursed champagne—but his words conjured images straight out of
50 Ways to Sin
. “How?”

“One long, slow kiss at a time.” He pressed examples along her jaw. “From your head to your toe and back to your maddening, gorgeous mouth.”

She was leaning against him, her head thrown back in abandon. “Maddening?”

“In all senses of the word.” He brushed a light kiss on the corner of her lips. “Infuriating and beguiling enough to drive me out of my wits from desire.”

She shivered. “Desire . . .”

His low laugh was harsh. “You know I want you—beyond all temperance or reason. Do you want me? Tell me, Joan, before I truly do run mad . . .”

She opened her eyes, more than a little drunk on the fervor in his words and the burning passion in his kisses. And, perhaps, just a shade, on the champagne. His face was taut with hunger, his body rigid in her arms. “I do,” she said. “Now kiss me.”

He kissed her. Deeply, hungrily, possessively. Joan felt a flicker of surprise—was this the sort of unwise kiss Evangeline had warned her about?—before she succumbed to the carnal promise it offered. It seemed as though she had waited her entire life for a kiss such as this. He tasted of champagne, and every stroke of his tongue against hers seemed to reinvigorate the feeling of fizzing in her blood. She clung to him, laying herself open for his conquest. There was no more resistance in her; he had won—her heart, her mind, and most definitely her body.

“I want to taste your skin.” He whispered the words against her lips as his fingers played with the fastening of her gown.

“Yes,” she sighed, letting him urge her back until she leaned against the pilaster. Her bodice loosened and he skimmed his fingers along the neckline, teasing it down until her breasts were only covered by her shift. His mouth followed, blazing a hot, wet trail over the highly sensitized flesh of her bosom. By the time his thumb grazed her nipple, it was already standing firm and eager. With a faint growl he yanked her corset and shift down, and sucked the rigid nub into his mouth.

Her mouth fell open in a silent cry. He sank down on one knee, suckling her by turns roughly, and then delicately. She groped for support and ended with her hands threaded through his long hair, speechlessly urging him on as he moved to her other breast, leaving each stinging and full.

“Sweeter than strawberries,” he rasped. “Richer than cream.” His hands moved down, from her waist over her hips and down the backs of her legs until he reached her knee. “Spread your legs a little for me, darling. Yes, like that . . .” he crooned, urging her feet apart. “I want to drive you mad.”

“You’re doing a damned”—she gulped for air—”damned fine job of it already!”

He laughed quietly. “And I’ve hardly begun.” His fingers traced feathery circles over her ankle before drifting upward.

Joan held very still, every breath rippling through her like a strong breeze through the leaves. She couldn’t see anything but his face, dark and focused in the moonlight. She couldn’t feel anything but his fingers stroking lightly up her shin . . . now at her knee . . . now climbing her thigh, pausing to move aside the cloth of her pantalets . . .

“By my bloody eyes,” she gasped, her body arcing as he parted the damp curls and laid his thumb on a spot that seemed to burst at his touch.

“God Almighty,” he said, his voice shaking. “You’re so soft—so wet—” His thumb circled and rubbed, and Joan twisted in a pleasure so sharp, it was almost pain.

“Stop,” she whimpered. “What is that?”

“Not yet.” But his touch gentled, until she had the sensation of being coaxed along, guided. She held still for a while, until some primal feeling made her hips rock and sway of their own accord. The shudders of pleasure built anew. He pulled her closer with a wordless murmur, kissing her breast again. Joan sighed and melted against him, letting him drown her apprehensions in the wicked stroke of his fingers between her legs and in the delicious attention he lavished on her bared bosom.

“By all the gods, I want to make love to you.” He kissed her again. She cupped her hands around his jaw and held him to her, marveling at the sheen of perspiration on his face.

“What do you mean?”

She could feel his pulse hammering under her palms. Tristan gazed deep into her eyes, his own gaze feverishly bright, as he slowly probed and then inserted his finger inside her body.

“I want to lodge myself here,” he whispered. His finger withdrew and then slid back in. Joan could hardly breathe. “Again and again.” He repeated his earlier action, sliding higher and deeper than before. His thumb rolled over that locus of nerves, and her knees almost gave out. “Until you scream my name in the pinnacle of pleasure and I expire inside you.” Again he penetrated her, but this time a little harder, and his thumb pressed in time with the stroke.

The blood roared through her veins. Her body shook. She should say no, but . . . She was in love with him. No matter how many times she told herself he wasn’t the sort of man a girl like her married, she loved him. No matter what her mother thought of him, she wanted him. She had pictured him making love to her as wantonly as Lady Constance’s lovers did to her, and now it was happening. And just as she had dreamed, he was looking at her as though she was the most beautiful, desirable woman in the world. For the first time in her life she felt the thrill of being wanted—madly and passionately—and if it made her wicked to revel in that, then she was glad to be wicked.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Tristan.”

He went very still, except for the heaving of his chest. “What?”

She nodded, even though the action almost made her lose her balance. “Yes. I want you.”

He quaked. She felt it. Then he slipped his hand out from between her legs. She was shocked at how bereft she felt by that, but he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off her feet, carrying her to the sofa, where he leaned her back against a pile of cushions and dropped to his knees between her parted legs.

“You need to see how desperately I want you.” He stripped off his jacket and unbuttoned his trousers.

Joan gaped as he shoved down his trousers and smallclothes and bared his male member to her gaze. It looked enormous, jutting fiercely from his body. It was too dim to tell much detail, but it was darker than the skin of his face, and as she stared in fascination, it twitched and surged upward all on its own.

“It stands at attention, insistent and distracting, whenever you come near me.” He folded his shirt out of the way and reached for her hand. “It knows no reason, no caution, no restraint, only that you make it rise, hard and furious, every time you simper at me or deliver a stinging set-down or cling to my arm because you fear the balloon is about to crash.” He laid her fingers on his member, and Joan’s eyes widened even more. It was hot and smooth, thick and long and so very hard.

“It was like this in the balloon?”

“Not quite so frantic, but ready at a moment’s notice.” He exhaled, moving his hips so that her hand glided along his length. “You know it was like this in my bathing room.”

She managed a nod. Yes, she’d felt it, although she’d had no real idea how much larger it would look.

Slowly he drew up her skirts. “And if I make love to you, it will fit here.” He touched her again, sliding his finger as high inside her as it would go. Joan shuddered, spreading her knees wider without conscious thought and flexing her spine to bear down on that invading finger. Dear heaven—if it felt this good with just his finger inside her, how much better would it be when he thrust his prick inside her? Every prurient story and poem she had ever read in the secrecy of her bed ran through her mind in a jumble. Stories of satisfaction and pleasure so extreme, both man and woman barely survived it. Stories of men driven joyfully mad from thrusting themselves inside their lovers. Of women delighting in every penetration until they screamed and almost died away in bliss when their lovers gave them a climax, something so amazing there weren’t enough adjectives to adequately describe it. And so far, everything seemed to indicate the stories were true. She did feel a throbbing ache inside her. She wanted him to make love to her, over and over again until she fell senseless with pleasure.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Show me.”

“God, darling, yes.” His finger withdrew, and then he pressed two fingers inside her, pushing harder. Joan felt a tightness, a slight burning, and she squirmed, but the discomfort faded as he stroked her again, gently working his fingers in and out of her. “I want to make it easier for you,” he whispered, dipping his head once more to her breasts.

She gave herself up to him, reveling in every touch of his mouth on her skin. She clutched his head to her breast, rocking her hips to meet every stroke of his fingers.

“Just like that,” he muttered. “Yes—wait—now—” He reared back, yanking her hips so that she slid down among the cushions until her hips were almost off the sofa. Panting, he took himself once more in his hand before setting the blunt knob against her throbbing opening where his fingers had just been. “Push,” he rasped.

She arched her back a little, letting her weight slip toward him. At the same moment he pushed forward, and he slipped inside her, stretching her. He met her gaze as if seeking reassurance. “Again,” he said in the same dark, velvet tone.

Joan pressed down at the same moment he bore forward. The pressure between her legs grew keener, less pleasurable. “Tristan?” she said uncertainly.

“I know.” He laid his hand on her belly and thumbed aside the curls covering the place where his body met hers. “Let me help . . . just feel . . .” He spoke soothingly but there was a raw undercurrent to his voice.

She lay still a moment, concentrating on every swirl and stroke of his thumb. The heat in her veins increased again, until she gave a sigh and pushed her hips, only to realize he had been slowly pressing deeper as she whirled away. Tristan seemed mesmerized by it; his long hair had come loose and hung over his face as he stared at the junction of their bodies, but Joan could almost feel the heat of his gaze, so she looked, too. It was shocking, and somehow arousing, to see his hand against the pale skin of her thighs, his fingers parting the curls between her legs, his flesh sliding one thick, hard inch at a time inside her . . .

“Almost . . .” His voice was strained and guttural. His touch grew a little rougher, making her jolt and gasp as new bolts of excitement shot through her. As she flung her head back and drew up her legs beside his hips, he surged forward, driving himself fully inside her.

Joan trembled. She felt so full, so stretched, it seemed she would split apart if either of them moved. Tristan seemed to be under some similar perception; for a long moment he just gripped her hip with one hand, his other hand tense on her mound, and let his head hang down as he struggled to breathe.

Finally he lifted his glittering eyes to meet hers. “Now you’re mine,” he whispered. “My gorgeous, lovely Joan.”

Still holding her, he began to move, rocking back and forth, in and out, slowly and gently at first, but growing more urgent. The sense that she would be torn asunder disappeared; now she didn’t want him to leave her, and hooked her legs around his hips to urge him back, ever harder and deeper. He teased her with his fingers and nipped at her breast with his teeth until she writhed frantically beneath him.