The Secret to Seduction (17 page)

Or perhaps she considered the earth-shattering experience of climax akin to tasting a new soup.

He remembered her fingers at the nape of his neck, her warm body softening against his, and how she kissed, quickly learning the heated give-and-take of it. How rapidly things had escalated beyond the grasp of his own control, and how she had arced as though shocked when his hands slid down to cover her breasts, her nipples peaked against—

He dropped his fork to his plate, and the resounding clatter made the other three members of his party jump.

He smiled, a slightly strained smile. “My apologies. Do continue being witty, Wyndham.”

Wyndham pretended to be aggrieved. “Ah, but you’ve ruined it, Rhys. I cannot perform on command. Artists, and comedy, are at the mercy of the muse, are they not, Sophia?”

Sophia.
Rhys had scarcely looked at Sophia throughout dinner. He looked now. She was fondling the stem of her glass of wine. Idly stroking and circling the length of it between two fingers, as though she’d never before felt such a thing. Her spine had all but collapsed from boredom. She wore a ruby-and-diamond necklace, the teardrop-shaped stone pointing like a prurient little arrow to the deep shadow of her cleavage. Rhys wondered who had given it to her, and was surprised that no little surge of jealousy accompanied the thought, as it normally would have. Her stays had contrived to raise her breasts nearly entirely up out of her dress, and the diners were presented with a view of a luscious, candlelit shelf of bosom.

“
Sì,
” she said finally. It sounded more like a yawn than a word. She met Rhys’s eyes, widened her own eyes in entreaty.
Please, dear God, make the boredom stop,
her expression said.

Sophia was not a creature made for country house parties.

Only then did Rhys notice that Sophia’s idly moving fingers were performing a reasonably accurate imitation of one of her
other
skills. She saw him notice; a smile, tiny, sultry, just for him, lifted the corners of her full mouth.

He smiled a little in return. He considered the possibility of easing his own boredom with a vigorous midnight visit to Sophia.

He turned then, and saw Miss Fairleigh’s green eyes on him—Lord knows he’d seen her best dress often enough during her visit, but it did rather collude with the candlelight to set off her delicate shoulders and neck and those very astute, very clear green eyes.

She dropped her gaze to her plate and frowned a little, studying her lamb avidly, as though the world’s fate depended upon which slice she decided to put next in her mouth.

“Did I mention, Wyndham, that I located a beautiful volume of the history of the world’s countries? Wonderful illustrations. It was tucked away in one of the suites on the third floor.”

“Umm…no. You haven’t yet mentioned it.” Wyndham seemed uncertain what to do with this information.

“Yes. I’ve transferred it to the library.”

“Have you? Capital.” Wyndham was clearly hoping this particular topic was to be a short one.

“A beautiful book belongs with other beautiful books, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I imagine so.” And Wyndham gave Rhys a puzzled frown. He’d probably begun to suspect that boredom was a contagion, and that Rhys had caught it, and intended to bore him from now on.

Before he retired for the evening, Rhys carried the book in question to the library, leaving it on the polished dark table that sat between the two settees.

And then loosened his cravat, and stopped, staring at himself in the mirror, giving some thought as to whether he wanted to sleep in his own bed, or in a bed sweatily entwined with the fragrant and inventive Sophia Licari.

No: he rather thought he could wait for an apology from Signora Licari. He rather thought he’d wait for her to come to him out of sheer frustration, or boredom.

As this had never before happened in the history of their association, he suspected the wait might be a long one. But the idea was novel, and it amused him, and strangely he found his usual need for Signora Licari was tonight outweighed by a need for sleep.

And by wanting, first, to lie awake and picture Miss Fairleigh in her room having difficulty sleeping from thinking of him.

The next day dawned almost aggressively, defiantly clear, and brilliant blue skies glared through every window as Rhys passed through La Montagne’s hall. The snow would be slush in no time beneath these rays.

He’d had a light, almost impatient breakfast alone; he’d risen late. He was irritable; he’d had enough of country confinement. He wanted to read the London papers, watch London performances, speak to artists and poets and musicians, drink liquor in London clubs, explore the latest amusements in the darkest bowels of the city, be cosseted by the accommodating beauties that populated The Velvet Glove. Surely the furor would have ebbed a bit by now, the irate husbands pacified, the ardor of all those infatuated wives cooled by his absence? Perhaps it was time to return.

But this morning, first, he had an objective.

He made sure his footfalls were quiet as he approached the library, but he suspected it almost wouldn’t have mattered if he’d galloped up behind her. She was leaning against the arm of the settee, feet tucked beneath her, the big book open in her lap. She supported its spine with one hand; she had the little finger of the other against her bottom lip, and she seemed to be nibbling absently on her nail.

It had almost been too easy.

“Imagine finding you in the library, Miss Fairleigh.”

She jerked a little in surprise, the book slipping from her grasp. She recovered rather neatly.

“You knew you’d find me here, Lord Rawden.” Dryly said.

She’d startled a laugh from him. Four days of her coolness and he’d somehow managed to forget how very direct Miss Fairleigh could be.

“It’s a beautiful day for a walk,” she said meaningfully. “Clear at last. Perhaps you’d like to take the air.”

“Are you trying to banish me to the outdoors, Miss Fairleigh?”

“I just thought I would point it out.” She sounded a little disappointed he hadn’t leaped upon her suggestion.

“I find I’m in the mood to read. History, perhaps. Don’t let me disturb you. A wonderful book, isn’t it?”

She seemed reluctant to answer. “Yes,” she said at last, sincerely. Almost resignedly.

“Very good.”

He said this noncommittally and strode over to the nearest bookcase, where he spent some time perusing the row of blue spines. Behind him, he heard the rustle of a page turning.

“Pretending something didn’t happen doesn’t quite mean it didn’t happen, you know,” he said idly. “It’s not quite the same thing, is it?”

He didn’t turn. Not yet.

But the silence was interesting. He wondered if her face had gone that lovely pink, or whether she’d stopped breathing.

“But pretending it didn’t happen helps hasten the process of
forgetting
that it ever happened,” she told him, in an admirably steady voice. “In fact, I’ve very nearly forgotten it already.”

“Have you?” he said absently, then knelt to study the books on the row below.

“Of course,” she said idly.

He let a silence go by. Long enough to allow her to perhaps relax a little.

“You’ve forgotten how my lips felt against your throat, and how your body felt pressed against mine?”

This he said conversationally, his voice almost drifting, as he pulled a book from the shelf, leafing through it slowly. Romans, this one was about.

Ah. He thought he could hear her breathing now. Still, he didn’t turn around.

“And”—he mused, turning a page, in the voice he would use to inquire politely after one of her relatives—“you’ve forgotten how you begged me with my own name? And how very, very hard I was against you, and how good that felt?”

He cast a glance over his shoulder then. Brilliant color rode high on her cheeks; the rest of her face was pale. Her eyes glittered. She was staring at him.

“As far as I’m concerned, nothing of any import happened, Lord Rawden.” The words were thin, but steady enough.

“Very good, very good,” he murmured. “I just thought I’d verify that, as I felt very little, too. I should dislike for one of us to pine for the other in vain.”

He stood and turned his full examining gaze on her, giving her no choice but to meet it.

Ah, the transparent Miss Fairleigh couldn’t disguise outraged pride, and she had just bitten her lip to stifle some sort of retort. Her eyes fair snapped lightning.

He turned his back to the shelf, leaned against it casually. “Let me be blunt, Miss Fairleigh,” he said, with all evidence of good humor. “I don’t believe for a moment you were unaffected.”

“No?” It was an attempt to sound bored. It failed, as her voice was scarcely audible, as though he’d just truly caught her out.

“No. I think you returned to your room that evening and relived each moment again and again. I am virtually certain, in fact, that you
touched
yourself as you relived these moments, and I don’t believe your body will ever feel the same again now that you’ve lost control of your…animal nature.”

What a pageant of emotions crossed her face then: outrage, guilt, horror, astonishment, and—oh, yes—longing. Because now she knew how it felt to be touched the way a woman should be touched.

“Moreover,” he mused relentlessly, “I think that you’ll be dreaming of me perhaps until the day you die.”

She clapped the book shut then and stood abruptly. “It was only,” she ground out, “a kiss.”

“Was it?” He was laughing now.

“And
moreover,
” she all but growled, “you, Lord Rawden, murmured my name rather feverishly into my throat, as I recall.”

His smile disappeared. Good God, but a man didn’t like to be reminded of the things he did or said in the heat of passion. She was a very good player. He eyed her somewhat cautiously.

“And you were breathing rather like a bellows,” she continued. “Like a mating bull.”

“A mating
bull
?”

Trust a country girl to arrive at this particular analogy. How deftly she’d seized his weapon from him.

He closed the distance between them, as if he intended to seize it back. “Interesting recollections, Miss Fairleigh, considering you couldn’t
remember
any of it.”

“And I do believe you groaned a bit toward the end there, Lord Rawden.”

Sweet merciful
—

“And…if you were entirely unaffected, Lord Rawden, why are you here in the library now?”

“’Tis my library,” he said mildly. He held up the Roman book. “And here is my book.”

He took yet another step toward her, and now he stood so close he could see flecks of gold in those eyes. Her scent rose sweetly up to him. Odd how familiar it seemed now; he suspected he would know it anywhere.

“If you were entirely unaffected, then my proximity shouldn’t trouble you in the least. And yet…you’re quite a distinctive shade of pink. Do I trouble you, Miss Fairleigh?” His voice had become that low rumble, persuasive, coaxing as a stroking hand.

Her bodice was definitely moving a little more quickly.

“Not…not in the least.” Barely words. Then she squeezed her eyes closed. Angry at herself for stuttering.

She opened them again quickly.

“Ah. I think I know a way we can prove that we’ve both been entirely unaffected by the events of that evening,” Rhys murmured.

“What is it?”

“Kiss me again, Sabrina.”

Silence as she stared up at him, seemingly unable to look away. “Are you
mad
?” Her outrage was very unconvincing, as she’d whispered the words.

“Of course, I can go to my grave thinking that you cherish the evening in the gallery more than anything else in your crusading life.”

“You’re insufferable.” Another whisper.

“I regret to inform you that you’re not the first to make that discovery.”

“You’re so certain there isn’t a woman who can resist you. You’re here because your pride is wounded, that is all.”

She rather had a point. Still, he had a point to make as well.

“Very well, Miss Fairleigh,” he said softly. “Feel free to resist me.”

It was difficult to say how it happened; but his head was lowering, her hands were pressed lightly against his chest, then sliding up to clasp behind his head, their lips were touching, his arms pulled her closer, closer. And now that their bodies were familiar to each other, knew how to fit and mold against each other, the kiss took fire rather rapidly, and became much, much deeper, much more quickly than Rhys had intended.

And oh…it was divine.

Which was why they were in too deep to hear the footsteps on marble or the low murmur of voices.

“Sabrina! We’ve returned, and by
sleigh,
if you can imagine! We brought your father from the Colb—”

A veritable windstorm of gasps.

Followed by a silence as resounding as a thunderclap.

Rhys and Sabrina leaped apart.

In the doorway stood Lady Mary Capstraw, the Colberts, Geoffrey, and someone who could only be, God help them…