“I heard enough to make me think you are a very astute young woman.” Walking toward her, he offered his hand.
She took it, because he was Garrick Throckmorton and always in control of himself and his reactions.
As he drew her up, she realized her mistake. He didn’t step back to allow her room. He simply pulled her into himself. Releasing her hand, he caught her waist in his arms and, while she was off-balance, he swung her around to lean against the column.
“A move smooth enough to remind you of Ellery.” He sounded sarcastic, indignant, even angry, not at all the determinedly even-tempered man she had come to know.
“Yes. Yes, of course, it does.” She lifted her chin and stared him in the eyes. “But if it were Ellery, it would have been accompanied by a laugh.”
“Try this instead.” Angling his face, he kissed her.
The catch of breath, the press of lips, that was the same as before. But that was all. The gentleman Throckmorton had vanished. He left behind his well-considered kisses that had showcased his skills. He no longer displayed consideration for her lack of experience. No, this time he ravaged her mouth, opening her to his tongue without finesse or courtesy.
She responded because she didn’t know how not to.
He pressed her against the column. Her starched petticoats crackled in protest. His weight seemed more than it had on that blanket beneath the stars, for he hadn’t a care for her comfort. His male scent filled her mind like a heady incense. His taste . . . ah, it wasn’t urbane passion, nor was it starlight and velvet. Those impressions had been cloaks he had donned to hide the truth about him. No, now he tasted of dark passion and of hidden, fevered tempests of the soul.
Frightened by his ardor, by his strength, by her own response to the darkness within him, she whimpered and struggled.
Catching her wrists, he raised them over his head, lifting her onto her toes, holding her against him. He wore his jacket, his waistcoat, his shirt and cravat and trousers, but he might as well have been nude. The layers of clothing couldn’t hide the firmness of his muscles, the superiority of his strength. If he meant to make her feel helpless, to know how little she could do to save herself, he had succeeded admirably.
Lifting his head, he glared at her, his dark brown eyes fierce. “Unless I allow it, you will never be free.”
A threat. A threat that meant more than just the words could convey. She stared back at him. “Mr. Throckmorton, you’re being a dolt, and I do not kiss dolts.”
“Does that stare and that tone of voice usually work for you?” He sounded interested and worse, intrigued.
She tried again. “You’re acting like an impertinent school lad.”
“Very frightening. Do the lesser men wither and run away?”
They did. When faced with her governess stringency, lesser men always ran away.
She was a fool to think Throckmorton was a lesser man. “I don’t know why you’re upset, but really, it is time to loose your grip before my arms snap off.”
Very slowly, he lowered her arms, allowing her to once again lean against the pillar. For a brief and marvelous moment, she was free of the potent authority of his torso against hers. Then he leaned forward, pressing his lower body into the full bell of her petticoats, holding her again with his body and his hands, showing her in no uncertain terms that she was helpless in his grasp. She swallowed and her gaze clung to his face, seeking tolerance, humor, even the intelligence she knew formed Mr. Throckmorton. But the dark shadow of his beard, the flare of his nostrils, the smile that looked so much like a snarl: all betrayed the primal savage that lurked in wait . . . for her.
In the brusque tone of the beast, he said, “I don’t know if Hyacinth really believes you are a virgin, you who know so much—”
“Hearsay!”
“—But I do believe. If you were an experienced woman, you would know better than to wear your bodice laced up the front.”
Confused, she glanced down. She was decent, more than decent, with her pale green dimity gown and its dark green ribbons tied almost at her neck. “What do you mean?”
“No Englishwoman wears her bodice laced up the front. Doing so makes a man think of unlacing it.”
“Buttons up the back—”
“Aren’t nearly so enticing.” With her wrists held in one hand, his other dropped to the lacing he taunted her about.
He touched right in the cleft between her breasts. She drew a quick, indrawn breath. Valiantly, she tried to protest, but her voice failed her at the last syllable. “This is preposterous.”
“A woman’s back can be a marvel of physical pulchritude, but nothing compares to a woman’s breasts—”
“Mr. Throckmorton!” Weak. Weak response, but she was truly shocked. He had not only touched her, but he had used that word. Breasts. No one, not even in Paris, ever spoke so bluntly about the feminine form. Such language was taboo. It was vulgar. It was familiar. And because he spoke of her breasts as if he held every right over her body, her heart thumped in an uncomfortable, irregular beat. It was almost as if she’d been running from him, and he’d caught her, and would do with her as he pleased.
But she hadn’t been running from him.
Had she?
And he certainly hadn’t been giving chase.
Had he?
Without a shred of shame or decency, he untied the ribbon of her bodice. She had double knotted it, but he proved dexterous and speedy.
Celeste shuffled her feet to the side, trying madly to sneak away.
Slowly, as if he were unwrapping a long anticipated package, he pulled the lacing loose, one ribbon at a time.
She twisted, trying to liberate herself before he—
He tugged at her shift, baring her breasts. And he looked.
The cool air touched her bare skin, bringing her nipples to a tight pucker.
A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. “See.” He smoothed a single finger over her. “You show your desire.”
“It’s not desire.” She hated the smug comprehension lurking on his features. “I’m cold!”
His eyelids drooped over his brooding gaze. “I can warm you.”
A blush began at her waist—or maybe lower. Lower certainly felt odd, with a twisting in her belly, a fullness and moisture in her womb. “No. Just cover me.” She glanced toward the door. It remained thankfully shut, but she whispered furiously, “Please, Mr. Throckmorton!”
“You needn’t speak so quietly or worry so much.” His own voice was deep and husky, rich with pleasure and, she feared, expectancy. “No one’s going to look in on us. There’s a party going on. No one cares where we are.”
“I do!” In a burst of inspired defiance, she added, “And . . . and Ellery does!”
At the mention of his brother’s name, Throckmorton pounced on her. Pounced, kissed . . . she might have been a mouse in the grip of a lion, he held her so competently and kissed her so thoroughly. When she tried to struggle, he just . . . held her. Leaned against her, crushing her bare breasts to his waistcoat, holding her chin in his fingers. He moved his hips against hers in a leisurely, painstaking roll.
When she realized he’d released her hands, she grabbed his hair in a ferocious grip and tugged him away—and thought better of it when he lifted his head.
Who was this man? She’d thought him civilized; overcivilized, even. But his pupils had widened so his brown eyes looked black and demonic. He grinned, his teeth white in his tanned face. Leaning down, he took her lower lip between his teeth. He didn’t bite down; the friction might even be called erotic. But it was a threat, and this time when he lifted his head, he did it on his own accord.
She couldn’t take her gaze from his. “I’m afraid of you.”
“No, you’re not.” He slid his hand onto her breastbone. “It’s not fear that makes your heart pound. It’s this.” He cupped her breast, then pinched her nipple. Almost. Like the bite on her lip, it wasn’t painful, but . . .
Her knees knock
ed together in fear and . . . oh, what was this mixture of embarrassment and excitement? He’d given her a taste of it before, but this was different. This time there was no tenderness, there was no control. There was only a madman who wore a familiar face. “Why are you threatening me?” she asked.
“Better to ask, what am I threatening you with?” He laughed, a gravelly sound that sent a chill up her spine. “You think you know, but you don’t.”
“Know what?” she demanded. He was speaking in riddles and she hated everything about this. His attentions, her discomfort . . . her unwanted, illicit anticipation.
“I’m going to show you why the ambassador’s wife was giddy when her husband paid her attentions.”
“You can’t!” His threat—for such it was, for all his denials—sent her grappling toward freedom. “It’s not fitting.”
“I’m weary of always doing what’s right, and I promise you when I’m done, you’ll be happy.” Through gritted teeth he added, “And I won’t.”
He let her go, then used her escape momentum to whirl her around and tumble her onto the sofa and onto her back.
“Why are you angry at me?” She struggled to sit up.
He pushed her back down. “You let me think you were just the gardener’s daughter. Just another girl who was in love with Ellery.” He wasn’t rough, but he didn’t permit rebellion. “You lied.”
“What’s wrong with you? I am who I said. I never lied.”
“I’m not lying about this.” He sat on Celeste, trapped her between his thighs. “I’m going to take my revenge.”
“How dare you presume to pass judgment on me? I didn’t perform any misdeed!” She twisted sideways. “I simply talked to Lady Hyacinth. I gave her sound advice.”
“I don’t care about Lady Hyacinth. You’re generous. You’re sweet. You’re kind, even to a rival. You’re the most dangerous kind of woman there is. It’s you who has laid my plans to ruin.” With scrupulous care, he tore her chemise from top to bottom.
The sound of ripping material shocked her. This was Mr. Throckmorton, the most normal, restrained, disciplined man of her acquaintance, and in a considered move, he had torn her chemise. The world had gone mad. He had gone mad.
Leaning down toward her breasts, he brushed one with his cheek. “I promised you a lesson. I will give it, Celeste.”
“This isn’t a lesson you have the right to give.”
“Now, today, I take whatever right I choose.” His breath was a brush of air against her skin. “I choose to teach. Lesson one—your breasts are more than enticing, pale and capped with rose. They are also sensitive to touch.” His tongue encircled her nipple.
Gooseflesh rose. The blood rushed through her veins.
“Point proven.” His voice had thickened. “And for further proof . . .” His mouth clamped down and suckled.
She shoved at his shoulders, tugged at his hair. How could he do this? How could he make her burn with . . . with embarrassment and . . . and desire at the same time? The damp of his mouth, the roughness of his tongue, the sensation of suction on her nipple brought her arching into his arms. She didn’t want to want this, and at the same time a passionate folly, quite outside her control, ruled her body.
Lifting his head, he demanded, “Look at me.”
She did. She recognized him . . . yet she didn’t. The ruffled hair, the burning gaze, the menace, the boldness . . . How could this man with his driving sexual demands be Garrick Throckmorton?
His knee pressed between her legs, opening them. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to take you. Believe me.”
“If you think that’s reassurance, think again.” She slapped at his head.
He trapped her arms, held them close to her side. “But I want to see you when I take you beyond pleasure. I’ll never have more than that, but that memory I will have.” It sounded like a vow. Sliding his lower body off of the sofa, he knelt on the floor beside her. He lifted her skirt, slipping his hand up her calf.
She twisted against him. “This isn’t right!”
“That’s one true thing you’ve said tonight. It isn’t right, but you deserve the lesson. Of touch on silk”—his fingers skimmed along her stocking, then past her garter—“and touch on bare skin. Of pleasures muted and pleasures bold.”
His caress on her thigh gave her a sense of his implacability, but he sounded almost poetic. What moved a man like this to poetry?
Only this, she supposed. Only the physical. Trapped, rigid with resistance, she said, “I still don’t understand why.”
“You need to understand the embers you’ve brought to flame.”
She tried to kick out.
He used her action to part her drawers. His fingers brushed between her legs.
The action, that fragile encounter inundated her in sensation. The power of speech fled; her vision blurred.
“So sensitive,” he said. “I’m learning, too. You’re so sensitive to the slightest touch. You’ll burn for me today. And I swear I will burn for you forever.”
“I don’t want that,” she moaned. But she did. All the conflicting emotions of the last few days rose and battled within her. Mr. Throckmorton was a figure of authority and austerity. Garrick was a man of passion and warmth. She couldn’t reconcile the two images, but the power of Mr. Throckmorton only added to the attraction she felt for Garrick, and she wanted them both.
How could he have made her hunger for him like this?
His arm now blocked her, holding her thighs apart, opening her to his exploration.
“A clumsy man would sweep in boldly.” He used his most intimate, deep midnight voice.
His thumb parted her feminine folds and slid upward, opening her to his artistry. Did he seek to plunge into her? The isolation of her virginity had never been so breached. She braced herself to reject him.
“You need time to adjust. You’re shy, unused to a man’s touch, unaccustomed to the feast of the senses.” He continued on, searching . . .
She perceived what he would do, and foreboding twisted in her gut. How did he know? How had he learned of that one place where the brush of a washcloth brought delight? Her heart rolled and rumbled. She couldn’t catch her breath, and everything he touched felt swollen, almost painful, fully stimulated.
This was she, Celeste. Her body, herself. This was private, and with his skill he undermined her innocence and taught her, instead, the lore of desire.
She’d given up arguing; when? She should be defying him. Instead she waited in agonizing anticipation for his touch on that one, sensitive place . . .
She shuddered when his thumb lightly brushed her.
He chuckled, an unsteady sound that lacked mirth, and leaning forward, he kissed her eyelids. “Close your eyes,” he whispered. “Feel this. Just . . . feel.”
She didn’t want to do anything he commanded, but if she didn’t have to see him, surely it would be better. Surely she couldn’t feel more.
Above her, Garrick breathed heavily, a rasp of ardor unfulfilled. His thumb brushed her again, and again, increasing the pressure with each pass. Passion seared her veins, coiled in her belly, rode between her legs. He released her arms; she didn’t fight, but grabbed at him, at the pillows, at anything which could connect her with the real world while this torturous pleasure built and built until she thought she would cleave from the force of her rapture.
She heard herself whimper. Clamped her lips shut in self-consciousness. Whimpered again.
“Let me hear you.” He was the bringer of the whirlwind, the center of the passion. “I want to know everything.”
She shook her head, trying to deny him one triumph, at least.
“Don’t tell me no. Not when I can’t . . . won’t . . .”
With force and precision, his finger swept inside her. He rode easily on the dampness he had called forth; he turned the heel of his hand to press against her. The surprise, the motion, the rightness brought her to sudden and shocking climax. She convulsed, her
voice the high, incoherent cry of a girl turned woman.
Garrick Throckmorton led her all the way through. He held her in his embrace as she recovered. And when she dared open her eyes, and she saw his face, taut and still with craving, he said, “Don’t forget this. And don’t ever forget me.”
Stanhope drew back, bumping into the pot that held the ridiculous little orange tree, knocking a few of the tiny green fruit to the floor. He ground them into the carpet in his hurry to conceal himself, but he needn’t have bothered. The gardener’s daughter ran past him, clutching her open bodice in her hands, blind with embarrassment and residual passion.
He feared Throckmorton would surely catch him lurking. He debated between running after Celeste and hoping he wasn’t recognized, or standing here and acting as if he’d observed nothing, when in fact he’d seen Throckmorton giving the girl the kind of good time a man gives only to a girl he wants to impress.
Well, someone had been impressed, and that someone had been Stanhope. He hadn’t believed Throckmorton’s story yesterday. When he’d had time to think about it, he had decided it had all sounded likely—all except the part where Throckmorton, the inimitable spy master and ever-proper autocrat, trifling with the gardener’s daughter. And if he didn’t believe that, the whole story stank, and maybe it was time for him to get his savings from under the floorboards of his room and make run for it.
But that scene in the conservatory . . . that was confirmation that he could stay and make just a little more cash.
How could he use this to his advantage?
Stepping to the middle of the hall, he pretended he had been strolling past for no good reason, and waited to bump into Throckmorton as he left. But Throckmorton didn’t leave, and Stanhope glanced into the conservatory.
Throckmorton sat on the sofa, head on his hands.
Stanhope didn’t understand why Throckmorton held his head. He’d be willing to bet it wasn’t his head that ached.
Continuing on his way, Stanhope grinned. Now he had best find young Celeste, charm her and pry every last secret out of her empty little head.