Taking Liberties (4 page)

Nash took his time in walking back from his hiding place in the woods to the main house, wandering down several side paths in the extensive, intricate gardens rather than taking the direct route up the main walkway. He did so both to ensure that he was not present for what was bound to be Hapsborough’s awkward departure and to give his ardor—not to mention his erection—a chance to subside. If he encountered Tish in his current state, it was safe to say he would not be able to confine himself to the requisite liberties-plus-one he was permitted to take this afternoon.

But if he were honest with himself—and he did not count a propensity toward self-deception as one of his more notable character flaws, although he had a good many others—he would be forced to admit that the primary reason for his meandering was that he needed time to think. Time to come to terms with his response to seeing Tish in an intimate embrace with another man.

He had expected the entire enterprise to be torture, of course. It was simply that he hadn’t expected the torture to be of this nature, for rather than seething with rage and jealousy, as he’d imagined, he had seethed with the most intense, the most primitive desire he’d ever felt. For the life of him, he could not fathom how that was possible. How on earth could he
enjoy
watching the woman he loved in the arms of another man? Particularly when it had been blatantly obvious that she had not been merely tolerating that man’s kisses and caresses, but actively taking pleasure in them.

In fact, had it not been for Hapsborough’s spectacular confirmation of his reputation for having a hair-trigger, Nash was not at all certain things would not have gone a great deal further between the pair. Not as far as fucking, of course—Nash would have prevented that—but he wondered if he could continue to count on being the man to most rouse and satisfy Tish’s passions. He’d simply assumed up to now that any other man’s attentions would pale in comparison to his. But Tish was so innately sensual, so naturally uninhibited, he no longer had the same level of confidence.

As he blindly navigated the narrow paths that snaked between the sculpted hedgerows and flowering vines, Nash wasn’t sure what worried him more: the possibility that he might lose her to another man or the likelihood that he wouldn’t particularly mind…so long as he was allowed to watch.

The thought gave his waning libido another instant kick. Christ, what was wrong with him? Unbidden, the afternoon he’d spent drinking with Viscount Fitzgerald at White’s came to mind. At the time, he’d presumed Fitzgerald’s particular form of sexual perversity must be unusual, but perhaps it wasn’t so rare, after all. Perhaps Nash himself was afflicted with the same malady…

“Ah, there you are.” Tish’s melodic voice cut through his dense, untidy train of thought as effectively as a scythe through a field of tall grass.

She had materialized without warning about twenty feet in front of him, so silently she might have been a figment of his overheated imagination. He only knew she was real because she still wore the same white gown she’d worn earlier this afternoon, and if his imagination had conjured her, he was certain it would have conjured her in the nude. Or at least with her pale, plump breasts free from her bodice and her sweet, berrylike nipples bare and taut and awaiting the touch of his hand, the sweep of his tongue.

Bloody hell.
He wasn’t ready to see her yet. Not when he was hard enough to pound horseshoes. Again.

“What are you doing here?” he asked sharply, then instantly regretted it. He was trying to woo her, not chase her away, for God’s sake.

Fortunately she didn’t seem inclined to take offense. “You were taking so long to return to the house, I thought perhaps you’d gotten lost. And it seems I was right.”

He wasn’t remotely lost, of course, but he didn’t think it wise to admit the truth. So he said, “Yes, I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.”

“Several of them, I should say,” she said with a weak laugh. “If I didn’t know better, my lord, I would say you were avoiding me.”

“Not at all,” he lied.

“Are you certain?” Her gaze dropped to study a spot of ground a few inches distant from the hem of her frock. “It occurred to me you might have changed your mind.”

Nash blinked, nonplussed. “Changed my mind? About what?”

A slippered toe peeked out from beneath her white skirt and dug into the gravel. “About everything.” When he continued to stare at her uncomprehendingly, she elaborated, “About taking liberties with me. About wanting to marry me at all.”

It was the misery in her voice more than her words that sent him sprinting to her. However befuddled he might be by having discovered this thread of perversity within him, none of his feelings toward Tish had changed. If anything, he desired her more now than ever. And there was no way in hell he would allow her to doubt his intentions.

She had no time to react as he reached her and grabbed her hand. Reflexively she tried to pull away, but he was not to be deterred. He guided her hand to his crotch and pressed her palm, firmly but gently, over the bulge in his breeches. Her eyes widened, and her cheeks grew pink as her fingers closed, small and warm, around the exposed edges of his aching shaft. His flesh twitched in immediate, happy response to her touch, and her eyes grew round.

“Does it
feel
as if I’ve changed my mind?” He took it as an article of faith that, between this afternoon’s encounter with Hapsborough and the torrid embrace he’d shared with her yesterday, she grasped the implications of a rock-hard erection—both figuratively and literally.

She shook her head gravely, but then looked up at him through feathery lashes and gave him a sly smile. “Although I’m not entirely convinced your mind is involved in the matter.”

He emitted a low, pained chuckle. “Although I will admit it is not always the case, in this particular instance, my mind is in complete accord with my cock.”

Having made his point, he released her hand, but she did not remove it from his body. Instead she ran her fingers up and down his length, making him so light-headed he briefly feared he might lose consciousness.

“Is that what you call it? A cock?” she asked.

“That’s one word, yes. There are others.” Nash hoped she didn’t ask him to list them. He was having a difficult time enough remembering his own name, let alone euphemisms for the male member.

Fortunately she seemed satisfied with gaining a single addition to her vocabulary, for she nodded as she continued to stroke him. “And you like it when I touch your cock this way?”

“Very much,” he answered, his voice hoarse.
Although I’d like it better if there weren’t so two layers of fabric between my prick and your hand.

“And it feels good when…well, when a man spills his seed?”

“Christ, yes.”

“Then there’s something I don’t understand.”

“What is that?” Nash asked as his balls tightened with the effort of suppressing his rising
arousal.

“Why did Hapsborough behave the way he did after…” She hesitated, obviously struggling for the proper word and failing to find it in her vocabulary. “Well, after? As if I’d done something unforgivable and unpleasant to him?”

“Oh, it wasn’t anything to do with you. He was simply embarrassed.”

Tish raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Embarrassed? But why?”

“The duke has a reputation for being—hmm, how shall I say it?—a bit short on stamina. I believe he was ashamed that he came so quickly and afraid you realized his shortcomings.”

Her hand stilled. “So it was supposed to take longer than that?”

Nash chuckled. “I hate to put it so bluntly, sweetheart, but yes. A man who can’t hold himself off longer than that is never going to satisfy a woman in bed. And it would be
you
to whom something unforgivable and unpleasant was done.” Nash took her hand in his and brought it up to his mouth, pressing a light kiss to her ungloved fingers. “A proper gentleman always puts a lady’s needs before his own. Like this.”

Tish had no time to analyze his intentions let alone consider whether she approved of them, for Nash had already dropped to his knees in front of her, the fine gravel crunching softly beneath his weight. She had just long enough to wonder whether the pea-size rocks would hurt him before his hands found her ankles beneath the hem of her gown, and then she forgot everything else as his palms began to coast upward along the outside of her legs. Yard after yard of skirts and petticoats gathered in folds at his wrists as he progressed over her silk-stockinged calves to her knees and then—shockingly, wonderfully—to her thighs. There, his fingers brushed across bare skin as he reached the tops of her stockings and the garters holding them in place…and kept right on going.

Tish’s knees wobbled dangerously and anticipation coiled in her belly. She understood his destination now, if not what he planned to do when he arrived there. The flesh between her legs grew thick and heavy, pulsing with the liquid heat of her arousal, aching to be touched.

And Nash was going to touch her. Touch her
there
. How, she wasn’t sure, nor did she particularly care. As long as he eased the hungry, needful core of her being, she would permit him any liberty he desired.

Her skirts reached her hips, and Nash released a low whistle, at which point Tish remembered she had chosen to forego wearing drawers because they spoiled the line of her gown. Or so she told herself. Perhaps, however, she hadn’t been entirely truthful with herself, because she was profoundly glad there was nothing between the tantalizing
whoosh
of Nash’s warm breath and the mass of ginger curls at the apex of her thighs.

“You came prepared,” he murmured approvingly, his mouth drawn tight, nostrils flaring. He looked as if he were hungry, too. As if he planned, somehow, to devour her.

“Hold up your skirts,” he commanded.

The possibility of disobeying simply didn’t occur to her. She gripped the fabric gathered at her waist, baring everything below to the intensity of his gaze. Her legs trembled and her heart thudded wildly. All at once, she was acutely aware that they were standing in the middle of a garden path: she with her skirts bunched up to her waist and he with his hand nestled mere inches from the most intimate place. Anyone could interrupt them at any moment—Beatrice, one of the servants, even Albemarle himself should he suddenly conceive the atypical desire to pay a visit to his wife. Tish knew she should be mortified by that possibility, shamed by her wanton
willingness to allow Nash to touch her so privately in such a public setting.

But the thought did no such thing. In fact, the idea that someone might stumble upon them
in flagrante
only served to intensify her arousal, just as knowing Nash had been observing her encounter with Hapsborough had magnified her pleasure. Her skin flushed at the realization that this was almost certainly not normal, and yet, she couldn’t bring herself to worry about it. Not now, at any rate.

Nash released his grip on her gown and slid his now free hands between her thighs. “Spread your legs,” he instructed, pressing outward with his palms to demonstrate his intent.

She obliged, opening up to his fingers like a daisy to the sun. He traced the delicate outer folds of her cleft, the barest of contacts, and her muscles clenched in expectation.

“You’re hot and achy here, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” she croaked, her mouth as dry as the place between her legs was wet.

His fingertips slipped effortlessly into and along the damp crease, closer to but not quite touching the place she wanted them most. Instinctively she bent her knees to give him better access and tilted her hips in a silent plea.
There. Please. Now.

He didn’t oblige her unspoken demand, however. Instead he moved his fingers backward and pressed one into the slick channel of her sex. She gasped at the intrusion, which wasn’t at all what she had wanted yet, strangely, precisely what she needed.

“So wet. So ready,” he murmured, more to himself than to her it seemed. “God, I wish I hadn’t promised not to fuck you, but this will have to do for now.”

The single digit slid in and out as he spoke, and Tish closed her eyes, awed by the intensity of sensation that came from such a simple act. How could she not have known how good such a thing would feel—the friction, the fullness, the forbiddances? No wonder they kept young ladies ignorant of such matters. It would be so easy to become addicted to this feeling, to crave it above all else.

With his free hand, he parted her folds, and she felt his breath feather across the small, sensitive nexus of nerve endings just before something wet and supple stroked across it.
What…?
And then she realized.

His tongue.
Oh, God, he was
licking
her.
There.
Devouring her, just as his gaze had promised, as if she were the sweetest of desserts. And, oh my, it was delicious! Wasn’t that a paradox?

She teetered gracelessly, barely able to maintain her balance as the enormity—and wickedness—of what he was doing to her threatened to overcome her. Her body suffused with heat as his tongue caressed and teased, circled and stabbed, tormented and soothed. All the while, he continued to thrust that wicked finger—or was it two, now?—driving her with relentless determination toward the peak.

Tish had never been a modest, retiring sort of girl. She had discovered years before that she could bring herself to pleasurable release by rubbing the place between her legs until the tension crested and broke. But nothing she had ever experienced approached the…fever that gripped her now. She felt as if she had been reduced to pure sensation, her entire being concentrated in no more than two square inches of flesh. She was nearing the pinnacle, and when she reached it, she would not merely break, but shatter into a thousand brilliant pieces.

She ached for disintegration. But she feared it, too. What if this became all she was?

As if sensing she held back, Nash’s thrusts became stronger, deeper, the pressure of his tongue more insistent and demanding. He gave her no respite, no chance for retreat. And suddenly, there it was—the point of no return—and she grabbed for the edge, seized it, clung to
it as if her life depended upon it.