Lords of Desire (43 page)

John sat mere inches away, on her left. He’d spent most of the meal engaged in quiet conversation with Miss Bartlett, who sat to his left, looking lovely in a gauzy, soft mauve gown.

Christobel’s mouth went suddenly dry. She took yet another sip of sweet wine, wishing beyond hope that it would soothe her nerves.

“May I pour you some more?” Sir Edmund asked, reaching for the cut-glass decanter that sat before them.

She examined her glass, surprised to find it almost empty. She’d need more, if she were to get through this night—thankfully the last night of Edith’s party.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, pushing the glass toward him.

“You must come and visit us at Longberry, Miss Smyth,” he said as he poured. “You and Mrs. Smyth both. My sister Josephine acts as my hostess, and she’d delight in your company.”

“Longberry?” Her tongue felt strangely thick in her mouth.

“Indeed. My estate in Kent, near Tunbridge Wells. It’s particularly lovely in the springtime—rolling green pastures carpeted with bluebells, the magnolias coming into flower, wisteria climbing the back of the house. If Kent is the Garden of England, then Longberry is its crown jewel. You simply must see it.”

“It does sound charming,” she murmured.

“I believe you’d feel right at home there, Miss Smyth,” he said, a bit too pointedly.

Christobel took another sip of wine. He was waiting for a response, no doubt, but she could think of nothing to say that would not offer encouragement.

Mercifully, Beatrice asked him a question about his gardens, temporarily diverting his attention. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she placed her hands in her lap, twisting her napkin between her fingers. Every fiber of her being was painfully aware of John’s presence there beside her. For perhaps, oh, the tenth time in the past hour, the sleeve of his coat brushed her bare arm, sending shivers down her spine.

If anyone knew…if anyone found out what they’d done, she’d be ruined.Ruined.

However could she have been so foolish?No one knows, she assured herself. Just as they’d planned, they’d left the old mill and made their way around the pond, and then back to the house. They’d been scolded for abandoning the game, but if anyone had noticed anything was amiss, they gave no indication of it, not even Edith.

And now she was forced to sit, hurting in places she’d never before hurt, and make polite conversation with Sir Edmund while her stomach pitched queerly and her whole body ached for the other man beside her, who was seemingly oblivious to her presence—a fact that bothered her far more than she liked to admit.

Beneath the table she clutched her skirts, wishing desperately to stop her hands from trembling so.

And then she felt it—a finger, not her own, grazing her thigh. John’s hand, searching for hers. She swallowed hard, ordering her features to remain impassive as he stroked her wrist with featherlight touches. His skin was hot, his own fingers trembling as he laced them with hers.

Her body responded intuitively, dampening her drawers with need. She trained her gaze on the plate changer before her, refusing to turn toward him though she was exquisitely aware of him watching her with a sidelong, furtive glance.

Oh, how she wanted him! She knew it was wrong—dangerous, even. And yet she could not help herself. The events of the day had changed her irrevocably and nothing in her life would ever be the same again.

At the far end of the table, Edith caught her eye. “Heavens, Christobel, you’re dreadfully flushed!” she called out, her voice rising in alarm.

“Am I?” she managed, her hand still joined with John’s beneath the table.

“Indeed, Miss Smyth,” Sir Edmund offered.

John cleared his throat. “Perhaps she’s only sunburnt. She was out in the grove without a parasol this afternoon for nearly an hour.”

“And I suppose she refused to stay beneath the shade of a tree,” Edith said with a laugh.

“That sounds just like Christobel.”

John released her hand and trailed his fingers across her thigh. Somehow, despite the layers of clothing and undergarments, his thumb managed to find the sensitive nub of flesh between her legs, and Christobel could not help but gasp as he stroked her, right there at the supper table.

“I say, Miss Smyth,” Sir Edmund said sotto voce, “I shall be very sorry to take my leave tomorrow.”

“I…oh! I shall be sorry, too,” she said hurriedly. Anything to shut him up.

Dear God, this had to stop. John had gone mad, behaving like this at her sister’s supper table! Worse still, she was allowing it, enjoying it. Of course, after what they’d done in the abandoned mill—

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said abruptly, rising on wobbly legs. She nearly knocked over her wineglass with her elbow, but caught it just in time, clasping her fingers tightly around the stem. “I…I think perhaps Iam unwell. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Poor Miss Smyth,” she heard Sir Edmund say as she rushed out of the room. “I do hope it isn’tla grippe. ”

A quarter hour later, Christobel lay tucked into bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her stomach pitched and railed, but not fromla grippe. I’m a coward, she realized as confusion and indecision rattled her brain.

It was the second time in so many days that she’d falsely claimed a malady and run off with her tail between her legs. An unusual occurrence, as Christobel had never before lacked the fortitude to face her troubles head-on, no matter what form they took.

But this…this was beyond the pale. She’d allowed a man—John Leyden, at that—to touch her in ways no other man had ever touched her. She’d given up her virtue without the slightest hesitation, without even considering the consequences of her actions. No man had ever tempted her as John had—in fact, no other man had ever come close.

In just a matter of days, she’d gone from almost complete indifference toward him to…to this. Just whatthis was, she wasn’t entirely sure. Admiration? Lust? Love? All three, perhaps?

The sound of laughter drifted up from the drawing room below. Any moment now, the musicians would begin tuning their instruments, readying for the concert Edith had planned for the evening’s entertainment.

Her heart racing, Christobel turned over on her side to face the window where a faint sliver of moonlight shone through the gap between the heavy drapes and the window sash. A frisson of fear shot through her belly as she clutched at the linens.

Whatever is going through John’s mind right now?She could only wonder what his feelings were toward her, what his intentions were. As was his fashion, he’d said very little.I must speak with him, she resolved.Alone. First thing in the morning, she would seek him out. She would speak frankly, openly, honestly.

Of course, exactlywhat she’d say, she had no idea. She could only hope that, by the morn, everything would at last be crystal clear.

Until then, well…what was the harm in reliving every touch, every wicked sensation?

Burying her face in the pillow, she muffled a groan. Surely it wasn’t at all proper for her to have enjoyed it as much as she had.

Still, she couldn’t help but reach down, under her silk nightgown, to the place that John had so expertly stroked at the supper table. Where he learned such skills, she did not wish to know—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate them.

A moment later, a knock sounded upon the door. Startled, she sat up, clutching the bedclothes around her. “Simpson?” she called out, her heart thumping noisily.

The door opened, a dark figure slipping inside. “Shh,” someone whispered, then turned the key in the lock.

Downstairs, the musicians began to play. “John?” she whispered. “Dear God, please say it’s you.”

“We must be quiet,” he said, moving toward her in the darkness.

Christobel could barely make out his face. “Are you mad? Surely we’ll get caught.”

“No, we won’t.” He sat down beside her, cupping her face in his hands. “Everyone is downstairs, enjoying the concert. I’ll be gone before the last note is played.”

Christobel shook her head wildly, trying to clear away the cobwebs. “I’m imagining this.

I must be drunk—too much wine.”

“Do you want me to go?” he asked. “Just say the word and—”

“No!” she breathed, laying a palm against his cheek, now rough with stubble. “Don’t go.

Stay.”

She felt him nod, and she sighed in relief. “I was just…just thinking about you,” she whispered, inhaling his now-familiar masculine scent.

The music below grew louder, more lively, though she could not name the piece.

“Don’t speak,” he said, his mouth drawing closer to hers, his breath warm on her cheek.

“Just let me show you”—his lips brushed tantalizingly against hers—“whatI was just thinking about,” he finished before his mouth crushed hers.

They kissed deeply, hungrily. Her senses reeled, the room seeming to tip on its axis as she gave herself up to every sensation, every touch, every smell, every taste. An electric current raced over her skin as he pressed her back against the pillows, his body held rigid above hers.

“Your hair is so soft, so beautiful,” he said, curling one lock around his finger. “I’ve never before seen it down.”

Laughing softly, Christobel took a tendril and drew it across his cheek—tempting, teasing.

With a groan, he reached for the hem of her nightgown, tugging it out from beneath her hips. In one quick motion, he slipped it over her head, leaving her entirely bare. Despite the heat running through her veins, she shivered.

“All these years you’ve tortured me,” he growled. “Now you must let me torture you.”

His mouth was on her skin now, warming it, trailing hot kisses from the curve of her shoulder down to her breasts, her belly. Desire pooled in the pit of her stomach, making her breath come faster as he made lazy circles with his tongue just below her navel.

She writhed beneath him, nearly crazed with lust. “John,” she whimpered, arching up off the mattress, instinctively knowing where his mouth was going next before it happened, before she felt his tonguethere .

His breath hot and ragged against her, he parted her with his tongue, did things she could not name to her tender flesh, things that made her entire body quiver.

As if on cue, the music swelled to a crescendo in the drawing room below as he brought her closer and closer to release. Her hips began to buck as she gave herself up to the wondrous sensations.

This was torture, yes. Delicious, wonderful torture. For a split second she teetered there on the edge of ecstasy. And then, just as the last plaintive notes sounded from below, she tumbled headlong into the abyss, turning her face to the pillow to muffle her cries of pleasure.

Applause rang out as Christobel struggled to catch her breath. She felt John move away, a rush of cold air replacing his body’s warmth. “Don’t go,” she murmured, reaching for his hand.

“I must,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Though it’s near enough killing me.”

Their fingers met, then slipped apart as he moved away, toward the door.

Still panting, she fell back against the pillows, her damp hair fanning out around her.

“John?” she whispered dazedly, wondering if perhaps this had been a lovely dream.

“Tomorrow, Christobel,” he said, then slipped out.

Not five minutes later, she fell into a deep, restful sleep, a smile still playing upon her lips.

CHAPTER 8

Christobel didn’t get to speak with John first thing in the morning, after all.

Tomorrow, Christobel,he’d said. Yet tomorrow was here, and he was gone. Had she dreamed it? She’d overslept, thanks to the wine she’d drunk at dinner, and John had apparently left in his motorcar just after dawn with no word of where he’d gone off to, or when he would return.

Instead, she spent the first few hours of her day helping Edith bid farewell to her guests, trying all the while not to look over her shoulder, toward the road, at five-minute intervals.

The last to go was Sir Edmund, who had kissed her hand and begged her to consider a visit to Longberry come springtime, appealing to her mother when Christobel had answered as noncommittally as possible. Of course they would, Mother had assured him, nudging her in her ribs as she did so.

With a sigh of relief, Christobel watched his enormous Mercedes touring car rumble off down the road. As soon as he was gone, Christobel hurried inside and summoned Simpson to help her change into her cycling suit and knickerbockers.

The day was sunny and mild, only the faintest hint of an autumn chill in the air. She’d borrow Edith’s bicycle and ride down the well-worn path that led off the main road toward the river. The fresh air would clear her head, give her time to think. Besides, it was better than staring at the drive, watching for the dark green motorcar.

An hour later, she returned, her skin dewy and covered with dust.I must have a bath, she thought, hurrying up the front stairs and across the marble-tiled front hall.

“Thank goodness, Christobel!” Edith called out, hurrying in with her hands clasped to her breasts. “I thought you’d never return!”

“I wasn’t gone more than an hour,” she said with a shrug.

Her sister just stood there, smiling broadly.

“Well, don’t you look like the cat who swallowed the canary,” Christobel teased, swiping her forehead with the back of one hand. She reallydid need a bath. “I should think you’d be ready to collapse with exhaustion by now.”

Edith shook her head, her mysterious smile widening. “Come, dearest. Follow me into my sitting room. I have the most wonderful news!”

Entirely baffled as to what sort of news could make Edith grin so, she followed her sister down the corridor and into the sunlit room with pale green walls.

“So tell me your news,” she said, taking a seat on the embroidered sofa beside Edith.

Edith took her hand and patted it. “Did you not see Sir Edmund’s motorcar, back by the stables?”

“No, I came in the front. Besides, he left over an hour ago. Why ever would he come back?”

Edith positively beamed. “To speak to Jasper, it would seem. He’s asked for your hand, dearest!”

Christobel rose, dropping Edith’s hand. “Asked for my hand? Whatever do you mean?”