Lady Dearing's Masquerade (22 page)

She sat very still.

“Did Dearing beat you?”

She let out a sudden breath, and gave an almost imperceptible nod. He put an arm around her, and she melted into his shoulder.

“He only did it once.” Her voice was muffled.

Only once. As if that made it better. He wished Dearing were alive so he could send him back to the grave again.

Then he tamped down the useless anger. “What did your parents think? Did they put a stop to it?”

“They were not alive to see it. The servants knew, of course.”

But could do nothing, for they served Dearing. And the law was little protection, unless there were major, lasting injuries and she had a concerned male relation willing to help.

“Will you tell me about it?” he asked in a low voice.

She shifted in his arms, then settled against his chest, still hiding her face. He held her close as she haltingly related the tale of her marriage to Dearing, of their final encounter, so horrible that something inside Jeremy bled to hear it.

“Walter kept his promise,” she concluded. “He stayed away.”

“Did you come back to Rosemead then?”

“No, I remained at Dearing Hall. I knew Walter wished me to keep up some appearance of being his wife. I dared not go to London, or even go about much in local circles. I could not risk giving rise to any gossip, for fear that Walter might take other . . . measures . . . against me.”

“Good God! You did not think he would try to divorce you for infidelity?”

“I couldn’t be sure.” She sighed. “He wanted children so badly, I thought he might want to remarry. But he did not. Instead, he killed himself while out hunting. Drunk, he put a green horse at one of the most formidable stone walls in the Cotswolds. The horse refused; Walter went over his head into the wall and broke his neck.”

“You cannot blame yourself for it.”

“I don’t.”

“But others did,” he said slowly.

“It is no matter,” she said, shrugging in his arms. “I was the lucky one. I mourned him for a year and was able to begin my life anew.”

No wonder she feared losing all. Being hurt again. He stroked her arm tenderly.

“Brave Livvy,” he murmured.

“No, I’m the greatest coward,” she muttered.

“For fearing to enter the state of matrimony again? After what you have endured, I’m honored you’ll even consider my offer. I can understand that you fear losing your independence. But I promise you I don’t wish to change your life. I only wish to become part of it: to dance with you, to sit beside you in the theatre, knowing I’m the envy of every man there, to be with you and the children.”

“Don’t you wish for children of your own?”

“I did at one time. But I have an heir already, my cousin Tom. Now all I wish for is a wife and a family.”

She began to shake.

He pulled her closer. “What’s wrong, Livvy?”

“Wrong? It’s wrong for you to want me!” she cried. “It’s wrong for me to encourage you when a scandal could affect the fate of so many children. It’s wrong to push you away when I know how much it would hurt you, when what you speak of sounds so wonderful, almost too . . .”

“Too good to be true?” he asked, lightly cupping her chin to turn her face up to him.

She blushed; her eyes grew soft, dreamy. The prospect of success sent a thrill through him.

“When I married, I thought I loved Walter.” She drew a shaky breath. “It was only a romantic girl’s dream . . . and foolish desire . . . I know you are an
infinitely
better man, and my feelings for you are so different, so much stronger. But”—a shadow passed over her face—“when you touch me, I can’t forget that every time I have succumbed to passion it has led to disaster.”

“And you cannot believe it will ever be any different.”

She nodded.

“I tell you it
will
be different. With me.”

Her lip quivered. He longed to kiss her but resisted the impulse, banking his own desire.

“Will you let me prove it to you?” he murmured.

She licked her lips, and he sat like a statue, achingly aware of moistened lips, bared throat, the beautiful curve of lush breasts rising from a low neckline.

But doubt shaded his eagerness. Could he overcome the legacy of pain Dearing had left her with?

Then he heated, remembering how she’d moaned in his arms in her bedchamber at the Pulteney.

He could do this.

“I want nothing for myself, Livvy. Not yet.” Tilting his face to avoid the brim of her bonnet, he brushed her lips lightly with his. “Only the pleasure of proving to you that this time, desire can bring you joy.”

“This is folly,” she murmured against his lips as he gave her another teasing kiss.

“What better place for it?”

“What if someone sees us?”

“No one will disturb us. You know that.”

He leaned down and kissed the hollow in her throat. Her pulse beat wildly.
Yes.

He kissed her lips again. They remained parted as he released them. Her eyes glowed.

“Let me make love to you, Livvy.”

Slowly, she nodded.

Chapter 16

A gurgle of laughter caught in Livvy’s throat.

Jeremy paused in the act of leaning forward to kiss her.

“
I
am supposed to the wicked widow who leads men astray,” she explained shakily. “You are not supposed to be seducing
me
.”

“I am only
trying
to seduce you.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you nervous?”

“A little,” she admitted.

“Well, so am I. So you will have to excuse any . . . awkwardness.”

She smiled a bit sadly as realization struck her: her beloved, honorable Jeremy had probably not made love to anyone before or after his wife. It didn’t matter, though. He loved her; he wanted to please her. If there was any lack, it was in her.

With Walter, she had learned to be so . . . numb. For a moment, in her candlelit chamber at the Pulteney, she had not been afraid. Now, when it meant so much more, she was.

Jeremy leaned forward to kiss her again. This time his forehead collided with the brim of her bonnet.

“Some of that awkwardness?” Another nervous giggle escaped her. “I will forgive you.”

He chuckled, a deep, mellow, delicious sound. His fingers tickled her neck as he untied her bonnet strings. He tossed the bonnet aside and pulled her to him for a proper kiss. Shyly, she put her arms around him, feeling the solid warmth of him through jacket and all the layers of gentlemanly apparel.

He tasted of lemonade.

But he was wicked, teasing her with slow kisses, finally raising a hand to cup a breast in his palm, playing his fingers lightly over her nipple. A whimper of pleasure escaped her, finding an echo in a rumbling groan in his chest.

Then his hand brushed gently over her shoulder to her back. He fumbled with the small buttons of her bodice; she sat perfectly still, barely breathing, as they gave way one by one. Still kissing her, he pushed first one sleeve, then the other, down her arms. Blushing, she leaned back and helped him pull the sleeves off over her hands, aware of his rapt scrutiny of her breasts, rising half-exposed from shift and corset.

A moment later he’d pulled her close again, soothing her with more kisses as he struggled to loosen the laces of her corset. Finally he pulled it down, along with the thin fabric of her shift, then lifted a hand to her breast again. His fingers, large but feather light, vibrated as he stroked the rounded weight of her breast, circled her tightening nipple. She moaned, closing her eyes, feeling the moisture well up between her legs as he moved to her other breast, giving it the same patient, exquisite torment, kissing her all the while.

Dizziness stole over her as he pulled her to lean back against his chest, then gently pressed her down against the folded blankets. Her eyes flew open; he smiled at her as he lifted her legs and swung them up onto the bench.

She closed her eyes and shivered as a breeze entering the open colonnade puckered her nipples. A moment later she gasped as Jeremy’s lips warmed one of them. She put an arm around his neck, then lifted her hand to stroke his dark curls as he continued to taste and suckle her breast, as she’d never imagined a man could do.

Then he returned to her mouth, kissing her with slow thoroughness as his hand stroked the tender skin along her side, down to the rumpled waist of her gown, past it, over the curve of her hip and down her thigh. Then he drew up the hem of her skirt, baring stocking-clad calves, gartered thighs, finally exposing her hidden curls to the light and breeze.

It was too much. She couldn’t do it. Face burning with shame and defeat, she clamped her legs tightly together, fleeing into the inner core of herself where she could ignore all but the most painful sensation.

“Shhh . . . shhh. You are safe with me.”

His voice washed over her, drawing her back out of herself. His hand stroked her bare hip, lulling her into breathing naturally again.

Yes, she was safe. Guarded by loyal servants, encircled by brick walls, iron gates, stone columns. Warm, loving arms.

She let out a sigh. He shifted his hand, not quite touching her, but ruffling the curls as he continued to murmur into her ear. With a cry, she turned her head, seeking his mouth again. Frantically she kissed him, putting an arm around him as he continued to tantalize her with butterfly caresses until, despite herself, she moaned and parted her legs.

He moved his hand between them, leaving it there even as she closed her legs again, shaking with desire. More hungry kisses, and she found herself relaxing again. Then he moved a finger and she burned, wondering what he would make of her wanton moisture. He let out a low groan, flicked the finger against her again. She cried out, struggling with the urge to move against it. He held his breath, then moved his finger again, and she couldn’t restrain another cry of pleasure.

She held him tightly as he began to tease her in earnest, swirling one finger, then several, against her, roving around as if trying to discover the touch, the spot that would give her the greatest pleasure. And she hovered on the brink of pleasure.

La Petite Morte.
The Little Death. She’d heard about it long ago, yearned for it as a rash seventeen-year-old, and finally gave up on ever experiencing such a thing, telling herself it was just a myth, or she was incapable of it . . .

Now she hungered for it even as she knew its price: a total surrender of control, not only to Jeremy, but to mysterious forces within her.

She would be helpless, under his spell.

She could not face it; as the peak came upon her, she arched and tightened, resisting it. Jeremy stilled his hand and she bit her lip, to keep from begging him to continue.

She was a coward. She couldn’t. But he wanted her to enjoy this, and she did, too, at least the part of her that wasn’t a coward.

She gasped at his renewed teasing strokes. “Please . . .”

“Please what?” he asked huskily.

Sorcerer!

How could she tell him what she feared when she didn’t know? “Please don’t let me fall off the bench,” she muttered.

His rich chuckle warmed her neck. “I won’t let you fall, I promise.”

He claimed her mouth again, mimicking the motions of his fingers with his tongue, swirling, varying the stroke, the pressure, then dipping a finger, shockingly, inside her, while keeping his thumb over her most sensitive spot.

She moaned with each breath. Twice more she came close to what seemed to be a peak; twice more she recoiled, only to reach feverish new heights of desire. He leaned over her, trying different touches, his breath hot on her mouth, over her breasts, the silk and linen of waistcoat and shirt softly chafing her skin, rumpled clothing and scratchy-soft wool of the blanket teasing her back and bottom, adding to the torment between her legs.

Without warning, a paroxysm gripped her body, but Jeremy held her safely on the bench until finally she lay spent and weeping, the strain and sorrow of months, perhaps years, draining away in her tears.

For a time he continued to kiss her dampened face and whisper her name in an awed voice. She drifted into a blissful place where pain did not exist as he sat beside her stroking her hair and a breeze caressed her bare flesh now and then.

Jeremy feasted his eyes on Livvy. Part of him still clamored for relief, tempted by half-closed eyes, tumbled curls, lips plump from kisses, breasts damp from suckling. But mostly he just exulted. No practiced rake, he’d managed to bring her to an intense peak of pleasure.

He wanted to run and shout and do it all over again.

Her eyes opened wider and she smiled up at him dreamily. “You look just like a child with a new toy.”

“That is exactly how I feel.”

Another breeze blew through. “I wish I could lock you up in my bedchamber and never let you leave,” she said wistfully.

“Tempting.” He grinned.

“But there is a world outside these walls.”

“We can face it.”

She swung her feet to the side of the bench. He reached an arm around her and helped her to sit up, tamping down a rush of pure lust at the smell of her.

“Oh dear, I
look
like a wanton woman now.” Her hands shook as she reached to pull her shift and corset back into place.

“No one is coming. There is no need to rush.”

He told the same thing to a wayward portion of his anatomy. He had to be patient, to take the time to soothe her doubts.

Her eyes clouded. “I am afraid it is all a dream.”

“I thought you might need convincing.” He gave her arm a squeeze. “Well, I brought a gift for you, too.”

He felt in his waistcoat pocket and drew out the velvet pouch that had nestled there throughout his ride from London.

“Oh, Jeremy . . .” She looked adorably flustered, blue eyes wide, hair half-down, breasts pink and exposed, staring down at the ring he held out to her: the large sapphire set like a flower among four petals of gold, adorned by pearls. A fitting tribute to her and her foundlings, he hoped.

“When you look at it, Livvy, remember how much I love you and the children. Remember it is real.”