Scandal Wears Satin

  But he was kissing her still, and his mouth moved from her lips to her cheeks and throat, and her tension melted under the tender caresses. Shock faded, and her body eased, slowly accepting his. Then it was strange and wondrous, to be joined so intimately. She slid her hands over his back, relishing the feel of his skin and the pulse of muscle under her hand.

  The scent of a man filled the air and filled her nostrils and her head. She was drunk on it. She was drunk on her power over him and his over her. When he began to move inside her, she moved instinctively, catching his rhythm in the same way she’d learned his way of kissing . . . as though somehow she’d always known and had simply been waiting for the signal to begin.

  He played her gently and slowly at first. She felt like a violin, and the feelings were music. Then, when he had every string of her being vibrating, the music grew more intense. The slow, deliberate thrusts came faster and harder. The world grew darker and wilder, and she moved in that world as though she was, finally, in her element. She moved with him at the same hectic rate, racing recklessly to some unknown destination.

  And all that was in her heart was Yes, take me with you.

  He took her, and after the feverish hurry and ferocity, it was a shock again when something seemed to burst inside her, and pleasure broke out, wave upon wave of it, until everything went away, and only happiness remained. She drifted there, in happiness, and a strange quiet filled her, a delicious, unexpected peace.

  How long Sophy hung in that nothingness, she wasn’t sure. She was dimly aware of his easing away from her and drawing her up against his warm body, her back to his front. She felt so comfortable and safe and warm.

  Perhaps she’d slept. Or maybe she’d simply hung suspended, in a trance, for a time. She wasn’t sure.

  All she knew was that the world came back abruptly, her eyes flew open, and her mind came back with painful clarity and, “Oh, no!” she said.

  She jerked out of his arms and sat up. “I can’t believe it. How could I? No, no, no! Please let this be a dream.”

  “Sophy.” His voice was thick, sleep-clogged.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said. “It’s mine. I did it on purpose. I can’t believe it. I did it on purpose—when I knew—” She writhed in agony. “Oh, how could I be so stupid?”

  “Sophy,” he said.

  “Why not simply blow up the shop?” she said. “Why not set fire to it? What better way to destroy the business than this?”

  “Sophy,” he said. “Go to sleep.”

  “I can’t sleep at a time like this!”

  He reached up and wrapped one muscular arm around her and pulled, and down she went.

  “Be quiet,” he said.

  “We’re ruined!” she said. “And I did it! Why didn’t I simply go to work for Horrible Hortense? I couldn’t have done her a bigger favor.”

  “Sophy, go to sleep,” he said. “No talking. We’re not discussing this now. Go to sleep.”

  Then he brought one big, warm hand up to cup her breast. She sighed. She snuggled back against him. She fell asleep.

  When next Longmore woke, it was on his own. The level of light told him the morning had advanced, but not very far.

  He felt her stir next to him.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Oh, no.”

  He swallowed a sigh.

  “What am I going to—”

  “Wait one minute,” he said. He turned her toward him and kissed her neck. He’d discovered it was a weak spot, one of many.

  “Oh,” she said, in the way that made his cock come to rigid attention.

  He went on kissing her because he liked the feel and smell and taste of her skin and the way she reacted, all instinct, no playacting. In lovemaking, she was completely honest.

  He went on kissing her because he liked doing it and because he was a reckless man who had never formed the habit of worrying about consequences.

  He ran his hands over her naked body, and she wriggled with pleasure.

  “Not fair,” she said thickly. “Not fair.”

  “I don’t play fair, either,” he said, echoing what she’d said the other day. He kissed her everywhere his hands had gone. He lingered at some of the most delicious places—the spot behind her ear and the inside of her elbow. He kissed her breast with special appreciation before taking the perfect pink bud into his mouth and gently sucking. Her legs moved against his and her belly tautened. She thrust her hands into his hair—and that possessive gesture sapped his control.

  Still, as unthinking a man as he was, his basic instincts were strong. Those simple instincts told him he might not have another chance like this, and he’d better make the most of it.

  He paid the other, perfect, perfect breast the same homage, and worked his way down. He lingered for a time in the silky golden triangle between her legs, letting his tongue flick over her until she was moaning helplessly, murmuring in French some nonsense and some exceedingly sweet endearments. Then he continued down along the route he’d envisioned countless times: along the beautiful curves of her leg and down to the finely-turned ankle and the elegant instep and down to her perfect toes. He kissed each one.

  Then he started all over again, working his way down the other side.

  And when he was done, he turned her onto her belly.

  “My lord,” she said.

  “Harry, I think,” he said. “We needn’t be formal at present.”

  “Harry,” she said breathlessly.

  He was not sure any woman who wasn’t a near relative had ever uttered his Christian name. She even made it sound . . . French.

  He was sure it had never before seemed so fine and desirable a name.

  He kissed the nape of her neck, and let his hands follow his mouth, over every inch of her back. Such a back this was: straight and silky smooth . . . and at its base the beautiful curve and rise of her perfect bottom.

  He kissed it, reverently.

  She giggled.

  He wedged himself between her legs and brought his hand up to stroke her. She caught her breath and arched up, moving against his hand. She was damp against his fingers, and that, in an instant, made him impatient. He pulled her up against him and guided his cock into her from behind.

  “Oh, oh, oh,” she gasped.

  “Yes,” he said. He nuzzled her neck.

  Yes yes yes yes yes.

  All his mind and body said it. With one hand he held her against him and with the other he held the silky mound between her legs while he moved inside her with slow strokes.

  He wanted to make it last for hours, but his control wasn’t strong enough. He eased out of her and brought her down gently and turned her over.

  He entered her again, in the usual way, a splendid way, because he could see her face and because she put her hands on him in that wonderful way she did, as though it was the most natural thing in the world and she’d known him forever and he’d been hers forever.

  She stroked over his belly and down to the place where they were joined, and pushed against him, her rhythm matching his, then driving his.

  He saw her face change as she neared her peak, and he gave one hard, deep thrust, and she cried out. Then he spent, and his body went on vibrating for a time after, until at last he sank down, and buried his face in her neck.

  They’d slept again, and the light streaming in told Sophy it was mid morning, long past the time she’d normally rise. She wasn’t eager to rise now.

  It was so very comfortable, sleeping in a man’s arms, and Longmore kept her snuggled close.

  He likes women, she thought.

  But then, what did she know? Only what she’d heard: women complaining of men turning away and going to sleep. Or making abrupt departures.

  He hadn’t departed yet, and that was going to be a problem, given that his sister was next door.

  She felt his body change position behind her.

  Behind her. She remembered what he’d done. That had been interesting.

  “Yo
u have to go,” she said.

  “Not yet,” he mumbled.

  “Your sister,” she said.

  “Won’t be awake for hours.”

  “You can’t be sure.”

  “She doesn’t keep a shop. You get up at the crack of dawn. Clara sleeps like the dead and never rises before eleven.”

  Sophy sat up.

  “Oh, good,” he muttered. “We’re going to discuss it now.”

  “No discussion,” she said. Her mind was quite clear now, as though a fire had blazed through it, burning away all confusion. “It’s perfectly simple. No One Must Ever Know.”

  He came up onto one elbow and looked at her. “Do you know,” he said, “I can hear those five words in italics. Capitalized.”

  “I mean it,” she said. “If nobody knows, nobody knows. You must promise to tell nobody.”

  “I’d like to know where you get the idea that I’m the sort of fellow who confides my amorous affairs to my friends,” he said. “Do you think I’m the sort who boasts of deflowering virgins?”

  “Who said I was a virgin?”

  “No one had to say anything. I worked it out for myself. Eventually.”

  “Because I didn’t know what to do,” she said.

  “That and your extremely snug little lady part.”

  “I didn’t have time!” she said. “I never had time for men.”

  “I wasn’t criticizing,” he said. “It was a bit of a shock, but . . . actually . . .”

  “You like being the first.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I do. It’s odd. I never was the type who cared for that sort of thing. But in your case, I’ll make an exception.”

  She liked his being the first, too. The world was filled with philanderers and false men. Marcelline had married one. Lady Clara had got into trouble with one.

  But whatever Longmore’s faults might be, he was exactly what he seemed to be. Himself. Always.

  It was reassuring.

  “Well, then, as long as you keep silent, there’s no problem,” she said.

  “What about you?” he said. “Will you keep silent?”

  “I don’t propose to advertise it in Foxe’s Morning Spectacle, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That isn’t what I mean. What about your sisters? Do you or do you not tell them everything?

  “Ye-e-es.”

  “Well?”

  “They’re not going to tell anybody.”

  “They’re women,” he said.

  “Who would they tell?” she said. “Clevedon’s aunts? Our customers? Do be sensible.”

  “Why should I start now?”

  “I promise you, we’ve enough troubles with Marcelline’s having trespassed on aristocratic territory,” she said. “If it gets about that I’ve seduced Lady Warford’s eldest son, she’ll do more than blackball Maison Noirot. She’ll crush us. Permanently. Even I won’t be able to revive the shop. My sisters know that.”

  “Very well,” he said. “As long as we understand who seduced whom.”

  “That part is painfully clear,” she said.

  “You couldn’t help yourself,” he said.

  “Actually, I couldn’t,” she said. “If I hadn’t the opportunity—if you hadn’t been so shockingly understanding—and tempting—”

  “I worked damned hard at that. The tempting part. I wasn’t sure you were paying attention.”

  “Apparently, I was doing little else but.”

  “Good. I had a whole strategy laid out.”

  She looked at him. “You thought about it?”

  “I had to, didn’t I?” he said. “You’re complicated.”

  “Simpler than you suppose,” she said. “I’m not a good girl.”

  “And I’m not a good boy,” he said. “It’s unsporting to chase inexperienced girls. But I couldn’t resist.”

  “Of course not,” she said. “I can’t be resisted. So you mustn’t blame yourself.”

  “That’s one thing I never do,” he said. “Still . . .” He frowned. “We might have made one of those . . . you know . . . little squirmy pink things that howl.”

  “A baby,” she said. “I know.”

  “In that case—”

  “Let’s not cross that bridge until we come to it,” she said, ignoring the icy panic in her gut. “Right now, I have a more pressing problem. Your sister’s wedding is only a fortnight away.”

  Longmore had simply lain there, lazily letting Sophy’s fascinating view of the world entertain him while he gazed at her wonderfully naked body. There were her breasts, in plain view, and a magnificent view it was.

  It took a moment for the last sentence to sink in. Then he came completely awake. He sat up. “You’re roasting me.”

  She shook her head, and the blonde curls tumbled this way and that.

  No wonder she’d fallen apart last night. “I didn’t realize,” he said. “I’d thought my mother would delay the inevitable as long as possible.”

  She told him what his sister had told her about Lady Bartham and his mother.

  “I’ve sworn to make that wedding not happen and to restore your sister’s reputation,” she said. “I told her she was my mission, my only mission. I’m sorry . . .”

  She closed her eyes briefly. “Wait.” She opened them, all brilliant blue. “I’m not sorry about all this.” She gestured at him and at the bed. “It was stupid of me—but it was exciting and wonderful, and I can’t imagine a more thrilling end to maidenhood. But I need to concentrate on business.”

  “Right.” He folded his arms under his head. He’d have to do something about her. He wasn’t sure what.

  Whatever it was, he’d have to work it out on his own.

  She wasn’t going to help, and he wasn’t going to ask anybody’s advice.

  The very thought of confiding his amorous doings to anybody made his blood run cold.

  In any case, he was Sworn to Secrecy.

  Even when he thought it, he pictured the words as Sophy would write them, capitalized.

  No One Must Ever Know.

  She’d infected him with her melodramatics.

  He gazed fondly at her for a long moment.

  “Business,” she said.

  “Right,” he said.

  She let out a sigh, and he watched her bosom rise and fall. “You need to go now,” she said. “Your sister mightn’t be up for hours, but Davis could already be stirring.”

  “Right.”

  He left the bed and began unearthing his clothes from the chaos of mingled outer and undergarments, hosiery and shoes.

  Sophy left the bed and, as naked as a newly made Eve, helped him dress.

  When he was at the door and about to leave, she gave a little sigh, and ran up to him and grasped his lapels. He bent his head.

  She rose on tiptoe and kissed him hard on the lips.

  Then, “Go,” she said. “Go . . .” Her voice trailed away, her hands slid from his lapels, and her head tipped to one side. Though she was looking at him, he knew she didn’t quite see him. He could see her, though, every pink and white and gold inch of her.

  “Wait,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. She was thinking. He could almost see the wheels turning, satanic mills at work.

  “Oh,” she said. “Yes.”

  Her eyes widened, her blue gaze sharpened to sapphire brilliancy. “I’ve got it,” she said.

  She rested her head on his chest. He let his hand slide up to ruffle those golden curls. He manfully resisted the other hand’s itching to clasp her breast.

  “You splendid man,” she said. “I’ve got it.”

  “Got what?” he said dimly, lost in the scent of her hair and skin, the summery scent of a far away place where he’d been happy. “And what makes me—”

  “I’ve got the idea,” she said. “I know how we’re going to save your sister.”

  Warford House

  That night

  The family had risen from dinner and were in the library when L
ongmore brought his sister home.

  Their mother instantly jumped up from her chair. “Oh, Clara how could you?” she cried.

  Longmore saw his sister brace herself for the onslaught of recrimination, accusation, and other verbal assault that was Lady Warford’s idea of affectionate motherly advice to her eldest daughter.

  Longmore opened his mouth to say something undutiful.

  Then Lady Warford rushed at Clara and wrapped her arms about her, and wept, “Oh, my dear girl, I’m so happy you’re home. You must never, never run away again. Whatever the trouble is, you must tell me, my love. Promise. Promise me, please.”

  It was, he thought, the first please he’d ever heard issue from his mother’s lips.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” Clara said. Her voice, muffled against her mother’s shoulder, sounded shocked.

  “This has been a dreadful business for you,” their mother said. “Traumatic to a young girl’s sensibilities—but of course you knew nothing of what men can be like. You trusted him, foolish girl. But how could you know? It’s ever the way. They are never what we think them to be.” She gave Clara another crushing hug and stepped away. “I must say that Harry has surprised me. He’s surprised us both, has he not, Warford?”

  Longmore’s father said, “So he has. Good work. Looking after your sister. Made a muck of it the first time—”

  “Warford,” said his spouse.

  “But you found her and brought her back. A good thing, too. Thanks to your clever ruse, we’ve learned that Adderley might not be entirely the blackguard we thought him to be.”

  “I need a drink,” Longmore said, and made his way posthaste to the nearest decanter. It was sherry, not his first choice, but it would do. He poured himself a generous glassful and drank.

  “He has called every day,” said Lady Warford.

  “Heard of Clara’s indisposition,” Lord Warford said. “Very solicitous he was.”

  “Flowers, my dear,” said Lady Warford. “He brought flowers for you. And fruit from his greenhouses. He seemed quite distraught with worry, did he not, Warford?”

  “Most solicitous,” said Lord Warford.