Chapter 18
Thalia blinked hard, half-expecting the scene to rearrange itself in front of her eyes.
But no, it stayed the same. Christian was kneeling before her, fingers curled around her knees. She could feel the back of the settee digging in below her shoulder blades. The rough grain of the cushion stretched beneath her fingertips.
The novels she had read talked often of love and romance but generally in a distant, vague way. The heroine might share a kiss or two or swoon at the very thought of her beloved, but that all seemed rather chaste.
The thumping, pulsing sensation between her legs was very different to what she’d read about. In fact, there had been no mention at all of the hot, tight feeling in her chest, the feeling that made her swallow reflexively even though her mouth was dry.
In short, she felt that the novels had left her thoroughly unprepared for this.
“I don’t understand,” she rasped. It felt like the proper thing to say at that moment.
Christian surged up on his knees, pressing against her.
His fingers slid around the side of her neck, coming to rest on her nape.
He kissed her, lips hot and tasting of alcohol.
It occurred to her that it was whiskey, one of the liquors that gentlemen enjoyed but ladies weren’t expected to partake in.
When he pulled back, the room spun around her. The leafy garlands around them stretched in, shivering, and she closed her eyes, giddy.
“You may leave if you like,” Christian whispered, his breath warm against her cheek. “The door is locked, but you can easily unlock it from the inside.”
Her breath tangled in her throat. “I… I don’t want to go.”
The words were out before she could weigh them. She was a little startled to realize that they were true, that she desperately wanted to see what Christian would do next.
On a more selfish note, she wanted to see where the coiling feeling inside her gut might lead her.
Christian grinned, eyes crinkling like a fox’s. He kissed her again, more slowly, and then moved his lips to her neck. It was just like when they had kissed at the art gallery. Heat flared inside her, fluttering, trying to escape.
His hand curled around her hip, a warm weight. The touch made her squirm for some reason that she did not quite understand. She was tempted to press her hip into his palm, but that felt decidedly wrong, so she didn’t.
His hand explored, sliding up her side, tracing her ribs, trailing across her belly. Her muscles tensed in the wake of his hand, and she bit her lower lip hard to hold back a whimper. Why did his touch affect her so much?
It wasn’t as if she was a stranger to touch.
She hugged Augusta all the time. She hugged Laura.
She was fairly sure that she and Laura had walked through the park with their arms wound around each other’s waists, and Laura might even once have rested her hand on Thalia’s hip, almost like her brother did now.
And yet this was so different. Thalia barely noticed Laura’s touch, just like she barely noticed Augusta’s or even Jonathan’s when he used to hug her and hold her hand when they were younger. How strange that the same touch could feel so very different.
Christian’s lips moved back to hers. The tip of his tongue traced her lower lip, and she slackened her jaw, allowing him entry. Kissing, it turned out, was not as unappealing as novels made it look. There was no mandatory swooning afterward, and nobody died of joy or sorrow.
Her skin prickled when his hand slid lower, following the line of her thighs. Both of his hands moved now, inching downward to cup her knees again, ending where he’d begun.
Is that it? Thalia thought when he pulled away.
It was hard to disguise her disappointment. The pulsing in her gut had only just begun to sharpen, and it felt very much like the beginning of something instead of the end.
Christian pulled back, sitting down on his heels, and grinned up at her. That grin took her breath away.
Oh, this isn’t over. I daresay it’s barely begun.
He tugged at the hem of her skirts, gently gathering the material and pushing it up over her knees. Thalia dug her fingertips into the cushion beneath her.
It was only her calves, her modestly stockinged calves.
Still, everybody knew that it wasn’t proper to show one’s ankles to a gentleman.
It just wasn’t. It was the reason ladies had to ride side-saddle to avoid displaying their ankles and calves and, heaven forbid, knees to anybody who might care to look.
Even though calves weren’t very pretty, and ankles were just ankles, and it would be so much easier to wear breeches in any case.
Christian’s warm fingers curled around her ankles, effectively interrupting her train of thought. She exhaled raggedly, finding his eyes in the gloom and holding them.
He watched carefully, almost thoughtfully, as his fingers inched upwards. The gentle touch curved over her calves and around her knees once more. Her skirts bunched around his arms.
When his fingertips traced a line along her thigh, she gave another gasp. Her legs seemed to slacken of their own accord, and when he gently nudged her knees, her legs fell apart without conscious thought. His fingertips skimmed the outside of her thigh, almost up to her hipbone.
She wore a shift under her petticoats, of course, but nothing beneath it. There was no need since it wasn’t yet her time of the month. So when he slid his fingers up her inner thigh, he touched her bare skin.
The shiver ran the length of her whole body. A moan bubbled up her throat and tumbled out of her mouth, startlingly loud. Eyes widening, she clapped a hand over her mouth.
Christian glanced up, eyes dark.
“I would encourage you to make as much noise as you like,” he breathed, “but perhaps not this time. I don’t want hordes of curious guests descending on the conservatory, searching for the source of the noise.”
Just as Thalia managed to fix that mortifying image in her mind, his fingers slid through her wet folds.
It went without saying that she had never been touched there before.
A rush of terrifying pleasure shot through her, intense enough to make her grip the edge of the settee hard enough to make the wood creak. She gasped aloud and pressed her other hand over her mouth once more.
Again, his fingers slid through her folds, then pressed upwards against a certain point that made her thighs quiver.
“I do believe you like that,” he whispered. “Am I correct?”
She nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak.
“Should I stop, or should I continue?”
Oh, he was teasing her now.
Thalia gulped audibly, trying desperately to force back her gasps and moans enough to speak. When that didn’t work, she settled for an earnest nod.
Christian’s wicked grin stretched wider.
“I ought to make you speak,” he purred, fingers moving in a slow, thoughtful rhythm against her. “I ought to make you beg. But perhaps I might take pity on you, just this once.”
Pity? Thalia thought, faintly outraged.
But there was no time to retort. No time at all.
Leaning forward, Christian pushed up her skirts higher so that they pooled around her hips. That left her legs bare, exposed to the cool air. Goosebumps lifted on her skin at once, and she swallowed thickly.
Modest young women were not naked; everybody knew that. Even in the bath, they’d wear shifts. Thalia certainly did. When the time came to change, she would put on her clothes as quickly as possible, hiding her pale flesh and not looking in the mirror.
Christian wanted to look at her. Twin red spots appeared on his cheeks as his gaze trailed over her bare legs. He cleared his throat, gaze flicking up to hers once more, before he gently pushed her knees further apart.
This time, when he leaned forward, it wasn’t his fingers he slid against her, but his mouth.
The sensation was so different. All softness with the right amount of pressure. His tongue slid against her sex, like a kiss, and his stubble scratched her inner thighs. A strangled gasp escaped her throat. Pleasure began sharp inside her, coiling around her gut and groin, intensifying.
Where was it going to go? She felt as though she might burst. Her skin prickled, her spine stiffened.
Almost imperceptibly, Christian’s movements quickened.
He shifted, nudging her thigh up and over his shoulder.
The brush of his soft hair against the inside of her thigh made her bite her lip hard, tasting copper.
The angle changed, and she shuddered, letting her head fall back.
His fingertips dug into her leg, a blunt pain that she hardly noticed.
“Oh, Christian,” she breathed.
Then, climax crashed over her, an explosion inside, a burst of sharp pleasure that left her gasping and shivering, spine arching, fingers digging into the cushion beneath her.
Only when the pleasure had finally begun to ebb—it lasted for a full, glorious minute, she was sure of that—did Christian pull back. He let her leg slip from his shoulder.
Thalia, still struggling to catch her breath, stared at him. His eyes were dark and hungry, hair disheveled. Even in the gloom, she could see a little redness around his mouth and a sheen of wetness.
Delicately, he withdrew a handkerchief and dabbed at his mouth. Then he used the same handkerchief to wipe her inner thighs. She shifted, suddenly realizing that there was a lot of wetness between her legs. Where had it come from?
That had not been all that couples did; Thalia was sure of that. Ladies weren’t supposed to know about such things, and everybody knew that. Their mothers might modestly tell them the truth on the eve of their weddings, ideally couched in euphemisms and vague references.
It was far more likely that a lady would go to her husband’s bed on the night of her wedding unaware of what awaited her. The novels certainly didn’t touch on the act at all, except for when a pious and courageous heroine might avoid being ravished.
The story of Pamela and her lecherous employer came to mind. That book had not been a favorite of Thalia’s. She had thrown the book at the wall when she realized what the ending was going to be.
“You seem preoccupied,” Christian remarked coolly, although there was a catch in his voice. “What are you thinking about?”
There was no time to think of a lie.
“Pamela,” Thalia managed weakly.
He blinked. “What, the novel Pamela? With that wretchedly prim heroine? The one who faints to avoid being ravished?”
“Yes, that’s her,” she answered, brightening. “You’ve read it?”
“Unfortunately, I have,” he snorted, putting away the handkerchief.
Leaning forward, he carefully tugged down her shift first, then the layers of petticoats. Last of all, he straightened her skirt. There was a nasty crease in the front of the blue silk, but hopefully, she could explain that away.
“I hadn’t imagined that we would talk about novels,” he remarked, sounding faintly amused.
When he rose to his feet, Thalia flinched, eyeing him uncertainly.
“I… I am not sure I can get to my feet,” she stammered. “My legs seem to have turned to jelly.”
His eyebrow arched. “I appreciate the compliment. Nevertheless, you must try. We’ll both be missed soon enough.”
Missed.
That fateful word brought to mind images of Jonathan and Augusta racing around the party looking for her, growing increasingly frantic. She felt a stab of guilt in her gut.
Swallowing, she took Christian’s outstretched hand. His fingers were warm and a little damp, and that could only be from touching her. The thought made fresh heat surge through her, which was a little terrifying. Hadn’t his touch calmed her desire? Instead, it seemed to have stoked it further.
That is not good, considering that we’ll be parting ways sooner rather than later.
She hauled herself to her feet. As expected, her legs were a little unsteady, but it was nothing she could not manage. At last, when she was steady enough, he released her.
She opened her mouth, presumably to take her leave—she really had no idea what to say to him or how to look at him after what had happened—but he slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her against him hard. She gave an undignified squeak.
“You see what I mean?” Christian whispered, his voice low and amused. “You belong to me, my dear. Not all men are created equal, nor do they all learn the same skills. Don’t assume that any man’s touch could make you feel the way I do.”
“Yes, so I gathered,” she managed weakly. “Since I was dancing with Mr. Pembroke earlier and felt nothing like that.”
Christian’s lips twitched as he bit back a smile. “That is fair enough.”
Suddenly, footsteps sounded outside, and both of them froze. Thalia clung to him, and he tightened his arm around her waist. If they pulled apart, the movement might draw the attention of whoever might be walking outside.
Two blurry figures trudged past, one of them carrying a lantern.
Deep in conversation, they didn’t even glance up at the conservatory.
They both wore the same clothes, as far as Thalia could tell.
Ugly yellow coats with black trim. That was what Lady Pembroke’s footmen wore.
They walked past without a second glance, and she let out a long, ragged sigh.
At last, Christian released her. Her waist felt a little cold without his arm around it.
“I shall call on you tomorrow regarding the notes,” he declared shortly, stepping back.
The movement cast his face into shadow, so she couldn’t get a good look at his expression.
“Not tomorrow,” she said.
He snorted. “Why, are you busy?”
She placed her hands on her hips and glared in the direction of what she hoped were his eyes. “Yes, I am, actually. I am spending time with someone I truly care for.”
The atmosphere shifted almost imperceptibly, and he leaned forward.
“Oh?”
She tilted her chin. “I am talking about the orphans at St. Sarah’s. I volunteer there as often as I can.”
He seemed to relax at that.
“Even better,” he uttered brusquely. “I imagine there’s more privacy at the orphanage than there is in your house, with your brother and stepmother watching our every move. I shall meet you there, then.”
Without giving her the chance to agree or disagree, he turned away and strode to the door. Unlocking it, he slipped out into the night and left it swinging.
Thalia stared at the open door, heart hammering.
What on earth have I gotten myself into? More to the point, where will it end?