Chapter 2
Evangeline, familiar with the Allen house, slipped out the servants’ entrance and made her way to her carriage.
She had nearly ten minutes to ponder the madness of what she was doing, feel a sense that she should stop it, and finally revolve back to her initial plan before Campion tapped at the window where she had hung a handkerchief to alert him.
The footman had barely closed the door on them before Sir Richard had her hand in his, his fingers dancing up her wrist as he unbuttoned the glove. He peeled it off as she seized the lapel of his coat and pulled him toward her.
“This is madness,” he whispered as his bare hand wrapped around her neck, turning her face up to his.
“A most delicious madness,” she agreed, before his lips were on hers, his arm around her waist, pulling her across the carriage into his lap as if she were the merest slip of a girl. Evangeline felt delirious as he pushed up her skirts.
“Where are we going?” he asked. She was straddling him on the narrow seat, her arms around his neck, his hand on her bottom, his mouth on her breast.
“A friend’s home,” she said breathlessly. “There’s plenty of time to make your escape . . .”
“Escape?” He raised his head. Even in the dim light of the single lamp, she could see the blue of his eyes. He pushed one hand up her thigh, his palm hot. “I have no wish to escape any moment you will grant me.”
His accent had grown stronger, his words tighter clipped. With her skirts up around her thighs, Evangeline could feel how aroused he was—nearly as much as she was, she realized with a shudder.
“In that case,” she whispered, winding his sandy hair around her fingers until she could tug his head back. “You will be mine until morning.” She bent her head and sucked at the skin of his neck, gratified by the tremor that went through him.
When the carriage reached Fanny’s home, she recovered herself in time to step down from the carriage calmly, grateful for the darkness that hid her flush.
She was a frequent guest at Fanny’s home, staying over so often she had a regular room.
Brumley, the Woodville butler, barely blinked when he opened the door and beheld them.
“Good evening, Brumley,” she said, holding her head high.
“Good evening, my lady,” he replied, taking her wrap, then Sir Richard’s coat and hat. The explorer appeared a bit wary now, waiting for her. “May I bring you anything?”
Evangeline smoothed her hands down her skirt. Goodness, what should she do? She had no idea how seductions were managed. She had always been the one pursued, never the pursuer. “Brandy, if you please.”
The butler bowed and she headed for Fanny’s elegant drawing room. Brumley was taking this all very much in stride, and she wondered how many times Fanny had lent friends her home for secret assignations.
Sir Richard followed, closing the door behind him, but when Evangeline faced him she could see that his mind, at least, had cooled and resumed some sensibility.
“Where—?” he began, but she stopped him, pressing her fingers to his lips.
“This is my friend’s home,” she said. “I am a frequent guest. There is nothing amiss.”
He eyed her, his pulse throbbing rapidly but his gaze alert. “No? You have done this often?”
She gave a nervous little laugh. “No, never.” She fingered the lower button of his waistcoat. “But I want it tonight. I want you tonight.”
He blinked a few times. “My lady . . .”
“My name is Evangeline,” she whispered, sliding the button loose and letting her fingers graze his stomach—flat, firm, the muscle leaping at her touch.
“Evangeline,” he breathed, his hands brushing her shoulders, only to jerk away as the door opened.
“Brandy, my lady,” said Brumley blandly, setting down his tray without meeting anyone’s eyes. “Will there be anything else?”
“Thank you, no,” she managed to say. “Good night, Brumley.”
“Good night, madam,” he replied, backing out of the room and closing the door.
For a moment the silence seemed deafening, then Sir Richard strode to the table and poured two healthy measures. “Santé,” he said, handing her one.
Evangeline raised the glass and bolted down the brandy in one go. Warm and rich, it melted away the faint hesitation that had crept in, and steadied her nerves. She was a mature, adult woman, an independent widow. Fanny was right; she deserved some pleasures.
She faced her companion. Lord above, he was gorgeous, his sun-bleached hair falling to his collar, his body tall and lean and hard, his blue gaze fixed on her. “Am I too forward?”
He paused. “No.”
She put down her glass and laid her hand on his waistcoat. “I brought you here to make love to you.”
His chest expanded under her palm. “Why not to your own house?”
She gave him a slight smile, tipping her head to one side. “It’s too far away.”
“Gott in Himmel,” he breathed, and cupped her face, pulling her to him, and she kissed him with the sort of reckless daring she hadn’t felt in years—decades.
His mouth was hot, demanding—overwhelming.
For all her singed reputation, Evangeline hadn’t been quite as wicked as many people thought.
It took only a few minutes for her to feel swept away and out of control.
His hands were in her hair now, sending the dark locks loose down her back.
She forced his jacket open and shuddered at the flex of his muscles under his linen shirt.
He ran his hands down her back and pressed her to him and she moaned at the feel of his body against hers, hard and ready.
“Not here,” he rasped, his lips on her ear. “Where—?”
Feeling drunk, she nodded. She grabbed a lamp and took his hand and led him, hurrying through the hall and up the stairs and into the room she usually stayed in when she visited Fanny.
Thankfully they met no other servants, and she dragged him inside and closed the door.
There was no fire, but it was a warm evening and she felt no chill at all as she set the lamp on the desk and stripped off her remaining glove.
Sir Richard turned her around, pushing her up against the door, holding her there with his own body. Evangeline’s bones seemed to wilt as she felt him surrounding her.
He coiled her half-undone hair around one hand and tugged, but as soon as she turned her head his hold eased.
He brushed his lips against the nape of her neck, and exhaled a long, hungry sigh that sent tremors through her.
She tried to turn but he stopped her; his hand replaced his mouth, his palm on her nape and his fingers around her throat.
Evangeline went still, her heart banging so hard inside her chest she was incapable of moving.
Holding her there, he leisurely began working on the buttons at the back of her bodice. It was a fairly small bodice, but he took his time. As he opened each button he stroked her skin, sometimes stooping to lick her, all of which made her vibrate with anticipation.
“Pull it down,” he whispered as he tugged loose the ties.
Clumsily she worked the dress down her arms, letting the dark red silk drift to the floor.
“Again,” he ordered, untying the petticoat.
She did, feeling the cool air on the backs of her bare legs. Her chemise was short, barely to the top of her thighs. She gasped and went up onto her toes as his hands slid down and cupped her bottom, squeezing firmly.
“Get on the bed,” he growled, stepping back.
She took a steadying breath. This was what she wanted .
. . almost exactly. She straightened from her pose—splayed against the door, arms and legs soft—and stepped out of the puddle of her garments.
Self-consciously she tugged her chemise down, over her round hips and plump thighs.
It had been a while since a man saw her naked . . .
If he doesn’t like what he sees, better to learn it now, she told herself. She put back her shoulders and turned to face him, chin up and hands clenched at her sides.
He was staring at her with smoldering eyes. His gaze moved down, lingering on her breasts, then down. Then back up, and down once more. The concentrated lust on his face was undeniable, and her confidence—and her own desire—roared back.
Deliberately she plucked the remaining pins from her hair, shaking her head to let the dark locks fall.
If she had one vanity, it was her hair, beautifully thick with just enough curl to be fashionable and still richly dark, despite a few gray hairs.
The fierce, focused look on his face was ample reward.
Feeling unspeakably desirable and marginally more in control, she strolled to the bed, letting her hips roll, feeling the heat of his attention. She lay back on the mattress, propping herself up on her elbows and watching him.
“Now you take off your clothes,” she said. And she set the heels of her ivory satin slippers on the edge of the bed and let her legs fall open.
Sir Richard prowled toward her, peeling off his jacket as he came. With maddening deliberation he undid the buttons of his waistcoat and stripped it off. It took him an eternity to undo his cuffs and unknot his cravat.
“Faster,” she demanded in a whisper.
He raised one brow. “You might help.”
Her chin came up. She slid to the edge of the bed and reached for the buttons on his breeches.
As she unfastened them and shoved the fabric down, he pulled the shirt over his head and stood before her, bare-chested, eyes glowing with lust, breeches clinging to his hips.
She met his gaze directly, boldly, almost challengingly, as she cupped his ballocks in both hands and lowered her head, looking away only as she closed her lips around the head of his erection.
His chest expanded with a sharp hiss, and his fingers tangled in her hair. He was pulsing with heat in her mouth, and she ran her tongue along the crest. With a muffled curse, he shoved her backward, sending her sprawling on the bed.
He leaned over her, and she lifted one foot to his chest to stay him. “Everything off,” she said softly.