Powder of Love (I) (21 page)

She tried to smile at the faces turned in her direction, watching her with openmouthed astonishment. “I am so sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but we have discovered there is a…a problem with the soup course. Nothing that will cause any gastric distress, I promise, but please accept my apology, and you’ll enjoy the rest of the meal, I promise. You’ll excuse me. For only a minute.”

She’d made so many promises to her guests. And something inside her whispered, What about the promises for you? Rosalie, you crave more. You deserve more.

She began to feel the powder steal away her body and thoughts, but remained aware enough to reflect that at least its effect was growing slowly this time, not immediately as when it was breathed in.

“I will return soon,” she promised her guests, even as her voice trembled and something bubbled inside her. She was opening, allowing the whole of creation into her body, and emotion cluttered her. Sheer anger at her mother’s folly? Or the force of the powder rising through her blood? A combination, perhaps.

She pushed past footmen, who reached for the soup plates. At the other end of the table, Rosalie clutched her mother’s shoulder. “Come along, Mother. You and I and Mr. Reed need to have a little talk. It won’t take long.”

“Ah.” Her mother’s smile was dazzling. “Of course. Shall I be wishing you happy?”

“You shall be wishing yourself in Hades.”

Rosalie ignored the surprised murmur from the table and the slightly louder shout of “what is wrong with the soup?”

“Nothing dangerous. We’ll return momentarily.” She forced a cheery smile onto her mouth as she grabbed her mother’s arm and compelled her to rise from the table. Everyone gaped, and she heard whispers. Rosalie might have been creating a scene, but she had to act while she still could.

In a low voice, she asked Gideon, “Can you get someone to keep watch on this group? To come find us if the mood changes?”

He nodded, and she marched her mother out of the room and into the withdrawing chamber. A moment later, Gideon joined them.

“Go on, tell us what you did.”

Her mother smiled at them. “You’re clever and figured it out. But I don’t know why you’re both glaring at me. It was such a tiny bit. Really. And it isn’t such strong stuff. I think your companion must have been exaggerating its effects.”

“You. You really did put it in the soup?”

Her mother nodded. Rosalie was almost relieved. Creating that scene in the dining room had been necessary after all.

“How did you get it? When did you go poking around downstairs?”

“I didn’t go. I sent that charming boy I met who was hanging about—a friend of yours, Mr. Reed. He went down to look, and he found it quite quickly. And it didn’t bother him either. No effect.”

Reed frowned thoughtfully. “Peterkins. I suspect it wouldn’t because he’s a child. But that could explain why he was so energetic when I met him last.”

“Mother. You’re not a child, and you touched it,” Rosalie cried. “How could you dose the soup after you discovered what it could do?”

“I touched the screw of paper the boy gave me. And yes, I admit, it enlivened me slightly. Yesterday afternoon, I itched for it. I hesitate to say what in mixed company, but you both know, of course. I wore out my poor Dicky boy.”

The name sounded familiar, and then Rosalie recalled. “The rancher. Of course. He’s not here tonight.”

Her mother’s smile showed all her white teeth. “I left him sleeping at his hotel. He told me he wouldn’t make it after all, and I think maybe he’s frightened of me.”

“Oh Mother.” Rosalie moaned.

Gideon tapped his mouth with his finger. “Perhaps if one is already concupiscent, there isn’t such a strong effect. You’re saying the exposure didn’t turn you inside out? And you recall all of what you said?”

Rosalie wanted to howl at them both. The
world
was going to be turned inside out, and they wanted to discuss the stupid details.

Her mother was nodding at Gideon’s words. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t affect the naturally sprightly as much as it does those who lead dull lives.” She cocked her head and examined Rosalie. “But I wonder that you can be so rude as to abandon your guests, Rosalie.”

“Better than poisoning them with that horrible aphrodisiac. Mother. My God. You’ve ruined us both. You can’t have seen what it will do, or you wouldn’t be so calm.”

“Yes, I know I haven’t seen the effect, and I’m so looking forward to it. So’s my friend Mr. Clermont. He’s ‘all agog,’ as Mr. Wentworth would say. I must say, you are a spoilsport, Rosalie. Walter’s disappointed to see that the rest of the powder is gone now.”

Gideon went to the door. “Now that we’re certain, I will alert the servants and throw out the soup that is still in the kitchen so they don’t eat any.” He gave Rosalie a twisted smile. “Don’t worry. I didn’t eat so much as a bite, so I shall remain sane.”

“I ate it.”

Her mother grinned. “I had a whole bowl. Delicious.”

* * *

A wave of dizziness swept through Rosalie, unrelated to the boiling anger she felt. It was growing warm in the library. She swayed on her feet, a delicious sensation of giddiness. But then her eyes closed, and she had to sit down before she fell.

“I shall go see what’s becoming of the other guests,” her mother declared. “This will be fun, and I think from what your silly companion has told me, the best part is no one will have a strong memory of it the next day.”

The door closed, and Rosalie toppled onto her side, grateful to lie on the cool, polished floor.

“Rosalie?” Gideon was at her side. Sensation burned through her now.

Rosalie was curled on her side but straightened when she heard him. His voice touched her, caressed her, and she had to clench her fists and drive her nails into her palms to stop herself from throwing her arms around Gideon and climbing his body. She whimpered. “Go on, you said you have to do something about what’s left of the soup.”

“I think you must have fainted. I have taken care of the rest of the soup. And I’ve checked on your guests. There is some trouble, Rosalie, but the servants and I will manage. Some of the guests have already gone home. I hope you don’t mind that I sent away most of the ones who hadn’t eaten the soup.”

“Of course not.”

“They’ll have an interesting evening to talk about, I’m sorry to say.”

She could hear the doubt in his tone, but mostly she could feel his voice deep inside her. She smelled him—already a beloved scent, necessary to her happiness. “Are you all right?” He was just above her.

“Ask me again tomorrow when this is over.”

She risked opening her eyes. He sat back on his haunches next to her, almost touching her. So she hadn’t conjured the scent from memory. He was so close, wearing a trace of a smile, worry tucked in at the corners. His eyes glowed in the candlelight, serious, dark, focused on her, examining her face—the effect of his gaze was as palpable as a stroke on her skin.

Lord, he didn’t know what sort of danger he was in, because she was going to inhale him entirely, pull him in so he became a part of her, unable to escape. She had to—immediately—reach for him or be annihilated by desire.

Her legs were drenched with lust. Her head didn’t just spin—it wove and lurched and sang with need. Yes, just a little closer. He had removed his gloves for dinner, and his bare hand brushed her forehead, perhaps to check her temperature. She gasped and seized his wrist, worked her way up his arm, pulling herself closer, sitting up.

“Ah,” he said. “Whoops.” He straightened, and since she clung to him, she rose to her feet as well.

She’d pounced and got him. Now her mouth found his, and she shuddered at the contrast of his warm, dry lips and wet mouth that she found with her tongue. Greedy little sounds escaped her as she writhed closer.

She managed to wrap her arms around him and hold him at his narrow waist. His men’s clothing, so thick, heavy, and exotic compared to her own. Best of all, smelling of Gideon.

He might have tried to escape; she didn’t know. She wrapped her arms tightly and more purposefully around him. And then, with a small bound and a ripping of the blue chiffon gown, she wrapped her legs around him too.

“Hush, hush.” He ran his hands up and down her back as if trying to soothe a child, but she felt each touch in the center of her body, where the explosion lurked, ready to suck everything in and keep it all tightly inside.

“The fever will pass,” he whispered. “You… We must stop.”

Except she could hear his breath was unsteady, and he didn’t try as hard as he might to get away. In fact, his hands cupped her bottom now, supporting her against his body, and she could feel that he grew and hardened where her legs were spread wide and he rubbed her.

No soup sloshed through him, but his body betrayed him. She sent up a grateful prayer, because if she could only get him to touch her—get inside her—she wouldn’t have to die of desire, a wretched death of pure need.

“Rosalie.” He groaned. “Your guests. I must attend to—”

“Yes, yes, but I don’t want them just at the moment. I want you.”

He let go of her, and she slid slowly down his body, every tiny bit of her skin delighting in the pressure. Her nipples were swollen and prickling from the long slide of cloth. She stopped to press her breasts against his solid head, which was awake and ready. She didn’t have time to get out of her clothes; it would take too long.

She wiggled her hand under his waistcoat and tingled with the pleasure that only a thin layer of starched shirt lay over the heat of his body.

“Ah.” She gave a long, loud exhalation of triumph. The warm, taut skin of Gideon’s side. Her fingertips and palm delighted in the perfect texture. So hard under the living skin.

She burrowed around, and her fingertips slid over the warmth and hair and found another trophy. Alive and hard, and she curled her hand around his overlarge…cock. The word in all those books of Johnny’s was
cock
, and she loved it. She whispered it. “I love your cock.”

His breath was uneven. “Rosalie, please.” And he reached for her arms and tried to loosen her grip while he insisted on babbling something about how other people required help and he had to help them.

But no, she didn’t want to let go. “I need you.”

“Please, please.” His rough whisper pleaded with her. “It’s just the powder, and it’s not real.” His eyes were dark, the pupils large and reflecting candlelight and hunger.

She twisted closer. “The way you taste, I need it on my lips. Help me.”

“Jesus.” He held her head between his hands and put his mouth on hers. Back to the hungry exploration of tongue and mouth—mmm.

His ragged breath came from parted lips; his body quivered with tension. Good. He was in anguish almost as great as her own, so she would make a deal with him. “Take care of me. Then go. I need you. Gideon, it’s you. I need this.” She squeezed the swollen part of him. “Your cock again. And your body. In mine,” she explained in case he didn’t understand.

His muscles tensed, but he was not fighting anymore. Touching, caressing her without restraint. At last, she could feel how his body changed and how he shifted into what she needed. With no more protest or trying to move away, he slid his hands up and under her gown. She untied and unbuttoned what she could, wishing she could do more, but he was in a hurry, and at the back of her mind, under the layers of frustration and need, she knew they should stop—or perhaps go as quickly as possible.

First this. Then I’ll think. Fill the emptiness that is so dire, I’ll faint dead away again.

“I need you,” she said. “I’m sorry. Now, Gideon. Your hands aren’t enough.”

They were good, though, and when he pushed two fingers inside her body, she cried out and held on to his shoulders. Had it been so strong before? Slight pain but mostly frantic pleasure at the hard, foreign thing moving now inside her. Fingers.

She hiked her gown, widened her legs, and lay on the floor, grateful for the cool, hard wood under her. A rug; a bed would be too soft and give too much. She needed all hardness now. His.

“Rosalie,” he was saying. “I want you but—”

“Please. Inside me.” She writhed, too restless to lie still as she waited for him.

And at last he covered her body with his, pushing her down, holding her in place.

“Now,” she demanded and curled her legs up so she could strike his still-clothed bottom with her stockinged feet. More scraps of worthless clothing. If only the muting, thin silk on her legs would dissolve. She’d stroke him with the soles of her feet, force him to run his hands over the back of her knees.

He fumbled with his fly, and with a muttered apology—she wasn’t sure to whom—thrust into her. The thick head of him stretched and filled her slowly, enough she could sense exactly where he scraped her slick walls as he gradually opened her.

Yes, that was right. Her breath grew ragged. Her heart beat so fast, it was a whir. With his weight and his hands and his cock, he was rescuing her from the ache that threatened to steal her sanity.

“Harder.” She cried out when he obeyed. “Oh, harder.” She was talking to the floor under her back and to him as he moved inside her. Too careful. She hitched up her legs so he could go deeper. The ache from the last time he’d been inside her was raw and still twinged but turned into bliss as he drove into her. Solid pushes at last, erasing everything but the growing, swelling need that couldn’t get any more dire but that did with each pump of him into her body and each time his hand stroked between them. One of his hands held her steady at the shoulder. His body was the only thing she knew. His breath came faster, and he moved, ramming inside her, thorough and hard. The frantic sensation curled her toes, her fingers.

More.

She must have said it aloud, because he put her calves over his shoulders.

That reminded her of a phrase. “Animals. Rutting like animals.” She gasped as he hit a spot inside her body that had been aching for him and now welcomed his thrust by sending her into shivers.

“Yes. Bloody animals.” He snarled, then pressed his mouth to her throat and neck, teasing bites that had just enough pain to make her arch up with delight. She wrapped herself tighter as she rolled toward the explosion she knew was coming.