Chapter 3 #3
He pauses at the edge of my gown, giving me time to protest. When I don’t, he pushes the skirts higher, until he reaches the top of my stocking at mid-thigh, where the garter straps attach.
I should be embarrassed that he’s seeing the holes in the stockings and the frayed edges of the garter straps. But the only thing in my mind is every place where those big, thick fingers press against my leg.
Beresford lifts his index finger above the edge of the stocking and strokes the bare skin of my thigh with that one fingertip.
I want to whimper. I almost do. I want him to spread his hand over my whole thigh and slide it even higher. I want to seize his wrist and guide his fingers between my legs.
My mother gave my sister and me a fairly thorough education about sex, delivered in a no-nonsense tone and accompanied by many warnings about pregnancy and diseases.
I’ve touched myself before, but I’ve only reached orgasm twice in my life.
Both times I could barely enjoy the experience because I was so worried that it would result in a summoning.
Shortly after I began that type of experimentation, Grandmother Riquet ordered me to refrain from any sort of sexual pleasure.
I followed her directive, but I resented it for a long time.
That was one of the issues we argued about on the last day of my lessons with her.
And now a beautiful man with reckless eyes and a strange blue beard is touching my thigh, and the mere presence of his fingertips is driving me wild with need.
Without a word, Beresford removes his hand, takes the shoe, and slips it onto my foot. I watch his heavy rings flash in the moonlight as he buckles the strap.
“We shouldn’t remain here together in the dark any longer,” he says. “But if you need something more, return four nights from now.”
“Anne and Mama, too?” I ask.
“Your mother and sister will be invited to another dinner in the future, never fear. But this particular gathering would not suit them. Let’s just say that chaperones are not welcome.” He gives me a wolfish smile.
I realize that my mouth is open, and I shut it abruptly.
Beresford chuckles. “You look shocked.”
“This party… it involves debauchery?”
“Does that frighten you?”
“Yes.” For the reason he thinks, and more. Because I’m a virgin, and because I could summon something and ruin the night for everyone.
“Perhaps I can alleviate some of your concerns,” Beresford says.
“I burn a special incense at such parties, one which suppresses fertility and lowers inhibitions. Your choices will remain your own, but you’ll feel more relaxed, and you won’t have any unwanted reminders of the pleasure you choose to enjoy. ”
“Incense that is both relaxing and contraceptive?” I raise an eyebrow. “Sounds too good to be true.”
“I’ve used it for a few months, with full understanding and consent from my guests, and it works. But if you have qualms, you can certainly decline the invitation.”
I chew my lip, unsure.
“Think it over,” he says. “I’ll send the carriage for you on that night, at half past eleven.
It will wait for a quarter of an hour, then depart.
If you decide to attend, I will ensure that you have safe transportation back home before dawn, or whenever you decide to leave.
As far as the activities I have planned, you can participate as much or as little as you wish. ”
I swallow and nod. “Thank you.” I withdraw my foot, and he rises, extending a hand to help me up. I accept the offer, solely for the chance to touch him. There’s a tingling buzz between his skin and mine, everywhere our palms and fingers press together.
Rotating his hand to encircle my wrist, he tugs me closer. “If you decide to attend, you may enjoy yourself with anyone you like.” His voice is low, his eyes fierce. “But know this—I would kill for the chance to make you come.”
A shattered breath trembles on my lips. I can’t speak.
Beresford leans in, bringing his face near mine, letting his warm breath ghost over my skin as his beard tickles my cheek. “Come back inside.”
Somehow I find my voice. “Will you dance with me?”
“If I do, I will forget myself and touch you in places I shouldn’t,” he rumbles. “No, I will not dance with you, but I will introduce you to a few men who will… if you promise not to enjoy their company too much.”
My mouth is upturned to his, our breath blending as I whisper, “I promise.”
He frowns, his eyes on my lips, his face darkening as if he’s in pain.
His teeth are bared, and I feel the strain of his body through the hand clutching my wrist. His breath heaves through his clenched jaws, and for a moment I feel infinitely fragile and consumable, like delicate prey in the grip of a powerful predator.
But he lets me go. Spins on the heel of his boot and strides back toward the greenhouse.
I follow him. I smile when he introduces me to several gentlemen, including the one who nearly asked me to dance earlier. Encouraged by Beresford’s obvious approval of me, the gentleman requests my company for the waltz, and we whirl away from our host, arm in arm.
After that first dance, several other men ask for one.
I try to focus on them, to pose polite questions and make cordial conversation.
But my attention keeps straying to the tallest and broadest man in the room, the one with the blue beard and the devouring eyes.
He smiles at his companions, twirls them prettily, and makes them laugh, but his eyes find me over and over.
Every time our gazes meet, it’s a thrilling arrow to my heart.
He’s the hunter, shooting bolt after bolt into my chest, even though I want to tell him it’s enough, because he already made the killing shot.
I already belong to him.