Lady Scandal (23 page)

What was it he had planned for her?
To
leave?
To send her away?
He could not think.
Not with her smiling
at him just so, as if ten years did not lay between them.

He ran his hand over her shoulder, pushing
down the sleeve of her gown.
She had such white skin.
So perfectly
pale.
He kissed her shoulder, and she shivered with pleasure.
His
other hand found the ties at the back of her gown and pulled them
so the dress sagged.

How could he ever have enough of her?

His mouth found its own path to the shadows
between her breasts, to the hollow of her throat, and his hands
found their way under her satin and lace to trace soft curves and
tender skin.

Pulling in a deep breath,
he smiled.
"I could drink you up—as if you were wine.
Deep, rich
wine.
Ma chére.
Ma
bellot.
"

She shuddered again under his touch.
So
soft.
Warm, wet velvet.
She turned liquid for him and he smiled to
know he could do this to her.
When her lips parted in a soft moan,
he covered her mouth with his.

God, she tasted better than wine.
His senses
swirled, and his blood raced faster, pounding through him with need
for her.

With one hand he managed to loosen his
cravat before it choked him.
Her clever fingers fumbled with the
buttons to his waistcoat, popping them open, and tugging free his
shirt.
Her hands smoothed across his chest, her fingers splayed
wide.

She paused and pulled away, her breath as
quick and shallow as his, and her fingers tracing the line of his
bandage.
"I had forgotten this—can you still...?"

With a chuckle he caught
her hands and bore them down.
"
Ma
chére
, they would have had to hit lower
than that to keep me from giving you my full attention."

Her lips curved in a smile, and his hands
found her breasts.
As he stroked her, her head fell back and her
eyes closed.

He forgot everything except the desire
beating through him in waves.
His skin burned for her.
For her
touch.
For the feel of her legs wrapped around him.
Her fingers
struggled again with his buttons, this time lower than on his
shirt, and she put her hands on him and stroked softly.

He moaned this time.

And the world became nothing but the
sensation of her touch, and lightness, and soaring ecstasy.

"Not here," he muttered.
"
Voici....
"

He lost the rest of the words.
With
a low growl he pulled up her skirts and plunged into the heat he
ached for.
She arched to him, crying out softly, and that drove him
harder, faster.

His throat dried, and his breath
quickened.

Now, now, now.

Only he wanted that now to be forever.
To go
on and on with no stopping.

He no longer knew where his body stopped and
hers began, only that her skin pressed hot against his and her body
fit perfectly to him.
As it always had.

She shuddered and her hands fisted on his
jacket, pulling him closer to her, dragging him nearer.
He held out
against her demands, but she arched again.

Sweet oblivion swept over him, racking him,
taking him.
Endless.
Heart stopping.
Her cries mingled with his,
impossible to tell apart and he kissed her again, deeply, only
easing away from her as his muscles loosened utterly.

Her lips seemed softer now—warm, wet
velvet.

With a sigh, he rested his forehead against
hers.

Her breath, so sweet and quick, brushed
across the sweat on his face, cooling him.

His mouth lifted.
"That is not what I
planned." Pulling back from her, he stared into her eyes.
"Stay
with me.
Lay with me.
I want you in my arms tonight, my Lady
Scandal."

For once, she did not
stiffen at the name.
Instead, she smiled—a small, contented smile.
Lifting a hand, she brushed the hair from his forehead.
"
Oui, s'il vous plaît
."

He tried to pull straight her dress, and to
button his breeches.
He gave up hope for any more propriety than
that, but took her hand.
"Your French is so utterly awful."

"I thought that a perfectly good 'yes,
please,'" she said, following him up the dark stairs without
hesitation, lifting her skirt as he took her to his room at the top
of the inn.

Moonlight streamed into his room from a
small, square window that overlooked the front of the inn and the
Channel.
The tang of salt air came in through the open window,
stirring the lace curtains.
Silver light fell across the floor and
the wide, sagging bed.
The room smelled of ocean, and of herbs used
to keep the linens fresh and the wool blankets safe from moths.

He did not stop to strike a
flint, but pulled her into the room and shut the door.
She had
tugged her dress up over her shoulders, so he tugged it down again
and pulled her into his arms.
He wanted warm, naked skin against
him.
"Shall you cry
pax
with me tonight?"

She smiled.
He felt her
mouth lift as she brushed her lips across his cheek.
"A
pax
...a peace?
Can there
ever really be peace between us?"

"Let us find out," he muttered, his lips
already pressed to her throat.
"Only this time without so much
between us." And he began to strip them both bare.

#

Burrowing deeper into the warmth of the man
next to her, Alexandria smiled.
His shirt now wrapped around her as
well as him—they had not managed to rid themselves of all their
garments.
Her shift tangled about her middle, pulled low on her
shoulders and the front ties now undone utterly.

Undone, as am I.

Lady Scandal indeed, she thought, her mind
still drifting, and somehow unable to stop turning.
Paxten snored.
A light sound that both pleased and annoyed her—pleased for she had
so missed that sound, and annoyed for it kept her awake.

She ought to sleep.
She had not yet tonight.
Only she wanted to rise and dance around the room, or to swim out
in the cold, dark sea and let the waters hold her.
Instead, she
turned and told herself to sleep, to listen to the distance rhythm
of the tides.

Paxten shifted and gathered her to him
again.

"I thought you were asleep," she said.

"I am,
ma chére
.
Asleep and having the most
wonderful of dreams."

She bit her lower lip, but she had to ask, "Is this
only a dream for us?"

His arms tightened.
"No,
ma chére
.
This is real.
Real and honest.
More so than anything else between us."

With a sigh, she wrapped her bare leg over his.
"I
do not want to lose you again—to lose this."

Propping himself up on an elbow, he smoothed a hand
over her hair.
"Are you so certain?
I am what my family would call
a wastrel—and probably rightly so.
I've no fortune, no lands,
nothing to give you.
Would you take nothing?"

She brushed her fingertips across his lips.
"Nothing
but this."

Catching her hand, he held it
still.
"I've lied to you,
ma
chére
.
Lied to you and been ready to use
you as badly as I felt you had once used me.
This night—this was
not meant to be like this.
But I am caught in my own
trap."

"What do you mean?"

He lay back, an arm thrown over his head.
The moon
had set and in the dark room she saw him as a darker shadow, only
the white of his billowing shirt visible.

"I—when I heard your husband had died, I did
remember my promise to come back to you.
That was not just my
speaking of divorce—I lied about that to you.
I wanted to punish
you.
For breaking your vow to me.
I could not forgive you."

"Oh, Paxten—"

His fingers pressed against her lips.

"No, don't tell me again
how sorry you are.
I don't want to hear that.
I'm the one who ought
to beg forgiveness.
For that stupid anger.
I robbed us of this as
much as you did, if not more.
I should have come back—but I left it
too late.
Ah,
ma chére
, do you not see.
It is not I who will leave you—not ever.
But
you will leave me again.
Back in London, you will have your life
waiting, and I have no place in it, and you will leave again to go
back to your life.
As you must."

She parted her lips to protest, to deny
this.
A tight band wrapped around her chest and her hands clenched
on the bedding.

Is he right?

No, it could not be.
She shook her head, but
she tried to picture him in London with her and could not.
Her
throat tightened.

"But can we not—?"

Heavy pounding interrupted her words this
time.

Sitting up, she glanced to the window.
The
pounding had stopped, replaced by rapid French that faded
again.

Paxten rolled out of bed, grabbing for his
breeches in the darkness.
He pulled them on.
Sweeping up the gray
satin gown from the floor, he thrust it at Alexandria.
"Dress,
quickly."

"What is it?" she asked, her voice hushed as
she struggled into the gown.

"We do not want to stay to discover.
Get
Diana down the back stairs."

"I did not know there were any."

"Ah, why do you think I chose this inn.
Hurry!"

His sharp tone told her all she needed—this
boded no good for them.
Opening the door, she hurried down the hall
and let herself into Diana's room.
She shook the girl's shoulder,
and moved to find her niece's gown, which lay across the back of a
chair, the white stripes visible even in the gloom.

"Diana—do wake up."

Yawning, struggling upright, Diana muttered,
"It is time to go?"

"Past time—hurry.
Someone has just been
pounding on the door loud enough to wake everyone."

Pushing off her blankets, Diana pulled her
gown on over her head.
"Really?
Well, tallyho for us then, I
suppose.
Do we go out the window with knotted sheets?"

Alexandria smiled.
Thank heavens for the
girl's bold spirit.
"Only the back stairs, I'm afraid."

Paxten met them outside Diana's door.
Voices
drifted up the stairs, as did the loud thump of booted feet.
Waving
them ahead of him, Paxten hurried them to the back of the inn and
to a narrow set of stairs meant for servants.
Steep and wooden, the
stairs creaked under their weight.
Alexandria winced, but Paxten's
hand at her back urged her faster.
At least their bare feet made no
sound.

Using the walls to guide her, Alexandria
found her way down the stairs, and then they were in an empty
kitchen.
Coals lay banked in the fireplace, waiting for morning
kindling to light a fire.
She glanced behind her, but saw only
Paxten.

"Where is Diana?" she whispered.

A breathless answer replied, "I'm here.
I
had to go back for—"

"No time.
Vite, ma fille
!" Moving
to the door, Paxten opened it, glanced out, and again waved them
ahead of him.