Andrea Kane (20 page)

“It’s the dead of winter. We might freeze,” Noelle managed, anticipation already coursing through her.

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“So do I.”

Ashford tipped up her chin with his forefinger. “Would you prefer to first finish our conversation of the other night?”

“No.” Noelle smoothed her palms up his coat, stepping closer as she spoke. “Much as I want to resolve the issue of Baricci, it can wait. We don’t know how much time we’ll have before we’re interrupted. If worse comes to worse, we can finish our conversation in public. We’ll simply find a private corner in which to conduct it. But some things cannot be done in public. So let’s not lose this opportunity.”

“My sentiments exactly.” Ashford was already capturing her arms, bringing them around his neck. “Noelle, I can’t stop thinking about you,” he muttered, lowering his mouth to hers. “About you—and about this.”

His kiss was slow and hot and deep, and Noelle shivered beneath its onslaught. Sensations erupted instantly, Ashford’s tongue possessing hers with purposeful strokes, his lips moving with blazing intensity as they seared hers. Noelle met his fervor with her own, sharing each hungry caress, each urgent fusion of their mouths. Her lips molded to his, her tongue eagerly receiving his ardent strokes, then gliding forward to initiate her own.

With a husky sound of pleasure, Ashford lifted her up and into him, pressing the contours of their bodies closer even as he deepened the kiss. His hand cupped her breast, caressed it through the fine velvet of her gown, and her nipple responded instantly, budding and swelling beneath his touch.

Noelle whimpered, pressing closer to his fingers, a thousand tiny sunbursts of sensation shimmering inside her. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please.”

“I can’t.” Ashford was shaking. His hands slid down to cup her bottom, to lift her more fully against him. He made a frustrated sound as he encountered the layers of clothing that prevented the contact he so desperately craved.

A brief, internal struggle ensued—a struggle he lost.

“Only for a minute,” he muttered in capitulation, striding across the room, Noelle in his arms. “One unforgettable, unbelievable minute.” He lowered her to the sofa, covering her with himself, shuddering with pleasure even as he resumed their kiss.

The sensation of Ashford’s weight upon hers was almost too thrilling to bear. Noelle moaned softly, opening her mouth to his, her hands gliding beneath his coat, slipping beneath his waistcoat, eager to get as close to the warmth of his skin as possible.

Ashford tore his mouth away, his kisses blazing down her neck, her throat, her shoulders. His fingers were already dispensing with the top buttons of her gown, and he spread the material wide. Wordlessly, he bent to capture her nipple through the thin silk of her chemise, tugging it between his lips, wetting it with the tip of his tongue.

“Oh …” Noelle wondered if she were dying. Fire shot from her breasts to her loins, and her hips lifted, pushing her against the hardened contours of Ashford’s lower body.

He went rigid, currents of desire shooting through him, a self-propelled energy she could actually feel.

“We’ve … got … to stop.” Even as he spoke, Ashford was untying the ribbons of her chemise, so lost to his passion he hardly knew what he was saying.

“We will,” Noelle gasped, tossing her head impatiently as she waited for him to complete his task. “But first—touch me.”

“Noelle … dammit, I can’t let this happen.” Her breasts spilled into his hands, and his words died on his lips, his breathing suspended as he gazed down at her. “God, you’re so beautiful.” He lowered his head, nuzzled her gently, his lips feathering over her warm skin, pausing at one aching peak.

Noelle whimpered his name.

“I know,” he muttered. “If I don’t taste you, I’ll die.” His lips closed around her nipple, tugging it into the cavern of his mouth, his tongue lashing across it with heated purpose.

“Oh … God.” She cradled his head in her hands, every inch of her on fire, lost to the world, to reality, to everything except Ashford.

He shifted to her other breast, lavishing it with the same attentions as he had the first, his hand taking over where his mouth had just been, his palm cupping her, his thumb circling the damp nipple. “I’ve got to be inside you,” he rasped, grasping handfuls of her gown, his thighs rigid as they pressed hers apart. “Noelle … I’ve got to …”

Approaching voices intruded, shattering their exquisite moment of nonreality, splashing ice water over their heated senses.

“Dammit.” Ashford’s head came up, and his eyes narrowed as he regained his wits and assessed the proximity of their visitors all at once.

“Come on.” He bolted to his feet, pulling Noelle up beside him. Swiftly, he retied the ribbons of her chemise and rebuttoned her gown, completing his tasks even before she’d managed to form a coherent thought.

Seizing her hand, Ashford strode over to the French doors, pausing only long enough to yank them open and ease Noelle and himself outside.

A blast of cold air slapped Noelle, and she shivered, wrapping her arms about herself and watching numbly as Ashford shut the doors, then grabbed her arm and propelled her away.

He didn’t stop until they were out of view.

Then he halted.

“Tempête?”
he murmured, tilting up her chin so he could study her face. Whatever he saw there seemed to disturb him. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry. So bloody sorry.” He enfolded her in his arms, holding her close, and Noelle noticed vaguely that he was trembling—but whether it was from the cold or from what had just happened between them, she wasn’t certain.

“Noelle?” His expression was hard, grim, and Noelle realized with a start of surprise that, despite the gentleness of his tone, he was angry.
Very
angry.

“I …” She tried to stop her teeth from chattering. “Was that Papa we heard?”

“I don’t think so. None of the voices was deep enough to be his.”

“Did whoever it was see us?”

“No. The anteroom door hadn’t even opened when we dropped out of sight.”

“Then why are you so furious?” Noelle’s brows knit, her mind searching for an answer. “Before we were interrupted … well, it seemed to me you were enjoying yourself—or am I wrong?”

“Are you—?” Ashford’s mouth snapped shut, his breath expelling on a hiss. “I was much more than enjoying myself,” he replied tersely. “I was lost to some unknown, euphoric madness. Hell, I was on the verge of making love to you on an anteroom sofa in my parents’ house with the entire
ton
frolicking just outside.
That’s
how much I was enjoying myself.”

He gripped Noelle’s shoulders, his palms rubbing warmth back into her—a tender motion that belied the harshness of his tone. “Noelle, let me tell you some things about myself. I don’t lose control. I don’t act before I think. I don’t take stupid chances. I don’t compromise my principles. And I never, ever put anyone other than myself at risk. Well, I’ve just disproved every one of those facts. So am I furious? You’re damned right I am. But not at you. At myself.”

Slowly comprehension dawned, and Noelle’s muddled thoughts and emotions began to right themselves. “Oh.” She gave him a small, shaky smile. “I’m sorry to hear that. Because I’m not furious at you. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m floating on the most magnificent cloud I could ever imagine. And you’re the cause of that cloud, the man who created it for me. So how could I be angry? What’s more, how can you be?”

An odd expression crossed Ashford’s face, a combination of wonder and shock. “Damn,” he swore quietly. “Damn if I’m not in over my head.”

“Ashford …”

“No.” He shook his head, pressing his forefinger to her lips. “Don’t ask me any questions. Not now. Not until I’ve had some time to collect my thoughts. Just tell me you’re all right, that I haven’t hurt you.”

Noelle rubbed her lips against his fingertip. “Didn’t I tell you I’d never be all right again?”

A reluctant grin. “I suppose you did.”

“I don’t regret a minute of what just happened between us.”

Ashford’s smile vanished. “You should. And so should I.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

Warmth suffused Noelle, obliterated the winter chill as if by magic. “I’m glad.”

“I’ve got to get you into the manor,” Ashford pronounced, glancing around front of the house.

“What about finishing our talk about Sardo and Baricci?”

“First things first. Let’s steal in as inconspicuously as we can.
Then
we’ll come to an agreement about your plan.”

“Fair enough,” Noelle agreed.

“And let’s hope your father hasn’t yet noticed your absence.”

“Do you think that’s possible?”

“Not a chance.”

Ashford was right.

At that very moment, Eric was standing beside Brigitte, conversing with Daphne and Pierce, but his gaze was darting about the ballroom, searching for his daughter.

She and Tremlett were nowhere to be found.

“Eric?” Brigitte lay her hand on his arm. “The duchess was just answering your question about which parishes were in greatest need of the funds they’ll be receiving from this charity event.”

“Forgive me.” Eric redirected his attention at Daphne. “I was distracted for a moment and didn’t hear your reply.”

Daphne studied him thoughtfully. “No apology is necessary, Lord Farrington. But if you’ll forgive my boldness, is something troubling you? You seem somewhat distraught.”

“Do I?” Eric drew a slow breath. “I suppose that’s because I am.”

“Eric.” Brigitte’s fingers tightened on his forearm—a warning and a plea. “We needn’t burden the duke and duchess with our concerns.”

“Please don’t feel that way,” Daphne countered with a gentle shake of her head. “You’re in our home. If there’s anything we can do to put you at ease. …”

“Can you tell me where your son is?” Eric blurted.

Brigitte made a soft sound of dismay and averted her eyes.

“Our son?” It was Pierce who spoke, his dark brows drawing together in surprise. “Which son? And why would any of their whereabouts concern you? I don’t understand.”

“I think I do.” Daphne’s opal gaze swept the room, affirming what she already suspected. “You’re wondering where Ashford went.” A pause. “And if he went alone.”

“Precisely.” Eric’s jaw was clenched. “I’m not a rude man, Your Grace. Nor am I ungrateful for your hospitality. But …”

“You needn’t explain,” Daphne interrupted with that gentle air of authority she possessed. “We have five children of our own, Lord Farrington; two of whom happen to be daughters. Your sentiments are not unfamiliar to me.”

Comprehension registered on Pierce’s face, and his head shot up, his steely gaze assessing the ballroom. “Ashford is with Noelle. Is that what this is about?”

“Yes,” Eric replied. “It is.” He dragged an uncomfortable hand through his hair. “This situation is very awkward, as you can see by my wife’s mortified expression. I didn’t mean to be rude, nor even to broach this subject. Your son is a grown man, and you’re not responsible for his actions. I just didn’t expect … I mean, I knew they were drawn to each other from the start, despite my attempts to stall things until Noelle had been properly brought out, but …”

“What attempts to stall things?” Pierce demanded. “I know only that they met on the railroad—and that Ashford was unusually eager for Noelle to attend this party.”

“I suspected as much,” Eric muttered. “To answer your question, yes, they met on the railroad, at which time Ashford expressed his interest in calling on Noelle. When she told me about it, I insisted she write to him, tell him to wait until after the Season was under way. She did so—reluctantly.” Eric scanned the room again, his uneasiness intensifying by the minute. “In all fairness, Noelle is as captivated by your son as he is by her. But she’s far younger and less experienced. And now they’ve vanished into the night. Frankly, I’m worried sick.”

Pierce’s shoulders squared, paternal defensiveness surging to life. “I know my son, Farrington. He would never take advantage of a young, innocent woman. Never.”

“Of course not.” Brigitte responded swiftly to abate the tension. “They’ve probably just gone out for some air.”

“In January?” Eric countered. “Brigitte, there’s frost on the ground. The conditions are hardly conducive to taking a late night stroll.”

“I intend to find out, if only to put your mind at rest.” Pierce scrutinized the room one last time, as if certain he’d spy Ashford and Noelle deep in conversation in some proper but as-of-yet unchecked location.

Seeing that wasn’t the case, he frowned and veered toward the doorway, then halted as he saw his elderly butler enter the room, walking stiffly toward them. “Why is Langley awake?” he murmured. “I told him to retire for the night.”

“Pardon me, Your Grace.” Langley supplied the answer himself, reaching Pierce’s side and immediately launching into an explanation for his appearance. “You have a visitor.”

“A visitor? At this hour?”

“Yes, sir.” A discreet pause. “It’s Mr. Blackstreet. He claims it’s a matter of some urgency. I showed him to your study.”

“I see.” Pierce displayed no visible reaction to this peculiar occurrence, other than to offer Brigitte and Eric a brief, apologetic look. “Please excuse me,” he requested courteously.

“Of course,” Eric replied.

Hearing the tension in Eric’s tone, noting the grim lines still surrounding his mouth, Pierce turned back to his butler. “Langley, you didn’t happen to see Ashford anywhere, did you?”

“Why, yes, sir. Master Ashford is in the hall chatting with Lady Noelle.”

Eric sagged with relief.

“Evidently, they’ve found a common interest to discuss,” Pierce remarked offhandedly. “Thank you, Langley,” he added to his butler.

“Not at all, sir. Will there be anything else?”

“Only that you get some rest.”

“I appreciate that, sir.” With a formal bow, Langley took his leave.

Pierce shot Eric a questioning look. “Shall I tell Noelle you’re looking for her?”

An ambivalent pause. “No, I suppose not. Chatting in the hallway is harmless enough.”

“Very well.” Pierce paused only long enough to caress Daphne’s cheek. “I’ll only be a minute, Snow Flame.”