If the Shoe Fits (3 page)

Sarah had turned to the mirror to double-check her mascara and lipstick and caught Bronte’s openmouthed gape in the reflection.

“What?” Sarah asked, her lipstick poised in midair as she was about to put the top back on.

“You did not!” Bronte covered her mouth and started to laugh. “Oh, Sarah, you are priceless. He is so fawned over around here, you have no idea. His mother ignores everyone in the family except Devon, his sisters act like he is the best thing since sliced fucking bread.”

“Bron, I thought you were trying to cut back on the swearing… you know, becoming a duchess and all that.”

“Don’t remind me. I’m already shitting bullets about walking down the aisle in that vintage Valentino dress… I keep picturing all those yards of priceless lace getting caught on the edge of one of the goddamned pews and my very nervous self tripping flat on my fucking face.”

Sarah grabbed Bronte’s hands in hers and gave her a warm smile. “You are going to be a star, Bron. Don’t give it a second thought. The dress is divine. The chapel looked beautiful tonight at the rehearsal, and it will all be perfect.”

“Thank you so much for coming. All these Etonian-Oxonian-Cantabrigian mates are a bit overwhelming. I will be relieved when the rest of the Yanks arrive tomorrow. My mom is not helping.”

Sarah gave her an encouraging hug and then the two women headed back out into the surreal world of Dunlear Castle: ancestral home to the nineteenth Duke of Northrop and his ne’er-do-well younger brother. If Sarah was going to lose her virginity, she might as well do it in style.

Whether it was a curse or a blessing—Sarah still hadn’t decided—she was able to drink vast amounts without getting drunk as long as she stuck to champagne. Devon, on the other hand, seemed to be showing the signs of one too many glasses. His goofy smile was plastered on his face as they fell into the back of the courtesy limousine that had arrived from Sarah’s hotel. The car headed out the Dunlear Castle gravel drive and onto the small country lane that would take them to the Amberley Castle Hotel. It was times like this she wished that she actually
did
feel the effects of alcohol.

Sarah was reminded of all those idiotic parties in her early teens in Lake Forest when she had tried, almost desperately, to get tipsy, buzzed, or even flat-out drunk—anything to take the edge off the overarching awkwardness that plagued her. Her mother and father had always babied her and told her how pretty and kind and lovely she was, but Sarah knew better. Her skin was nearly blue, it was so pale. Her fleshy middle and thighs were impervious to jogging and sit-ups.

And then the boobs.

Well, suffice to say, her chest was ample.

When Elizabeth James died soon after Sarah’s twelfth birthday, Sarah said good-bye to her mother and, unwittingly, to her childhood. In the midst of her mourning and depression and isolation and futile attempts to love her father out of his own misery, Sarah took no notice of her body’s transformation from pudgy preteen to voluptuous Lolita. By the time she was fourteen, her father was still bringing home old-fashioned smocked dresses when her body was better suited to a
Maxim
cover shoot. Just like everything else in her life, as far as Sarah was concerned, her body had been
all
wrong
.

Somehow sex just never made it to the top of her to-do list. And now that she was a successful twenty-five-year-old businesswoman, it would have seemed patently absurd to tell anyone that she was still a virgin. Bronte Talbott, of all people, who had single-handedly crafted the advertising and PR campaign that depicted Sarah James as the quintessential voluptuary, would never have believed her.

But something about the way Devon touched her made her feel like her too-big, too-soft body might be quite fine as far as he was concerned. Maybe even better than fine. A permanently smiling Devon Heyworth draping his hand over her shoulder and tracing his index finger along the arch of her left breast made her feel like the whole world was better than fine.

“You do realize you are touching my breast, right?” Sarah blurted.

Devon looked at her, continued to smile, continued to touch. “Are you going to narrate the entire evening?”

Sarah blushed. Not just rosy cheeks, but hot, ferocious waves of heat up her chest and neck. Luckily, the back of the car was dimly lit.

“Are you blushing?” Devon looked at her closely, his hot, boozy breath against her cheek, then looked out the car window, still touching her breast absently. “Hmm. I was under the impression that American women no longer blushed. I will have to report back to the Royal International Seduction Society at their quarterly meeting next month.”

She smiled, mostly relieved that her narration faux pas hadn’t given her away. In that split second of contemplation at the dinner table, after which she had nonchalantly informed Devon that she was a sure thing, Sarah was all of a sudden 100 percent committed to getting rid of her virginity once and for all. It was just hanging out there in the ether. Undone. And she wanted it done.

But she didn’t want to go through some long, tedious relationship that would require doting phone calls, feigned intimacy, and the dreaded nicknames and baby talk. Devon was undoubtedly the man for the job.
Just
look
at
him
, her alter ego cried. Could he have been any better looking? Sarah thought not. And she had been around her share of photo shoots with hot Italian male models. Not to mention that he arrived prevetted, being the younger brother of her best friend’s ducal husband-to-be. Devon Heyworth was royal and witty and… fondling her breast… and…

Sarah shook herself slightly to clear her head.

It also helped that he was buzzed enough that he wouldn’t even know it was her first time. As long as she kept her mouth shut. Because she had to confess she
did
tend to err on the side of narration, especially when she was a little nervous. One more reason she probably excelled in business, because instead of cowering in the face of questions or criticism from potential buyers and investors, she simply launched into lengthy downloads of information that she had committed to memory for just such occasions.

What did one talk about while kissing? Well, nothing if lips and tongue were otherwise engaged, of course. But the whole rest of the time… silence? Idle chat? Sarah looked down at her lap and smiled to herself. She was more worried about topics of conversation than the actual doing of the deed.

“What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing. Just thinking about how much or how little to talk, and if so, about what—”

And then there was no more talking.

Devon’s right hand, which had been idly resting against the cold glass of the car window, reached across to Sarah’s mouth. He dragged his thumb across her lower lip, his skin transferring an exhilarating chill. He moved it back and forth. Maniacally slow. And that other hand was still making those lazy tracks along her left breast.

His thumb went tentatively into her mouth, tugging on the soft inside of her lower lip as he slowly pulled it out. “Your lips are insanely gorgeous, you know. I kept trying to decide where to look at you tonight. So many excellent parts…”

She closed her eyes and gave mental thanks to all that was holy that she would not have to come up with a single topic of discussion for many hours to come. If this was how it was going to go, he could just talk and talk. Her body responded to his voice like it responded to his touch, with deep, warm waves of pleasure.

When his full lips touched her for the first time, it was right at the base of her neck. “Like this part,” he whispered with that delectable British accent, husky and prim somehow. “It is just a simple” (kiss) “meeting of neck and shoulder” (kiss) “but there’s something utterly delightful” (sucking kiss) “about the way it all fits together.”

The kissing on the neck, the finger in the mouth, the hand along the breast.

Sarah started to laugh.

Devon stopped everything. “What is so funny?”

“Please don’t stop,” she whispered, putting her hand at the back of his neck, the crisp fold of his shirt collar catching into the strong neck, then the silky fine hair, then her hands were wandering on their own.

“Are you laughing at me?” he pressed.

“No, I was laughing at me. Why would I be laughing at you? You are making me feel better than I’ve—well, better than I’ve felt in a very long time.”

He didn’t seem satisfied; clearly, the Royal International Seduction Society did not take kindly to real or perceived slights.

Or mockery.

“If you must know”—Sarah let her hand drop from behind his neck and folded both of her hands into a prim clasp in her lap—“I was enumerating… pleasures… thumb in mouth… lips on neck… hand near breast… I suppose I was
narrating
.”

Devon shook his disobedient light brown hair out of his face with an efficient jerk and moved to look out the window again as the limo turned into the entrance of Sarah’s hotel, then he shifted back to meet her questioning look. “I like you.” The way he said it hinted at a strange combination of gratitude and reluctance. How was she to know he hadn’t actually
liked
someone in a very long time?

He gave her a perfunctory kiss on the lips that would have passed the ratings board in any G movie and hopped out of the car as it rolled to a stop in front of the extensive forecourt of the Relais & Châteaux country castle hotel. Before Sarah got her bearings, Devon had spoken quickly with the chauffeur and was standing at attention next to Sarah’s open car door. “My lady,” he said, proffering one gloved hand to help her out.

“My lord,” she replied, then smiled up at him as she exited the car and unconsciously licked her upper lip, which had gone inexplicably dry.

He pulled her into an embrace, gripping his arms firmly around her waist and nuzzling into her hair. He whispered into her ear, “If you are prone to narration, I had better keep this lively,” and with that, he grabbed her bottom in both hands and gave her a delicious squeeze, then swept his lips down to hers for a very thorough kiss.
Right
here
in
the
driveway
, she thought vaguely,
and
very
non-G-rated.

***

By the time they got up to Sarah’s hotel room, the brisk night air and long flight of steps seemed to have rid Devon of any residual inebriation. He felt particularly focused. He stood with the door closed behind him, watching Sarah James move tentatively into the unfamiliar room. His weekend plans just got a whole lot better.

He moved slowly, the moonlight coming through the windows enough to allow him to avoid tripping over the furniture and to appreciate the silhouette of her gorgeous full figure as she bent over to take off one perfect shoe.

“Let me do that,” he said lightly as he came up behind her. With his hand barely touching her lower back, he guided her over to the window seat, where the waxing autumn moon created a cool, romantic glow. He put his hands on her shoulders and sat her down on the firm cushion that covered the built-in frame and doubled as a cover for the radiator. The gentle warmth from the heater started to come through the bouclé knit and silk lining of her cocktail dress. The brisk autumn air seeping through the antique windowpanes grazed her upper shoulders in a lovely counterpoint.

Devon dropped down on one knee, then wrapped both hands around her right calf. The smooth silk of her stockings evoked a tantalizing friction against his palms. He moved both hands slowly up her leg, passing the turn of her knee, letting one finger loiter at the sensitive back of the bend, and then continued with relentless care. When he reached the lacy elastic edge of the stocking, immediately followed by the butter-smooth skin of her inner thigh, Devon’s eyes closed in momentary pleasure, for the moment itself and for all it promised in the very near future.

“Thank you to the genius who invented the garterless stocking,” he whispered with a grateful sigh.

Sarah was also sighing in response, her head dropping forward, her hand reaching out mindlessly to run through his thick, light brown hair. It was a little bit longer than she had realized; earlier in the evening, it had been slicked back, and now it was falling in loose waves into his eyes. His cheekbones were hard by comparison.

He moved his hands to the other thigh, her dress riding up her legs, one of his fingers tracing maddeningly close to the elastic of her lacy thong. She made some sort of inarticulate groan as his hand moved away and back down the left leg.

He smiled like a devil and said, “I think we might leave the stockings on for a little while.”

Then his deft fingers reached for the tiny clasp of her four-inch heels, which she had hand-trimmed herself with black Russian sable around the ankle strap. The effect was one of wicked, sensational proportions: Anna Karenina’s welcome manacles. The scooped neckline of her dress was similarly trimmed in the luxurious black texture. He paused before actually undoing the shoes.

“These shoes are very,
very
naughty, Miss James.” He ran his middle finger between the fur and her skin. “What were you thinking?”

She hummed a sweet, nonverbal reply of approval. Devon smiled and brought his lips to her ankle, kissing the sensitive skin just above the bone through the thin membrane of her stocking. She inhaled with renewed pleasure.

“I think the shoes will stay on for a little while also,” Devon declared as he set her foot back down.

Sarah practically whined with frustration. “If everything is staying on—”

“Those are the only items that are staying on.” He pushed her dress up her thighs and removed her useless underwear in one quick pull down her legs, tossing them carelessly across the room. He pushed her dress farther up over her hips, letting it bunch around her waist.

The effect was devastating.

From the waist up, she was completely clothed: she could have been sitting at her desk or across the dining table at Dunlear Castle and she would have looked totally appropriate.

Perfectly normal.

And her stockinged legs and perfectly shod feet were still in pristine condition. The simple removal of one tiny thong and she was entirely exposed to this veritable stranger. It was intoxicating. Then terrifying.

Her legs tensed momentarily against his firm hands. “Are you cold?” he whispered as he breathed a warm stream of air between her legs. Her legs relaxed completely into his steady hold. “That’s better,” he said.

He readjusted his position so he was between her legs, on both knees. She had been lulled into some sort of passive state of pleasure, but when his lips touched her
there
, she nearly leapt off the seat, banging the back of her head against the medieval lead windowpanes behind her skull. She rubbed the back of her head with one hand and tried to repress her nervous laughter.

Devon’s hands rested on her knees and he retreated somewhat, sitting back on his heels.

“What was that about?”

“I just… it was unexpected, I guess… I wasn’t prepared…”

Devon tilted his head to one side, trying to discern if this woman was once again making fun of him or if she was for real. “Unexpected?”

She smiled again, her eyes glittering with amusement and residual pleasure.

“If I’m not mistaken,” Devon proceeded carefully, “you invited me here. I think we need to be pretty clear on your, er, expectations.” He paused again. “On your
terms
. Because even though we are from two countries separated by a common language, as they say, I think the phrase
sure
thing
has a universally accepted meaning.” His hands were massaging her thighs again, his thumbs kneading her soft skin, smoothing away her startled moment of a few minutes before. “So…”