Defiant Angel (21 page)

He whispered in a deep, sensual voice against her ear, speaking freely of what he would do. "I would taste you, Princess. Moving my mouth and tongue where my hand now plays, and drink my fill of your sweetness. Can you imagine how good you would taste?" She whimpered softly at the image conjured by her mind. Clinton's own control was near breaking when he heard the peal, knowing the time was shortening.

"I want to be drawn deep inside you and look upon your face as I fill you." He felt her body tense, ready to convulse in climax. He pressed her closer, stroking her bud, now hard and taut, his voice a husky, commanding whisper. "Now, Princess, now." Shudders of pleasure washed over Tiffany, suspending her in a moment of infinity where the tolling of bells played madly. She opened her mouth to cry out. Clinton covered it, capturing her cry of release.

He lifted his mouth from Tiffany's, removed his hand, pressing her against him. He heard the peal of the bell and smiled in recognition to the final warning.

Tiffany, drifting in an endless moment, whimpered at the loss of Clinton's touch. She faintly heard the ringing of a bell. Clinton gathered her in, bringing them to the seat of the carriage.

Still dazed, Tiffany stared at him in confusion, watching him deftly fasten her gown. He said softly, "It appears we have arrived, and in a moment the door will open." He thought, God, she is beautiful. Soft with waning passion, lips red and kiss-swollen, the sunlight touching her tousled ebony tresses, which fell over her beguiling ivory shoulder like a mantle. Her eyes, vague, glazed, smoky blue.

He cupped her chin, reluctant to break the spell between them. "Come, Princess, let me help you; we have arrived." The halting of the carriage bore the truth of his words. A bell tolled loudly.

"Is that a bell ringing?" she asked softly, her voice confused.

"It's the fifth peal, to be precise."

Confusion quickly changed to a startled expression when the carriage door was yanked open by a footman in red and gold livery.

Clinton alighted first and turned to assist her in descent. Her feet touched the crushed stone of the drive. When she looked up, she found the tall, handsome form of Chad Devonshire, a knowing smile etching his face as he stood before her. His scrutiny of Tiffany's ruffled appearance, her tousled hair, kiss-swollen lips, and flushed cheeks, lent support to his beliefs, but it was her blush, as becoming as it was, that clinched it. He regarded Clinton, who smiled in return. Clinton was impeccably dressed, not a hair out of place, only an unusual look in his eye, one Chad had never seen.

Tiffany self-consciously smoothed her gown when Chad turned his gaze to Clinton. Just as Chad turned back to her, the shattering of glass provided a momentary reprieve as all three heads turned toward the sound. The broken remnants of an empty champagne bottle lay on the drive while another rolled and teetered precariously at the edge of the open carriage door and soon fell, joining the other. Tiffany closed her eyes as scarlet rose up her face to the roots of her hair.

A wicked smile etched across his face, Chad regarded them both. Clinton appeared not the least bothered by Chad's scrutiny, and Tiffany wished to thrash him over his nonchalance.

"Lady Courtland." Chad bowed. Tiffany sank into a deep curtsy, rising on shaky legs. "May I offer you welcome to Haverstone."

"It is lovely, Lord Devonshire," she replied perfunctorily.

His eyebrow raised inquiringly, one corner of his mouth pulled into a slight smile, Chad asked, "I trust the journey was pleasant?"

A touch of color rose to her cheeks at his simple question. She couldn't speak, taking a deep breath while a nervous smile appeared at her mouth. Clinton intervened, replying, "Short, but sweet." A satisfying grin lit his features. Tiffany's face brightened at his answer. She was saved from farther embarrassment by the appearance of a servant inquiring about the trunks.

Chad turned to Tiffany. "Lest I be accused of being lax in my hospitality, I am sure you wish to rest after the exhausting journey and refresh yourself for the evening's festivities."

As she nodded her head in assent, Chad continued, "Let us go in and I will have one of the servants escort you to your rooms, where tea will be served." With all the dignity she could muster, Tiffany allowed Clinton to take her arm, escorting her into the country home, where a servant led her up the stairway. Both men's eyes were drawn to the provocatively innocent sway of her hips as she disappeared.

They headed to the study. Chad walked over to the table holding a decanter and poured out two glasses of French brandy. After handing one to Clinton, who stood with his arm leaning against the mantel, Chad crossed to the fireplace and sat in a butter-soft leather chair, stretching his legs before him.

Reaching, he withdrew a slim cigar from the box near him and offered one to Clinton, who accepted. After lighting the cigar and blowing a stream of smoke out, Chad said, "Well, aren't you going to thank me?" Clinton regarded his friend from under lowered lashes. He pulled on his cigar, which dangled from his fingers, the smoke curling upward.

"Thank you for the party, Chad," he replied dryly.

"That's not what I mean, Clinton." Chad sipped his brandy, looking over the glass.

"Then perhaps you can enlighten me."

"Ah, and here I thought you had accomplished far more in the coach then you had. She certainly looked disheveled enough."

Clinton walked over to the table, refilling his glass. He smiled down at Chad. "And how much do you think I accomplished in the carriage, my friend?"

"Obviously not enough to thank me for protecting your future wife's virtue before she became your fiancee. Surprises me, though you've always been quite expedient and efficient."

Placing the stopper back on the decanter, Clinton replied, "This one I intend to savor, my friend. If thanks are in order, I'll thank you after the wedding night."

Chad laughed. "Well, anyhow, it appears you won, my friend. The lady was dazed and disheveled, and you not in the least. I'm curious, Clinton, how it is you manage so much in so little time. Is the secret to right yourself at the second peal?"

"Just practice and good timing, Chad, 'tis all."

The men relaxed, talking over business and future investments. Chad changed the topic when he mentioned the evening at hand.

"I say, Clinton, George Stanton has arrived with Monique in tow."

Puffing on his cigar, thinking about this bit of information, he replied confidently, "Monique was always a resourceful woman; she presents no problem to me. We parted quite amicably."

"Barbara Markham is here as well. Managed to coerce Walter Thorton to escort her, don't you know." Chad knocked the ash from his cigar. "Heard she's quite miffed you didn't offer for her. You know she's been waiting for the day you stopped sowing your oats."

Clinton smiled at this tidbit of news, fully aware Barbara Markham had set her sights on him long ago. "Well, Brent is arriving; perhaps Barbara can amuse herself with another Barencourte."

Laughing, Chad said, "Surely you jest! Brent can't abide the woman at all. Says she gives new meaning to 'clinging vine.' "

"Did Brent say when he would arrive?"

"Actually, his brief note said something to the effect, someone had to watch the store, but wager on Clinton five hundred pounds and he'd be late."

"Good ole Brent. Always plays the winner, calculates the odds, and if nothing else, makes sure his bet is placed at all cost," Clinton remarked, feeling a twinge of guilt that Brent was handling not only his own load of work but Clinton's as well.

"Brent is quite good at wagering, don't you know. Why, he bet on you and tripled his money while he's busy doubling yours." Chad crossed his stretched legs at the ankle. "To be honest, I haven't seen milch of him in London and know he is busy with the banking. Do hope he does show; the boy needs some relaxation, wouldn't you agree?"

Clinton nodded his head, took a seat, and stretched himself out. "Definitely, Chad. A bit of wine, women, and song would do him good."

"By the by, how's it going with the reluctant bride-to- be?"

Clinton, smiled, answering, "Still reluctant." Lifting his glass to his lips, draining it, he added, turning to Chad, a smug smile affixed to his face, "But coming along."

Chad laughed, Clinton joined him, their laughter filling the study.

G
ermane dressed Tiffany's hair in a soft, loose coiffure; raven tresses cascaded down her back, wisps of hair framed her flushed face.

The soft knock on the door brought Tiffany from her thoughts. Germane walked toward her carrying a tray bearing a bottle of champagne, a single glass, and a bunch of violets.

"Ah, mademoiselle, champagne from His Grace. How romantic, no?" Without awaiting a reply, Germane poured a glass, handing it to her mistress. The bubbles tickled her nose as she brought the glass to her lips, sipping the delightful wine, savoring its flavor.

A becoming blush stained her face, for the drink was reminiscent of the carriage ride. She could not prevent the rush of memories that flooded her mind nor the earth-shattering sensations she experienced. She felt the fluttering of butterflies in the pit of her belly and a warmth spread in her groin. Shaking her head, she tried to clear it of the images that rushed forward. He had touched her where none before had, creating an ache she had begged him to release. She had longed for it, even encouraged him. She sipped her wine pensively as images of her writhing body came to mind, of her naked breasts, pressed against his hair-roughened chest. Just the thought made her nipples rise. Germane refilled her glass and began to put the final touches to her coiffure.

How could she have been so wanton, so abandoned, with a man she despised? A tingling, almost a shiver, ran through her, causing Germane to ask, "Does Mademoiselle want a shawl?" Tiffany shook her head, and Germane continued her ministrations. It must have been the champagne! It certainly wasn't anything else! She'd have to be careful with him and watch what she drank!

"Voil&," Germane exclaimed, stepping back to regard her work. "Mademoiselle ees beautiftil, no?" When she received no response, Germane said, "See for yourself!" Tiffany stood before the full-length mirror. She did not recognize herself. The woman who gazed back was seductive and passionate-looking. The sapphire blue of the gown enhanced the seductive quality of her eyes, and the raven tresses flowed about her beguiling shoulders, adding the perfect foil. Her lips were full, sensual, and inviting.

Turning to view herself, she caught the glimmer of the silver threads that shot through the blue silk and glistened in the candlelight. The gown was elegantly fashioned; its neckline daringly displayed the full satin radiance of her breast. Smoothing down the gown with her hand, she saw that the silver threads captured the sparkle of the twelve diamonds that encircled the large sapphire. Turning sideways from beneath her skirt, a neatly turned ankle could be seen above an exquisite silver satin slipper. Tiffany was as sparkling as champagne and as seductive as its effect.

Germane announced the arrival of the footman. Tiffany turned, placing her hand on his arm, leaving the room.

As the curtain of night fell, candles of a hundred chandeliers were lit, casting the rooms in a soft amber light. Champagne flowed freely and a sumptuous buffet was laid in place for a formal dinner. Merriment was heard from all the rooms, where separate activities took place.

Gambling was available for both men and women, the more serious high-stake games left for later. Certain game rooms were off limits to her by Clinton's decree, and when she attempted to gain entry, the posted servants politely turned her away. Of course, her curiosity was sparked at what went on behind the closed door, and she promised herself she'd find out exactly what types of games were being played. Save for this exception, she was enjoying herself immensely, having gambled shockingly, rolling dice, winning five pounds from Percy. After learning the game piquet, she had managed to beat Clinton royally. She was quite lucky at roulette, winning a tidy sum at the table.

Tiffany had to admit she was indeed nervous over meeting this elite group of people who amused themselves with entertainment not socially accepted. Most were older, extremely sophisticated, and outrageous. Titles were aplenty here, from lords to dukes. Enough blue blood flowed here to make the ton green with envy. But there was no doubt the men were rakes, bounders, and rogues, not the models of propriety or decorum.

When she was introduced to a few, she recognized their titled names from rumors spread about their escapades or some unfortunate innocent who had been taken in by them. There was no doubt they all had one thing in common: their reputations. She had no doubt if Clinton had not been by her side staking his claim, she would have been considered fair game. As it was, she received some outrageous innuendos while dancing with a few, and though she prided herself on her wit and sharp tongue, she was definitely out of their league and welcomed Clinton's presence this evening.

The women were older and more experienced than herself. Most were widows, who had married older men and, after their husbands' deaths, felt they were young enough to still enjoy life, but not in the way the ton dictated. Others she found out were titled women who were married but enjoyed the current fashionable marriages where one did not attend social functions with one's husband, choosing one's own way. Another group was free from the restrictions of a loveless marriage after having performed their duty by supplying an heir. Probably the most shocking was Priscilla Mawbry, whose husband was killed in a duel by one of the roaming rogues, and who now had become his mistress!

Tiffany was by no means judgmental, only shocked. She nearly laughed aloud recalling how she intended to force Clinton to cry off the engagement by her shocking behavior! Why, she'd have to ride naked through town to beat these people, and somehow she doubted that would do the trick either. She felt her spirit plummet at the thought.

The sound of a throaty laugh brought her from her thoughts and she turned. Clinton stood leaning close to a petite, curvaceous redhead, who had just exited from one of the off-limit games. She wore an elegant ruby red gown which displayed her hourglass figure perfectly. She watched the woman touch Clinton, noting the ease with which she did it. Clinton's husky laugh broke the air and the redhead casually drew his arm to her. Tiffany could not help but notice the ease he had with women and the comfort that existed between himself and the opposite sex.

"I tell you, some people, no matter who they lie with, have no class." Tiffany turned to Barbara Markham, a striking petite blonde dressed in a gorgeous creation of amber silk and satin.

Tiffany, after being introduced to Lady Markham, found her to be the epitome of everything she despised in the title personage. Barbara was condescending, snobbish, and catty. Tiffany absently wondered how she fit into this elite group.

Tiffany was about to discreetly depart when an announcement was made for the women to adjourn to the salon. Tiffany had no choice but to accompany Lady Markham so as not to appear churlish.