Elisabeth Fairchild (19 page)

“Dress allowance be damned?” Mischief danced elfin in his eyes, in the quirk of his lips.

“Well . . .” She eyed the tree uneasily. Perhaps it had been foolish of her to suggest she could reach so high.

“Turn around,” he suggested.

She turned around, for no more reason than that he asked it, letting loose an involuntary gasp as he encircled her waist with his hands, and adjusted her stance so that her back was to the tree trunk.

The unexpected heat of his touch, the firm possessiveness of his grasp made her heart lurch. Shaken and confused, she looked into his eyes.

Laughter looked back at her, his lip curling with it, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

“If you give a good jump, I think I can lift you into the crotch,” he said smoothly.

She did not know how to respond to his suggestive tone, and so she pretended to ignore it, glancing over her shoulder even as she relished his closeness, the brush of his breath on her hair, the heady pressure of his thumbs on her ribs.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Just might work. On three, then?”

“One,” he said with a nod as he leaned closer.

She bent her knees, tensing the muscles in her thighs.

“Two,” she said under her breath.

He tightened his grip on her waist.

“Three,” they called out together as she leapt, as he lifted, thrusting her high. She grabbed a limb and drew herself a little higher, into the lap of the ash, her bottom banging bark, one hand reaching out to grip what she thought would be his shoulder, and turned out to be hair.

“Gently,” he said with a laugh. “Gently now.”

Both of them laughing, triumphant, they grinned at one another as she let go, apologizing, grabbing at his shoulder instead for a moment before she found purchase on another branch.

“Quite all right,” he said.

She swayed, finding the best spot for balance, and he grabbed at her knees, steadying her.

Their eyes met for a moment, a head-whirling, heart-lurching moment that had nothing to do with the tree and everything to do with the heat of his hands, of his gaze. In her current position his head was on a level with her bosom, his eyes quite naturally drawn to that which was directly before him.

He smiled, the curve of his lips, the appreciative gleam of his teeth almost too much for her, as his brows rose archly, and he said, “Rather better than I expected.”

She blinked, licked dry lips, looked away, reaching for the shuttlecock, stretching hard.

“Don’t let me fall,” she called to him.

He pressed forcefully with one hand upon her knee. With the other, his grip slid lower, maintaining her balance while allowing her to stretch. His fingers circled her ankle—as they had when they were children, and yet not at all the same.

“That’s almost got it.” She teetered, fearless, breath coming fast. “Just a little farther.”

“I’ve got you,” he said.

He had her. She would not fall. She closed her eyes a moment, relishing the truth of it, short though the duration of such possessiveness might be. A little bit of a lunge and she had the shuttlecock at last.

She could feel his every breath as she sat up, waving her prize, exhilarated by her climb, by her triumph, by his grip upon her nether limbs.

“Ta-da!” she crowed.

He did not let go.

His arms encircled her legs. Her knees pressed fast to his chest.

He did not let her go.

She stared at him, eyes widening, fire kindled within her breast, a dangerous fire that ignited heat again between her tightly clasped legs.

He stood staring, hands sliding at last away from her ankles, and yet not in the expected direction. Up her silk-encased legs, and not down, his fingers trailed more fire, hot upon her calves, as he gently squeezed the aching swell of tightened muscle.

She knew she ought not allow him to touch her so, knew it was not proper or ladylike or good, but the hoyden within found nothing but pleasure in his touch, in the question in his eyes.

Pip grinned, teeth flashing, a smile to melt her heart, to make molten the fire he kindled in her. He gazed into her eyes with a forget-me-not blue heat she had never before witnessed.

Speechless, she froze, shuttlecock grasped tight, tree branch grasped tighter still, unable to avoid his eyes, his hands, as they delved deeper beneath her skirts, traveling in an intoxicating manner to the hollow behind her knees.

“Richard tells me you are in love with me,” he said.

The words seemed to hush the breath of the breeze-stirred trees, and silence the voice of the birds.

She closed her eyes, breath catching in her throat, as he stirred the wondrous, unbelievable passions she had kept hidden, walled away from him for a lifetime.

He knew! Richard had told him.

She thought of all that Melanie had said, and wanted to weep her joy that at last he meant to voice his feelings for her. She wanted to lean forward, to wrap her arms about his shoulders, to kiss his mouth.

But she might fall if she let go the tree. Worse yet, he might be diverted from the road his hands traveled beneath her skirts. And the hoyden clamored for the journey to continue.

“He tells me you have been in love with me . . .” His fingers trailed higher. His elbows shoved her skirt aside. “. . . since we were children.”

She thought of that day in the card room—the heat of a child’s touch, no match for a man’s, as her leg muscles tensed beneath his roving hands. Her knees instinctively clapped together as he fingered the tops of her stockings, the tapes that bound them. No man had ever dared touch her thus. She trembled and, fearing what might come next, pressed her knees together tighter than before, trapping his hand when he moved to stroke the tender flesh of her inner thigh.

She opened her eyes then and looked into his, startled to find desire unmasked.

“Is it true?” he murmured, his breath coming faster as he leaned in, his hand sliding a little closer to her most private parts despite the desperate clench of her knees.

She gasped, afraid of her own rising desire, and reached out to stop him. “You mustn’t,” she said.

“Can it be true, dearest Patience?” he whispered. “All this time you wanted me, longed for my affections, and I never saw sign of it, never reached for what was right under my nose?”

He bent to kiss her wrist, the weight of his head, the tumble of golden curls in her lap something out of a dream, as his hand, a trapped bird, fluttered, gliding, seeking her heat. “Can you forgive me such neglect, pretty Patience? I have been a fool to ignore you.”

He found answer in her silence, in the slightest quivering of her knees. The hoyden in her wanted to know what came next, ached to know what a man might do between her legs—like the legs in Vauxhall Gardens, spread wide to welcome the rocking thrust of a man’s naked buttocks. He loved her. She could see it in his eyes, could feel his desire in the rapid rise and fall of his chest, in the persistent pressure of his hand.

“Do you not want me, Patience?”

She took a deep, shaking breath, breathed the words, “I do.”

He smiled, joyous, his face, his voice, the way he touched her, beautiful—so beautiful—all that she had imagined, and more.

“How long have you wanted me, Patience?” he whispered so softly she must lean a little closer to hear, and with that movement he gained unexpected ground, his fingers gently brushing the curled hair at the apex of her thighs, melting the last vestiges of her resolve.

She swayed, wide-eyed, breath caught.

What was this magic? Dared she let it continue?

“Have you wanted this since you let me hide beneath your skirts so long ago, my dear?”

She dared not nod or shake her head, afraid of the implication of even that slightest of movements, unsure just what it was he thought she desired of him.

“Do not stay my hand,” he coaxed. “Let me beneath your skirts again, my love.”

“I need a place to hide,” she heard the distant memory of his voice, felt the distant brush of his fingers at her ankle. The forget-me-not blue of his eyes was not forgotten, the golden fringe of lashes, the spaniel-sweet affection of his gaze.

Life had led her here. Since childhood this moment had been destined. She almost expected Richard to come bursting through the wood, chasing after Pip, interrupting this game, interrupting her thoughts at the most inopportune of moments.

He had reached out to touch the velvet of her sleeve, hand trembling—as she trembled now, afraid as she was afraid.

“Spread your legs, my love,” Pip whispered, and she remembered the heat of his breath at her knee, the pinch of his fingers at her ankle. “My fingers would do naught but make sweet love to you,” he reassured her, not the boy anymore, not the complaining lad at all. Here was a man of sweet words and coaxing ways. “This is what you have waited for so patiently, my dearest Patience. I vow it is.”

He knew, too, the inevitability of this moment. He loved her. He vowed it was so, his voice like velvet, his touch just as soft.

The words reassured her.

Trembling with the power of a lifetime’s suppressed desires, she spread her legs for him, ready, wanting.

Pip smiled up at her reassuringly, lovingly. His fingers, very sure of themselves, of what they wanted of her, burrowed, found throbbing, swollen heat.

She started at that, cried out a soft “No!”—made a move to pull away, but he stilled her with a shushing noise, a calming squeeze upon her knee, as the other hand cupped the mound of her hair, the heel of his hand pressing hard against the burning need, rocking there with such exquisite pressure she dropped the shuttlecock and leaned away from the tree into his shoulder, toward his hand, as he stirred to greater heights the ache of a decade’s yearning.

His fingertips were quick to press the point, to seek out the liquid depths of her desire. The probing sensation sent shudders the length of her backbone, so that her knees spasmed, her calves flexed about his ribs, and her toes curled within her shoes.

She understood for the first time the moaning noises she had heard beneath the trees in Vauxhall Gardens, as a similar sort of wordless exclamation passed her lips.

He chuckled knowingly, and sought a little deeper the ache that would not be soothed. She longed to fling herself down from the tree into his arms, but contented herself instead with leaning forward, into the delicious prod of his finger, that she might lean her head upon his shoulder and whisper, “You love me! Dearest Pip. You love me! I did not think it possible.”

“Possible?” He breathed a low laugh. “I think it very probable I can love you even more deeply if you will only come down from that tree.”

“I do not think that wise,” she said, even as she slid into his arms, limp with desire.

“No?” he asked, pressing her to the trunk of the tree as he nuzzled her neck, as he lifted her skirt to probe the swollen, throbbing wetness that thrilled to his touch, to the cool caress of the breeze, to the rhythmic motion of his finger that wrenched another desperate moan from her lips.

His lips sought hers then, stifling her cries, his mouth a well of heat to match that between her legs. His tongue prodded her lips, mirroring the motion of his fingers, and she sighed and parted her lips far more readily than she had parted her knees, and pressed her mouth to his with ardent heat, knowing she encouraged him in so doing—wanting to encourage without a word said.

She felt a flash of fear, a moment’s self-preservation, remembering words her mother had drummed into her head: “You must not allow a man too much freedom with your person, my dear. They will try to take advantage.” In her mind’s eye she saw the woman at the foundling home, unwanted babe in her arms.

But his kisses were like honey, a nectar to make her forget a mother’s warnings, the folly of another. She could not get enough of him—his hand—dear Lord—his hand had definitely been allowed too much freedom. The hoyden in her wondered, for half of a heartbeat, why it was said that men took advantage, as she moaned her delight and took full advantage of roving fingers and delving tongue.

Dear Pip. Glorious Pip. This was what she had wanted all these years. She had had no idea, of course, just what it was she longed for, no idea of the melting pleasures in store.

His lips, his tongue, left a damp trail along her jaw. His hands fumbled with her skirts, with the flap of his breeches.

“Oh, God, I want you,” he said, and she thrilled to the words, wanting to be wanted. How long had she dreamed of him saying just that?

“And I am yours,” she whispered, heart aglow, body fired. “We have only to speak to my father.”

He laughed against her cheek, pulling her closer, his belly bare and warm against hers. “Your father has no place here, Patience. This is just you and me, and this. . . .”

He stilled her with the heated touch of velvet flesh, with another delving kiss.

“Yes.” She sighed as he pressed closer, his hipbone thrusting against hers. “You must ask him for my hand,” she said.

“Your hand?” He laughed as he lifted her, kissing her again, pressing her hard against the tree. “It is not your hand I am wanting right now, but something else entirely, and you and I both know he would not appreciate my asking him for it.” Her bared buttocks were bitten by the wood, her skirt raised against his chest, his hands busy between her legs, the prod of warmth sliding deliciously in the dampness, pressing heatedly for entry.

And she saw in a single heartbeat, in the blink of an eye, her blood racing, fired, a baby’s fingers reaching—reaching for green velvet ribbon tied in a weeping maid’s hair.

“Will we make a baby?” she whispered in his ear, a little afraid, and yet happy as she had never been happy before, wantonly wanting warm, probing heat to touch the aching need within her even deeper than before.

Pip flinched as if she had hit him, hands slowing, kisses breaking away. He opened his eyes to look at her—forget-me-not blue, lashes gilded by the sun—beautiful Pip, golden Pip.

She braced her back against the tree, ready to be loved by him, prepared for a magical, life-changing moment, completely unprepared for the sudden flash of irritation, for the wilting probe between her thighs.