The Trouble With Moonlight (28 page)

She felt impaled upon his hand, yet it wasn’t an uncomfortable sensation.

“Now, you’re ready,” he said, withdrawing his fingers.

She struggled for breath, wishing he hadn’t completed his delightful visual inspection. She felt a moment of pity for the Slipper ladies and, indeed,
all
the English ladies who hadn’t experienced this delicious and most unique Indian technique.

He reared up on his knees between her spread legs, his manhood thick and long. Then he positioned its tip in her throbbing wet spot and slowly slid inside as he lowered himself over her. He stopped a moment to kiss each of her straining breasts.

“How does that feel?” he asked. “Does it hurt?”

She felt herself adjust to the thickness of him, yet she was relaxed, accommodating. The sensation was similar to that she’d experienced when he had held her in the carriage, at once inside and yet all around her as well. She smiled.

“It feels pleasant,” she said, not sure what other word would do. Indeed, most of the pleasantness was the lingering glow of his inspection, and the pleasure derived from the sheer nearness of him.

“Then we will begin our lesson,” he said, and he began to move.

His hands wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her tight against his chest. His hips raised and lowered, effecting a sliding motion over the very sensitive areas that he had laved moments earlier. Her hips found his rhythm and moved in tandem with him. Her hands wrapped around his back, feeling the raised scars undulate beneath her fingers with his movements. Never before had she felt so close to someone else. Never had she felt so desired . . . so loved.

The tingling sensations began again, building in intensity with each thrust of his body. He was like a ramrod, filling her, packing her deeper and higher with taut waves of pleasure, until it reached such an intensity, it exploded within her. Thousands of sparks of glowing sensation burst inside and she felt herself drifting in a blissful emptiness.

Vaguely, as her mind came back to time and place, she realized he had stopped his thrusting as well and lay heavily on top of her. His heartbeat raced in her ear.

It was a cherished, captivating feeling. She felt open and exposed, yet coveted at the same time. They were linked, not just physically, but emotionally as well. She squeezed his chest in an expression of gratitude. Like the true expert he was, he had found all her deep, locked strongholds and released them one by one.

He kissed her lightly, then carefully extricated himself before rolling off to her side. She felt a loss at his withdrawal, but he quickly pulled her into the curve of his body.

“What do you think now, my goddess? Was it all that you had anticipated?”

“I think you are a master cracksman,” she replied.

He quirked a brow. “That was not exactly the compliment I sought.”

“Yet it is a compliment,” she smiled and nestled tighter against him.

“The next time I will not stop until you are screaming for release. Then we’ll see if you still consider me only a cracksman. ”

The next time
. She liked the sound of those words. She yawned, fatigue pushing her eyes closed. “A master . . .”

He watched her eyes close as she slipped into slumber. Careful to keep her tight against him, he pulled blankets to cover them both.

The next time.
What possessed him to say that? Hadn’t he lectured himself about the evils of attachments and perils of involvement? Yet watching her sleep, he knew in his heart that there would be a next time, and a time after that, if she’d permit it. How could he help it? He was only mortal, and she—as he’d come to believe—was a goddess, a moon deity. How else to explain his total lack of control when she was around?

He kissed the top of her head. “A Locke and a thief, eh? That must explain why we fit together so well.” He squeezed her again before he joined her in slumber.

LUSINDA WOKE ALONE. ENOUGH LIGHT FILTERED through the curtains to confirm that not only was she in Locke’s bedroom, she was also absolutely alone in his massive bed. A thousand thoughts demanded attention, but one was far more insistent: what had she done! Somehow in the shared revelations of last night, and the decision to stay with Locke rather than return to her aunt’s home, she’d felt justified in seizing an unexpected opportunity to experience normality. Now, in the cold, lonely morning light, she wasn’t quite as confident.

When she had curled into his side last night and rested her head on his broad shoulder, all had felt safe and secure. She was wanted. She was cherished. And now—she was alone. Where had he gone?

She thought of Ramsden’s callous words last evening. They were hurtful perhaps because there was a bit of truth hidden deep inside. Locke had been very careful not to form commitments, not to form relationships. He avoided people as much as she, but for different reasons. He hid behind a high brick wall, and not just the one surrounding the property. He had told her as much last night when he reminded her that he would not marry.

Her.
He wouldn’t marry her. Not that she had truly expected he would. Her heart squeezed tight in her chest. Not that she expected any man to make that commitment to a carnival freak. Had the wondrous night that they had spent together chased him away? What did he think of her now that she could claim their joining as neither unfortunate nor accidental? Did he view her as Pickering had suggested? And perhaps a more immediate concern, what had happened to her nightgown?

She slipped from beneath the sheets, then stood to search for the missing garment. However, the rumpled sheets on the wide mattress reminded her anew of all that had transpired the night before. Already she longed to experience that closeness once again, those shattering waves of pleasure that he elicited from her with so much ease. Could all men do that, or just her Locke? She suspected the latter, sure that his abilities came from years of practicing the delicate fingering required to crack a safe. Just the thought of his touch sent a delicious tremor through her rib cage.

She discovered her nightgown puddled on the floor on the opposite side of the mattress, where he had tossed it in the process of her “inspection.” Oh, that he would inspect her every night in that wonderful Indian fashion. Her uncertainty quickly chased away the joy of the memory. She was the one who begged him to teach her pleasure. Having acquiesced to her plea, and having shown her how joining could be pleasurable, he had no need to instruct her further.

She slipped on her nightgown and donned the lovely munisak she had draped across a chair last night. Once covered, she drew back the heavy draperies to discover the sun had risen high in the sky. Good heavens! It had to be early afternoon. The hired housekeeper must be afoot and the maid—why hadn’t she slipped back to her own room in the wee hours of dawn? Now Pickering’s suspicions would be confirmed. As much as she wanted to see Locke, she didn’t enjoy the prospect of seeing Pickering’s knowing smirk.

She went down the hall to her room to change. As suspected, the bedroom had already been refreshed and, accordingly, her wantonness confirmed.

His brooch lay on a dresser top, the pin that marked her as a kept woman, if Pickering were to be believed. Was that what she had become?

After last night, she wasn’t certain that would be a bad thing. She doubted she’d ever find another man like Locke, one who accepted her abilities yet treated her in all ways as if she were normal. She’d gladly sacrifice her reputation, if that was the cost of staying with him, but she had to think of Portia and Rhea. She placed the brooch in a tiny box in the drawer. Although honored to be marked as Locke’s “pet,” if only that were true, she’d need to wait until Portia’s reputation was no longer in jeopardy before she could acknowledge her attachment to him.

She went downstairs in pursuit of Locke but found an envelope waiting for her instead. She knew another moment of uncertainty, wondering if this was his way of saying good-bye after last night, but quickly disposed with that notion. Locke needed her hands as much as she needed his companionship. The note indicated he had left to meet with Tavish to see if he could acquire the blueprints of the Russian ambassador’s house. He instructed Lusinda to have a ball gown fitted immediately and pay whatever price to ensure it would be ready. Her hand shook in excitement, making the note difficult to read. She was going to the ambassador’s ball!

Her aunt would know how to see about the fittings and such. Wasn’t she involved in that very thing with Portia? Portia! A sense of dread dampened her spirits. Would Ramsden take Portia to the ball? Would Portia tell him that Lusinda was attending? The moon would be waxing so she would be risking discovery. If she wasn’t careful, Ramsden could have his suspicions confirmed. But of course, if Ramsden was connected with the ambassador, he surely would be in attendance, with or without her sister.

Aunt Eugenia would know what to do.

“WHY NOT JUST STAY HOME, DEAR? IT’S REALLY THE SAFEST course of action.” Aunt Eugenia’s needles clacked away on a piece of knitting. Shadow amused himself with unwinding the ball of yarn on the floor. Lusinda stopped her pacing and stared at her aunt.

“I can’t do that. Locke needs my assistance to crack the safe.”

“He’ll need more than that if you phase at the ball and start a commotion. Remember what happened at the Farthingtons’? ”

Of course she remembered. “I intend to stay out of the moonlight at all times.”

“Won’t that make cracking into the safe that much riskier? If you’re full flesh, I mean.” The needles kept clicking without a pause.

“Is Portia going to the ball?” Lusinda asked, needing a change in topic.

“Mr. Ramsden has not asked her as yet.” She glanced at Lusinda above the rims of her spectacles. “Portia will be extremely disappointed. It’s best you not mention the ball to her.”

Lusinda sighed. At least that was one concern off her mind. She took a deep breath before broaching the other matter of concern. “I have reason to believe that Mr. Ramsden is a Russian conspirator. We should warn Portia to be careful around him.”

This time, it was her aunt who sighed. “I know that Portia sometimes keeps her better nature well hidden, but I assure you it’s there. The girl will not knowingly jeopardize the family’s secrets, if that’s the basis of your concern.”

“But if Mr. Ramsden continues to show an interest in her—”

“It’s not Portia that holds his interest, child. It’s you. And don’t think your sister hasn’t noticed. Her jealousy is at the heart of her anger, but even with that, she will keep your secret safe.”

Lusinda was not convinced, but she trusted her aunt’s judgment. At least, she’d been warned of the potential danger. However, there was still another matter to discuss. “About the dress, do you know of a dressmaker that can create a gown for me in the limited time available? Locke says he’ll spare no expense.”

“So you’re going to go through with this foolish scheme?”

“I don’t believe I have a choice.”

Eugenia laid the knitting down in her lap and glanced up. “My dear, we always have a choice. We just don’t like to admit it.” She sighed heavily as if the whole conversation had worn her out. “If you’ll gather up that ball of yarn for me, I believe we should call upon Portia’s dressmaker as soon as possible.” She folded up her project and slipped it into a carpetbag. “We’ll be limited to the fabrics she has on hand, of course, and the style can not be elaborate. It may prove expensive, but we’ll see what can be done.”

Lusinda practically skipped across the floor, chasing a strand of yarn to locate the unraveling ball. She would be able to dance! She would be able to eat, drink, and participate. Just like a normal woman, as long as she avoided the moon.

“YOU’RE MISS PORTIA HAVERSHAW’S OLDER SISTER?” Madame Dubois, modiste of her sister’s gowns, surveyed her from head to toe. “Yes, your hair color varies, and the angles of your face and curves of your figure are that of a more mature woman, but there’s much similarity about your features.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why have I not seen you earlier?”

Aunt Eugenia quickly stepped between them. “My niece has been traveling and just recently returned. Her ball gowns are in transit, but we simply must have something for the Russian ambassador’s ball in one week’s time.”

Madame Dubois tapped her finger to her lips but ultimately directed the two women to her pattern books with direction on which styles could be assembled in time. They selected an off-the -shoulder design with short puffed, lace-trimmed sleeves, a long flounced overskirt that was gathered in at the sides to reveal a long, trained underskirt. Of the fabrics available in the shop, they choose a light blue silk.

“Excellent,” Madame Dubois said, approving their selections. “This color suits you, although I would choose a darker shade for Miss Portia. Will you be requiring a similar gown for her as well? I already have her measurements.”

“No,” her aunt said.

“Yes!” Lusinda answered. Aunt Eugenia glanced toward Lusinda, eyes widened in question.

Madame Dubois looked from one to the other. “Which shall it be?”

Lusinda spoke up. “I wish you to make an exact replica of this dress for my sister. It must be the same material, and all the trims must be exact.”

Madame Dubois’s eyes gleamed. “It will cost a bit extra, of course, to have both dresses ready on time.”

“Of course,” Lusinda answered without so much as bat-ting an eye.

“It shall be the talk of the town.” Madame Dubois smiled wide and clapped her hands. “Two sisters dressed identically alike. Why, you may start a trend.”

“No one is to know of this,” Lusinda said sharply. “No one. I’m willing to pay extra for your silence.”

“But, of course, mademoiselle. My lips shall be sealed. Now, let me take your measurements if you please.”

A short while later, having negotiated a steep price for the two ball gowns along with a vow of silence, Aunt Eugenia and Lusinda left the shop. Once they were a few doors away, Aunt Eugenia turned to her niece. “I told you that Portia has not been invited to the ball. Why did you insist upon a dress?”