Scandal Wears Satin (22 page)

He ran his hands over her naked body, and she wriggled with pleasure.

“Not fair,” she said thickly. “Not fair.”

“I don’t play fair, either,” he said, echoing what she’d said the other day. He kissed her everywhere his hands had gone. He lingered at some of the most delicious places—the spot behind her ear and the inside of her elbow. He kissed her breast with special appreciation before taking the perfect pink bud into his mouth and gently sucking. Her legs moved against his and her belly tautened. She thrust her hands into his hair—and that possessive gesture sapped his control.

Still, as unthinking a man as he was, his basic instincts were strong. Those simple instincts told him he might not have another chance like this, and he’d better make the most of it.

He paid the other, perfect, perfect breast the same homage, and worked his way down. He lingered for a time in the silky golden triangle between her legs, letting his tongue flick over her until she was moaning helplessly, murmuring in French some nonsense and some exceedingly sweet endearments. Then he continued down along the route he’d envisioned countless times: along the beautiful curves of her leg and down to the finely-turned ankle and the elegant instep and down to her perfect toes. He kissed each one.

Then he started all over again, working his way down the other side.

And when he was done, he turned her onto her belly.

“My lord,” she said.

“Harry, I think,” he said. “We needn’t be formal at present.”

“Harry,” she said breathlessly.

He was not sure any woman who wasn’t a near relative had ever uttered his Christian name. She even made it sound . . . French.

He was sure it had never before seemed so fine and desirable a name.

He kissed the nape of her neck, and let his hands follow his mouth, over every inch of her back. Such a back this was: straight and silky smooth . . . and at its base the beautiful curve and rise of her perfect bottom.

He kissed it, reverently.

She giggled.

He wedged himself between her legs and brought his hand up to stroke her. She caught her breath and arched up, moving against his hand. She was damp against his fingers, and that, in an instant, made him impatient. He pulled her up against him and guided his cock into her from behind.

“Oh, oh, oh,” she gasped.

“Yes,” he said. He nuzzled her neck.

Yes yes yes yes yes.

All his mind and body said it. With one hand he held her against him and with the other he held the silky mound between her legs while he moved inside her with slow strokes.

He wanted to make it last for hours, but his control wasn’t strong enough. He eased out of her and brought her down gently and turned her over.

He entered her again, in the usual way, a splendid way, because he could see her face and because she put her hands on him in that wonderful way she did, as though it was the most natural thing in the world and she’d known him forever and he’d been hers forever.

She stroked over his belly and down to the place where they were joined, and pushed against him, her rhythm matching his, then driving his.

He saw her face change as she neared her peak, and he gave one hard, deep thrust, and she cried out. Then he spent, and his body went on vibrating for a time after, until at last he sank down, and buried his face in her neck.

T
hey’d slept again, and the light streaming in told Sophy it was mid morning, long past the time she’d normally rise. She wasn’t eager to rise now.

It was so very comfortable, sleeping in a man’s arms, and Longmore kept her snuggled close.

He likes women
, she thought.

But then, what did she know? Only what she’d heard: women complaining of men turning away and going to sleep. Or making abrupt departures.

He hadn’t departed yet, and that was going to be a problem, given that his sister was next door.

She felt his body change position behind her.

Behind her. She remembered what he’d done.
That
had been interesting.

“You have to go,” she said.

“Not yet,” he mumbled.

“Your sister,” she said.

“Won’t be awake for hours.”

“You can’t be sure.”

“She doesn’t keep a shop. You get up at the crack of dawn. Clara sleeps like the dead and never rises before eleven.”

Sophy sat up.

“Oh, good,” he muttered. “We’re going to
discuss
it now.”

“No discussion,” she said. Her mind was quite clear now, as though a fire had blazed through it, burning away all confusion. “It’s perfectly simple.
No One Must Ever Know
.”

He came up onto one elbow and looked at her. “Do you know,” he said, “I can hear those five words in italics. Capitalized.”

“I mean it,” she said. “If nobody knows, nobody knows. You must promise to tell nobody.”

“I’d like to know where you get the idea that I’m the sort of fellow who confides my amorous affairs to my friends,” he said. “Do you think I’m the sort who boasts of deflowering virgins?”

“Who said I was a virgin?”

“No one had to say anything. I worked it out for myself. Eventually.”

“Because I didn’t know what to do,” she said.

“That and your extremely snug little lady part.”

“I didn’t have time!” she said. “I never had time for men.”

“I wasn’t criticizing,” he said. “It was a bit of a shock, but . . . actually . . .”

“You like being the first.”

“Yes,” he said. “I do. It’s odd. I never was the type who cared for that sort of thing. But in your case, I’ll make an exception.”

She liked his being the first, too. The world was filled with philanderers and false men. Marcelline had married one. Lady Clara had got into trouble with one.

But whatever Longmore’s faults might be, he was exactly what he seemed to be. Himself. Always.

It was reassuring.

“Well, then, as long as you keep silent, there’s no problem,” she said.

“What about you?” he said. “Will you keep silent?”

“I don’t propose to advertise it in
Foxe’s Morning Spectacle
, if that’s what you mean.”

“That isn’t what I mean. What about your sisters? Do you or do you not tell them everything?

“Ye-e-es.”

“Well?”

“They’re not going to tell anybody.”

“They’re women,” he said.

“Who would they tell?” she said. “Clevedon’s aunts? Our customers? Do be sensible.”

“Why should I start now?”

“I promise you, we’ve enough troubles with Marcelline’s having trespassed on aristocratic territory,” she said. “If it gets about that I’ve seduced Lady Warford’s eldest son, she’ll do more than blackball Maison Noirot. She’ll crush us. Permanently. Even I won’t be able to revive the shop. My sisters know that.”

“Very well,” he said. “As long as we understand who seduced whom.”

“That part is painfully clear,” she said.

“You couldn’t help yourself,” he said.

“Actually, I couldn’t,” she said. “If I hadn’t the opportunity—if you hadn’t been so shockingly understanding—and tempting—”

“I worked damned hard at that. The tempting part. I wasn’t sure you were paying attention.”

“Apparently, I was doing little else but.”

“Good. I had a whole strategy laid out.”

She looked at him. “You
thought about it
?”

“I had to, didn’t I?” he said. “You’re complicated.”

“Simpler than you suppose,” she said. “I’m not a good girl.”

“And I’m not a good boy,” he said. “It’s unsporting to chase inexperienced girls. But I couldn’t resist.”

“Of course not,” she said. “I can’t be resisted. So you mustn’t blame yourself.”

“That’s one thing I never do,” he said. “Still . . .” He frowned. “We might have made one of those . . . you know . . . little squirmy pink things that howl.”

“A baby,” she said. “I know.”

“In that case—”

“Let’s not cross that bridge until we come to it,” she said, ignoring the icy panic in her gut. “Right now, I have a more pressing problem. Your sister’s wedding is only a fortnight away.”

L
ongmore had simply lain there, lazily letting Sophy’s fascinating view of the world entertain him while he gazed at her wonderfully naked body. There were her breasts, in plain view, and a magnificent view it was.

It took a moment for the last sentence to sink in. Then he came completely awake. He sat up. “You’re roasting me.”

She shook her head, and the blonde curls tumbled this way and that.

No wonder she’d fallen apart last night. “I didn’t realize,” he said. “I’d thought my mother would delay the inevitable as long as possible.”

She told him what his sister had told her about Lady Bartham and his mother.

“I’ve sworn to make that wedding not happen and to restore your sister’s reputation,” she said. “I told her she was my mission, my only mission. I’m sorry . . .”

She closed her eyes briefly. “Wait.” She opened them, all brilliant blue. “I’m
not
sorry about all this.” She gestured at him and at the bed. “It was stupid of me—but it was exciting and wonderful, and I can’t imagine a more thrilling end to maidenhood. But I need to concentrate on business.”

“Right.” He folded his arms under his head. He’d have to do something about her. He wasn’t sure what.

Whatever it was, he’d have to work it out on his own.

She wasn’t going to help, and he wasn’t going to ask anybody’s advice.

The very thought of confiding his amorous doings to anybody made his blood run cold.

In any case, he was Sworn to Secrecy.

Even when he thought it, he pictured the words as Sophy would write them, capitalized.

No One Must Ever Know.

She’d infected him with her melodramatics.

He gazed fondly at her for a long moment.

“Business,” she said.

“Right,” he said.

She let out a sigh, and he watched her bosom rise and fall. “You need to go now,” she said. “Your sister mightn’t be up for hours, but Davis could already be stirring.”

“Right.”

He left the bed and began unearthing his clothes from the chaos of mingled outer and undergarments, hosiery and shoes.

Sophy left the bed and, as naked as a newly made Eve, helped him dress.

When he was at the door and about to leave, she gave a little sigh, and ran up to him and grasped his lapels. He bent his head.

She rose on tiptoe and kissed him hard on the lips.

Then, “Go,” she said. “Go . . .” Her voice trailed away, her hands slid from his lapels, and her head tipped to one side. Though she was looking at him, he knew she didn’t quite see him. He could see her, though, every pink and white and gold inch of her.

“Wait,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. She was thinking. He could almost see the wheels turning, satanic mills at work.

“Oh,” she said. “Yes.”

Her eyes widened, her blue gaze sharpened to sapphire brilliancy. “I’ve got it,” she said.

She rested her head on his chest. He let his hand slide up to ruffle those golden curls. He manfully resisted the other hand’s itching to clasp her breast.

“You splendid man,” she said. “I’ve got it.”

“Got what?” he said dimly, lost in the scent of her hair and skin, the summery scent of a far away place where he’d been happy. “And what makes me—”

“I’ve got the idea,” she said. “I know how we’re going to save your sister.”

Warford House

That night

T
he family had risen from dinner and were in the library when Longmore brought his sister home.

Their mother instantly jumped up from her chair. “Oh, Clara how
could
you?” she cried.

Longmore saw his sister brace herself for the onslaught of recrimination, accusation, and other verbal assault that was Lady Warford’s idea of affectionate motherly advice to her eldest daughter.

Longmore opened his mouth to say something undutiful.

Then Lady Warford rushed at Clara and wrapped her arms about her, and wept, “Oh, my dear girl, I’m so happy you’re home. You must never, never run away again. Whatever the trouble is, you must tell me, my love. Promise. Promise me, please.”

It was, he thought, the first
please
he’d ever heard issue from his mother’s lips.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Clara said. Her voice, muffled against her mother’s shoulder, sounded shocked.