Jane Feather (15 page)

Chapter 15

Imogen glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. Zoe snored in front of the fire. It was one o’clock and her own eyes were heavy. If she went to bed, she would fall asleep. She picked up her book and started to reread
The Ballad of Reading Gaol,
hoping it would distract her sufficiently.

She awoke with a start, Charles’s mouth on hers. Her eyes fluttered open and he raised his head. “Sleeping Beauty awakes.”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” She reached up to put her arms around his neck, pull his head down to hers. “Go on with what you were doing.”

“As you command, ma’am.” He kissed her mouth again, then moved his lips to her eyelids, closing them with a light, butterfly of a kiss before turning his attention to her ears, always an exquisitely sensitive spot for Imogen. She wriggled beneath the hot, teasing caress as his tongue probed the delicate shell of her ear, his teeth nibbling and tugging at her earlobe, until, now fully awake in every cell, she murmured a plea for mercy, trying to twist her head away from the intimately wicked exploration. Laughing, he held her head still for another few seconds, then took pity and released his hold, straightening up.

She looked up at him as he stood smiling down at her, his narrowed eyes like liquid velvet as desire glowed deep within their depths. “You’ve been to the opera,” she observed, taking in the black velvet opera cloak swinging open from his shoulders to reveal the crimson silk lining. Charles wore his clothes well, and the flamboyance of the cloak gave him a dashing air that always made her pulse quicken.

“
Don Giovanni
,” he said, dropping to one knee beside her chair. “I didn’t mean to be so late. You must be tired after the journey.” He traced the curve of her cheek with a lazy fingertip, his eyes caressing her.

“Not too tired for you,” she said, moving languidly beneath that visual caress. “Never too tired for you.” It always amazed her how he could arouse her just with his eyes and the slightest brush of his fingers.

He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the pulse in the hollow of her throat as he slipped a hand inside her dressing gown to cup her breast, feeling the nipple harden against the fine lace of her nightgown. “I want you so much,” he murmured, deftly unbuttoning the front of her nightgown, opening it to reveal her breasts. He kissed them in turn, his tongue grazing the hard nipples as they rose to his touch. He slipped the dressing gown from her shoulders and then opened her nightgown further, slipping his hands up to clasp the rounded tops of her arms.

“I haven’t seen your body for such a long time.” He leaned back, letting his gaze drift over her bared breasts, his hands still cupping the points of her shoulders. “Stand up and let me see you properly.” He lifted her to her feet with his hands under her arms and lifted the dressing gown away from her. The tiny pearl buttons at the bodice of her nightgown were already unfastened, and he put his hands at her hips, sliding the lacy material up to her waist and then with one swift movement lifting it over her head.

The garment fell onto the chair behind her and she stood naked in the firelight, feeling the warmth of the flames at her back. She shifted her feet to steady herself, holding still for his long, desirous scrutiny. It was the most erotic sensation, to be standing naked in front of a man still fully dressed, his black and scarlet cloak flowing from his shoulders, the formality of his evening dress accentuating the feeling. As if she was his to buy, to do with as he wished. Her entire body seemed acutely sensitized, her skin flushing with her own arousal, a liquid weakness in her loins.

“Oh, it was worth waiting for,” Charles stated, and there was a hint of masculine triumph in his gaze now as he twirled a finger. Obediently she turned around slowly, standing with her back to him, feeling the fire’s warmth now on her belly and thighs. She felt his hands move down her back, a finger tracing the valley of her spine before he spread his flat palms across her backside. Her muscles twitched inadvertently against his hands, and he laughed softly, his lips pressing into the nape of her neck before his tongue trailed knowingly upward in a moist caress. It was another of her most sensitive spots, and she rose involuntary onto her tiptoes as desire coursed through her.

She could feel the folds of his cloak brushing against her thighs, the fine wool of his black worsted evening trousers silky against her bare legs. “This isn’t fair,” she whispered as his hands slipped around her to caress her belly, his fingers reaching down to the cleft of her thighs.

“Oh, I think it’s perfectly fair.” He kissed her nape again and felt the little tremor of arousal go through her. Imogen was always ready to play, always ready for any variation on a theme, and he knew she was prepared to play this sensual little game to its conclusion. He turned her back to face him, holding her arms as he kissed her ear again so that she wriggled in his hold, a soft moan escaping her. “Shhh,” he admonished, pressing a finger against her lips. “No sound.”

Imogen closed her eyes, concentrating on absorbing the sensation, the erotic waves that were sweeping through her belly. He turned her slightly, moving her towards the bed, and she fell back onto the damask coverlet, her body white and gleaming in the low light of the candle on the night table. He stood beside the bed, once again letting his gaze drift languidly over her. Then he bent and matter-of-factly parted her thighs, spreading them wide on the bed.

The feeling of exposure, the sense of absolute vulnerability, was building to a climax deep within her belly. Her breathing quickened, her skin seemed flushed all over, and when he put his hand over the damp mound of her sex, cupping it firmly, her hips jumped on the bed.

“All in good time,” Charles said softly, his fingers playing in the tangle of curls at the apex of her thighs, one flat palm moving across her inner thighs, playing a delicate tune as his fingers grew ever closer to the erect point of flesh in the damp cleft of her body.

It wasn’t possible to be more aroused, Imogen thought, her gray eyes holding his dark gaze, but he continued to caress, to finger her sex, until he bent and placed his mouth where his hand had been and the touch of his cool breath on her hot and exquisitely sensitized body, the nibble of teeth, the pull of his lips on the erect nub of flesh, sent her over the edge, her body bucking on the bed. She heard herself cry out, her arms flung wide above her head, only her hips moving involuntarily as the orgasmic wave broke and slowly receded.

Charles kept his hand where it was until she lay still at last. He could still feel her body’s core pulsing against his hand, but the dreamy look in her half-closed eyes, the relaxation of her limbs, told him he had done his work well.

“The opera cloak,” Imogen said weakly when she had recovered sufficient breath to speak. “You should wear it more often, Charles.”

He laughed and threw off the garment, tossing it to join her nightgown on the fireside chair. “Adds something, does it?”

“Oh, yes . . . it adds a very great deal. It’s rather Faustian.” She rolled onto her side, hitching herself onto one elbow. “Are you going to take the rest of your clothes off?”

“If that would please you, ma’am,” he returned with mock gravity. He held his arms wide. “I am at your disposal.”

Laughing, Imogen got off the bed. She was still a little weak-kneed, but more than ready to play some more. She went behind him to lift off his frock coat. It fitted so snugly to his shoulders that it took several tugs. She untied his white tie and went to the front to unbutton his silk waistcoat, and then the stiffly starched white shirt. He was naked beneath the shirt, and as she pushed it off his shoulders, she became aroused again by the well-remembered sight of his broad chest, the little hard points of his nipples, the line of dark hair running down the center of his chest, disappearing into his trousers. The bulge of his penis was all too obvious, and she nipped her bottom lip between her teeth as she unbuttoned the front of his trousers, pushing them off his hips.

“I think my shoes are something of an obstacle,” he suggested.

“Damn,” she muttered. “Sit down.”

Obligingly, he sat on the edge of the bed so that she could kneel and unlace his shoes. She threw them aside and pulled his trousers over his ankles.

“Socks?” he suggested.

“I was getting to them. Socks are the least alluring part of anyone’s attire,” she retorted, unfastening the suspenders and rolling his socks down, yanking them off his feet before sending the elastic garters to which the suspenders had been attached on a voyage of their own to the far side of the room. “Stand up, please.”

Charles got to his feet and Imogen unfastened his woolen drawers, pushing them down his hips. Helpfully Charles stepped out of them and then stood naked before her, his hands resting on his hips, an eyebrow raised in inquiry. “Satisfactory, madam?”

“Eminently,” Imogen responded, putting her arms around his neck and pressing her body against his lean nakedness. “So now what?”

Daisy looked up at the clock in the kitchen the next morning. It was already past eight o’clock. “Miss Imogen not up yet, Daisy?” Mr. Sharpton came into the kitchen, smoothing down his frock coat.

“No, Mr. Sharpton, not yet. Should I go up with the tea tray anyway?”

“I don’t think so, Daisy.” The butler exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Mrs. Dalton, who was counting china in the dresser. “Side door was unlocked this morning,” he said with a meaningful nod.

“Was it now?” the housekeeper asked rhetorically. “Well, let’s hope things’ll settle down around here then.”

“Settle down?” Daisy sounded as confused as she was. What did unlocked side doors and things settling down have to do with each other? “What needs to settle down?”

“Never you mind, Daisy. Just get on with your work,” Sharpton said repressively. “Miss Imogen will ring when she’s ready. Don’t you have a garment to iron or something while you’re waiting?”

“Aye,” the housekeeper said. “Idle hands make the devil’s work, young Daisy. I can soon find you something to do in the linen cupboard.”

“I daresay she’s having a lie-in after the train yesterday.” Mrs. Windsor spoke from the black-leaded range, where she was stirring the fragrant contents of an iron skillet.

“But Miss Esther’s up already, ma’am. Martha took her tea up half an hour ago. And hot water for the bathroom. Besides,” Daisy added, “Miss Imogen never has a lie-in.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” the butler declared, adjusting his tie. “How’s the kedgeree then, Mrs. Windsor?”

The cook looked up from her stirring. “Ready when they are—although, I don’t know, such goings-on in a respectable household.” This last was sotto voce, not intended for the ears of parlormaids and the like.

Mr. Sharpton didn’t deign to respond. He had his own opinions, and he kept them between himself and Mrs. Dalton. “Eh, Alfie . . . there’s six pairs of boots need blacking in the back scullery. Should have been done hours ago.”

“Yes, Mr. Sharpton.” Alfie swallowed the last crust of bread and dripping he’d managed to wheedle from Mrs. Windsor and reached for his apron on the peg by the scullery door. “Won’t be a jiff wiv ’em.”

“Just make sure they get more than your usual spit an’ polish,” the butler instructed. A bell jangled in the panel above the door and he looked up at the board. “That’s Miss Imogen now,” he declared. “Run along with her tea tray, Daisy.”

Daisy poured boiling water onto the leaves in the pot and gathered up the tea tray. She made her way up the back stairs. She knocked on Imogen’s door and entered on the knock. Imogen was already seated at her dressing table in her underwear. “Oh, thank you, Daisy.”

“You’re up already, Miss Imogen, and you didn’t ring.” Daisy set the tray down looking somewhat put out. “Is something wrong?”

“Not in the least. Pour a cup of tea, there’s a dear. I’ll wear the bronze poplin this morning. I expect Miss Esther and I will go for a walk later. It looks like a nice day.”

“Bit nippy,” Daisy commented, handing her mistress a cup of tea. She went to the armoire for the requested morning dress.

Imogen couldn’t help the smile that refused to leave her lips. She had woken up just after dawn, smiling, curled against Charles, and had stayed smiling even as against her protests he’d risen, dressed, and left her with a quick kiss, telling her to go back to sleep and he’d see her for breakfast.

He had to dress for work, of course, although, if they were married, he wouldn’t have to leave the house to do that. It was a reflection that put her back into a dreamy sleep from which she awoke remarkably refreshed after such a disturbed and energetic night.

When she entered the breakfast room a little later, she was only half surprised to see Charles was there already, consuming kedgeree with enthusiasm and discussing the morning papers with Esther. He was dressed for work in a dark suit, with gray striped waistcoat, and he bore no relation to the passionate Mephistopheles of the night.

“Good morning, Gen,” Esther greeted her sister cheerfully. “Charles has brought this newspaper, the
Daily Mail,
for us. It’s not at all like the
Times
. It’s really quite fun.” She pushed the paper towards Imogen’s place. “No Society Register, of course.”