He saw Ferdinand propping a wall, watching her; he mentally wished him luck—in this setting, the hostessly bit between her teeth, Caro would be impossible to distract, totally ruthless in refusing to be detained. By anyone. He knew his limits. Later, he saw Ferdinand again, this time sulking, and deduced the handsome Portuguese had learned his.
There was a time and place for everything. The one weak link in his strategy lay in ensuring that when the supper waltz commenced, he was the gentleman in possession of Caro’s hand. During a break in the music, he paused beside the dais on which the musicians were seated; a quick word and a few guineas strengthened his position. When the opening bars of the supper waltz sounded, he’d just returned to Caro’s side, just reclaimed her hand, and had sotto voce informed her while bowing over it that the Russians and Prussians had thus far failed to come to blows.
She was smiling, relieved and entertained as the music swelled. He trapped her gaze. “My dance, I believe?” How could she refuse him?
With a laugh, she acquiesced and let him lead her to the floor. As she came into his arms and let him whirl her into the revolving circle, he realized she had no inkling that he was steering her in more ways than one.
He looked into her face, smiled into her eyes, found himself trapped in her silver gaze. Initially, she smiled back, as assured as he, yet gradually, as they twirled, their smiles faded, melted away, along with all consciousness of the noisy crowd around them.
Just that shared look, and he knew what she was thinking. That despite knowing each other for so long, inhabiting much the same circles, this was the first time they had ever shared a waltz.
She blinked; he saw her mind reach back…
“It was a country dance, last time.”
She refocused. Nodded. “In Lady Arbuthnot’s ballroom.”
He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that here, now, the moment was much different. It wasn’t simply the waltz, the fact that they were both expert in the dance, that their bodies flowed effortlessly through the turns. There was something more, something deeper that left them more attuned, more alert, more aware, more acutely sensitive to the other.
Despite their training, to the exclusion of all else.
Caro felt the fascination, knew he did, too, and could only marvel. Nothing in her life had ever had the power to shut her ears, mentally shut her eyes, focus her senses to this degree. She was a captive, but a willing one. Her nerves tingled, her skin seemed alive, sensitive to his nearness, to the aura of strength that wrapped about her, not trapping her but holding her, promising sensual delights she craved.
Her senses led, her mind followed.
She was relaxed, yet excited, nerves taut yet assured.
Only when they slowed and she realized the music was ending did awareness of the present return. To them both. She saw it in his eyes; the reluctance she glimpsed in them mirrored her own.
The shield about them dissolved and chatter washed over them, for one instant a babel of incomprehensible tongues. Then over all the rest came Catten’s stentorian tones directing everyone to the supper waiting in the marquee, to the chairs and tables, and the benches and well-lit walks, to the beauty of the midsummer night.
To a person, the throng turned to the three double French doors opened wide to the terrace. Delighted, exclaiming, guests poured out of the ballroom, stepping out into the balmy evening.
She and Michael had halted on the opposite side of the ballroom, not far from the main doors. She hung back, watching, making sure everyone was heading in the right direction. Once she was satisfied no guest had failed to understand the summons, she looked up, her hand firm on Michael’s arm.
He smiled down at her. His hand covered hers. “Come with me.”
She blinked; it took a moment to comprehend his meaning. “Now?” She stared at him. “I can’t—” She looked toward the last stragglers disappearing onto the terrace.
Blinked again, then looked up at him. “We can’t…” She searched his eyes, aware her pulse had started to canter. She moistened her lips. “Can we?”
His smile deepened, his blue eyes held hers. “You’ll never know unless you come with me.”
Her hand locked in his, he led her up the main stairs. They saw no one, and no one saw them. Guests, household members, and staff were all outside on the lawns, or rushing back and forth between the kitchens and the marquee.
There was no one to hear them walk down the first-floor corridor to the small sitting room at its end. He opened the door and handed her through; she entered expecting to see chairs, chaise, and sideboard draped with holland covers. The room had been closed for years; it overlooked the side avenue and the orchard beyond.
Instead…the room had been cleaned, dusted, and swept and the covers all removed. The vase of lilacs standing on the small table before the open window suggested the when and how.
She’d forgotten the daybed. Wide, comfortable, it was now piled with cushions. Stopping beside it, she turned. And found him beside her, waiting to take her in his arms.
With confident ease, he gathered her to him and kissed her, parted her lips, sank into her mouth and claimed its softness. She met him, sank into his embrace, eagerly accepted every caress, returned them, and demanded more.
His head slanted over hers; her fingers speared through his hair and tightened on his skull as his tongue thrust deep in a definitely provocative rhythm. A rhythm that tightened her nerves, that sent heat pouring through her. And him. She wondered how much deeper, how much closer the simple intimacy of a kiss could get, how much more revealing.
The revelations were intoxicating—the hunger, the need, the simple human wanting, both his and hers. There seemed, between them at least, no disguise, no veil of propriety either sought to use to conceal the primitive nature of their desire.
Mutual desire. It had been her goal for a decade and more; in his arms, she knew it, felt it, recognized and acknowledged it. She gasped as he released her lips, then pressed her close as he trailed hot kisses from her temple to the hollow beneath her ear while his fingers undid her laces.
“Ah…” She couldn’t think all that clearly, but she did remember she had a ballroomful of guests downstairs.
“Bear with me,” he murmured. “In light of all the sharp eyes downstairs, returning with a crushed gown wouldn’t be wise.”
No, indeed. But…
His hands had earlier traced her curves, through the fine silk of her gown pressed flames and heat into her skin. The dewed flush she was starting to associate with his bolder caresses had already sprung up and raced across her more sensitive regions.
As her gown loosened, her mind belatedly caught up with his; she blinked, struggling to get her wits to work as he stepped back and drew her arms down, with his large palms slid the narrow straps of her gown over her shoulders, down over her arms—then he caught her wrists and raised them, draped her arms over his shoulders, and reached—not for her, but for her gown, for the folds that had collapsed at her waist.
She dragged in a breath, but the look on his face as he pushed the ecru silk over her hips, as the gown shush ed down to puddle about her feet, stifled her protest—one she realized was instinctive, another of her unintentional hurdles. The desire that lit his eyes as they traveled her body, revealed yet still tantalizingly concealed by her tissue-fine chemise, had her tensing, racking the delicious vise that held her one notch tighter.
The chemise’s top was gathered above her breasts; the hem fell at midthigh, flirting with her ruched silk garters. Her body, its curves and hollows, the fine thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs, were only imperfectly screened by the diaphanous fabric.
His gaze, heated and bold, looked, traced, openly cataloged; he smiled when his roving eyes reached her garters, then he lifted his gaze, slowly, until his eyes met hers.
Desire burned in the blue—she couldn’t doubt it; the same driving emotion etched the slow curve of his lips.
“I don’t suppose you?
??d consider putting me out of my misery and removing that.”
His eyes indicated her chemise, then returned to her face. Brazenly, she caught his gaze, arched one brow in query.
“I’m afraid if I touch it,” his voice deepened as his gaze dropped to her breasts, “I’ll tear it.”
For an instant, reality—prudence and propriety—intruded; resolutely, she pushed them aside. She’d realized he’d imagined her more experienced than she was; in agreeing to an affair, in taking the road she’d wanted to take and fixing on the goal she was determined to reach, she’d accepted she’d have to play to his direction.
What she hadn’t expected was that it would be so easy.
So easy to, while watching him watch her, raise her hand and tug the tiny ribbon bow nestled between her breasts undone. It slithered between her fingers, then the ends fell free.
There was only a handspan separating them; she could feel the tension holding him, feel it increase as, raising both hands, she slipped her fingers inside the chemise’s neckline and eased it wide. Until it was wide enough to fall. To her hips. With a wriggle, she freed it and it joined her gown.
Heat reached for her—a heartbeat later he did, too, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Wait.”
He froze.
For an instant, she felt giddy—dizzy with the sense of power that suffused her—that she could, with just a word, with one small hand, hold him immobile, muscles, sinews, and masculine strength locked and quivering, simply waiting on her.
On her desire.
The realization sent a rush of heat through her. Swiftly, she bent, swiped up her gown and chemise and laid them over a nearby chair. She reached for her garters—
“No. Leave them.”
The absolute command in his voice stayed her more than the words. She was straightening, turning to him, when his hands touched her bare skin.
They spread, touched, slid; he drew her to him, flush against him, then locked her in his arms. Bent his head and kissed her, ripped her wits away and sent them spinning.
Then his hold on her eased, and his hands roved her body.
Emotions ignited, rippled through her, preceptions, revelations, and more. She’d thought him hungry before; now he was ravenous. Yet his control held firm; his touch was driven, urgent, greedy, and needful, yet masterful, almost reverent in taking all she wordlessly offered.
And offer she did; her own hunger, her own desire rose to meet his. She surprised herself, pressing herself to him, eager and enticing, flagrantly inviting; she hadn’t known, not in her wildest dreams had imagined she had it in her to behave like this, wanton, abandoned, just a little wild.
She wanted more—wanted to feel his skin against hers. He was hot, so hot, and so hard. That need swelled until it became a physical ache. Driven, she drew her hands from where she’d clasped them about his nape, pressed them to his shoulders and tried to push back.
He broke from the kiss.
“Now you,” she gasped, grasping the lapels of his coat.
“The coat, but nothing else.” He suited action to the words, shrugging off his evening coat and flinging it to join her gown. “You have guests, remember?”
She blinked. “But I’m the one naked.”
His lips curved; one large hand caressed her bottom, then he gripped and drew her back to him, molding her to him, bending his head to murmur against her lips, “Not naked. You’re still wearing your stockings.”
“But—”
He kissed her—lingeringly. “Not tonight, sweet Caro.”
She was confused. “But—”
“Think of tonight as the second course in our sensual banquet.”
A sensual banquet…the thought appealed. Her hands found his shoulders, felt the heavy, shifting muscles beneath the layers of waistcoat and shirt. Felt his hands spread over her bare back, stroking, caressing, then exploring. Roving anew.
His lips returned to tempt hers. His hands shifted.
“You’re my hostess, remember? I told you I expected you to sate my appetite—you told me to help myself.”
His thumbs were cruising her breasts, teasing her nipples to painful crests; his body was hard against hers.
“So just be quiet, lie back, and enjoy it while I do.”
She had no choice—whatever his chosen road was tonight, it was outside her experience, yet she was eager to follow, to see where it led. There was no doubt in her mind, and none to color her responses; she met him freely, erected no more hurdles, nor felt compelled to create any restrictions.
Michael read her agreement in the way she allowed him to lower her to the daybed, in the way she relaxed, naked though she was, on the cushions alongside him and let him sculpt her body as he wished.
She flowed with him, with his caresses; he received her eager participation not just with inward triumph, but with a feeling very like thankfulness. He had himself, his raging lust and escalating desire, well in hand, yet if she pushed…he was increasingly certain he wouldn’t be strong enough to resist her if she sought to tempt him.
Safety, therefore, lay in reducing her to helplessness; he set about doing so, conscious of a devotion to the exercise that exceeded any such situation in the past. She captured his senses, held them enthralled in some way no other woman ever had. When, one hand splayed over her waist, he eased back from their kiss and bent his head to her breasts, he couldn’t remember a time when his whole being had been so focused, so acutely aware of taste, of texture, of tactile sensation.
When he’d reduced her to gasping moans, to arching wantonly beneath him, he replaced his lips and mouth with his fingers, and bent lower to trail kisses down to her navel. He dallied there, until her gasps came short and sharp, then nudged her thighs wide, shifted lower and settled between.
Felt the shock that gripped her. Set his lips to her soft flesh and felt the convulsive start that rocked her, that made her lungs seize, her fingers clench in his hair. Inwardly smiling, he settled to feast, to, as he’d warned her, sate his appetite—with her.
With her scent, with the apple-tart sweetness of her swollen flesh.
Caro shut her eyes tight, but that only made the sensations more intense. She couldn’t believe—hadn’t imagined…her mental protests, her very wits melted away as he pressed heat and yet more heat on her, into her, impressed intimacy upon her through yet more shockingly intimate and flagrant acts.
Yet every touch was deliberate, expertly gauged, designed and executed with one primary goal—to give her pleasure. Mind-numbing, glorious, soul-drenching pleasure. His aim became clearer with every passing minute; delight welled, swelled—until she simply let herself flow with the tide.
Let herself whirl, then rise, spinning higher and higher as he delicately sucked, lapped, probed, as he orchestrated a dizzying splendor of sensation and sent it raging through her.
Heat built until within her a furnace roared. Her nerves were tight, and only grew tighter. Her lungs were starved, her breasts swollen and aching, her body a restless knot of need. And still he pushed her on. Gave her more and more…
Until she shattered.
The bliss was deeper, longer, more intense than before. The pulsing of joy in its wake lengthened and stretched, the moment infinitely more truly intimate, infinitely more a sharing.
When she finally opened her eyes, he still lay propped between her widespread thighs, watching her face. He smiled knowingly; bending his head, he placed a kiss on her damp curls, then started kissing his way up her taut belly.
With weak hands, she reached for him, caught his shoulders and tried to tug. “Now you.”
He glanced up at her face, met her eyes, tried to smile but it turned into a grimace. “Not tonight, sweet Caro.”
She stared at him. “Not? But—”
“We’ve been absent long enough.” He eased away from her, swung his legs to the floor, then stood and looked down at her.
Still stunned, limbs weak, her wits in disarray, she blinked up at h
im.
He grinned, reached down, took her hands, and drew her to her feet. “You need to get dressed, then we need to appear again before your guests.”
He might well be right, yet…she had to own to nagging disappointment. Accepting her chemise from him, she struggled into it, trying to think. He helped her into her gown, then expertly relaced it.
She put a hand to her hair.
“Wait.”
He turned her to face him, resettled her diadem, touched the fine mass of her hair here and there, then stepped back and looked her over. Stopped at her breasts. Lifted her topaz pendant and settled it in place.
She met his eyes as they rose to hers. Searched them. Simply asked, “Are you sure?”
He didn’t ask about what. Instead, his lips lifted; bending his head, he touched them fleetingly to hers. “Oh, yes.” He straightened and his eyes met hers. “When I finally have you naked beneath me, I want at least two hours to play.”
12
Michael elected to return to the ballroom via the secondary stairs at the end of the wing. Still pleasantly aglow and a trifle distracted, Caro allowed him to guide her. They were on the landing halfway down when the sound of a door closing brought them both to silent attention.
Below, in the corridor connecting the library and Geoffrey’s study to the front hall, Ferdinand came into view. He walked confidently along; at one point, he looked around, but he failed to glance up.
Silent and still, they waited until he disappeared; they heard his footsteps fading across the hall tiles.
They exchanged a glance, then continued down. The door from which Ferdinand must have emerged led into the library. As they stepped off the stairs, it opened again; Edward stepped out. He closed the door, then started along, and saw them.
He smiled grimly. “Did you see?”
Caro nodded.
“I take it he searched?” Michael asked.