Chapter 10
He was only a few inches taller than she and made no protest at the brisk pace she set.
Their elbows collided a few times until Richard slid his arm beneath hers, to support Louis.
The little dog was heavier than he looked, and Evangeline was absurdly touched by this gesture.
Louis also seemed to approve, as he began licking Sir Richard’s fingers.
They made it as far as the pond before the first patter of raindrops struck. Evangeline started to hurry, but he slowed. “Do you wish to turn back?”
She looked at him in surprise. “Of course not!”
He met her eyes, then gave a firm nod. His arm around hers tightened, holding her nearer, and they continued. The trees sheltered them fairly well, even as the rain grew steadier, but when they reached the end of the winding path toward her garden, the skies opened.
She gasped, clutching Louis with both arms. Richard’s arm went around her waist, the umbrella over their head doing a poor job of protecting them from the downpour.
They had still to cross the meadow, climb the slope, and make their way through the garden, which was already bowed down under the thundering rain.
By the time they reached the glass doors of the conservatory at the back of the house, they were nearly running, and thoroughly drenched.
“There you are, my friend,” said Richard, wrenching open the French door and depositing Louis inside.
The dog, who had been tucked into Evangeline’s pelisse and sheltered between them, was barely damp.
Louis gave himself a shake and trotted off.
Richard gave her a wild grin, reckless and alive with excitement. “I told you we would be wet!”
She laughed, but it faded quickly. He shoved aside his sodden hat to run one hand through his hair. The rambling wisteria had climbed to the roof here and sheltered them from the worst of the deluge, but raindrops ran down his temples, across his lean cheeks, over his wild, reckless mouth.
She put her hand on his chest. Even through the wet layers of wool and linen she could feel the steady thump of his heart.
He went still, his gaze sharpened, and then he took her hand.
Reverently he tugged off her glove, brushing his lips over her knuckles, then over the pulse in her wrist. Evangeline gulped back a sigh of want.
Still holding her hand as gently as he might hold a newborn kitten, he moved her fingers across his cheek, his eyes drifting closed and something like rapture in his expression.
She kissed him.
He tasted of coffee and cinnamon, and he kissed her back tenderly.
It was lovely, but Evangeline wasn’t after tender reverence; she wanted the forceful hungry lover who had devoured her four years ago, whose touch she had never forgotten.
She caught his shoulders in both hands and pushed him back against the stone wall.
Raindrops dislodged from the wisteria showered down on them, but she didn’t care.
She shoved her hands under his jacket, reacquainting herself with the feel of his body, as his hands cupped her jaw and angled her face for a deeper, devastating kiss.
When she came up for air, his arm was around her waist, her fingers were tangled in his wet hair, and both were breathing heavily.
For a moment they stared at each other, and Evangeline knew it was her last chance.
Step away, go into the house, and never see him again; or fling herself into the abyss.
“I have two conditions,” she began in a low voice. “This must be an affair between equals. Neither of us will have the keeping of the other, nor exclusive right to the other’s company or affections.”
His eyes darkened, but all he said was, “I understand.”
“And the moment either one of us wishes to end it, it will end—calmly, rationally, with no outburst of recrimination or dismay from either. We will both walk away, irrevocably.”
This time he hesitated. Evangeline realized she was clenching her teeth, and made herself take a breath. He was going to make it easy for her, rejecting her conditions . . .
“I agree,” he said, his voice dark and low. He raised her hand to his lips and murmured against her knuckles, “To anything you demand. You may have me any way you want me, whenever you want me, for as long as you want me.”
Oh God. Her knees went weak as he pressed his mouth to her wrist and traced his tongue over her racing pulse.
“Good,” she managed to say. “I want you now.”
He smiled darkly, as if he knew very well that she was all but burning with lust, and he wrapped one hand around the nape of her neck, the other arm around her waist, and guided her backwards through the open door into the conservatory.
His kiss was hot and demanding this time. Her hat came off, followed by her pelisse, as his hands roved over her possessively. “Take down your hair,” he growled, his lips skimming the side of her throat.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, and said, “In my house, I command.”
Lightning seemed to flash in his eyes. His hands dropped away from her, and he stepped back. “I await your orders, madam.”
“Take off your coat.”
He shrugged it off and let it fall.
“And boots.”
Never taking his gaze from her, he sat on the edge of a nearby chaise longue and pulled off his boots. He rose again and waited.
“The waistcoat,” she whispered. Without looking away, he began undoing the buttons.
Evangeline watched for a moment, mesmerized by the way his piercing gaze stayed fixed on her, then realized he was actually going to undress all the way.
She darted past him, around the potted palms, to quietly close the door that led to the corridor back into the house and turn the lock.
Louis was long gone, no doubt being fussed over by Solly.
The rain drummed down without respite on the slate roof above, streaking the tall windows that overlooked her flooded garden.
On sunny days, this room was filled with light, but today it felt quiet and isolated.
She returned to her spot before him, where he waited, waistcoat on the cold tile of the floor. She gazed right into his eyes as she pulled loose his cravat. He inhaled as she undid it.
“Do you object?” she asked softly, stripping the cravat away.
“No.”
She glanced at his hands, flexing at his side. “Good. Take off your shirt.”
As he opened the collar and pulled the shirt free of his trousers, she undid a button at the front of her bodice, then another. His eyes focused there, and he went still as she let her gown droop open and caressed the top of her breast.
“The shirt,” she whispered, and he whipped it off and flung it aside. Unbidden, he undid his trousers and stepped out of his remaining garments to stand before her, naked as a babe, but very, very aroused.
Her poise faltered. He stood as tall and bold as if he were fully clothed. God help her, he was just as beautiful naked as she remembered. No wonder her vow to avoid him had fallen by the wayside so quickly. She closed her eyes for a moment. She’d never had that much discipline.
“What now?” he asked quietly.
“Ah . . .” She couldn’t get enough of the sight of him. “Kiss me.”
“Very good, madam.” He closed the distance between them in one step.
He took both her hands, kissed each one, then clasped them both in his left hand and raised them above her head.
His right hand traced down her throat, toward her partially bared breast. “If you wish me to stop,” he breathed, his lips almost on hers, “you have but to say.”
She was trembling. “Don’t stop . . .”
He pressed light, tantalizing kisses over her face and neck while leisurely undoing the rest of her gown with one hand. When the front sagged open, he forced down the front of her stays until her breast was free. She arched into his palm, unabashedly rubbing against him as he fondled her.
“Exquisite,” he murmured, rolling the nipple between his fingers.
“Show me,” she gasped, writhing. He was naked, pressed against her, and she was rapidly regretting taking control. He was obviously paying her back with this relentless, patient, torture.
He bent and took her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard until she moaned. His tongue stroked over her flesh, up, under, over.
“Hold,” he whispered, drawing her hands down and pressed them into fabric. Her skirt, she realized in a daze, which he had rucked up without her even noticing. Clumsily she gripped the fabric, and his hand slid neatly between her thighs, stroking right up to the slit in her pantalets.
“There,” he murmured, his fingers sliding through the wet folds, teasing her. “Here.” He curved two fingers inside her and did something that made her surge onto her toes and give a high-pitched gasp. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his lips against her ear.
“That,” she sobbed. “More.”
“What else?” His thumb was circling, stroking, and her legs were shaking. A tear ran down her cheek.
With terrific effort she forced herself to focus, to look him in the eye. “Take me.”
A shudder went through him. “Like that?”
Hard, he meant; roughly, without delicacy or tenderness. She managed to nod. It had been four years since she’d had complete satisfaction. Only he had done that for her. She felt feral and wild with dammed-up desire.
He gripped her hand, hiking her skirts higher. His wicked fingers slipped out of her body and caught her knee, pulling it up around his hip. She almost lost her balance before he cupped his hands under her bottom, pulled her up onto her toes, and thrust into her.
“Oh God,” she whimpered. He withdrew, and slid his hand back down her thigh to settle on her aching sex before he thrust home hard once again, pinning her against the wall behind her.
She let go of her skirt and put her hands on him, on hot, firm flesh, on muscles that tensed and flexed, and all the while he worked himself deeper into her body as his fingers sent her spiraling into a hard, abrupt climax.
She made an inarticulate noise of release. He bent his head, sucking at the skin at the side of her neck, then pulled back and lifted her, carrying her as if she were just a slip of a girl, to the chaise, where he set her down.
“That makes a good beginning,” he said, his color high.
“What?” She could barely hear him over the pounding of her heart.
He laid her back and deftly rolled her skirts up around her waist. He hadn’t climaxed, she realized with a jolt, as he spread her legs apart, each off the side of the chaise, leaving her fully bared. “Now,” he said in an ominous voice, “we reach the lovemaking.”
Later, Evangeline would almost believe lightning must have struck her that day.
Richard opened her bodice and applied himself to her breasts until she writhed.
He didn’t seem bothered by her clothing, or his lack of it, but worked his way steadily under it until every inch of her skin felt alive with nerves.
The backs of her knees tingled. But every time she felt a climax approaching, he would shift and change, tormenting some new part of her body until she was ready to weep from frustration.
“Please,” she begged at last. Her hair was down in a tangle around her face, her dress was falling off, and she was behaving like the most sinful wanton alive, and all she wanted was for him to hold her down and give her the release she craved.
“Over,” he said, breathing hard. “On your knees.”
Shaking, she turned over onto her hands and knees. His hands settled on her hips. “Look up,” he said, his voice guttural and raspy.
Evangeline peered up through the disarray of her hair and realized that with the stormy sky outside so dark, they were reflected in the window of the conservatory.
She was a dim shape on the chaise, her fine green dress hanging off her, but he was clearer, golden skin and lightning blue gaze, watching her.
He thrust into her. Evangeline gasped, her hands fisting on the cushions and her spine bowing.
He pulled back, then drove home. She moaned.
He slipped one hand beneath her, between her legs, and stroked her there as he began moving, slow and hard.
She felt him take a firm grip on the folds of her dress, bunched up around her waist, and increase the tempo of his thrusts.
He didn’t stop until she came apart, gasping and sobbing. Her elbows gave way and she collapsed onto her face. He moved twice more, then froze, pulling her dress so tightly she dimly heard the fabric rip, and then she felt him come, shuddering and whispering frantically in a foreign tongue.
A moment later he shifted his weight. With a soft thump, he collapsed onto his back on the floor beside the chaise where she still sprawled, on her face, legs spread wide, hair everywhere, feeling better than she ever had in her life.
“That,” he said between gulping breaths, “was incredible.”
She laughed, pulling herself to the edge of the chaise to peer down at him. “Your English is faulty,” she murmured. “The correct word is incendiary.”
Eyes closed, he smiled. “It was both. I am bereft of all languages at the moment.”
God above, he was beautiful, stretched out naked on her floor.
She reached down and trailed her fingers down his chest, through the golden-brown hair, and after a moment he put his hand over hers.
Not to stop her exploration, but to simply press her palm to his breast, where she could feel the rapid thump of his heart.
She could so easily grow accustomed to this.
It was a dangerous thought.
Evangeline sat up, clutching her ruined clothing to her chest. “Come,” she told him.
He opened his eyes but didn’t move. “Where?”
She stood, and smiled down at him, holding out her hand. “With me.”