The Delicate Matter of Lady Blayne (52 page)

Triumph at her power took her breath. Energy surged through her body like fire blazing up a piece of kindling. Vitality that couldn’t be suppressed. She resumed swaying, allowing her feminine instinct complete possession.

He fixed his gaze on her lower body. His eyes widened.

Darkened.

She knew the look of a man’s lust.

God, he was hers. Totally hers.

And this was likely her last chance ever to know him like this. Maybe fate itself had created this moment of magical moonlit opportunity.

For hours, she’d tossed in sweat-soaked sheets. She’d told herself it was owing to the excessive heat, the worst summer’s heat she had known in her life. As the clock had chimed midnight, wind had rustled the curtains. The first cooling breeze New Balcombe had seen in days had compelled her to come outdoors.

However, she couldn’t lie to herself. One thing and one thing only had dominated her thoughts and kept her from sleeping. In two weeks, Thomas would leave for Harvard College. He was leaving…The only man she had ever wanted—yes, it must be admitted, the only man she had ever loved—was about to walk out of her life. Maybe forever.

She would never know his kiss, his touch.

You could have him, here tonight, if you wanted him. No one shall ever know…
A little seduction. That was all it would take. She swayed her hips and shoulders in a motion as if she were a helpless willow caught in a breeze. Submissive to the forces of nature.

Always before, in the theatre, she had danced before a large audience. She’d never liked acting or dancing on stage. She’d been so young when she started, terrified of making a misstep in front of so many people. People who might pelt her with rotten fruit and worse. She taken herself to a place deep inside and pretended that she danced alone. But now she was not alone. She was exceedingly aware of Thomas Marlowe. Aware of her effect on him. Her nipples drew tight, straining against the fabric of her bodice as she moved. Wetness flowed from her sex. She’d known many men and it hadn’t been her choice. But Thomas was her choice. She had wanted him for so very long.

And tonight he wanted her too—this cold, impossibly remote man wanted her.

She stole a glance over her shoulder. He stood there, watching her as if he were transfixed.

She laughed, the low, throaty sound alien to her ears. Dear heaven, what was he waiting on? It had taken far less for the gentlemen in London to jump at her mother backstage.

Well, as a former actress, she certainly knew how to play the seductress. “Goodman Marlowe.” She let her tongue caress the name and paused, while holding his gaze steadily. “Always devout, always good. Too good to take what he wants.”She cupped her breasts, lifting and pushing them together, making them appear fuller. His focus of attention fell. She laughed again.

His jaw tightened. “Mistress Abramson, don’t.”

She drew her brows together in an expression of exaggerated sympathy and shook her head slowly. “Too good to take what he wants…even if his quarry wants to be taken?”

He jerked his stare back to her eyes, his brows drawn tightly together. “You want that? To be taken here in the wood, like a harlot?”

She flinched. The word stung. Yes, however unwilling, she’d been a whore. Yet to hear that ugly word on his lips, directed at her—
Leave. Just leave and pretend none of this ever happened.
His gaze trailed down over her body.

Wait

His lips parted slightly and his features sharpened into an expression of pure hunger. No. He hadn’t meant it. It was bluster. He was defensive, deflecting blame. He was close to giving in. Power surged through her once more. She purposely relaxed her face and curved her lips into a smile. “Oh no, never a harlot. I am a creature of the wood. A nymph.”

She laughed, turning away to resume her dance.

He locked an iron arm around her waist and he pulled her backwards. Roughly. Anticipation tingled through her like a thousand stinging bees. She opened her mouth to cry out but her back made contact with his body. A body as rock hard as she’d ever imagined. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think.

He pressed his pelvis into her buttocks, and, even through the fabric of his breeches, his erection felt hot and huge.

It felt divine.

Unable to stop herself, she wriggled against him, revelling in the evidence of his arousal. He growled low, the sound vibrating over her neck. Gooseflesh prickled down her spine. His large hand splayed over her belly. “So the quarry wants to be taken?”

Through the thin fabric, he brushed his fingertips over her stomach in a circular pattern. Not clumsy or rough, but gentle, sensitive teasing. A beguilement.

She moaned, still helplessly writhing against his straining heat. She had dreamt of this too many times, yet it was nothing like she’d dreamt.
He
was nothing like she had dreamt. She trembled and closed her eyes, surrendering. He stopped and put her from him. Firmly. Decisively.

She swayed on her feet. What had happened? Shaking with the shock of loss, she spun to see him walking towards the path in the wood that led back to his property.

God, he was leaving.

Leaving.