Lady Em's Indiscretion (3 page)

“Let me show you how I see you.” He cupped a
breast in one hand and lowered his other hand from her waist to her
hip, pressing her close against him. She held herself rigid for a
moment and then relaxed against him.

“It will be pleasure, just for you. I’ll
take nothing for myself, not yet. I promise. Just let me show you
how I adore you.”

He stroked her breast, while trailing kisses
along her neck. He gave her the gentlest of bites, and thrilled to
hear the whimper it drew from her.

“Yes,” she said, so low he barely caught the
word.

It was enough. He hoisted her back up in his
arms and strode toward the folly before she could change her
mind.

Chapter
Four

Em’s heart raced as Mark carried her over
the threshold. Was she mad to believe him? But he did seem changed.
When he’d spoken so earnestly about his recent labors, there was a
new assurance, a new energy about him. And when he’d looked at her
with such naked longing, something inside her had blossomed again.
Heaven help her if he broke her heart again.

But she could not stop him and was beyond
wanting to.

He paused and she peered around, her eyes
gradually adjusting to the interior light. The folly contained just
one spacious, circular room behind the classical façade. There were
no windows in the walls—no one could see inside—but a series of
circular skylights in the domed ceiling admitted the early evening
light. A small fire had been lit in the hearth at the opposite end
of the room, more for light than warmth. There were several tables
about the room, along with a lacquered chest. In the center, in
front of the fire, stood an unusually large, gilded chaise longue,
upholstered in blue velvet.

The chaise was just wide enough to fit
two.

Mark set her down on it, then started moving
about the room. He lit the branches of candles set in sconces along
the curved walls and upon various tables, illuminating the pictures
decorating the walls. To one side hung a handsome engraving of
Botticelli’s
Birth of Venus,
on the other, his
Primavera,
both delicately tinted in luminous watercolors.
She’d seen those images before, of course, but was struck anew by
the elegance of the lines, the flow of hair and draperies. The
sensuous curves of the nude figures: the goddess, holding her hands
coyly to half-hide her feminine charms, the Three Graces dancing in
their transparent draperies. Between the Botticellis hung smaller
pictures with similar themes: satyrs and nymphs, gods and goddesses
all depicted in idyllic settings, all in various stages of
seduction.

Heat flooded through her as she realized the
folly’s purpose.

And again she wondered what Mark intended to
do. She twisted around on the chaise and caught him moving a large
cheval glass she’d not noticed before. Why did the Westhavens keep
a mirror here? Perhaps it was to help them rearrange their clothing
after a romantic interlude. But what could Mark be doing with
it?

He brought it carefully around the chaise,
placing it where she could see herself in its shining surface. Now
she guessed what he intended. It was outrageous. Surely not . .
.

A tremor shook her, desire mingled with
panic. She rose from the seat. “No, I can’t—”

As she hesitated, he caught her hands. “Yes,
you can, darling. And I promise you will enjoy it.”

She paused, intrigued. He moved behind her
so she stood reflected in the mirror, while he watched over her
shoulder. He reached an arm around her, took her chin in his hand
and raised it slightly.

“Your face holds such sweetness, an innocent
sensuality to rival any of Botticelli’s beauties. Your wide brow—”
he brushed her temple with one finger—“your eyes, so full of
spirit. Your shy smile,”—he trailed the finger down her cheek, to
rub her lower lip—“all so dear, so precious to me.”

She shook her head faintly.

“No, look at yourself.”

And she saw how her eyes glowed, how passion
had colored her cheeks, how her lips parted at his touch. She
was…almost beautiful. Perhaps he made her so.

He reached into the coil of hair on top of
her head, then paused. “No. Let us leave it up for now. I want
nothing hidden.”

He trailed his hands down her neck, then her
shoulders. Then he disappeared behind her and she felt him
unfastening the tapes and ribbons that held her dress closed. She
shivered as he slid her sleeves down her shoulders and worked her
light summer gown off. She stood in her underclothing, feeling
strange and awkward, a puddle of sprigged cotton around her
feet.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Just look at
yourself.” His lips warmed the back of her neck as he untied the
fastening of her petticoat and slid it down her arms to join her
dress on the floor.

“Look,” he insisted, until she turned back
toward the mirror, clad only in stockings, corset and shift.
Reflected in the mirror, he fondled her with his gaze. Her corset
suddenly felt tight.

Then he dropped to his knees behind her. He
nudged her limbs into a wider stance. He unfastened her garters and
slowly pulled down one stocking. He coaxed her to lift her foot so
he could remove it and her shoe, not before pressing a kiss to her
ankle, then did the same on the other side.

For a few moments, he was hidden from view
and when he stood, she realized he’d been removing his coat and
waistcoat. She turned toward him as he pulled off his cravat, then
raised his shirt over his head. She stared at his chest, muscular,
not unlike classical male torsos she’d seen, but in real, warm,
living flesh, adorned with a sprinkling of curly brown hair.

All their past indiscretions had been stolen
moments, in a rush of passion, partially clothed. She’d never seen
so much of him. And she had never revealed so much, either.

Suddenly it felt impossible; she could not
go through with it. She opened her mouth but he forestalled her,
raising a finger to her lips. “Don’t be afraid of me. I’ll take
nothing for myself, I promise. Trust me.”

He turned her toward the mirror again and
she quailed, knowing what was still to come. She couldn’t do it,
allow him to finish undressing her in a blaze of firelight and
candlelight. Her body was nothing out of the ordinary. This was a
farce.

But her mouth felt too dry to protest; her
body too weak to resist the fantasy he offered. So she stood,
trembling, as he skillfully unlaced her corset and pulled it away
to reveal her clad only in a thin chemise. Her nipples showed
through it, along with the triangle of curls between her legs. She
turned away.

“Look at yourself. You are beautiful.” She
shook her head, but he just pulled the chemise down from her
shoulders, baring her breasts, then her belly, then allowing it to
fall. Finally she stood naked, trying to cover her breasts with one
hand and her nether curls with the other.

“Like Venus in the painting,” he said, “but
you cannot hide your beauty, either.”

He pressed himself up behind her and covered
her hands with his own. “Lovely, but now I should like to see you
dance like one of the Graces.” He lifted her hands, holding one
beside her hip, the other up into the air, until she was completely
exposed. He pulled her hand upwards, so she stood on tip-toe. Her
knees shook but somehow she remained standing.

“Look at yourself,” he commanded.

She’d never looked at herself totally in the
nude. Embarrassment gave way to fascination. She’d always thought
hers a completely commonplace body, good for walking and riding and
dancing. She was neither thin nor fat; her breasts were neither
tiny nor especially bountiful. But taken as a whole, she looked
rather . . . rather like one of the Graces, all smooth ivory skin
and elegant curves.

“Look at your legs,” he said. “The luscious
line of your hip. Your breasts, which I long to kiss.”

And she longed for him to do so.

“Later,” he said as if it were a vow. “And
now . . .” He strengthened his grip on the hand over her head and
spun her around to face him. A few inches separated them, naked
flesh from naked flesh. She thought he would draw her closer, but
then he pulled her to one side, causing her to shift her weight
onto one foot.

“Look behind you,” he said.

She turned her head. He had posed her
exactly as the Grace who was turned coyly away from the viewer, her
back and bare buttocks displayed in the mirror. It was wicked,
indecent . . . and delightful.

“Look at yourself. Your back, your waist,
your pretty bottom . . .” he ran his hand down her as he spoke, and
then held it teasingly on one cheek for a moment. She turned back
toward him, wanting more. He groaned, cupped her bottom and pulled
her up against him, squeezing her breasts between them, tickling
her skin with his hair. She rose to kiss him. Their tongues played;
she put her arms around him and pressed against him, like one of
those wanton nymphs. His arousal pressed at her, straining through
his breeches. She was moist in the place for which she had no name,
but was
his
.

A moment later he broke the kiss and stepped
back, his breath labored.

She blinked. “But Mark . . .”

“No. I promised to show you how I see you.
I’m not finished yet.”

“At least let me look at you, too!” The
words escaped her. She blushed at her boldness.

His eyes darkened, then he bowed. “As you
wish, my lady.”

He sat on the chaise longue and removed his
boots and socks, then rose and quickly stripped off his breeches
and drawers. As he bent to toss them aside, she marveled at the
sight of his buttocks and legs, as shapely as the muscular limbs of
statues of classical heroes. But when he turned, she realized that
those statues had not prepared her for the sight of what she had
only felt, two years ago. His aroused male organ.

“See what you have done to me.”

Rake that he was, was he blushing? But she
couldn’t help but stare. How rosy it was, engorged and vulnerable,
proof that she had power over him, too. It hardly seemed real; she
had the sudden impulse to touch it.

He caught her hand before she could do so,
with a rueful laugh. “No, don’t tempt me! Let me prove that I keep
my promises.”

He sat back down on the chaise longue and
beckoned her toward him. She sat on his lap once more, feeling the
hard ridge press once more against her hip, this time skin to skin.
With a muffled groan, he positioned her to once again face the
mirror.

Deftly, he unpinned the coil of hair on top
of her head and spread it down over her shoulders. Several locks
fell in front, covering her breasts. He took one lock by the end
and pulled it slowly toward her shoulder, gliding it along her bare
skin, catching it against her nipple along the way. She shivered.
He kissed her neck. Then one by one, he arranged the rest of her
locks behind her shoulders and paused to admire her reflection.

“Such pretty breasts.” He moved her off his
lap and arranged her so she lay with her back arched over the
curved back of the chaise longue. “Now I shall enjoy them properly.
Watch.”

She saw herself, her hair fanning out
beneath her, breasts high and pearly in the candlelight, her
nipples taut and pink. Then he moved over her and lowered his head
to kiss one breast, then the other. He was so ardent, suckling each
breast in turn as if he could never get his fill. His mouth was so
hot, so wicked . . . He bit her gently and she stifled a
whimper.

He lifted his head. “Cry out if you wish.
There is no one to hear but me, and I love the sound.”

He lowered his head for another small bite;
this time she could not keep quiet. He blew against her nipple and
grinned. “Do you feel beautiful now?”

She gave him a shaky smile. “I believe . . .
I am in need of more convincing.”

He laughed and kissed her breasts again.
Unhurriedly, he pleasured them until the sensation had spread
throughout her body, until she moaned and shifted, wanting his
touch not only on her breasts, but everywhere. He gave her breast a
final kiss, then lifted and turned her toward the mirror again.

Her nipples seemed larger, even rosier than
before. Her eyes shone, dark and lustrous. For a moment she took in
this new, erotic vision of herself. Then Mark’s hands were on her
thighs, parting them, spreading her legs wide. Instinctively, she
tried to close them again but he would not allow it.

“Look at yourself now.”

She could not do it. It was shocking enough
to see his expression in the mirror, to know what he stared at with
such . . . such rapt absorption.

“What painters and sculptors don’t dare
attempt,” he said. “But a treasure for lovers. Look at it. Like a
flower, but potent enough to drive a man mad.”

Shyly she studied it. How odd; it did seem a
bit like some exotic flower, surrounded by springy curls a shade
darker than those on her head. She blushed. And looked again, and
blushed until she felt her whole body ablaze with it.

“Petals, with a bud in the middle. A bud
made to be fondled.”

Unable to wrest her gaze away, she saw him
slide his hands up her thighs, moving them in gradual, teasing
stages, until they brushed lightly against her folds and paused.
She made a slight, desperate sound, willing him to touch the aching
bud in between them.

“Yes,” he said. “What a lovely hunger is in
your eyes . . .”

In the mirror, she was transformed: radiant,
eager.
Beautiful
.

“Mark . . . please . . .” She couldn’t say
more. He must know how ready she was for the love play he’d taught
her.

“What is your wish?” He traced a fingertip
over the bud and paused. “This?”

“Yes. Please.”

He relented. He pleasured her with both
hands, now flicking a finger across her bud, then tracing the folds
around, sometimes circling around one nipple or the other. He
caressed her everywhere, never in one place for long. She leaned
back against him, half-sobbing with need.