Chapter 3
Three
Blue velvet curtains trimmed in gold braid were drawn across the long windows, and in the soft light of the candelabra on the mantel, the library seemed like a flowery cave.
There was, indeed, a bottle of champagne perspiring in a silver bucket, and twin goblets on the floor next to the rose-colored fainting couch.
Elizabeth was gazing at the books that filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves.
“Magnificent,” she breathed.
Magnificent, he knew he should respond, and then begin the seduction Anne demanded. Magnificent, the word he needed came easily to mind. “You enjoy reading?” he asked instead.
“Does that surprise you?” She turned to him with a beguiling smile. “The notion that there is more in my head than the latest fashions and the current dance steps?”
“I suspect that even if I should know you for a hundred years, Elizabeth Harcrest, I would still discover things about you that surprised me.”
“Very good,” she said, returning her attention to the shelves. “Most men seem to think women are simple creatures and believe they understand everything there is to know about us.”
“Like your brother?”
“Like my brother,” she chuckled, “until he fell in love with Alix. Now he knows better.”
Alix, Al-ix. The sharp syllables of the name seemed to echo the ticking of the ebony and gilt clock on the mantelpiece. Alix, the reason he was here in the room with Elizabeth. The reason he must move quickly.
“I am well aware that women are complex creatures.” He walked over to the fainting couch and drew the champagne out of its bed of ice. “And that is why they fascinate me.” The cork popped and bubbles escaped in a foamy hiss down the side of the bottle.
“Oh, no.” Elizabeth reached quickly for the glasses on the floor. “Let me help you.” Kneeling, she held the flutes up for him to fill.
He was beyond help. He poured the sparkling wine and glanced at the pearly face of the clock: twenty before one. In twenty minutes, he’d be beyond redemption.
He clinked his glass with hers.
“I don’t see Elizabeth.” Rafe Moreham searched the Dinsmores’ ballroom for what seemed like the hundredth time and frowned. “Has anyone any idea where she’s gone?”
“Good Lord, Moreham,” Cole said, gesturing at the crowded dance floor. “She’s probably caught up in the crush.” He shook his head, murmuring audibly enough for his friend to hear, “Next thing you know the poor fellow will want to post guards in the retiring rooms.”
“In the case of my half sister, it’s not an entirely bad idea. I knew I should have convinced Louisa to accompany us.”
“Rafe,” Alix said, shaking her head, “you know how Louisa abhors crowds and noise. She’d have gotten a megrim simply walking through the door.”
“The Dinsmores do have that effect on a number of people,” Cole added.
“Baiting Moreham like a bear when he’s worrying over Elizabeth will only get you swiped,” Phoebe advised, slipping her arm through her husband’s.
“Not to worry, love, I can best him with a sword. Of course,” he added lightly, “if he insists on pistols, that’s another thing entirely.”
Rafe tugged at the watch fob hanging beneath his green and gold embroidered waistcoat.
“Quarter of one. I leave her unattended for less than a half hour and she disappears.” Blast the girl—why can’t she ever stay put?
“You and Phoebe take the left side of the ballroom,” he directed tersely.
“Alix and I shall search the right. If you don’t find her, look outside and see if she’s out on the veranda.
” Then I’ll check the portrait gallery, he thought grimly.
“Most likely she’s stepped out for some air,” Alix said gently. “It’s beastly hot in here and, no doubt, she’s perishing in that velvet wrap you insisted she wear.”
“That gown was cut too low! It didn’t look a bit like the drawings the modiste showed me… It revealed far too much…” His words trailed off and he gestured vaguely in the region of his chest.
“Bosom,” Cole offered. “She’s of marriageable age, Moreham. That’s why you brought her out. As for her breasts…”
“That’s my little sister you’re talking about,” Rafe growled warningly.
“Try to think of them like teeth on a horse, men like to get a glimpse of ’em before they decide whether to buy.”
“I’ll be certain to remind you of that, Davenport, when you finally father a girl.”
“After four boys, I suppose it’s a possibility.”
“I think it’s time we split up and searched for Elizabeth,” Phoebe suggested, a shade too brightly.
James Dinsmore’s eyes followed the dip of Elizabeth’s collarbone down the smooth slope of her breasts into the concealing wrap of her mantelet. “You must be warm, sitting so close to the fire.”
Flames from the hearth behind them reflected gold in her eyes, mingling with the natural copper and green. “I like the heat,” she said, even as she loosened the velvet around her waist, letting the fabric slide, ever so slightly, down her shoulders.
Then let me show you more. The words sprang with practiced ease into his mind, but would not leave his mouth. “Don’t you think you should return to the dance?”
“I’ve had enough of dancing,” she said, lowering her glass. “Haven’t you?”
“Elizabeth…your reputation…”
“Is safe. In a crush like this, I doubt anyone saw us leave.”
“In a crush like this, where people cannot move, they have little to do besides stand and watch…”
“And speaking of reputations, aren’t you supposed to be a notorious libertine?” Still seated on the floor, she wriggled closer to where he sat on the fainting couch. “I’ve never been kissed by a libertine.”
“And have you been kissed by a great many men?” He smoothed a stray chestnut curl from her forehead.
“A dancing master, a French tutor, and a footman.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “But I was very young when I kissed the footman.”
“You are still very young.” His hand drifted to her cheek, soft as the velvet wrap that had slipped from her shoulders.
The clock chimed a quarter to the hour.
He reached down and grasped the fabric gathered about her elbows, pulling it—and her—closer. “You have much to learn.”
“I know that.” She smiled, impishly, up at him. “Why else would I be here?”
“Then let the lessons begin,” he whispered, burying his regrets within the sweet recesses of her mouth.
“Moreham.” Anne Dinsmore affected an air of concern, one she’d practiced for nearly an hour in front of her mirror that afternoon.
“You look worried. Is something wrong? Have you lost something?” she asked, glancing about the floor.
“A button? An earbob?” As she straightened, she saw Rafe cast a questioning look at his wife and Alix respond with an almost imperceptible, negative shake of her head.
“In a crowd such as this,” Anne continued with a gesture that set the scarlet ribbons at her elbow fluttering, “delicate things can so easily be caught underfoot and crushed. I once had a diamond hairpin that belonged to the third Duchess of Dinsmore. It slipped unnoticed from my hair and, by the time I found it, it was ruined beyond repair. Shall I call a footman to help?”
“It is nothing,” Rafe replied, “nothing you need trouble your staff over, Lady Anne. We were just discussing…”
“Louisa,” Alix said, finishing the sentence for her husband. “She’s caught a bit of a chest cold, I’m afraid.”
“And we were wondering whether we should leave early to make sure her condition has not worsened,” Rafe concluded.
“If my dear mother were still alive,” Anne said, clasping a hand to the flat of her chest, “I know I should feel the same. If you need make your farewells early, I assure you, I shall not take the slightest offense. As a matter of fact, I shall have your coach brought round to the front of the line right now. It will be waiting at the ready.”
“That is most kind of you, Lady Anne.”
“It is nothing.” She waved dismissively. Then, as if just noticing Elizabeth’s absence, she said, “But where is Lady Elizabeth? Surely you will want to let her know that you are planning to leave…”
“I believe she is dancing with Thomas Stirling,” Rafe said smoothly.
“A charming gentleman,” Anne said, nodding approvingly.
“Well then, if there is nothing I can do here, I will be off to the library. My father has had some improvements made, and when I described them to Lady Morton and some of the others, well, nothing would satisfy them but to see the room for themselves. Would you care to join us? You both have such impeccable taste. I should be delighted to hear your impressions…”
Rafe shook his head.
“Ah, well,” she sighed, “I do hope you change your mind and decide to stay at least a tiny bit longer. I have arranged a number of entertainments for this evening that I’ve no doubt you will all find most diverting.”
Champagne and sugar cakes, James thought, as he tasted Elizabeth’s lips.
An odd combination of sophistication and sweetness, much like the womanly girl he held in his arms. Soft lips.
He traced them with his tongue and she parted them.
He entered, not with ferocity, but with tender, ticklish exploration.
Each dip of his tongue a little deeper, until at last she drew him in, demanding more.
He was sitting on the couch, Elizabeth between his knees.
He pulled her up against him, hands sliding up the arms that tangled around his neck. And down. He caressed the draped curve of her arms.
“That tickles, James,” she giggled, breaking their kiss.
He looked down at her rosy face and smiled, his blue eyes burning like the deepest part of a fire. “But does this?”
His hands moved lower, following the downward curve of her breasts, then trailed his thumbs under and up, toward the tips straining against silk. As his thumbs brushed against her nipples, he heard her sudden intake of breath.
“I didn’t think so,” he whispered. His thumbs swept round them, like the relentless hands on the clock; James glanced briefly at the mantel—ten minutes before one.
“Shall I stop?” he whispered, his teeth nipping at the silken lobe of her ear, knowing that he should.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Not yet.” And leaned into his hands.
The heat of her, the scent of her, the taste, drove all thoughts from his head.
But he could feel. And he wanted to feel her beneath him.
Needed to feel her there. His hands slid down her back, sweeping aside folds of velvet, crushing layers of padding and petticoat, until he felt the firm backs of her thighs.
Still kissing her, he lifted her up. Her body pressed hard against him, nearly as hard as the length of him.
Dear God, to be rid of the layers of satin and silk, muslin and cambric that separated them!
He laid her back against the couch, settling between her legs, mouth and hands desperately seeking naked flesh.
He kissed her eyes, her nose, brushed a farewell kiss against her lips as his mouth descended to her neck.
She surrendered this smooth white property to him, bending her head back so he could more fully explore its curves and hollows.
Like a thief craving riches, he plundered and moved on, toward the ripe promise of her breasts.
He slid his hands to her shoulders, pushing her gown down, down.
She arched up, freeing her aching flesh as he longed to free his… Would there be time?
“Oh please, God, yes!” Unwittingly Elizabeth gave shuddering voice to his own silent prayers.
And please, God, no. His mouth shaped the word no, his lips rounded just enough to suck a nipple in, and savor it with his tongue.
Round and round his tongue swirled, again like the hands of a clock, only this time maddeningly fast, time sped up and crazed.
Elizabeth arched against him, filling his mouth with the fullness of her breast. He turned his attention to the other, licking, kissing, suckling.
Her nipples were wet, slick with his attentions.
Between her legs he knew she must be wetter still.
If only he could find his way through the tangled labyrinth of fabric that lay between them.
If he could pull her skirts up… He lifted his hips from hers; it was torture.
He tugged. She helped him; it was madness.
His fingers grazed the ribbons of her garters, felt the smoothness of her thigh, touched her damp curls.
“James?”
Beneath his hand, he felt her hips stiffen, uncertain whether to pull back or continue. Too late, he thought. “Elizabeth,” he said, as reassuringly as he could. And let his fingers advance.
“Enough, James.” Her voice wavered.
He stroked a moist fold. Closed his eyes, imagining himself, not simply his finger, sliding inside her. “Elizabeth,” he whispered, his voice nearly as unsteady as hers.
“James?” The voice was sure. Strong. Shocked.
“Anne?” He drew up.
“Anne!” Elizabeth clutched the front of her gown.
“Elizabeth!” Anne’s tone was scandalized, but she stepped forward into the room so the women behind her in the doorway could share her view. “LADY ELIZABETH HARCREST!” she repeated loudly enough to make certain they all would know exactly who lay on the couch, half naked beneath her brother.