Defiant Angel (20 page)

T
he elegant black coach edged in fine gold bore the duke of Wentworth coat of arms: two lions rampart on a field of
noir
with the mark of cadency, the File sign of the firstborn son. It moved at a steady pace, led by four magnificent matched blooded bays. Following in its stead was another coach bearing Tiffany's trunks as well as Germane and Clinton's manservant, Mortimer.

The Wentworth coach was well sprung and extremely comfortable, with its plush interior. Tiffany sat across from Clinton, leaning her head against the plush squab, pretending to be absorbed in the passing scenery. Actually, she was absorbed, but in her thoughts. She marveled at how only a few short hours ago she was at Courtland Manor having no intention of departing anywhere, and here she was now, trunks packed, loaded, and bound for Chad Devonshire's country home in Essex for a prenuptial celebration given by Clinton's notorious friends.

She could not believe the audacity, no, the highhandness of him! No sooner had she arrived at Courtland, jumping off Touche, than she saw the Wentworth coach in the drive being loaded with her trunks. She had stormed into the foyer to be met by Germane, who informed her her bath was waiting and her gown laid out. She was confused and speechless, but when Clinton strolled calmly in and Godfrey had informed him his bath was ready, well, that just undid her and she flounced up the steps to her room. She had hoped Aunt Winnie would be about, but to her dismay, found he had packed her off to Wentworth!

Musing, she lifted the glass of champagne, barely touching her lips to the rim, and sipped the effervescent liquid. She watched the sun, which had begun its westerly descent, cast the landscape in a reddish glow. She easily finished the champagne, it being her favorite libation. The sound of her name drew her head from the window to Clinton.

"Tiffany." Clinton called her name a second time. Having been preoccupied in her thoughts, she had not heard him call her the first time. She looked at his outstretched hand and briefly wondered what he wanted. She then noticed the bottle of champagne in his other. She handed him her glass, her fingers brushing his warm, tanned hand. The mere touch sent a warming shiver through her, and she blushed unwillingly as thoughts of the scene on the bluff flooded her mind. Whenever they touched, a light brush of his shoulder or his hand lightly riding her back, no matter how innocent, she felt a fluttering in her stomach.

Retrieving the glass from his hand, she quickly sipped the liquid, hoping to numb the sensations that had begun anew. She lowered her lashes, afraid her eyes would reveal how unsettling she found his touch, and chanced to observe him from beneath them.

He sat there casually attired, yet impeccably dressed in a gray jacket. The rich outline of his broad shoulders strained against the fabric. A crisp mat of black hair curled against the open neck of his shirt. His hair, the deep, rich color of coffee, was combed back in defiance to the current mode, yet errant soft waves fell at his temples, giving him a rakish air. He wore it longer than the style, so it fell neatly to his nape. His lips were firm and sensual, and she shivered remembering the feel of them against her skin. His mouth was full and curled as if always on the edge of laughter and of breaking into that devastating smile he possessed which made her feel like warmed honey. She sipped her champagne and continued her secret appraisal of him. His eyes were heavy-lidded, seductive, yet compelling. The corners were slanted as if touched with humor. He was devilishly handsome, there was no denying that! She had no doubt many heads turned when he entered a room. She was sure, even in a crowd, those compelling eyes, firm features, and the confident set of his shoulders caused him to stand out. His height alone would draw anyone's attention.

Clinton watched her regard him and did not miss the blush that stained her cheeks when his fingers touched hers. He was pleased she took the time to leisurely appraise him, for it meant what he suspected--she was not all that indifferent to him. He leaned over for the third time to refill her glass and smiled as he emptied the last of the bottle into it.

As she raised her glass to her lips, feeling a bit lightheaded, her eye caught the sparkle on her left ring finger. She lowered her gaze to the large oval sapphire encircled by twelve perfect sparkling diamonds--her engagement ring. She had received it today, just before they embarked. A Wentworth family heirloom, Clinton had informed her, which passed from generation to generation to the future duchess, only to be relinquished to the next heir's duchess. Sipping her bubbly, she gazed upon it admiringly. It was exquisite and no doubt priceless, but from the moment he placed it upon her finger, she felt marked as a possession.

The pop from a newly opened bottle caused her to start. Clinton raised a brow in question, looking at her empty glass. He complied by refilling her glass, which she extended to him, and asked, "Are you nervous about meeting my friends?"

She sipped her wine, relishing the calming and numbing effect it had on her. "Should I be nervous, or afraid?"

He smiled hearing the slight slurring in her words. He saw the flush in her cheeks, caused by the effects of the champagne, and leaned over, topping off her glass. "You should feel neither, Princess."

"Then wherein lies your concern, Your Grace?" She flashed him a bright smile. He returned her smile with his own quite charming one, one he used quite successfully when seducing a nervous woman, one that disarmed Tiffany.

"Princess, 'Your Grace' sounds so formal. Why not try 'Clinton'?"

Tiffany, who was feeling quite giddy and disarmed by "that" smile, complied. "Clinton, wherein lies your concern over my meeting your friends?"

He loved the sound of his name as it tripped over her lips. Smiling, he said, "Merely that you would not know many since they do not frequent the events you are accustomed to."

Her blue eyes sparkled as her sharp wit cut through the champagne-induced euphoria. "Ah yes, how silly of me to forget the roaming rogues. Their amusements tend to run toward debauchery, seducing innocents, and frequenting brothels and other dens of iniquity!" She extended her glass, which he promptly filled. "Amusements you are so famous for." She smiled brightly at him, sipping her champagne, enjoying every minute of her play.

His gray eyes sparkled with the love of combat and he replied matter-of-factly, "Jealous, and not yet a wife, Princess?" He sipped his wine and added, "You will soon come to appreciate the wealth of my experience." Tiffany did not miss the promise etched in his voice nor the leisurely, appreciative way his eyes roamed over her form. But she was feeling too good to allow his words or eyes to spoil her fun.

Clinton knew the inordinate amount of wine accounted for her flirting, that her defenses were lowered. He felt his desire grow as he took note of her. She was absolutely alluring in the teal gown which, while not daring, was cut low enough to provide him with a spectacular view of the soft swell of her breasts. He pushed down the urge to lift an errant curl that lay lovingly against her ivory breast. His attention was diverted to her mouth. So full, soft; lips parted and moist with wine. He knew she'd taste good, too good to stop tasting her. Her cheeks were flushed like the flush of sunset on the snow. Her eyes were bright sapphire, sensuous and glazed from the wine. He felt his manhood stir. God, she boiled his blood.

As she raised her hand to brush a curl from her cheek, Clinton's eyes wandered to the Wentworth ring, and he thought how the sapphire brought out the color of her eyes. He remarked, "I believe the sapphire complements you, Princess."

"It is lovely, isn't it?" she mummured, holding out an unsteady hand to regard the ring. Noticing a slight blurring of her vision, she rapidly closed and opened her eyes, clearing them. Looking up at him, smiling impishly, she teasingly replied, "It's a shame, diamonds have never been my favorite, you know. Just another bit of your wealth I can't appreciate."

Clinton raised a brow in inquiry, "Really, Princess?"

A slow, steady smile drew on his lips as he leaned forward and brushed back a wisp of hair caressing her shell-shaped ear, exposing the diamond earbobs she always wore. When he touched her, she shivered in delight as if electricity flowed through her. She closed her eyes, reveling in the sensation of his finger as it outlined her ear, moving to caress her neck.

He felt her response. Leaning closer so his mouth was inches from her ear, he softly asked in a low voice, purposefully seductive, "Does my touch bother you so?"

She felt a shiver ripple through her when his breath, soft and warm, fanned her cheek. She felt drugged by his clean, manly scent. Heady sensations tripped over her as his fingers trailed softly down the column of her neck to rest inches above the swell of her breasts.

He whispered again and leaned closer, his breath hot against her. "Does my touch distress you?" He leaned forward, nibbling at her ear, tracing its shape with the tip of his tongue. Her calm shattered, she leaned her head against his as his tongue entered her ear gently. Goose bumps coursed down her spine. His lips moved to sear a path from her shoulder to her neck, where he stopped to kiss the pulsing hollow at its base.

Tiffany sighed, yielding her throat. His hands slid sensually to her breasts, massaging their fullness. His finger found her nipple and caressed it to a proud and taut peak. A current of desire rushed through her. She moaned in delight when his other hand touched her breast.

The tormenting sweetness of her moan caused him to slide his hand to her back, his deft fingers quickly unfastening her gown, slipping it off her shoulders. His hands slid inside her bodice, freeing her breasts. He felt her tremble when his hand touched her bare flesh. He caught an impudent tip, which he rolled between his fingers, rolling it until she cried out.

He heard her gasp when his mouth covered a taut, dusty peak, then felt her nails dig into his shoulders when she arched, giving him her full bounty. His manhood was hard, throbbing against his pants as his passion grew stronger with each whimper and groan. He lifted her head and traced her parted lips with his tongue, seeing her dazed eyes and flushed face.

Tiffany was lost in a malestrom of sensation. "Oh . . . oh . . ." she moaned as his tongue teased her parted lips. She didn't want to yield to the passion he aroused, but she felt so light headed and dizzy with confusing sensations all she could think to do was to wrap her hands in the hair at the nape of his neck.

His parted lips closed over hers, drawing her tongue into his mouth. She timidly parried with his tongue, bringing a groan of satisfaction from Clinton, who deepened the kiss and brought her up against his chest, feeling the twin buds of desire quiver against him. With her surrender, he gathered her in his arms, bringing them to the carpeted floor of the carriage.

Rising above her, leaning on his forearms, he gazed down at the bounty she offered him. Her breasts, full, pink, with their peaks hard and tight in desire, rose up in offering. He lowered his mouth, paying homage to one, then the other.

Tiffany arched her back, offering the fullness of her breast to his mouth. An uncoiling began in the pit of her stomach, a wetness between her thighs as his tongue stroked her nipples. With each stoke a current shot from her nipple to the aching place between her legs and she moaned, "Please . . . oh."

Each moan undid Clinton. His breathing was harsh and rapid. Fire burned within him and he whispered hoarsely, "I want you, Princess."

She whimpered at his words, feeling his raw, potent sexuality against her thigh. His hands charted a course over her breasts to her belly. She groaned. He nearly undid his breeches save for the sound of a bell which pealed, bringing him out of his own flame. He lifted himself up to his forearms.

Tiffany moaned in distress when she felt him rise. Looking up at him with passion-dazed eyes, she ran her hands up his exposed chest, running her nails through the crisp mat of black hair.

Hearing her moan, he gazed down at her. The need for fulfillment, for release, filled her eyes. She arched upward, wrapping her arms about his neck, bringing her bared breast against his naked chest. He cupped the fullness of her breasts and was awarded with a delightful moan. He lifted them and lowered his hair-roughened chest, pressing her down beneath him. As he rubbed his chest against her taut nipples, she cried out in longing for more, of what she did not know. Clinton knew, feeling her quiver beneath him and writhing against his manhood, which was close to bursting.

He nudged her legs apart with his own. When she felt his knee against her hot, throbbing womanhood, she felt sensation after sensation rivet through her. She whimpered. He looked at her and saw the exquisite torture, feeling his own need rising. As he slid his deft fingers along the tender skin of her inner thigh, Tiffany writhed mindlessly. Clinton's finger sought and found the eagerness of her desire. Finding her wet and moist drove him to exert controls he never knew he had. Her sweet essence was swelled and slick with her own desire.

Tiffany felt a melting sensation, a sweetness that ached for fulfillment within her. The world seemed to spin on its axis and the sounds of bells rang in her ears. Never had she felt so assaulted by her senses. She writhed under the onslaught of his fingers and cried out in passion; his tongue entered and withdrew from her mouth in mock imitation of an act Clinton craved, but had not the time to complete, hearing again the peal of the bells.

Tiffany arched against his fingers, bringing them closer to the source of her need. When he lifted his mouth from her's, she whimpered against his throat, "Please."

"Let me have you, Tiffany." His voice was a husky, promising whisper, his finger loving her. The web of sensation he wove, his hands, body, his voice, a deep, seductive whisper, urged her on, then held her back. "Easy, Tiffany, savor it, love. Let it build, then ebb to build higher--till you think you might die from the wanting." Groaning, she yielded.