Chapter 8 #3
“Damned hoops,” he said. Then his mouth was on hers and she gave way instantly, her lips parting to his, her hands reaching up into his hair. To hold him.
As though there was any danger of his running away.
He’d never run away. It was always she.
He had her now, though, and all the balked lust of yesterday exploded into life at the first taste and touch. Their kiss was deep and wild, nothing civilized about it at all, but he was worlds away from civilization at this moment.
He broke away from her mouth to press his face into her neck and drink in the scent of her while his hands slid over the silk and lace encasing her.
He was heatedly aware of her hands moving over him.
She wasn’t afraid to touch. She wasn’t afraid to explore his body.
Far from it. Her hands stole under his coat and waistcoat, and dragged over the front of his shirt.
Then those restless hands moved behind and lower, to grasp his buttocks and press him closer. She rubbed herself against him.
He slid his hands over the silk and ruffles and the frustrating layers between them. He wanted skin, but the dress entranced him. The silk draped over the hoops was the most sensuous and seductive of traps, yielding to the pressure of his hands and billowing up again when he released them.
He grasped a fistful of silk and ruffles and lifted up the front of the dress. The silk and lace whispered against his coat sleeve while he reached under and his fingers slid over her stocking and upward, to pause on a garter.
Red.
No drawers.
His hand stole upward, to skin.
She moved against his hand. He trailed his finger upward, to the junction of her thigh.
“Oh,” she said.
She was so soft in that softest of places.
“Oh.” She squirmed against his hand.
Then, “Oh!” she said, and pushed him away. Hard.
So hard that he dropped the front of her dress and stumbled backward.
Then he heard the approaching footsteps.
It was then that he came to his senses—or as close as he could get. He looked down in despair at the incriminating evidence: his cock standing at attention, a great bulge straining at the flap of his breeches.
He bent down and made a show of helping her gather up her train. He was explaining the most efficient way of carrying it when her father rounded the corner and stalked toward them.
“Marchmont,” he said. “I want a word with you.”
She’d heard the door shut shortly after she left the drawing room. She’d known it was Marchmont behind her. She knew his step, and she’d trained herself to hear far stealthier footfalls than his.
All the same, she was amazed she’d heard her father coming. All the world had narrowed to Marchmont and what he did to her. She could not remember when anyone or anything had absorbed her as fully as he did when he kissed and caressed her.
She really needed to meet other men.
“You’d better go to your maid,” Marchmont told her.
“Not yet,” said Lexham. “This involves Zoe, too.”
Marchmont’s countenance, which had been almost human a moment ago when he’d got her all stirred up, reverted to its usual tell-nothing expression.
It was a face she couldn’t marry, couldn’t think of marrying: a beautiful house with all the doors closed and the windows drawn. The women in his life would always be shut out.
And she, unlike most of them, would know what he used to be and could envision what he might have become.
She’d heard his laughter and watched his face before, in the drawing room.
She’d seen and felt him come alive when he pushed her against the wall and when she thought he’d ravish her and it hadn’t occurred to her to do anything but let him.
Then she’d been caught up in the excitement and danger. It was so deliciously wicked, in the corridor, with her hoop petticoats going up and down like ocean waves. It was thrilling, too, knowing that any minute she and Marchmont might be caught.
The trouble was, any minute they might be caught and he’d think he had to marry her. So would everyone else.
Her body liked the idea, too much. Her heart and mind and pride knew better. When she wed, she wanted an eager and happy and, yes, loving bridegroom. She did not want a man doing his duty—no matter how beautiful and exciting he was and how wild he made her when he touched her.
“Perhaps we ought to adjourn to a less public environment,” said Marchmont.
Papa stared at him. “What’s brought on this attack of stuffiness? The trials of managing Zoe into respectability? But if it were easy, Marchmont, then anyone could do it, and you’d be bored.” He held up a thick envelope. “Know what this is, Zoe?”
“It looks official. Like the Sultan’s firman.”
Papa laughed. “You’re close, child. Only observe the seal.
This is your invitation. Arrived a moment ago, direct from Carlton House.
” He clapped Marchmont on the shoulder. “Lady Lexham will be in alt. I know you said it would come. I know my girls are all in a frenzy about it. But my lady didn’t want to get her hopes up. ”
The frozen expression on Marchmont’s face melted slightly.
“But that’s weeks away, I understand,” Lexham went on. “And my lady and I agree with Zoe that she needs to practice her social skills before that. With strangers. Men, in particular. She’s had all the experience she needs in dealing with women, and she is a woman herself.”
Marchmont’s gaze slanted briefly at Zoe before returning to her father. “Men,” he said. “You want her to meet men.”
“Other men,” Zoe said.
“She suggested it last night,” Papa said.
Marchmont looked at her. He gave very little away, but she was trained to notice. His eyes held some emotion, and it didn’t seem to be relief.
She told herself it was stupid to try to read his mind. They had been interrupted in a moment of passion. His mind would be muddled with balked lust.
“Mama said we could have a small dinner party,” she said.
“With men,” said Marchmont.
“No more than twenty guests,” said Lexham.
“With a lot of men she doesn’t know,” said Marchmont.
“That’s the point,” Zoe said. “I need to practice how to behave with men I don’t know.”
“But I’ll want your help with the list, Marchmont,” said Papa. “I’m liable to fill the places with a lot of fusty politicians.”
“They must be the kind of men who’ll wish to talk to me and dance with me and flirt with me,” said Zoe. “The kind of men who might wish to marry me.”
“He understands,” said Papa. “Eligible men, of course. He’ll know who’s most suitable, in the circumstances.”
“Eligible men,” said Marchmont.
“We shall give Zoe an opportunity to dip her toes into the social waters in a small way, among those disposed to accept her, before she tackles the mob at the Queen’s House.”
“Dip her toes, yes,” Marchmont said. “I beg your pardon if I seem preoccupied. I quite agree, and I should be happy to help you with the guest list, but the present time is inconvenient. Zoe and I have an appointment to see a man about a horse. Then we must have her measured for a saddle and riding habits.”
“Ah, yes,” said Papa, “I meant to attend to that. We had a bit of a to-do yesterday, I understand. Threw Priscilla into a panic. But Zoe always did that, I reminded her. You remember, don’t you, Marchmont?”
“Yes.”
“You needn’t worry about the horse, Papa,” Zoe said. “Marchmont will take care of that. But he’s right. We cannot stop now. I must change out of these contraptions.”
“In any event, I should want some time to decide exactly who merits the honor of meeting Zoe before the Queen does,” said Marchmont. “I’ll send a list tomorrow.”
“Splendid,” said Papa. He clapped Marchmont on the shoulder. “Well, then, run along, Zoe. Mustn’t keep the horses waiting.”
“I beg you, don’t run,” said Marchmont. “But do make haste.”
There was only one man in all the world whose opinion and respect meant anything to Marchmont.
To debauch that man’s daughter—under his roof!—was the act of the most swinish of scoundrels.
He and Zoe had had a narrow escape. The error must not be repeated. Marchmont must be on his guard against her at all times, because she was not going to guard herself.
Besides, she wanted to meet other men.
Marchmont stuffed the hooped petticoats and the frothy silk gown into the special mental cupboard. He stuffed the low-cut bodice there, too. He shut the door and turned his mind firmly to Zoe’s horse and saddle and habit.
She wanted to meet other men, and rightly so.
Her only trouble was an inability to say no.
She simply needed close chaperonage.
She must have realized this, because when she came downstairs a miraculously short time later, she had her maid with her, armed with the ever-present umbrella.
He and Zoe behaved with unfailing correctness all the way to Tattersall’s and during the time they spent there. They did not relax propriety for an instant, all the time at the saddlery and thereafter, during the purchase of a dozen riding dresses, the first of which was promised for Monday.
The errands completed, Marchmont took an immaculately polite leave of her and she of him.
Then he went home and drove himself mad selecting and discarding the names of eligible gentlemen. After which he dressed and went out and got very drunk.
The following morning, while nursing a headache, he tore up the list and wrote another one. He tore that up and wrote another. Two dozen tries later, he summoned a footboy to deliver the list of recommended invitees to Lord Lexham.
Marchmont did not return to Lexham House. She didn’t need him, he told himself. Her sisters would ready her for the presentation.
Perhaps he’d see her at the dinner party. If he decided to go. If he had nothing better to do. He wouldn’t be needed there. Her parents could watch her well enough. She’d get no opportunities to not say no.
She wanted to meet other men. She was quite right. It was perfectly reasonable. He should have thought of it himself, in fact.
He did not ask himself why he hadn’t.