St. Raven (12 page)

Since most members of English society lacked the flexibility of Indian gods and goddesses, the results were humorous rather than erotic. Still, they were more than a lady should see.

He felt her twitch and looked closer to hand. Damnation. One couple was up against the wall, the woman’s thin white legs around the man’s waist, the man’s bottom pumping. He blocked her view and pulled her on despite a pulse that pounded through him in time with the man’s thrusts.

“It’s not polite to stare.”

“Here?” she snapped. “I thought it was part of the fun.”

She’d spoken too sharply, so he countered it by swinging her hard into his arms, hard against him. “I warned you that you’d be embarrassed. And confess, you stopped to watch.”

“I was startled.” She shifted her body against him in a way that was pure torture. “I thought the statues fanciful. Do people often do things like that?”

Now she wanted to
talk
about rutting while she moved against him? If she weren’t such an innocent, he’d think she was set on killing him.

“Against a wall?” He tried to pretend they were talking about the weather. “I doubt many could do it standing without support. Anyway, there’s a lot to be said for comfort. It’s what I prefer…”

Don’t think about what you prefer!

Then a man pushed past, and the damnable woman pressed against him again, wriggling. Oh, for an armored codpiece.

“There are times,” he heard himself say, “when less comfort has its own delights…”

Just a kiss. That wouldn’t hurt…

The damn veil was in the way.

“Comfort,” she echoed, her breath fluttering the veil.

Was that longing he heard? Hunger? Need that equaled his? There was a bit of wall free over there.

He pulled back. Hades, that was the worst trap to fall into, to begin to think that a decent woman hungered for the same things an indecent man did. He broke the connection and headed straight toward the fireplace.

Get the statue and get out of here.

He bullied a path through to the display. A couple of men turned to protest, but then they either recognized him or someone said his name. He detested using his rank like this, but he had to get this done.

“Tell me which one you prefer, Roxelana,” he said, to give her an opening.

When she didn’t reply, he turned to see her frowning. Hell, if she couldn’t pick the right one, what were they going to do?

So, think, Tris. Drag your mind away from your damn prick, and come up with a strategy.

He could try to buy them all from Crofton.

That would be dangerous. Crofton might simply charge an outrageous amount, but he might refuse out of spite. Worse, he might suspect something. No matter how cunning the hiding place, would it resist a search?

“Well?” he prompted.

Did her eyes look worried behind that mask? “I need to get closer.” After a moment she added, “I, too, am a little shortsighted, Your Grace.”

Her slip into using his title showed how much she hated to admit that.

“Suleiman,” he reminded her. Beneath the veil, her scarlet lips tightened with annoyance. He imagined them tightening around—

He blocked that thought. But he couldn’t help feeling tender that his Miss Mandeville so disliked having to acknowledge any weakness or error.

“And I don’t suppose you have your spectacles with you,” he teased.

Her red lips parted as if she was breathing deeply, with annoyance no doubt. “That would be a spectacle indeed—a houri in eyeglasses. I only need them for fine print and fine needlework, and I did not expect to do either on this venture…”

He saw the sudden change in her expression as she remembered what she might have been doing here, and he slid his encircling hand up to the side of her breast to distract her.

Ah, she had the sweetest, softest breasts, Miss Cressida Mandeville, and he’d bet his soul she didn’t have a notion of the pleasure they could give her. Not to mention him.

A pity she’s not a whore.

Gads! He was stroking her breast. He stopped. Judging by her dazed look, she wasn’t going to be the control here, so it was for him to do.

Then he realized that people nearby were watching them. When in doubt, be bold. He shifted to take Cressida’s hand high in the old-fashioned style, and led her in a review of the line of statues, commenting loudly enough to be overheard.“

“Which position do you favor, Roxelana? I have to confess that I don’t care for the one with the gentleman upside down and cross-legged.”

“I’d like to see anyone try,” she muttered.

Tris glanced at their audience. “The lady doubts it’s possible. One does wonder what happens during the… climactic distraction. I look forward to watching the experiment.”

People chuckled.

“Watching, St. Raven?” said a man unimaginatively dressed in his grandfather’s wide-skirted court suit. Lord Seabright, an amiable idiot. “Bet you could do it, even if your luscious houri is a bit heavy for it.”

Tris felt Cressida stiffen, and choked back a laugh. “Bountiful with delicious curves,” he said quickly. “So,” he added to his Lady Bountiful, “which do you favor?

Perhaps if you please me well enough, I will buy it for you.“

He thought for a moment that she’d rebel, perhaps grab one of the statues and whack Seabright over his dense skull with it.

A scenario with possibilities…

Before he could suggest it, she turned her back on the man. “Such a hard choice,” she said in her foreign accent, studying the line of statuettes.

If she couldn’t recognize the right one, they’d have to wait. Eventually the debauch would render most people oblivious.

He could have groaned. Linger here for hours? Even now, with Cressida simply standing still, he was aware of every delectable curve. He could imagine the taste of her skin on his tongue, feel her nipple full in his mouth…

He dragged his eyes away from her body, and his mind from the pit, and focused on the vertical statues. What distinguished them for her? Did she remember whether the woman had her right or left leg up over the man’s hip? Surely she’d know if it was the one with both her legs raised. The fourth was a complicated stance with both partners on one leg with the other hooked up around their partner’s hip.

Three showed the woman with one leg raised. In two it was the right leg, in the other, the left. Was that the one?

He looked at the two with the right leg up, wondering what the differences might be. Ah, in one the man was holding her around the waist with both arms. In the other he had one hand on her breast.

So, had the one in London been mistaken for one with the left leg up, or for one with the man’s hand on a breast?

She reached out and touched the one with the woman’s right leg curled around her mate’s hips, his hand on her breast. “This one, my lord Suleiman. This is the one that pleases me.”

Casually, he picked it up. “Then let us find our host and ask his price.”

It was worth a try, but there was an immediate outcry that his ducal status didn’t seem to quell. He was about to proceed anyway when Crofton pushed through the crowd.

“My dear duke, I cannot permit even you to claim a statue just yet!” He was showing the pleased spite Tris had feared. “You, like everyone, will have to win it. Each statue will go to the couple best able to reproduce the act.”

Tris ran through some choice curses in his mind. It might just be possible to persuade Cressida to enact the pose in public, but not to complete it. And even if she were willing to try, he would never allow it.

“I see you have chosen one of the easier ones,” Crofton added slyly.

He kept his voice level and bored. “My Roxelana chose it, my lord Satan. She doubtless recognizes the position most likely to give her pleasure.”

“Then she will enjoy performing it, but I must insist that you replace the prize until then.”

Tris could see no way to resist. To start a fight over it would draw attention, and the thing might pop open if dropped. Damnably frustrating. All they needed was a few minutes with it in a shady corner. “”When will the contest be held?“ he asked.

“At midnight, of course. Please, do enjoy my many little treats until then.” Crofton moved on to watch and applaud the performance of those attempting the poses.

For the first time Tris wondered how much the jewels were worth, and whether the Mandevilles would accept money. Probably not, and if the value was substantial, it wouldn’t be an easy option for him. He was rich, but not so rich as a duke should be, and he was cash-poor.

His uncle had always resented not having a son. When he’d given up hope, he had diverted all his unentailed wealth into lavish portions for his six plain daughters, and ceased to take interest in managing his estates. If not for reliable staff, the dukedom could be in a disastrous state.

As it was, things were bad enough. The end of the war had brought hard times, and most of the estate income was needed to repair neglect and provide employment. Yet a certain show was part of the role.

And besides, it was a matter of justice. In any real sense, these jewels belonged to the Mandevilles, and they should be returned to them. There had to be a way.

People began to object to them blocking the view, so he moved to the left of the fireplace. From there he could watch for an opportunity to slip the statue out of the line. If the ones on either side were nudged closer, it might go unnoticed.

He pulled Cressida into his arms, her too-curious eyes facing his chest. She looked up at him almost desperately.

He nuzzled her neck so he could speak into her ear. “Don’t worry. We’ll get it. How did you know it?”

“The hat,” she murmured back. “The woman has a longer, more pointed hat.”

He glanced at the statue, wishing that she wouldn’t keep moving against him. She was a damned twitchy woman. “The hat,” he repeated, not knowing whether to laugh or groan.

“And a different style of belt.”

He did laugh then, softly against her sweet-smelling neck. He recognized the soap he’d sent to her room. It was his favorite on a woman, but now, strangely, he decided to find a new one for future guests. This perfume would always remind him of her.

She turned in his arms, and short of force he didn’t see how to stop her. A laughing Harlequin was attempting the cross-legged shoulderstand with the help of two friends. Tris hoped they didn’t try to get a woman on top of him. He feared Hopewell might break his neck, and he rather liked the man.

Hopewell folded his legs down, ankles crossed, and someone lifted one of the smaller whores to sit backward on top. The girl locked her legs with Hopewell’s and they achieved a sort of balance, but she was squealing that it was no fun without a prick inside her. Tris wanted to put his hands over Cressida’s doubtless wide eyes.

The whore sounded about thirteen. He blocked that.

He couldn’t take on more damsels in distress, and that damsel seemed delighted with her situation—except for the prick, of course.

Cressida turned back to look at him. “Not just the pose?”

“Not just the pose. Don’t worry. We’re not doing it.”

“We have to!” But he could hear the gulp in it.

He rubbed his knuckles up and down her spine. “No, we don’t. Trust me.”

Trust
. When he wanted to slide his hand under her jacket and feel the satin of her back, slip his hand down inside her trousers to feel her scrumptious bottom.

Raise her right leg…

Cressida felt she was going mad. They had to plan how to steal the statue, but she couldn’t think straight. The itch was worse. Twice now she’d had to stop her hand going between her legs to rub there!

It had to be the alcohol in that drink, though she’d never felt like this before. If they could get away, she could wash. That might help. Or she could take laudanum and sleep it off.

Now, however, pressed against St. Raven, the raucous sounds of the room a dim backdrop, she burned, longing to rub herself against him, to spread her legs and rub against him
there
. Her hands were frustrated by his shirt and jacket, and her mouth watered for him. She wanted to lick his skin…

She shivered and realized why she might be feeling like this. It was him. This was all his doing, the wicked, skillful rake!

He’d been squeezing and fondling her all evening, and now he was running his knuckles up and down her spine, sending shivers and shards of excitement throughout her body.

Every scrap of silk she was wearing stroked her skin as she moved, as she shifted so her eager nipples rubbed through silk on silk. The seam between her legs whispered against an exquisitely sensitive place. Her breasts felt swollen, and the tips demanded more than a touch.

She pressed against him.

He was so hot, as hot as she was…

His hand kept on making casual, knowing havoc on her back.

Then his hand arrived back at the bottom of her jacket and slid up under it, hot and subtle against her bare skin. She made a sound into his chest as his splayed hand commanded her back, crushing her chest against his as if he knew exactly how she felt.

Oh, what a devil he was to be able to do this to her.

She should stop him. Stop all this. She knew he would stop if she insisted. She trusted him. She trusted him…

Her frantic breaths caught. If she could trust him, could she let him keep on doing what he was doing? Doing what she wanted so desperately?

“Move your veil for me,” he murmured, and she obeyed, pulling it down beneath her chin.

Oh, yes. Kisses. Her mouth thirsted for kisses.

She was dimly aware that they were in public, but it didn’t matter.

Still pleasuring her back, he took her lips, and this time she opened them, eager for a kiss like the one last night, but more. A kiss as wicked as the statues, as entwined, as involved. A kiss that seared through her, engulfed her.

She raised her right leg, sliding it up his thigh, silk on silk. He was too tall. She went on tiptoe to try to stretch her knee to his hip.

This was what she wanted.
This
. To be openmouthed to him, above and below, that aching, stinging place loving the pressure, wanting more.