Potent Pleasures

  She grinned back, feeling quite daring. “Sir, your penchant for the outdoors makes me justly wary.”

  Alex responded to the grin, not to the words. What on earth was she talking about? So he kissed her on a picnic—well, not that it mattered. She was absolutely right; his fingers were itching to push down her gown and pull a rosy nipple into his mouth.

  “Come on,” he said almost roughly. They walked out into the night. The Dewlands’ town house had a large formal garden stretching behind it. Charlotte felt a little ashamed of her doubts about Peter. The Dewlands were clearly an old and well-established branch of the nobility. Her sister Violetta was so nimble about things like this. She could immediately place any member of the ton, and discuss his or her antecedents and claims to nobility … but Charlotte had never bothered to learn. She spent no time reading Burke’s Peerage. How could she? It was extremely difficult as it was to meld the life of a marriageable young woman with that of a part-time painter. Her mother kept warning her that she would have trouble once she was married. “How will you know how to organize a party going in to dine?” she had asked. Charlotte had thought briefly of the boring shuffling and reshuffling that prefaced a dinner party, especially when a sticky question of precedence came up. To be honest, the question of marriage had seemed so remote that she would never be organizing her own dinner parties, so why worry?

  The whole party flocked out of the large double doors leading from the drawing room to the garden. Alex handed Charlotte the glass of champagne he carried in his hand. Charlotte heard Sophie squeal with delight as the smell of roses drifted over the garden, her three gallants jostling in an attempt to be the first to pick her a perfect rose. Alex led Charlotte to a perfectly unexceptional bench, in clear view of Lady Dewland. She felt a tiny pulse of disappointment. Didn’t he want to pull her off into the darker paths leading to the back of the garden? Not that she would have permitted such a thing, of course. She sipped her champagne and then bent her head back, feeling soft curls brush the back of her neck. It was now so late that it was possible to see a few stars in the sky, even given London’s ever-present haziness.

  “Did you read the piece in The Gazette about coal dust?” she asked suddenly. “The writer argued that coal fires are not only obscuring the air, but actually making people ill, especially babies.”

  Alex looked down at her curiously. He hadn’t thought that society belles read anything but the gossip pages.

  “I thought he argued the case too strongly,” he replied. “There’s no scientific evidence linking coal dust and mortality. I should think that many of those babies die of malnutrition.”

  “Why do they cough so much then?”

  “They could have colds … pneumonia. I thought his point was interesting, but without better information we could not ban coal fires as he proposed.”

  “But, Alex,” Charlotte protested, not even realizing that she used his first name, “he said that autopsies have found babies whose lungs are black inside!”

  “Well, then why are most of those babies found only among the poor?” Alex rebutted. “They could have died from anything!”

  “You know as well as I do that only the children of the very poor are autopsied.” Charlotte was keeping a tight rein on her temper. She drank some more champagne.

  “Yes, but I have seen very few babies among my friends who have a constant cough, as he was describing. And if I had,” Alex said, “I would take Pippa to the country immediately.”

  “That’s just it,” Charlotte explained patiently. “Children of nobility spend most of the year on country estates. We’re in London only for the season—half the year at the most. Whereas poor children breathe this air all the time.” She waved her hand at the sky. “I spend a lot of time thinking about light,” she said, “and you have no idea how different it is here than in the country. It’s hardly even light in the city.” They lapsed into silence.

  Alex looked down at Charlotte with a new respect. She had just argued him into a standstill. A small frown creased his forehead. Why did she spend a lot of time thinking about light?

  He’d bet she wasn’t thinking about light at the moment. Her head was thrown back, exposing a lovely white column of neck, and she had her eyes closed. Just so would she look when she rode on top of him, her curls tossed back in abandon.

  “What are you thinking?” he said, his voice roughened by that thought. He trailed a finger down her forehead, over her small straight nose and stopped at her lips.

  Charlotte opened her eyes. “The smell of roses,” she said. “They smell so warm. Why should a smell be hot or cold? But they smell warm.”

  Alex thought about this for a minute. “I suppose,” he said rather doubtfully. “Hot chocolate smells warm.”

  Charlotte laughed, a lovely, joyful sound, he thought. “That’s not it! I was thinking of flowers. Freesias smell cold, for example.”

  “Hmmm.” Alex trailed his finger over her chin and down to her collarbone. He leaned closer and took a loud sniff. “You smell …” He paused provocatively. She giggled. He was so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek. “You smell warm,” he said finally. “Very warm. Also faintly like orange blossoms.”

  “Very clever,” Charlotte said approvingly.

  “I met a girl once, in a garden, who smelled like lavender, and so far that has been my favorite scent.” He leaned so close that his lips were almost touching hers. Then he gave another exaggerated sniff. She giggled again. “I think …” His lips were touching hers now, whisper-soft. “I think that orange blossoms are my new preference.”

  Charlotte was trembling slightly. But Alex drew back. He couldn’t kiss her here, in full view of Viscountess Dewland, not to mention Sophie’s band of gallants. In the moonlight his eyes were black as jet, blacker than night, Charlotte thought. She felt like a hypnotized rabbit, unable to pull her eyes away from his. Alex stood up and pulled her to her feet. He seemed to feel no such weakness, she thought with a faint pulse of humiliation.

  “Let’s check how Mr. Glister is doing with the fireworks, shall we? Your mother will be worrying about you soon.”

  Mr. Glister had set up camp at the bottom of the garden. “So as I won’t show a burned patch,” he earnestly explained. “Because these here gardens are very nice, very nice indeed, and I wouldn’t want to show them any indig—any indignity, no.”

  The footman standing behind him rolled his eyes. Charlotte suppressed a smile. Alex had taken her hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and while he talked to Mr. Glister about the technical problems of setting up large fireworks without a platform, Charlotte simply relaxed and thought about her hand in his. His hand was so large. Her fingers were trembling and she was afraid he might notice, so she rubbed her thumb against the base of his wrist. He responded in a most gratifying way, instantly tightening his grip even though his voice never faltered speaking to Mr. Glister. Charlotte, on the other hand, was unable to think of anything but his fingers, which had started a slow, sensual massage of her hand. She tried to look pleasantly interested in the fireworks, although in fact she didn’t hear a word Mr. Glister said.

  Finally Mr. Glister said, “Aye, sir, aye, it’ll be just a wee bit of time now. Why don’t you tell all them up at the house to look out of their windows. And the wee sick bairn as well.”

  Alex tucked Charlotte’s arm into his and smilingly turned her back toward the house. This was no better, Charlotte thought frantically. He was holding her so tightly that she could feel the warmth of his long body walking next to hers. She felt as if her body were on fire. How was she going to disguise this? If he guessed, he would think she was a wanton tart. Ladies don’t feel like this, she knew that for certain. Her mother was not talking about the kind of raging desire Charlotte felt when she mentioned marital pleasure.

  Suddenly Alex paused. They were sheltered from sight, standing in a line of apple and plum trees leading to the front gardens. He dropped her arm and simply stood nex
t to her.

  “Do you know,” he said conversationally, “I don’t think I can go back out there in the light for a few minutes?”

  Charlotte looked up at him, her eyes confused.

  “Why ever not?” Instinctively she swayed a little closer to him. He swiftly grabbed her wrists and pushed her back, giving a bark of laughter. Charlotte felt consumed by embarrassment. He thought she was a trollop. She swallowed hard.

  Alex looked at her downcast head and cursed silently. Then he reached out and pulled her into his arms. Why not? It’s what he had wanted to do ever since he saw Charlotte that evening. Her soft body melted into his. He could feel every curve, from the luscious weight of her breasts pressing against his chest to the slim flatness of her waist. God. This was doing nothing for his ability to rejoin the party.

  “Charlotte,” he whispered into her small ear. She was still holding her head down, but she must be able to feel his body as clearly as he felt hers. But did she know what she felt?

  His tongue ran around the delicate pink whirl of her ear and her whole body trembled in response. Alex let his hands slide down her back.

  “Charlotte,” he said again, lingeringly. “Do you know what you are doing to me? I feel like some kind of satyr from a classical play—the kind of play they never let you read in school.” His hands had reached that delicious spot in her back where her bottom swelled gently. “There was a good reason for not reading those plays too. Satyrs are hairy, lusty beasts, after all, and there’s no telling what young women might think, reading about them.” He couldn’t help it; he pulled her against his body again. “They might even run into the woods looking for them….” His tongue traced a burning path down her neck. “Oh, God!” he said aloud, putting her away from him.

  Charlotte looked up, totally bewildered. His eyes were black as ebony as he stood back, running his hand through his hair. In the moonlight the silver gleamed coldly. Charlotte reached up and touched a strand.

  “Has your hair always been this color?” she asked.

  “It turned this way when I was seventeen,” Alex answered, staring down at Charlotte. Was she untouched by the desire he felt? He grabbed her wrists, roughly. “Don’t … don’t look at my hair, Charlotte.”

  She was looking at his hair because she felt too shy to meet his eyes. And when she did, what she saw there made her feel dizzy with excitement. Alex smiled a little, to himself. His girl wasn’t unaffected, no. He was right about her. She would be wild in his bed and intelligent at his table. He couldn’t do better for a wife. She wasn’t at all like Maria, although … he looked closer. She did have a triangular face, as did Maria, and her lower lip was wide and generous, just like Maria’s. But that means nothing, his mind hastily assured him. Hundreds of women have those features.

  Now he had to calm them both down so that he could saunter out there under the lanterns and tell the party to expect fireworks. He moved farther back and leaned against a tree. He could tell she had no idea what was going on.

  “My lord,” she said tentatively.

  Alex crushed a pulse of disappointment. What had happened to “Alex”?

  “Shall we join the others?”

  He stayed perfectly still, leaning easily against the apple tree. “I can’t,” he said simply.

  She looked at him, her eyes wild with speculation.

  He sighed inwardly. For one thing, this meant she probably had no idea why he was an ineligible marriage partner. Her mother seemingly hadn’t got around to explaining it to her yet. But he didn’t want to think about that particular problem.

  “Charlotte,” he said, his voice velvety smooth and deep. “Come here.”

  She looked at him and did nothing.

  “Charlotte.”

  She walked over and stood just before him. Deliberately he reached out and put his hands against her cheeks. Then he slowly allowed them to slide down her body, over the swelling mounds of her breasts, down to her slim waist, right down to her thighs … as far as he could go without stooping. She shivered and he saw her tongue nervously touch her lips, but she didn’t move.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked, finally.

  “Because it was fair,” he answered obscurely. “Now”—he took her hands in his and placed them on his cheeks—”you do the same.”

  Charlotte stared at him, her green eyes large. She won’t do it, he thought. She’s a gently bred lady, for God’s sake. She’s probably about to run back to the house screaming. But there was something scornful about his look that steeled Charlotte’s backbone. Just as deliberately as he had, she drew her hands down over his cheeks. They were prickly with a growing beard, his face shadowed by small hairs. Her fingers drew slowly over the tiny hairs’ sharp edges; she wondered what they would feel like against her lips. Watching her, Alex felt himself growing even harder, if that was possible. This was a great idea, he thought, remaining absolutely still.

  Charlotte’s fingers trailed down, down the strong brown column of his neck, down over muscled shoulders and chest. Then she pulled her hands away.

  “Oh, no,” Alex said in a curiously deep voice, recapturing her hands and returning them to his chest. “You have to keep going.”

  Charlotte blushed. He kept his hands on her wrists, flattening her hands against him, and slowly, slowly drew them down his body. Charlotte felt herself flushing scarlet. Her heart was racing. When he reached his crotch, he stopped. Charlotte gasped. Under her right hand was a huge, swollen … It pulsed slightly against the palm of her hand. Alex looked down at her, his eyes an enigmatic black in the moonlight. She pulled her hands away from his, turning away. As she was about to run back to the house Alex grabbed her shoulders from the back, pulling her against his chest.

  His lips were warm on the back of her neck. “You see,” he said so softly that his breath hardly lifted the tendrils of hair on her neck. “You are driving me around the bend.” He punctuated each word with a kiss. “I don’t remember ever feeling this … mad.”

  Despite her embarrassment, Charlotte felt a little smile lurking at the edge of her lips. She relaxed against him. He crossed his arms over her chest and rested his chin on the top of her head.

  “Alas,” he said with mock seriousness. “Even this prudent embrace is not going to help me. Why don’t you go warn the group that the fireworks will arrive soon? I shall make my way back to Mr. Glister and offer him some more help.”

  He didn’t say it, but obviously if he stayed with Mr. Glister it provided an alibi for their time in the fruit arbor, Charlotte thought. Her heart felt curiously light. She skipped forward, out of his arms, and turned around. Alex looked like an enormous dark shadow, leaning against the tree. She took a step, leaned forward, and pressed her lips against his.

  “I knew that all those classical plays had much to offer,” she said softly against his lips. “I could become quite interested in reading … about satyrs, for example.” She turned in a flurry of black ribbons and half flew back to the lights of the house.

  Alex cursed again, out loud this time. Damn but these pantaloons were uncomfortable! He grinned and strode back toward Mr. Glister. She was his now. Tomorrow he would go to her father and tell him so.

  Thirty minutes later Alex loomed up at Charlotte’s left shoulder as glorious bursts of light cracked and scattered, drifting with the wind in drops of green and gold light. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders and he pulled her back against him. Charlotte snuggled there, feeling curiously content after all the fierce emotion of the past few hours. Up at the window a lean white face watched as a red poppy formed and seemed about to be eaten by a rearing stallion.

  Sophie, standing in the circle of her three gallants, peeked at Charlotte. She looked so happy, so glowing. Sophie hoped the viscountess didn’t notice Alex’s hands on Charlotte’s shoulders.

  For her part, Charlotte was content just to lean against Alex. She didn’t give a thought to Viscountess Dewland, or the footmen, or anyone else who might see them. She ha
d just discovered that her bottom was snug against the top of Alex’s legs, and although there had been nothing disturbing there a minute ago, even as the poppy flew into a hundred brilliant scarlet sparks she felt … well, she felt. She grinned happily.

  Chapter 11

  The next morning Chloe van Stork sat up straight in bed at seven o’clock and rang her bell vigorously. Today she was going to begin sitting for her portrait! After her bath she looked dubiously at the row of drab gowns hanging in her wardrobe. Finally she chose a simple white morning dress. Probably it didn’t matter anyway. Her school friend Sissy had had her portrait painted in costume, as Cleopatra. And when Chloe admired it Sissy told her that the costume didn’t really exist, and her mama would never allow her to wear something like it until she was married. Chloe had stared at the gold snake curled around Sissy’s waist, whose head ended somewhere just under her right breast, and heartily agreed with Sissy’s mama, although she would never have said so.

  “Well, miss, so you will not be helping us finish the collar bands today?” her mother said ponderously. But Chloe could tell she was pleased. After all, why did Katryn send her daughter off to an enormously expensive school if she didn’t want her to move in high circles?

  In fact, her mama was well near ecstatic, although she would never exhibit such an extreme emotion in front of her husband, who emphatically disliked the idea of Chloe joining the aristocracy. But from the moment Katryn van Stork realized that their only daughter was going to be very pretty, if not beautiful, she had been planning and scheming for that very thing. So she beamed at her buttered muffin and kept her mouth shut.

  Just then their starchy footman entered the breakfast room and bowed. Mrs. van Stork jumped. He moved like a snake, this Peter.

  “Flowers for Miss van Stork,” Peter intoned.

  Just as if he were announcing a funeral, Katryn thought crossly.