Cheryl Holt (5 page)

Had she furnished some subtle indication that she’d be amenable? Or was he simply the sort who would philander and no reason was necessary?

She peeked about, but no one was paying any attention to her, and she tiptoed away to locate the library. It was the only door in the lengthy hallway that had been closed, and she spun the knob, delighted to find that Stanton hadn’t had the foresight to lock it.

Was he so eager that he couldn’t delay? Or was he certain that Ellen wouldn’t waltz in behind him? Had he considered Ellen, at all?

The notion—that he might have disregarded her—had her furious.

She sneaked in but didn’t spot anyone. A candle
burned on a nearby table, but the rear of the room was dark. She peered through the shadows, when there was a feminine moan, followed by a male chuckle.

They were already prone on the sofa and shielded from her gaze. Apparently, he hadn’t wasted any effort on the formalities!

“Do you feel sorry for me?” he inquired, and Ellen shook her head with disgust. How many females had listened to the feeble quip? Why couldn’t he devise a more original romantic volley?

“Oh yes, you poor dear,” the woman replied. “Matrimony can be such a fetter to one’s amusements.”

“Can’t it though?”

Why did women succumb to his charms? Why would they race off to be alone with him? What was the allure? Ellen had heard whispers about the adventures of courting, and she had to admit that she was curious.

What secrets did they know that Ellen, as a virginal spinster, hadn’t had the chance to learn?

The previous evening, when he’d touched her mouth, he’d given her a hint of the physical bliss he could trigger. Whenever she recalled the wild incident, her heart pounded. What had he been trying to accomplish? What if he’d kept on?

The question haunted her. If she hadn’t shied away like a timid child, if she’d let his exploration continue, where might she have ended up?

“Oh, Stanton,” the woman gushed, “you’re so naughty.”

“You’re awfully wicked yourself.”

The rendezvous was progressing more rapidly than the others, and Ellen wondered if it was due to Stanton being in a hurry, or if the woman was easier to seduce than the others had been. Whatever the source of the
escalation, Ellen was resolved to bring about an even faster finale.

She’d commenced harassing him because of Rebecca, but somewhere between the first tryst and this one, she’d begun doing it for her own enjoyment. It was so entertaining to interrupt him. Though she recognized it as a pitiful comment on her dull life, she loved sparring with him. She existed in a world of females, in an odd purgatory between servant and houseguest—she wasn’t quite either one—so she didn’t cross paths with many men, especially none like him. He was extremely intriguing.

She pulled her cards from her reticule, sat down at the table, and started to shuffle.

There was a pause; then the woman queried, “What was that?”

He sighed. “Don’t ask. Just go.”

“But. . . but. . .” the woman sputtered.

“Trust me. We’re finished for now. But we
will
dally again. I promise you.”

Seeming intoxicated and disoriented, his partner tottered up and glanced around. As she caught sight of Ellen, Ellen flashed a feral smile that was so vicious the woman gasped and fled onto the verandah.

Feeling smug, Ellen rose and watched as Stanton uncurled from the couch. He appeared grim and forbidding, and she suffered a wave of disquiet, though not out of fear for her safety.

She’d exhausted his patience, and he was ready to commit mayhem, but he wouldn’t harm her. For some reason, she understood him well, when there was no basis for a heightened discernment. He was irritated and enraged, but he’d never lash out.

He walked toward her, advancing with the grace of
a large African cat, and her stomach tickled, her senses whirled. She’d never have a beneficial effect on his character, so she was on a fool’s errand. Yet she’d been swept away by righteous indignation and couldn’t back down.

He approached until he was directly in front of her, and he stepped in so that she was pressed to the table, so that she was trapped between it and him. Exuding menace and wrath, he towered over her, and she was dizzy with absorbing the emotions coursing through her.

He was providing her with a glimpse of what enticed his paramours, of why they were so quick to sneak off with him. She was mesmerized, held spellbound by his rapt focus. She’d never been so keenly studied, as if he could bore through to her very essence, and she was stunned to discover that a vain, feminine part of her was thrilled.

When he stared at her, what did he see? She hoped he saw a vibrant, mature woman, with a pretty face and pleasing shape, but she was fairly sure that, instead, he perceived the tedious, discontented lady’s companion that dire circumstances had forced her to become.

She was so pathetic! So dreary in her need for approval! She’d never been arrogant about her looks or personality, so why was she fretting over her attributes? Why should his opinion matter in the slightest?

“We meet again. Miss Drake,” he said.

“Yes, we do, Lord Stanton.”

His torrid gaze was locked to hers; then slowly, it descended to her mouth, lingering there, leaving her with the distinct impression that he was considering kissing her. Which was preposterous.

As a female—with no family and no prospects—she’d
never so much as had a gentleman caller, and as far as she was aware, she’d never driven any man to ponder such an intimacy.

What would it be like to be kissed by him? It would probably be splendid, would probably be something she’d like to try more than once, and the notion scared her to death.

She hadn’t spent much time daydreaming about amorous affairs. She wasn’t even certain how one went about kissing, and the thought that he might instigate such a deed, that she might be anxious for it to occur, had her flummoxed.

She was twenty-eight years old. How could she have failed to appreciate that she was so desperate for male notice? What was special about Stanton that he had her mulling such conduct?

He frowned, as if deciphering a difficult mathematical equation. “I can’t figure you out.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Where do you come by the impudence to harass me?”

“I guess I’m just brimming with daring.”

“Are you?”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

“An idle threat, Lord Stanton.”

He leaned closer, his torso connecting with hers, their tummies and thighs melded, their feet tangled. She could perceive his heat, could smell the starch in his shirt, and the soap with which he’d bathed.

He had her off balance, and she was falling back. She steadied herself by grabbing the lapels of his coat.

He was trying to bully her, with his authority and position, but there was nothing he could do to her that
hadn’t already been done, and the realization made her feel free and reckless.

“You’re very brave,” he stated, “and very conceited.”

“Conceited? I am not.”

“You presume you’re smarter than everyone else, that your view is the sole one that’s valid.”

“I won’t apologize for being correct.”

He snorted with derision and eased her down. She was stretched out on the table, and he was hovered over her. She couldn’t deduce how she’d landed in such a shocking situation, or why she’d allowed him to wrangle her into it.

More surprisingly, she had no wish to wrestle away. Her mind was screaming for her to fight and flee, but her body declined to obey any commands. It was delighted to remain right where it was, as if comprehending that whatever was about to transpire was something she needed very much.

He came closer still, his lips mere inches from her own, his warm breath flowing across her cheek. Somehow, he’d wedged himself between her legs. Her thighs welcomed the outrageous placement and spread of their own accord, so that he could step in and touch his loins to her private parts.

The contact was exhilarating, her womb seeming to shift and stir, her nipples throbbing with each beat of her heart, and she grappled with an ancient yearning she didn’t understand. She attempted to pull her legs together, to force him away, but he was lodged tight, and her struggles were futile.

“You’re so determined to keep me from philandering,” he said.

“Well, you can’t behave yourself, so I’m simply encouraging you to remember what’s at stake.”

“That being?”

“Rebecca’s happiness.”

“You’re so concerned about her.”

“She’s my friend.”

“And your employer,” he mentioned. “Your loyalty is a tad excessive.”

“Only someone of your low standards would believe so.”

“Do you know what I think?” He looked like a cat about to swallow the canary.

She gulped. “No, what?”

“You’re lonely.”

“Hah! My life is very rewarding.”

“And I’m positive that your pestering me has nothing to do with Rebecca. You’re craving a bit of adventure, a bit of excitement.”

“How absurd.”

“You’re adamant that no one revel, that no one have any fun. Why is that?”

“I’m not against re . . . re . . . reveling
per se.”

“You’re not? I’m so glad to hear it.” He chuckled. “Have you ever been kissed, Miss Drake?”

“No.” She was agog, so swept up that she was like a puppet that couldn’t budge unless he tugged on her strings.

Was he going to kiss her? Was she going to let him?

“You loudly proclaim that chastity should rule, that people should curb their impulses at all times. But it’s recently dawned on me that perhaps you’ve never had to learn how difficult it can be to practice restraint.” He cocked a brow. “Especially when it’s what you want very, very much.”

“You’re spewing rubbish.”

“Am I? Let’s see how adverse you are to dallying. Let’s see how adept you are at controlling yourself when moderation is the last thing you desire.”

Overcome by his intensity, she turned away, and he nuzzled at her nape. She hadn’t known the spot was so sensitive, and she shivered, goose bumps cascading down her arms. He was in no hurry, nibbling in a leisurely fashion that drove her wild, and she mustered a tiny amount of sanity and pushed at his chest, but it was like shoving a boulder.

“Have you any idea of the activities men and women enjoy?”

“No . . . no . . . I . . .”

“I’ll show you. I’ll give you a little taste.”

“You mustn’t . . . you . . .”

She was babbling like an imbecile, and she’d meant to complete the sentences but couldn’t. He’d bitten down and was sucking at her skin. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t object or rebuff him.

“Lovers experience physical pleasure,” he murmured, as he trailed up her neck, across her cheek. “They can become obsessed and unable to ignore their passion. Is that how you’ll be when I’m finished with you? I wonder. . . .”

He found her mouth, his lips alighting on hers, and she was stunned by how sweet and how gentle he was.

She’d expected to be grabbed, to be mauled, so she was unprepared for his tender advance. If he’d been rough, if he’d been demanding, she might have located the strength to fend him off, but as it was, she was enchanted. It had never occurred to her that an embrace could be so precious.

“Kiss me back, Ellen,” he whispered.

As if she was his slave, she had to obey, and tentatively, she reached out and hugged him, by the small gesture granting him permission to continue.

“Yes,” he soothed, “that’s it.”

He increased the pressure, his tongue flicking out, tracing across her bottom lip. Asking. Asking again.

She grasped what he wanted, and she opened wide and welcomed him inside. Their tongues tangled, working in a combined rhythm that thrilled, that terrified.

She’d leapt into an inferno. She pined for things she couldn’t name, was frantic for a relief she couldn’t describe, and she had no clue how to stop the spiral, no desire to have it wane.

His hands were busy, and she vaguely noted that he was removing her combs and soon her long, curly tresses would swing down. She couldn’t pin them up without assistance. What would she do? How would she get home from the party without being seen?

The panicked thoughts floated away. She didn’t care. Not about her hair, not about being detected. The only factor that mattered was Stanton and what he was doing to her. The rest of the world had ceased to exist. There was just him and her and the quiet, secluded room.

“I love your hair,” he said as he jerked the last comb free.

His compliment pricked at a forlorn place in her heart. She was flattered, elated that he’d noticed a personal detail, and she drew him nearer. He grew more bold, massaging her breasts, caressing the mounds through the fabric of her dress, but it felt as if he were touching her bare skin. He squeezed and fondled until she was writhing with agony.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and she was even more troubled. At that moment, she’d have done
whatever he suggested, despite how perilous or reckless.

Before she recognized what he planned, he slipped his fingers into her bodice and slithered across to toy with her nipple. The sensation was like nothing she’d ever imagined, like nothing she could have explained. She knew she should wrench herself away and flee, but what sane woman would want him to halt? What woman would have the fortitude to say no?

In some foggy section of her mind, it dawned on her to recollect that he was a skilled roué, who regularly practiced seduction, and she was merely another ninny who’d sneaked off to be with him. Alarm bells were ringing, but softly, warning her that she’d jumped in much further than she’d ever intended to go.

She had to gather her wits, had to extricate herself from the shameful predicament, but she was too captivated, and she couldn’t conjure any reasons to desist.

The exploit rattled her, made her brood and ache. Where would it end?
How
would it end?

Suddenly Stanton eased away, his naughty hand sliding out of her dress, his delectable mouth separating from hers.

“What is it?” she asked, disoriented by the abrupt cessation.