Improper Advances (23 page)

“And my surname is engraved on the pin.” He brandished an oar. “I can pull it back.”

“No,” she answered. “Let it go.”

Like the bottle, they had embarked upon a voyage to an unfamiliar region. Her destiny was entwined with his—for how long, she could not be sure.

Drawn by a fresh set of horses, the post chaise sped along the familiar highway. Four times a year Oriana followed this route from London to Newmarket, and she knew every village, farmstead, and great house. Dare, on whose shoulder her head rested, viewed this terrain for the first time.

They had already passed by the posting inn at Epping where she often broke her journey to Suffolk.

This time, to ensure their privacy, she would halt at Saffron Walden, a larger and busier town farther along the turnpike. There was less chance of encountering any of the sportsmen who knew her, for by now the majority would be in Newmarket.

At the start of their drive, intimidated by the presence of their London postilions, she and Dare had been content to hold hands beneath the billowing folds of her carriage habit. After the first change of horses and riders, they had kissed and cuddled. During the third stage, Oriana had dropped into a comfortable slumber, and for many miles had dozed in his arms. She needed her sleep—last night, tumultuous thoughts and emotions had kept her awake for hours, and she knew the evening ahead would not be restful.

Tonight she and Dare would share a room—and a bed.

To distract herself from this thrilling but unnerving prospect, she told him, “Cousin Burford’s horse runs tomorrow. Her name is Combustible, and she’s got a very promising future ahead of her. Or so we hope.” After a pause, she said, “Most of the lodgings in the town will be taken.”

“Wherever you’re staying suits me best.”

“Gwynn Cottage is too small to accommodate you. But Mrs. Biggen, my landlady, will know of a farmhouse in the environs.”

He smiled down at her. “I hope I’ve brought money enough to cover lodging and meals. Am I likely to incur other expenses during this excursion?”

“That depends on how many wagers you make, and how lucky you are.”

“I hadn’t planned on wagering. I wouldn’t know how.”

“Perfectly simple. You walk up to the betting post, where you’ll find a slate printed with all the horses’ names and the odds.”

“It won’t help me much.”

“I’ll advise you—I’m familiar with all the owners and their jockeys, and most of the horses. Burford knows even more than I do.”

“Will the Duke of St. Albans be there?”

She shook her head. “At present, his chief occupation is rebuilding Hanworth.”

“What about Lord Rushton?”

“He won’t desert the House of Lords so near the end of the session, and he doesn’t care for horseracing at all. He hunts foxes sometimes, and he shoots wildfowl on his estate. In autumn, he always sends me game birds. They come to Soho Square in a great hamper, all the way from Cheshire, every week. Annie complains mightily about having to pluck them, and Louis makes the most divine dishes.”

Sitting upright, she told him, “Not much farther to go.”

“Let’s hope the Sun can provide a vacant bedchamber.”

A sudden attack of shyness deprived her of speech. To hide her flush, she averted her face.

For so very long, she’d avoided intimacy with a man. Running away, as Dare could attest, was a bad habit she’d developed during her celibate years. Nevertheless, she’d secretly cultivated a tiny seed of hope that she would find someone who would excite her senses and treat her with respect.

“In our effort to preserve secrecy,” he said, “I suggest we keep to our room as much as possible.”

His talent for brightening her moments of dim uncertainty with a jest was one of his most endearing qualities. He seemed to be aware of the vulnerability she tried to bury beneath her stubborn bravado and assertive independence.

They agreed that in the morning they would board separate conveyances and proceed to their different Newmarket lodgings, for a week of pretending to be casual acquaintances. After Race Week she would proceed to Bury St. Edmunds, to give a recital at the Assembly Rooms, and Dare would join her at the Angel Hotel. With luck, they could manage a few shared nights before returning to town.

A short time later, their chaise drew up before a whitewashed building of medieval origins. Its sharply pitched gables extended over the street, sheltering a gothic portal. The adjacent structure, similar in style, bore plasterwork decorations in a splendid display of the pargeter’s artistry.

Oriana, head bowed, withdrew to a dim corner of the vestibule while Dare conversed with the landlord about their baggage. Within minutes, they were ascending a narrow stair to the upper level. Her heartbeat quickened, her fingers curled themselves tightly around the handle of her wooden mandoline case. She was eager—she was terrified.

Her thoughts carried her back to her wedding night. She and Henry had stayed at an inn far grander than this, because he’d wanted to impress her. She suspected Burford had actually paid the bill.

Thomas Teversal’s arrangements had been more casual. She had been too ignorant to know that the site of their furtive encounters, a cramped lodging above a milliner’s shop, wasn’t the sort of place an honorable man took his future wife. But it served him well for meetings with his doxy.

She was three-and-twenty now. It was illogical—and so foolish—to feel this young and fluttery.

Their bedchamber was compact but clean. A servant deposited their trunks on the floor and withdrew, visibly awed by the largesse Dare bestowed upon him.

Oriana, still victim to her nerves, carefully set down her instrument case. Desperate for air, she crossed to the mullioned window and flung it open.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Dare said. “I’ll return shortly.”

By the time she turned around he was gone, his footsteps fading as he went down the stair.

A maid came to wait upon her. She ordered a pot of tea to calm her apprehensions, and half a lemon.

Her disappointment over Dare’s unexpected desertion intensified, so she busied herself with unpacking—an experienced traveler, she felt the need to settle into her lodging as quickly as she could. She held up her nightshift, a delicate confection of sheer white lawn and spidery Brussels lace, its gathered yoke set with tiny satin bows. She wondered whether she’d need it.

Another quarter of an hour passed, and no sign of Dare.

Oriana took off her tight jacket and flounced skirt, intending to change for dinner. She loosened the front ties of her red-linen corset to relieve the constricting pressure of its rigid whalebone strips. Feeling much more comfortable, she also kicked off her low-heeled shoes and untied her garters and peeled off her stockings. Weary from five hours in the carriage and still feeling the effects of her sleepless night, she stretched out on the bed for just a few minutes. The checked-linen counterpane, softened by frequent laundering, was smooth and cool against one cheek, and a breeze from the open window drifted over the other. She hadn’t realized the extent of her fatigue. Her breathing slowed; her eyelids fell.

She was wakened by a gentle, tickling pressure on her lips.

“You’re back,” she murmured.

Dare thrust a handful of flowers at her. “For you.”

Pale blue larkspur, vibrantly pink everlasting peas, richly scented white stock, and trailing strands of deep green ivy. “Lovely. And so fragrant.”

He removed his coat and began unwinding his cravat. “This town, I can tell you, is a very quiet place late on a Sunday afternoon.”

“So is London.” In a drowsy voice she reminded him, “Your island is no different.”

“True. If anything, it’s quieter, and I had only my books and my writing and my rock collection for entertainment. Here, I’ve got you—a beautiful, enticing female in a delectable state of undress—and what appears to be an exceedingly comfortable bed.” He removed his boots and began unfastening the waistband of his breeches.

There was no mistaking his intentions. His eyes smoldered, dark coals of desire.

Standing on a stage, she was fearless, confident of her ability to please. In Dare’s library, her passion for him had made her bold and reckless. But now, in a rented bed in this small, silent chamber, she was all too conscious of her limitations.

Stroking an azure petal, she confessed, “I’m nervous. At Skyhill you knew much less about me than you do now. And I haven’t had much experience.”

“I don’t care about experience, Oriana. I want
you.”

It seemed like a year, thought Dare as he stripped off his shirt and flung it away, since the day he’d shown her his empty house. He was ready to feast upon her with the wild abandon of a ravenous beast.

And yet he needed to hold himself in check and behave like a considerate and civilized gentleman. That’s what he told himself as he quickly removed his breeches and smallclothes.

He joined her on the downy mattress, which dipped lower from their combined weight. “I’ll be gentle,” he promised her.

“I don’t want gentle. I want
you,”
she said, echoing his words to her. She reached out to him.

Placing his hand on her waist, he turned her around. Deftly he unhooked the corset and dropped it over the edge of the bed.

Her pleated petticoat was ruffled at the hem—even her underclothes had that St. Albans flounce. This one was threaded through with a cherry-satin ribbon, and decorated with bright rosettes and bows. “I’ve never received a present so elegantly wrapped,” he commented as he removed it.

Her shift, transparent as gauze, revealed carmine-tipped breasts, firm and round. With tender deliberation, he paused to press his lips to each glorious discovery he unveiled—soft thighs, pale belly, smooth shoulders. Between her legs he found a tuft of crisp auburn curls to match her flowing locks.

He had bared the whole lovely length of her body. Like the earth itself, she was a collection of hills and valleys and caverns, and he roamed over her with an explorer’s zeal. After crossing a sea and traveling countless miles, his quest had ended. He had found his promised land, and he was eager to claim it.

Her hands roamed across his forearms and chest and torso. With his every kiss, her yearning cries reverberated in the cavern of his mouth. Here was no ladylike acquiescence—this was lust, feral and primitive. His touch made her writhe and moan. Hers made him stiffen and swell.

He suckled her, the flicker of his tongue transforming each tender nipple into a firm pebble. His lips moved along the gentle underslope of one breast, down the flat plain of her midriff, and roamed across the slight rise of her belly.

He lifted his head. Through the dark fringe of hair hanging down over his forehead he saw that her eyes were half-lidded, and her mouth curved in a smile.

Finding the fragile spray of larkspur beneath his bent knees, he rescued it. “I’ll get you another later,” he promised. Discarding it, he dived at her for another bout of kissing, and she welcomed him with grasping arms, pliant lips.

Never, he thought, would he get his fill of her. There would be many more lazy afternoons, different rooms with grander bedsteads.

When he pried open her rose-pink folds, he felt the dewy proof of her readiness. He held her hand to his rampant flesh so she could guide him to his resting place. After a gradual, careful penetration, he was lodged inside her, pressing into her heated core.

She shifted her hips, drawing him even deeper into the well of delight.

Together they moved in eager lust, their hands and lips and fervent sighs expressing the emotion they could not articulate. Each time he plunged, she gasped, and when he pulled back her embrace tightened, as though she couldn’t bear to lose him.

He stroked her where she was most sensitive to his touch, his fingers urging her to the very summit of pleasure. From her desperate murmurs and the rake of her nails upon his back, he knew she was nearing the peak.

“I can take no more!” It was a cry of blissful agony, and a moment later her body quaked against him.

He continued his own quest, supporting himself with palms flattened against the mattress as he glided in and out. The exquisite friction rapidly brought him to the point of completion. With a groan of surrender, he sheathed himself one time more in a powerful, explosive thrust.

Collapsing, he laid his cheek upon her breast, savoring this moment of utter satisfaction.

Oriana lay beneath him, enfeebled by passion. Her nerves still rippled, her body was still shaken by the tremors he had caused.

“This,” he declared gustily, “was worth waiting for. Your escapes and provoking teases are all forgiven. And so are the next dozen faults and mistakes and outrages you commit.” He detached himself and crawled to the foot of the bed. When he had retrieved her frothy petticoat, he began to pull the red ribbon free of the flounce.

“What are you doing?” she asked, unable to watch the destruction of her exquisitely finished garment.

“You’ll spoil it.”

“I’d better be the only person who’ll see what’s underneath your gowns.” He returned with the strip of brightly colored silk. After tying one end around his wrist, he bound her to him. “You won’t run away this time.”

“I don’t want to,” she said, trying to free herself.

“Leave it. Just for tonight.”

“Eating my dinner will be rather difficult,” she protested.

“It’s quite a long leash; it won’t hamper you.”

“When I’m ready for my bath it will. What if I need to—be alone?” Her gaze darted to the wooden cabinet housing items of necessity.

“Just tell me, and I’ll step outside. But for the whole of the night, we’ll be no farther away than this.”

He stretched out the ribbon to its full length. “Another experiment.”

“I don’t mind,” she decided. “So long as you don’t publish a treatise about it.”

He swept her into his arms, holding her so close that she could feel the evidence of his arousal.

Wantonly she pressed against him, her nipples budding as her bare bosom brushed against his broad chest. His hands were in her hair, tipping back her head. His mouth came nearer-she closed her eyes to receive his kiss.