His Forbidden Debutante (13 page)

Swallowing a lump of dissatisfaction for her evening dress, hair and bespectacled face, Livie heaved a sigh of discontent. She’d never considered the Earl to be spoken for or otherwise involved. How naïve and foolish. It seemed cruel and extremely unfair, yet she only had to look through the binoculars to confirm the ugly reality. He hadn’t flirted, had he? She’d imagined his attention, wishful someone as polished and spectacular as an earl would find her appealing.

A horrid spike of jealousy pierced her heart leaving her raw and achingly vulnerable, akin to the helplessness she’d experienced when first discovering she’d lost her ability to walk. The distasteful lament flooded her to the core and provoked an equal surge of panic. The audience broke into a furious round of applause, signalling the opening curtain, and the abundant noise worsened her distress. Yet she no longer cared for the operatic drama. All she knew now was disappointment and deflated hope. She needed air, a cool refreshment, some tiny respite from the unfounded hurt that coursed through her veins as surely as her blood-provided life.

‘I’ll be a moment.’ She didn’t say more, though Dashwood rose from his chair. Wilhelmina touched his arm and stalled his motion. For her sister’s intuitive rescue, she would forever be grateful.

Pushing through the privacy curtains, she exited into the main hall, her heels on the marble tiles marking the same hurried rush of her heart as she turned in the opposite direction of the Earl’s box. She no longer wished to see him. Her traitorous emotions bombarded her with self-doubt and insecurity. Her knees wobbled and threatened emotion, so she straightened her posture, refusing to succumb. No one would render her helpless again. No one would prevent her from standing upon her own feet. Anger replaced disappointment and she slowed, vaguely aware of the performance, the melodic notes of the opening number drifting upward, a lonely voiced accompaniment in the hall. She took in the open gallery. The entire space stood deserted, every guest fixed to their seat, avidly in wait of what promised to be a stunning performance, while she stood alone in the hall.

She paused and poked her shoe from beneath her gown, hoping the sight of her lovely slippers adorned with the glittering bows would evoke a smile, but in that she failed as well. Dismissing the foolhardy action with a strong shake of her head, she turned, determined to shake off her childish behaviour and return to the box, but instead she jolted to an abrupt halt.

The Earl of Penwick stood not two strides away and she gasped with the finding, the involuntary breath a necessity more than recovery from surprise.

‘Livie?’

His tone expressed incredibility and when he smiled, her breathing seized altogether.

‘Yes.’ She couldn’t manage more than her hushed answer.

‘Well, isn’t this the oddest coincidence? I’m beginning to believe there’s a greater force at work here.’ He stepped closer, his smile reaching his eyes.

‘Whatsoever could you mean?’ She took a step as he did, recovering her natural voice and feeling much more at ease with his friendly greeting. She touched her hair in an attempt to reclaim equanimity, and the sleek coolness of her charm bracelet as it slid against her wrist caused a prickle of gooseflesh to dot her skin. ‘Are you here alone?’ She could have bitten off the tip of her tongue for the tragically foolish question.

‘No.’ His brow furrowed as if he had to think about the answer. ‘I’m here with a friend.’

She didn’t know how to interpret his answer and they stood quietly, the silence almost overbearing, no matter beyond them an opera played in deep tenors.

‘My shoe…’ Perhaps supplying a reason she’d come to the hallway would serve as apt conversation. ‘I think I may have a pebble inside.’ She silently scolded herself for the ridiculous comment. Why was it that whenever he stood near her intelligence fled? All clever capability evaporated?

‘May I assist?’

He didn’t wait for her answer and sunk to one knee before her skirt as if a portrait in a fairy-tale book. He held his bare hands poised and then looked up, his eyes filled with the glint of amusement. ‘You must tell me which foot.’ And then he did laugh, a low rich sound that did riotous things to her stomach. ‘I can’t very well check both feet without you falling into my arms.’

The humorous tone vanished as the sentence completed and, for a time, unfulfilled tension and palpable desire thrummed between them, her above and him below. The thick waves of his dark hair reflected a gloss from the lofty chandeliers, the vast span of his strong shoulders filled his impeccably tailored coat, and the remarkable angles of his profile caught shadows, lending a forbidden air that threatened to melt her entirely. He portrayed the perfect suitor and she all at once wanted to collapse at his feet, drop to her knees and capture his perfectly formed mouth in an everlasting kiss.

Her heart beat so hard she thought it would burst from her chest.

And worse, she believed he felt the same. His eyes… his eyes took her in like she offered the oxygen he needed to breathe.

No longer on sure footing, she eased her right slipper forward and before she could utter a word he removed the satin shoe, the back of his knuckles brushing against her sole. She shivered, her legs threatening to betray her again.

He didn’t look up, instead making a show of shaking her slipper, stopping to touch a finger to the shoe clip as if to straighten it, and then delicately replacing the slipper with the utmost care on her stockinged foot. She heard him exhale and, though he remained silent, he stood to face her with an intense expression that revealed little. Nothing else mattered. The opera, the evening, the moment all at once became everything.

The hallway was empty, the first act of the performance underway to hold the audience breathless in rapture of the operatic aria; still, to touch, whisper, dare to express the slightest affection would be the course of fools. All London society had unseen ears and a loud voice for the broadsheets. As though he heard her contemplations, he shifted his gaze to a curtained alcove over her left shoulder. It was nothing more than a dark corner she’d passed while fleeing the box, yet now she understood, took the steps, and followed him without hesitation as if running into a secret together.

It was wrong. God, it was so wrong, but he couldn’t listen to his conscience, heed his sense of honour or remember why these qualities were important. Livie stood there, a wish come true, all delicate skin and delicious temptation, and he could do nothing to resist, all desire ramped, his heart stuttering to a stop at her arresting beauty. And then, when he overcame the impact of surprise and delight, enough to recover his right mind and reclaim his wits, she’d expressed her troubling dilemma. Without a thought, he’d dropped to her feet, anxious for the excuse to touch her, connect in some way, craving to know her, the texture of her skin or heat of her embrace.

Ever since their unlikely waltz a desperate yearning had simmered inside, the flames gaining strength with each subsequent association, licking at his control, incinerating his resolve like a flame burns through rope, relentlessly, one fibre at a time. Never mind his body’s visceral reaction, his cock grew hard at the thought of her, the remembrance of her silken hair as it brushed against his fingertips, the wicked fantasies he entertained late at night as if the darkness would conceal his forbidden desire.

Beaufort’s words, the inane suggestion every bachelor should experience one last rout, taunted and prodded his better judgement at every opportunity. God help the man who heeded Beaufort’s advice and yet here he was fumbling to support the foolish decision with any available excuse, a fraught attempt to outsmart his common sense.

Now, in this moment, when he could touch her, kiss her, whisper words in the shell of her ear, he couldn’t stop, no matter he had no idea if she would follow or pull away.

He met her gaze, her eyes sparkling like stars too anxious for the night, and reached for her glove, warm in his bare hand. Then, with hardly three strides he entered the alcove to conceal them from sight, away from guests using the hallway, motionless in the darkness, aware only of each other’s breathing, for certainly he discerned every inhale and exhale she made as if his own.

‘Milord.’

Her whisper sent a tremor through him, the first time he appreciated the reverence due his title, yet how he yearned to hear her use his Christian name. He was weary of his title already and yet decades of endurance lay ahead. He shook away the thought, aware she couldn’t see the motion. ‘Call me by my given name.’ He waited, his body tense with anticipation while the space between them pulsed with temptation and abandon. He wanted to hear her say it. Needed to hear it.

‘I could not be so familiar and do not know it.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps I should…’

Could not be so familiar?
He stole the objection from her lips, pausing not one heartbeat as he pulled her into his arms. Had she meant to flee? He couldn’t take the chance. Would she surrender to the same demanding tension that radiated between them, here in their private intimacy? Lord, he prayed that she would.

Lost. So very lost. The more he drank from her lips, the more misplaced he became; as though her kiss embodied absolute pleasure, pain and relief, question and answer. He wanted it so badly, how could one illicit kiss assuage his hungry yearning when the process begot the desire? Her kiss spoke to him without words, connecting with so many emotions he buried, rejected or refused. The aching need for more grew stronger with each caress, enchanting his senses, flooding him with sensitivity, the acute understanding of taste, smell, touch, on a higher, more perspicuous level like a feast of discovery in the dark. The first touch of her mouth against his, her lips soft, sweet satin. Her tongue slick, wet velvet. Her fragrance wove around him in hints of camellia and honeysuckle and his body ached, his hard cock on alert, his mind dysfunctional by the heady divinity of her kiss. One word roared through his brain knocking loose any other idea or notion:
more… more… more
.

He cradled her face with his palms, holding her mouth to his. She tasted like a fantasy, ethereal, sweet and forbidden, a temptress who experimented with sin, yet at the same time conjured cherished remembrances of childhood, daring, carefree adventure. She even smelled like the honeysuckle flowers that grew beneath his window. They were bonded somehow. Plighted.

Her tongue touched his, at first a flick of curiosity, then a slide of assertive demand, only to curl around his with inviting bliss. She offered and he took. He could hardly think for the pleasure of it, falling down a well of pleasure and he didn’t care a whit.

He heard the quiescent rustle of fabric before he experienced her touch, the composed caress of her fingertips along his jaw. Such a tender affection in the throes of their passion, the opposing sensations engulfed him, warred at his conscience and threatened anarchy, urging him to continue though he knew it as wrong. Didn’t want it to stop. He needed to stop. Damn it to hell, he had to stop, but the decision did not translate to action.

She was wondrous and original, yet somehow warm and familiar, all things combined, and he pulled her closer, not wanting a breath of space between their bodies as he kissed with all the pent yearning he’d stored for too much time, aching desire and dire longing. He deepened their embrace and moved his hands from her shoulders, over her arms to her waist, locking her within his hold. She made a tiny noise in her throat that ignited his blood like fire. Did she experience the same ferocious need that devoured his better sense? That dared him to do, want, take what he knew he shouldn’t?

Blood drummed in his veins, through his heart to his groin. What was this ferocious torture? He barely conceived thought, his body dictating all action. He wanted to feel her smooth flesh, the pleasure of her scent filling him, tempting him. He slid his hands upward, his fingers poised at the soft swell of her breasts. He could feel her every breath, each tremble hot and inviting. He wanted more. So much more.

An ironic burst of applause resounded somewhere in the background and she too registered the sound, her mouth paused against his, all at once motionless in the chaotic perfection of their moment.

‘We should return.’ Her words teased his lips with puffs of air and syllables. ‘Someone will look for me.’

Good God, he’d left Claire waiting in the box.

He pulled away with too much force, worsening the vertiginous sway of her body as she fell further into his hold, yet his palm found her lower back in the most natural of movements, no matter in the darkness she likely experienced the same dizzying lightheadedness he sought to clear. No, she hadn’t objected and instead offered her kiss with honest generosity.

Her whisper heated his cheek. ‘I will remember this always.’

Her fervent vow skewered his heart, cleaved his promise to leave. He should ask for her full name for he knew her only as Livie. But no… The question would worsen his condition, prompt him to seek her address, prod him to discover her situation. He’d already planned his future. This hesitation, this illicit, straying obsession, whatever one labelled it, was wrong. Unforgivable. He all at once hated everything he represented, every rule he’d sought to uphold. He was no more than a fraud for his weakness, standing in the dark with the wrong woman in his arms.

Chapter Eleven

I confess any day when I receive your letter becomes the veriest day. My parents believe my dedication to our correspondence a girlish preoccupation, but I know it as my soul’s breathing and heart’s confession, sent to you. I feel as though I know you more so than words on paper. You are brave and honourable and certainly as handsome in character as I deem your appearance. Emotion this dedicated and incontrovertible cannot be denied.

Glory. All other descriptions paled. Livie stepped from the Earl’s embrace, dazed and exquisitely delighted. No longer insecure or unsure, for hadn’t he kissed her with the truest emotion? She touched her fingertips to her lips as if to prevent the feeling from fading, then dropped her hand, all too aware he could likely discern her actions.