The Wedding Game (25 page)

“What do you think this surprise is?” Chastity asked, falling onto the bed.

“No idea,” Prudence said with an expressive shrug. “They've been whispering for weeks, but it's something for all three of us, that much we do know.”

“Intriguing.” Constance yawned, dropping into the chair by the dying fire.

“I thought you weren't sleepy,” Chastity said.

“I wasn't downstairs, but now I am. By the way, I managed to drop the subject of straitened circumstances into the doctor's shell-like ear.”

“So did I,” Prudence said with a chuckle. “He looked totally dumbfounded.”

“Well, it is a bit of a strange confidence, coming out of the blue like that,” Chastity pointed out. “But I think it probably worked.” She told them of her exchange with Douglas. “So, we're back to being just friends again,” she finished. “Which is something of a relief.”

Her sisters made no comment. Then Constance said, “This isn't supposed to be a sequitur, but I'm getting the feeling we might be running into difficulties with our plan to unite the doctor with the Della Luca. Sorry to bring this up now.” She yawned again. “But have you seen the way he looks at her sometimes?”

“She is a pill,” Prudence said from the dresser stool, where she'd alighted. “And I don't think her pillness is washing over him. Sorry, Chas. I know you thought it would, but I honestly think, whatever his needs, he's not going to sell his soul to that particular devil.”

“Devil's a little strong,” Chastity protested.

“No,” Prudence said. “They come in all varieties. You didn't hear what she said to Mary.”

They talked a little more and then her sisters left Chastity to get to bed. She had a feeling they were right about matchmaking Laura and Douglas. Laura showed every sign of embracing the prospect eagerly, but Douglas was a different matter. As she knew full well now, he
did
have finer feelings, and a boring pedant with hostile opinions about the underprivileged was going to offend them at every turn. It was only a matter of time, she thought, before he realized that.

It was such a nuisance. Now she would need to find someone else for him. Oh, and they would have to find someone else for Laura since none of them could be condemned to too many close encounters with such a step-relation.

Chastity yawned deeply as she pulled her nightgown over her head and reached for her dressing gown. For some reason she felt as if this entire burden rested on her shoulders. It didn't, of course, but her sisters had other concerns, personal concerns that had to take priority on a family occasion. They were not supposed to be working over Christmas, even if Chastity felt that she was. And now she was just feeling sorry for herself. She shook her head in self-reproach and went off to the bathroom that she had always shared with her sisters . . . and now, of course, also with their husbands.

She locked the door behind her, something she would never have done in the past, because no one, apart from the upstairs maid in the morning, came in there except her sisters. Shaving soap and razors on the washstand made it very clear that things had changed.

Her body felt taut as a bowstring, as if she had been holding herself rigid for hours . . . or holding something at bay for hours. And, of course, all evening she had been doing just that—holding emotion and impulse at bay as if they were a pack of ravening wolves. She contemplated running a bath to relax herself and then decided it would take too long and she was too bone-tired. Hester and David's wedding seemed to have happened a week ago rather than that morning. Or rather yesterday morning, she thought through a mighty yawn. She washed her face and cleaned her teeth then unlocked the door and went out into the now-darkened corridor.

The house was quiet, the gas lamps extinguished, the only light coming from the star-filled window at the end of the corridor. She trod softly past her sisters' bedroom doors and had just lifted the latch of her own when she felt someone behind her.

She turned with a gasp and a bitten-off cry. “What the devil are you doing?” she demanded fiercely, as her fast-beating heart slowed.

“I was looking for another bathroom,” Douglas said. “Someone was in the one close to my room.” He was still dressed, although he'd discarded his coat, waistcoat, and white tie and wore only shirt and trousers. Chastity noticed that his feet were bare, which was probably why she hadn't heard his approach.

“Oh,” Chastity said. “There's one just down there.” She pointed towards the door from which she'd just emerged.

“Ah . . . right,” he said, but he didn't move. They both seemed rooted to the spot. Chastity's hand was still on the lifted latch of her door and as she held it the door swung slowly open.
An escape route, or an invitation?
She had no idea.

A glow of firelight and the soft flicker of a candle illuminated her as she stood in the doorway. Douglas looked down at her and heard himself swallow in the taut silence. Her dressing gown hung open, revealing the thin folds of her white nightgown, her unbound, well-brushed hair framed her face in a dark red cloud. Her hazel eyes glowed huge in the ivory complexion, little flickers of golden fire in their depths. Her lips were slightly parted as if she would say something but didn't know what.

He reached out and touched the curve of her cheek with the back of his hand as he had done once before. And once again the intimacy of the gesture sent shock waves to the soles of her bare feet. “Oh, dear Chastity,” he said softly. “This isn't going to work, is it?”

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, overwhelmingly conscious of his physical presence, of the touch on her cheek, of the dark eyes filled with passion resting upon her upturned face. “No,” she said, taking a step back through the open door. “It isn't.”

He followed her, closing the door gently behind him. Without looking, he turned the key in the lock. Then he came towards her.

Chastity stood transfixed. She couldn't possibly withstand this juggernaut—not the juggernaut of Douglas Farrell but the whole massive and magnificent avalanche of her own desire. And she didn't want to. She thought fleetingly of her sisters, of how they had succumbed to this same overwhelming passion against all reason and logic. Why shouldn't she? Just this once experience what they had?

Douglas reached her. He towered above her, and the intensity of his physical presence turned her knees to butter and sent a jolt through her loins. “Sweetheart, I want you so much,” he said, the soft lilting burr in his voice suddenly more pronounced.

“I want you too,” she whispered. “So very much.”

He slipped his hands beneath the open dressing gown and cupped her shoulders as he drew her towards him. The instant before she closed her eyes she watched his mouth coming closer, the deep fire in his eyes now filling his intent gaze. He smelled of soap and his cheeks were smooth without the rough stubble of earlier. But his mouth was the same, strong yet pliant. She kept very still, concentrating on the sensation. Now that the decision had been made—had made itself—there was no longer any hurry, any need to do anything but enjoy the inexorable building of desire.

Without taking his lips from hers, he changed his grip on her shoulders and the dressing gown slipped to the floor. He ran his hands down her arms to her wrists. He put his hands over the backs of hers, enclosing her hands and holding them at her sides. He took a half step closer so that her body was brought against his.

She could feel his heart beat against her breast and her nipples peaked beneath the thin cotton of her gown. She used her tongue, pushing at his closed lips, and for a second he playfully resisted, then his lips parted and she pushed within his mouth, curling her tongue over his. He still held her hands at her sides and without them Chastity was yet more powerfully aware of the rest of her body as it pressed against his, of the pulsing in her belly, the growing moistness of her loins, the quiver in her thighs. Her feet were bare and her toes curled into the rug, then she rose on tiptoe, reaching to deepen the kiss, to explore his mouth, his cheeks, his teeth, the soft palate.

At last she drew back, letting her heels drop to the floor, tilting her head backwards so that she could look up at him. He smiled at her, a warm, slow smile that seemed to drink her in. “Who were we trying to fool?” he asked, tracing her lips with his fingertip.

“Ourselves,” she said, her tongue darting to moisten the fingertip.

“Never a good idea,” he said. He ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders again and then lightly clasped her throat, pushing up her chin with his thumbs. “You do the strangest things to me, Chastity Duncan.” Then he kissed her again, his mouth hard on hers, his tongue insistent and muscular as he explored her mouth as she had explored his. His hands moved from her neck and slid down her back, pulling her hard against him so that she could feel the powerful jut of his arousal against her belly. He gripped her backside, kneading the firm roundness, finding the little indentations at the base of her spine.

Chastity ran her own hands down his back, grasped his buttocks with a soft exhalation that could almost have been a moan. His backside was as hard and muscular as the rest of him. She moved one hand between their bodies and rubbed the bulge of his penis, hearing and delighting in his own swiftly indrawn breath. She fumbled for the buttons at his waist and he drew back a little to give her more room, although his mouth never left hers. The buttons flew apart as her fingers moved deftly and then she slid her hand into the opening and felt his warmth, the pulse of his penis beneath the thin wool of his drawers.

Douglas began to pull up her nightgown, hand over hand until it was bunched at her waist. He clasped her bottom, ran his hands down the backs of her thighs, and she rose up on tiptoe again in involuntary reaction to the intimate touch.

His mouth left hers. “Lift up your arms,” he said softly, and she obeyed, raising her arms as he pulled the nightgown over her head, tossing it hastily to the floor. He stood back, taking her hands, holding her arms away from her body, gazing at her hungrily. “Lovely,” he murmured. “Quite lovely.”

Chastity shivered with pleasure at the compliment, but also with a surge of sensual delight as the air touched her skin, bringing her to full and vibrant consciousness of her nakedness. She felt his gaze touch every inch of her, lingering on the swell of her breasts, the dark peaking tips, sweeping over the slight roundness of her belly, pausing long on the tangle of red curls at the apex of her thighs, then moving down the length of her thighs, holding for a second on her knees, as if there was something special about them, before continuing to her feet. She felt as if she'd been painted with his eyes.

“Turn around,” he said softly, releasing her hands as she did so. She couldn't see his gaze now, but she could still feel it, almost palpably hot on her back, her bottom, the backs of her thighs, the hollows behind her knees.

“You are magnificent, Chastity,” he said, stepping up behind her, placing his hands on her hips. She could feel the softness of his shirt against her back, the silkiness of his opened trousers, the hot throb of his penis against her backside. He moved his hands around her body, stroked her belly, dipped a finger into her naval, slid down to cup the mound at the base of her belly, his fingers working through the fine silky bush to the warm damp flesh beneath.

She leaned back against him, parting her legs for his further exploration, her breath coming swiftly now, a light dew misting her skin. And when she had scaled the glorious heights of sensation her knees buckled and she fell forward onto the bed, breathless.

He leaned over her, kissing the nape of her neck, tracing the line of her spine with his tongue, until she groaned in soft protest and rolled over, reaching up a hand to caress his face. “That's enough selflessness,” she said with a weak smile. “Take your clothes off, Dr. Farrell.”

He laughed softly and threw off his clothes with rough haste, heedless of where they landed, then he came down to the bed with her, kneeling above her so that her hands could have free rein to make their own exploration. She stroked and kissed and nuzzled, reveling in his soft moans of delight, and when finally he leaned over, grasping her hands palm against palm, holding them above her head on the bed, she raised her hips, her legs clasping tightly around his waist, her heels pressing into his buttocks, and took him inside her.

Chastity had made love once before in her life and it had been nothing like this. This delicious sensation of flesh on flesh, of the swelling, throbbing presence within her, each rhythmic thrust driving him against her womb. Pleasure grew in an ever-tightening spiral. Her nails raked his back, his buttocks, twisted in the dusting of curling hair on the backs of his thighs as she matched his rhythm. His eyes never left her face, watching every fleeting expression, and she kept her own gaze locked with his until the world burst apart and she didn't know whether she was drowning or flying.

When she finally came to herself, Douglas was lying beside her, one hand on her damp belly, his chest heaving, his eyes closed. “Sweet Jesus,” he murmured. “We are a fit made in heaven.”

Chastity tried to laugh but she couldn't summon the strength. She turned on her side, burying her head in the hollow of his shoulder, and fell instantly asleep.

Douglas reached down to pull the disarranged covers over them both, tried to turn down the gas lamp, couldn't quite reach it without disturbing her, and with a mental shrug closed his own eyes.

A wintry light was falling across the bed when Chastity awoke, groggy and disoriented. She lay still, for a moment wondering what strange pillow her head had found. Her thoughts cleared slowly and she raised her head to look down at Douglas, who still slept. He had enviably long eyelashes, she thought, studying the rich black half-moons on his cheekbones. His eyebrows almost met across the bridge of his Roman nose. She resisted the urge to trace the calm relaxed line of his well-sculpted mouth with a fingertip. She didn't want to wake him, there was something wonderfully peaceful about his quiet rhythmic breathing, the warm sense and scent of him in the tumbled bedclothes.