Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress (18 page)

Now not only his thoughts were disobedient, his body was too. Heated and eager, an erection threatened to scatter all thought and replace it with need.

He curled his toes within his boots, pressing them into the hard sole. Discomfort. That was what he needed. Discomfort and calm and gritted teeth and
for
God's sake why must her hair smell so good
? It was like the scent of the country in spring, bottled fresh and sweet.

Inhaling deeply of the scent, he cloaked the breath as a sigh. “That's all the pins, I think.”

“What do we do now?” She turned to face him. Her eyes were the color of luxury: a fine French brandy, a gemlike cabochon of amber. Sandalwood oil.

“You're the one with the grand plan,” he said roughly. “You decide.”

“I trust you,” she said.

And that was that: resolve vanished. Or maybe it only transformed, turning from something leaden and determined into the sweet clarity of hope.

She
trusted
him
. Did she realize how she had rocked him with three small words? Did she realize what a difference that made? Her reason for sneaking into his room was dark and sad—but she trusted him, and trust was light and precious.

And she
wanted
him. And by God, did he want her. He'd been fighting against it since her first
you
would
do
. Now that he knew her impossibly bright, willful, generous mind,
you
would
do
sounded like a benediction.

“I will do anything you want,” Joss said. “Anything at all.”

Augusta beamed at him—then hesitated, half turned toward him on the bed. “I should have prepared beyond this point. I don't know what to do.”

“Might I make a suggestion?” Somehow he managed to sound light, but he could not remember ever asking a weightier question.

“Yes. All right.” She smiled. “You may suggest it, and I will tell you what I think.”

“Naturally. So you can be mistress of this encounter.”

“Naturally.” Her smile tilted sideways, a wistful little curl of lips.

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “Having kissed before, there seems no reason not to do it again. That particular barrier has already fallen.”

“Very true,” she said. “All right. Let's kiss, then.”

From an arm's length apart, they stared at one another, each waiting for the other to make the first move. At once, they broke into nervous laughter. “This is about as erotic as adding up expenses in a ledger,” Joss finally said. “Perhaps we ought not to discuss each step in such detail.”

Augusta twisted her long, coppery hair into a rope and slung it over her shoulder. “No, let's not discuss it.” Reaching for his shoulders, she pressed back, back, until Joss had to sink to one elbow or lose his balance. “I think I do have an idea, after all. Will you close your eyes?”

He raised one eyebrow, which he knew she hated—or maybe she loved it, because she gave him a wicked laugh as her fingertips grazed his face. Low and secretive, a throb of joy, and he shut his eyes as bid, ready to learn what she had in mind.

Loosened strands of hair danced over his features, light as spiderwebs, tickling his skin. She was…good Lord, she was crawling atop his lap. His hips shifted, and she let out another of those magical, intoxicating moans just as when he had pulled free her hairpins and run his fingers through her uncoiling hair.

Which was another idea, wasn't it? Eyes still closed, he let her press him flat to the fortunate surface of the bed. His fingers whisked down, finding the curve of her breast, then reluctantly moving left until they located her long rope of hair. Up, up, he followed it until he cradled her cheek in his hands. Then with deliberate force, he skated his nails into her scalp, working free the tension, rubbing the sensitive nerves. Pulling her face closer to his.

“Oh,” she moaned again, and within two seconds—maybe less—Joss had yanked her flat atop him, full breasts crushed to his chest. The silk of her gown was as smooth as a coin, her warm breath at his throat like the memory of summer.

It was so easy now, so natural, to find her lips with his; to press them, tease them, torment them as she so beautifully tormented him. He sipped at her, full and sweet, his hands fisting in the skirts that tangled over her legs. She moaned her pleasure again, or maybe he did too, as mouths fit together and hands slid and traced the planes of bodies through far too many clothes. He lifted his head, catching her mouth more deeply, nipping her lips and grinding his hips upward into hers. There was no way he would ever be done kissing her, this flower-scented goddess…

Until she put his hand on her breast. “You can look,” she panted, “at my dockyard. If you want to.”

His eyes snapped open.

Augusta filled his sight, all firelight-gold skin and brandy-gold eyes and bronze-gold hair. So much gold he had to shut his eyes again, a quick squeeze. When he opened them, she had shifted. No longer a gilded goddess, she was a beautiful woman with parted lips and a questioning expression on her face.

“You have forever improved that word, as far as I am concerned,” he said. “Never again shall I be able to visit the coast or the ports of the Thames without being overcome by a fit of fleshly lust.”

“Oh?” She pressed a kiss to his throat, shifting the line of his cravat to dart the tip of a hot tongue over the sensitive skin. “Is that how you are feeling now? Overcome by a fit of fleshly lust?”

“Not quite,” he said. “Not quite overcome. I know perfectly well what I am doing and saying and thinking. To you. With you. About you. “

“Oh,” she said again. “Do demonstrate, if you please.”

Do
demonstrate, if you please.

It was an order, yet a sort of abandonment—and the combination gave Augusta a sense of power of a sort she had never known.

Until Joss laughed at her. Of course he did. She didn't even need to see his face to know the curve of his lips, the leaping line of his dark brow. “What shall I demonstrate? The speed with which I can divest you of your bodice?”

“That would be acceptable,” she murmured, head still pillowed on his shoulder, against his throat. She would never be done breathing in the scent of him, so unique yet so familiar.

“Acceptable, you say. That is hardly a hearty endorsement. I shall have to think of something better.”

“Demonstrate…” She trailed off, thoughts floating in a scatter like dandelion seed. “Demonstrate what it would take to overcome you.”

Lifting her head, she looked down at him. Rolled herself, rubbed herself, over the long hard planes of his form. His eyes were dark and deep as the night sky, and she imagined them full of stars. “Not much,” he said. “Not much at all.”

Over her back, his hands roved, finding the small buttons of her silk gown. The buttons trailed to the gown's waist, a row of pearls, and as his fingers slipped smoothly over the precious orbs, she wondered whether she had thrown money away on useless things.

But as Emily had said, it was time she truly wanted to vanquish, thought she wanted to break, a memory she wished to reduce to a glassy shell that she could stomp on, victorious.

And under Joss's fingers, time seemed at last to vanish. Not she but he was the victor as the silk parted and his strong hands skated over her stays, her shift. Or maybe they both won, as his fathomless eyes closed and as hers flew open wide, startled by the unaccustomed pleasure of another person's hands grasping her with tenderness. As Joss pushed her up, tugged her bodice down, eddies of air cooled her pleasantly. In this room, she had at last thawed in the heat of her desire and of Joss's body so close to hers.

In another minute, he had coaxed loose the laces of her stays, pushing the mass of linen and boning away. Her shift soon followed. Then she sat bared to the waist, a voluminous mass of crushed cloth about her. Shivering with anticipation, she hitched one knee onto the narrow bed.

And all he did was look, and look, and look. As though she were a feast he was not permitted to eat—at least, not quite yet. Her nipples hardened; her sex pulsed, wet.

“You look edible,” he said at last. “Delectable.”

“Like a peach?” A silly thing to say. But she was nervous, deliciously so. And being nervous—uncertain yet not afraid—was a sort of fizzing excitement in itself.

He grinned, sweet and sincere. “Far more luxurious and luscious than any foodstuff imaginable.”

“I
did
wear a peach-colored gown.” She watched, eager, as one of his hands extended toward her. “So you would want to nibble me up.”

“Or lick you?” Lightly, one fingertip brushed her nipple. The touch was shocking in its pleasure, so careful, so quickly over. And then he bent his head, cradling one breast in his palm as he took the other nipple between his lips. Nipping, tasting, with gentle abrasion of teeth over sensitive skin.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Or lick me. Whatever you choose—
oh.
Please choose that again.”

“Why do you always smell so good?” he murmured.

“I use”—she caught her breath as he did something particularly ingenious with his lips—“Meredith Beauty's finest cold-process soap, made with oil of honeysuckle. It is expensive and impractical, but then, I can be.”

“Can be what?” He looked up at her with mischievous eyes. When he pinched lightly at one of her nipples, she sagged back against the wall.

“I have no idea,” she said. “Were we talking about something?”

“Nothing of consequence. Now, do let me touch you some more.” He returned his full attention to her breasts.

Sensation jolted through her like lightning, shocks of pleasure almost startling in their intensity. The persistent chill she carried about with her was gone; he turned her liquid with his strong hands, his hot mouth. His tongue touched the valley between her breasts. Without thought, she pressed herself more firmly into his hands, his mouth, wanting him to claim her further.

His hands slid down, fisting in the yards of costly fabric, tossing them back. Peach silk slapped Augusta in the face, making her laugh. She escaped the luxurious barrier by sinking to her elbows atop the scrapped-together coverlet, the mattress firm but yielding beneath her.

As Joss fought his way through the fabric, he began to smile. “My dear fake widow, you are not wearing drawers.”

“I usually do not.”

His smile widened. “Augusta, you will slay me.”

Her name on his lips was another shot of pleasure, far more intimate than any falsehood or nickname. “That was never my intention. But if you die of pleasure, that is not such a bad end.”

He stroked the outside of her thighs, hands sliding hard over the sensitive skin. Her knees parted as though unlocked. He had always held the key to her undoing, had he not? Or was this her remaking instead?

Beneath the crumpled silk and linen of her clothing, he held her hips. “I want to taste you.” With the firelight a halo behind him, his dark eyes burning hers, he looked like a beautiful fallen angel.

“Let the record show that you proposed this. I but agree, though quite gladly.”

“Ever the shrewd woman of business.” Then the laughter fell away, leaving him serious. “I will give you the pleasure you seek, also quite gladly. And then we shall see if you still want anything of me.”

“Of course I—”

“Don't answer yet. Not even if you're sure it's true. You won't know until you've taken your satisfaction. So just—wait. And see.”

Unblinking, he looked at her without touching—curse the man. “All right,” she said. “We shall see.” She would have said anything to claim him.

Sinking back onto the mattress, she let her legs fall open wide. Let him do what he would; she had given him permission. Whatever he took or gave was on her terms.

He didn't touch her right away, and she lifted her head to peek at him. “I am ready.”

“You might think so.” His voice held amusement. “But I shall make sure of it.”

The faint shush of cloth against cloth sounded, then he laid fabric over her eyes. Running a hand over it, she felt creases and starch and smelled that smoky-sweet sandalwood. “Your cravat?”

“It will be yours for a little while. Hold tight to it, now.”

How odd. He
wanted
her eyes covered, as though surprising her was important.

She liked that, liked that he wanted to surprise her, and that he had undressed a bit too. Easily, she recalled the sight of him with his shirt gapping open to reveal collarbone and a hint of dark hair on his chest. “I want to see you.” She lifted a hand to peel back the cravat.

He caught her about the wrist. “I'm glad to have divined something you want. Maybe later you shall have your way. Right now, take your pleasure from me.”

Strong hands slid downward, tracing her form, then trailed to her inner thighs. So long untouched, she shivered when he only trailed his finger lightly over her skin. When he reached her private curls, her toes clenched. When a fingertip parted her, pressing within, she moaned.

Oh, the seduction of control; it made her slick and hot and needy. Who was in control, though? He was hers; she used him for pleasure—and yet she was the one naked and splayed. She strained for his touch, hearing him laugh low as she pressed blindly against the cloth over her eyes. Tension coiled spring-tight within her as he played over her folds, sank a finger within her, withdrew it and pierced her with two. She could not open her legs wide enough, she could not take him deep enough. She wanted him all, unbearably, desperately—

And then he pulled back. “Do you remember what I said I wanted to do?”

She groaned. “No. I shall murder you if you stop.”

“Oh, I have no plan to stop.” The mattress shifted, the ropes beneath it creaking as he changed position. “I'm going to taste you now.”

And then his mouth was on her. The sensation was so intense she did not recognize it as pleasure at first. Shocked, she shook and twisted away. When he laid one hand over her belly, she trembled, then settled under its warmth.

And he undid her. With fingers he parted her, with tongue and lips he stroked her. Each tiny movement on her sensitive flesh sent a wash of pleasure through her. Tightly, his fingers filled her and coaxed her; wickedly, his hot mouth pulled at her. It seemed there was no place he did not see and touch and kiss, and this claiming was startling, too, in its pleasure.

So tight, he wound her; so far, he drew her along; so high, he tossed her. She could not bear his touch another instant; she could not stand for it ever to end. And then one final, marvelous movement with his tongue and fingers sent her cresting in harsh waves, flying into a great endless freedom.

When she fell, gasping and damp with perspiration, he was there to catch her. “You are a marvel.” He pressed a kiss to her thigh.

The intimacy made her shiver; she pulled him up, closer, for an embrace.

He wound himself behind her on the bed. Strong arms enfolded her, pulling her against his chest. She could feel his heart beating quickly, as though he had shared the ecstatic flight with her. But he had not: a hard ridge pressed against her back, the insistence of desire unfulfilled.

Who had used whom? And what ought they to think of each other now? She was his in a way she had never meant to be, and she had mastered him not at all.

Though he still held her within his arms, his breath coming shallow and ragged. Maybe he did not wish her to go.

Maybe
. The word woke desperate thought and terrifying uncertainty. And she kept falling and falling, so fast she had to close her eyes against the dizziness of it. The peach silk that had seemed so luxurious was too hot and too clammy, and she felt foolish in her nakedness.

Best to make him naked too. She turned in his arms, face to face on the narrow bed. If she pulled the cloth from her eyes, it would be impossible not to kiss him, impossible not to search for his heart in his gaze. And what if it was not there?

She held the cravat tightly over her face, breathing in his scent. They had made the room smell of desire, musky and intimate, and her own heart seemed to stutter its wish to stay. This slope-ceilinged room made an unlikely cocoon, but she could not remember ever wanting to remain in a place more.

She must keep him here. “I like your kind of demonstration,” she murmured. “Now let us demonstrate together.” Her hand sneaked to the fall of his breeches, which strained against his obvious arousal.

He snapped back, and she heard him shift away from her on the bed. “Not that.” Hazily, Augusta dropped the cloth from her eyes and raised her head. Joss crouched at the end of the bed, a man of knots: neck corded, jaw tight, fists clenched. “No, Augusta. I can't stand up to that sort of demonstration.”

“You needn't stand. You could just lie down.” Her wet skin felt clammy, missing the heat of his frame behind hers. When she sat upright and leaned toward him, he clambered off the end of the bed.

“I really cannot, Augusta. I can't—do that particular thing with you.”

He shook himself like an animal shuddering off water, top to toe. His shirt gapped at the neck, and she saw a hint of olive skin, the valley of his collarbone. He wouldn't let her touch him? She had never wanted anything more.

“Please.” She didn't know what she was asking for, hands outstretched. Anything. Her hands on him, his on her. His body within hers, the deepest claiming for them both.

He turned to the desk, picked up the brown glass vial and held it to the firelight. “You did ask me to demonstrate what I wanted of you, did you not? I believe I have done so. My desire for you has never been in question.” Setting the vial down again, he folded his arms tightly across his chest. “The better I know you, the more I want you, until I think I will expire from longing.”

“You can have me,” she said unsteadily. “I want you to have me. Please.” Did she sound as though she was begging? She almost felt she could weep.

“Not lust, Augusta. I'm talking about
longing
. You are bright and cunning and beautiful and brave. I want your body, but I want the rest of you too.”

“What do you mean?” Her lips felt numb.

“We're together on the outside, you and I. You know me, and I know you, better than anyone else.” His hands fell, then moved in helpless circles. “I want…I want to scheme with you and laugh with you. I want to be the man you wake up next to every morning. I want to buy you a plain dinner and watch you give away gloves. I want to unpin your hair and stroke my fingers through it.”

She became aware of her unbound hair spilling over her shoulders and breasts. An odd tickling sensation. When she shook its length back, an expression near pain crossed his features.

“You want a great deal,” she said faintly.

“I do. And I have already been given more than I have any right to. But have you ever known a man who was satisfied with what he had a right to?”

“I—” She shook her head, fumbling for words. What did he want? What did it all mean? And what did
she
want? She had intended to flick away the scab of her old wound, but that was a dreadful and wholly inadequate description for what had just passed between them.

At her fumbling silence, Joss smiled, dark and humorless. Then he turned to the fire, crouching to study its blaze. It didn't need tending, but likely he wanted something to do with his hands.

The moment wound tight, as though somehow she had wound up atop the cliff again, but it was crumbling. There would be no flight this time—only a fall or a retreat. His cravat was a crushed rope in her hands; still more tightly, she twisted it.