Lady Wild (11 page)

It was delicious.

“You are enjoying yourself far too much,” he said, his dark voice booming over the noise of the orchestra and the other couples swirling around them. A look of pure satisfaction softened his usually hard face.

“Am I supposed to do anything else?”

He bent his head slightly, dark hair caressing his brow. “No, my lady. That is exactly what you are supposed to do, but these icy swans about you? They shall be shocked.”

“Swans?” she asked, surprised by his fancy. He could always surprise. One moment ruled by logic, the next, the dark poet who had been there on the bank of the river that day that now seemed eons ago. “If they are swans, what am I?”

“A falcon,” he said, his eyes penetrating her with his admiration. “Sleek, sharp, aware, and passionate.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She’d lived so quietly for so long that all she wished to do now was live as loudly as she could, damn the cost. “I like that.”

The corner of his mouth lifted ruefully. “I thought you might, my sweet hunter.”

“Hunter?”

“I saw the way you maneuvered Rossetti today.” He laughed. “I had no idea I was unleashing such a master.”

She blushed. It was true. She had manipulated Mr. Rossetti. She’d known the arrogant artist couldn’t resist her if she played him carefully. “Was it that apparent?”

“Only to me,” he assured, then his teasing gaze grew serious. ”At first, you fooled even me.”

The dark timbre of his voice suggested that being fooled was not a common occurrence for him, and she couldn’t discern if he was truly displeased by her actions. She tried not to care. She was grateful to this big man who towered over her like a silent, shadowed mountain. But she barely knew him, and to begin to place her heart in his hands by caring about his opinion? That was dangerous, indeed.

Viscount Stark continued to move them about the room, easily avoiding the swishing, bell-like skirts of the other ladies despite the speed at which they traveled. She’d waltzed before, with young men, eager boys, pups hoping to steal a quick kiss.

Andrew Stark waltzed with the sort of lithe prowess of a wolf stalking its prey. Foolish, she supposed, but how she loved the slight edge of danger to him.

Now that she’d promised her mother to live life to its fullest, the fear she’d been harboring of Stark had disappeared. There was nothing to hold her back except the rules of society. Even those meant little. She’d barely even lived at its edges, having been evicted from its hallowed halls by her half-brother just before her debut.

Her fingers pressed into his shoulder, savoring his strength, marveling that she was even in this position. Not a few weeks ago, there had been nothing in her life but the sharp wind and stormy skies of Sussex’s early winter.

And sorrow, of course. Until that moment at the river, when he’d changed her staid, isolated little life with his strange repartee and a kiss.

A raucous daring teased through her. A boldness that she’d never given rein to suddenly urged her to tilt her head back and say, “I want you to kiss me.”

The master stumbled.

The brooding predatory viscount let out a soft curse before regaining his footing and the smoothness of their waltz.

“Have I shocked you?” she asked.

“You’ve surprised me. Nothing you could say would shock me.”

She tilted her head. “What if I said I wish you to kiss me
now
?”

Something about him changed in that moment. His already large frame seemed to intensify, his dark air suddenly caressing her with an unseen but deeply felt sensuality. His half-closed eyes took on a hunger, one that suggested she was about to be devoured. “Still not shocked, but very much tempted.”

“Then?” she whispered, shocked herself at her audaciousness. Where was this wildness, this utter abandon coming from? Surely she had no wish to be ruined publicly?

“I won’t kiss you in the ballroom, sweetheart.”

“No?” she breathed.

“No.” Any hint of humor dimmed from him, replaced by a deep seriousness. . . Hunger.

“Afraid?” she teased.

He arched a dark brow. “Hardly.”

“Then why not?”

He locked gazes with her. “Because if I kiss you, I will strip off your dress, pleasure you, then make you mine. Society be damned.”

She couldn’t draw breath as his scandalous words evoked a vivid image of him stripping her naked before all of these people. A sane woman would have protested, but in her fantasy, she allowed him. Allowed him to strip her bodice and skirts away until she stood in naught but her corset and stockings.

For him. All for him.

“Now
you
are shocked,” he countered.

She shook her head slowly, dreamily, still transfixed by the image of being utterly naked before him. Once, she’d been so close. By the river. It seemed such a waste now that she’d not seized that chance. “Confused.”

“Confused how?”

“Well. . . I don’t understand exactly what you mean. I’ve read a great deal but. . .” A blush burned her cheeks. No matter how bold she wished to be, this was still all new. She’d never discussed these things with a man. “I understand about taking my frock off and the rudiments of the act between a man and woman. I even understand there is enjoyment. But
pleasuring
. . . How does one do that, exactly?”

Andrew halted.

Her body crushed up against his in a delicious press of his hard chest and her breasts at his sudden lack of motion. The full bell of her skirts swung, tangling briefly with his powerful legs before the fabric and crinoline came to a standstill.

They stood silent, staring at each other. The air burned about them, and for one incredulous instant, she had no idea where she stopped and he began. And suddenly she was struck by an alarming realization. He was her other self. Her wild soul.

Wordlessly, he took her gloved hand in his and led her from the floor. At complete contradiction to the need pulsing through her, he strode at a casual pace through the crowd of lords and ladies until at last he led them out into a dark hall. Still silent, he led her farther and farther down the barely lit gallery.

She was tempted to demand to know where he was taking her, but she feared breaking whatever mad spell they were under. She had to follow him, just as she assumed he was compelled to lead.

Moonlight fell in through the towering, long gallery windows to their right, and suddenly, Andrew turned, facing her. His hands gripped her shoulders, and he backed her into the sapphire brocade-papered wall, the sapphire so dark it nearly rendered their surroundings black in the unlit, reclusive hall.

For one brief excruciating breath, he lingered, black hair caressing his sharp cheeks. His hot gaze traversed her face, then hovered on her lips.

“I have never wanted a woman the way I want you,” he whispered.

“Then have me,” she returned. “For I’ve never wanted a man the way I want
you
.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Some kisses spark deep in the soul.

-Ophelia’s Notebook

Andrew was going to burn in the fires of hell until all the flesh had been stripped from his bones and the devil himself had wracked him. He’d wanted this since he’d clapped eyes on her, wading into the river with the sun glinting in her hair.

But the cost?

The cost was high, and a small but solid voice whispered to him,
Leave her be
.

But how could he leave her be when he felt alive for the first time in so many years? For the first time since he’d believed himself to be as dead as anyone he’d ever loved?

So, to block out the recrimination, the pain, the doubt, the last hushed voice of honor that harbored a minuscule home in his heart, he slid his hands about her waist, grasped her to him, and lowered his mouth to hers.

It was no gentle kiss. No kiss for a virgin. No kiss for a lady who did not know what
pleasuring
was. God, he would show her what it was. Again and again, until she was as much an authority on the subject as he.

But she’d never have a chance to use that authority with anyone else. Her restless spirit and glorious body belonged to him. Or so every scrap of him seemed to proclaim.

He tasted her lips, moist, hot, pliant under his mouth, and he hungered to kiss her lower, different, softer, pinker, more delicate flesh that he would tease until she cried out his name.

Pulling her harder to him, arching her back, he savored her gasp of surprise and then slid one hand up her back. He cupped the nape of her neck so that he might brace her and turn their kiss into the mad passion he so desired.

Ophelia’s delicate hands rested on his shoulders, gripping his black evening tailcoat, pulling him toward her as if she might climb inside him to reach whatever pleasure he was offering. She moaned, a wild, hallowed sound, when he thrust his tongue into her mouth.

At first, she merely held on, weathering his passion, allowing him to do as he willed. He slowed the kiss, deepening it, allowing her to adjust.

She did, and oh-so-carefully, she tangled her tongue with his, caressing him and sucking him deeper into her mouth.

A harsh growl of need rumbled in his throat as he backed her deeper into the shadows of the remote gallery and against the wall. Hard. Turning their kiss into a slow fire burn of promise, he pulled her heavy skirts up, revealing first her calf, then her delicate knee.

His fingers skimmed her curved thigh, and she jerked against him, stunned. Pausing, he waited for her to pull away, to give voice to her unease.

If she did, no matter the agony it caused him, he would cease. So he waited for her to steal paradise away from him.

Instead, she placed a hand on his gloved one beneath her skirts and whispered, “Please, more.”

Intense relief pummeled him, he pulled away from the kiss and gazed at her rapt face. Wondrous. How could a creature such as she give herself to such as him?

But that was exactly what she was doing. The angel wished to play with the devil, and he wouldn’t disappoint her in her fall to the earthly ground. Oh, no. He would make every sacrifice worth her descent into
his
world.

He wanted to touch her. Skin to skin. Before he went another inch up her delicate thigh, he slipped his hand out from the fabric.

A whimper of protest crossed her lips.

He offered her his gloved fingertips. “Will you take off my glove for me?”

Those emerald eyes flashed with understanding, and she reached for his hand.

He shook his head. “No.”

“But how—”

He pressed his body into hers, keeping her pinned to the wall, and his voice rumbled out of his chest, deep, barely contained. “With your mouth.”

Her breasts pressed tightly against her corseted bodice as she drew in a shocked breath. She eyed him for one hesitating moment, then her pink lips parted, baring her small, ivory teeth. She nipped at the tip of his forefinger and pulled slowly at the taut fabric.

As she worked to free him, Andrew let his other hand wander, caressing her rib cage, silently cursing the layers of fabric, the barriers between them. But barriers be damned, they would not stop them from achieving union.

Pressing gently, he flattened his hand against her abdomen, then drew it up to the plumped tops of her breasts. “I cannot tell you the pleasure your beautiful body gives me.”

He trailed his fingertips over the swells, then bent to kiss the exposed flesh.

She trembled beneath him but didn’t fail in her task, clearly determined to see what it was he had intended to do with his ungloved hand.

He lifted his gaze to study her efforts. Her kiss-swollen mouth worked over his fingers, finally dragging his glove free. She clasped it in her hand, then cast it to the ground.

She breathed in quick starts as she studied his bare fingers, contemplating them like sweets. Suddenly, she brought his hand to her lips. She sucked lightly at his forefinger, biting the pad gently, before, out of what appeared to be sheer instinct, she drew him deep into her mouth.

He was nearly undone.

Andrew closed his eyes, savoring the hot sensation, considering what her mouth might do to his cock. Slowly, he slipped his finger from her lips, let his mouth linger over hers, and grabbed the folds of her skirt.

He bunched them up and very carefully trailed his fingertips up the outside of her thigh, then over the soft skin of her hip, edged by her corset.

Her gaze widened, her pupils dark and full of passion. He wanted to make her wild for him, to drive her past the gates of control and own her in a way that no one had ever done. He wanted to see her look at him like this forever.

Slowly, purposefully, he caressed her between her thighs, playing oh-so-lightly with the silken folds.

A gasp of shock passed her lips.

He teased her for several seconds, then parted her. She was hot and wet, and he spread the moisture over her clitoris, circling his fingers over the delicate spot. Applying gentle pressure, he slid his finger hypnotically over the spot again and again.