Love and Let Spy (Lord and Lady Spy) (21 page)

“Neither am I, but nor am I an abject sinner. I have had lovers, but not in the sense you mean. I am still a maiden.”

He turned to look at her, trying to gauge whether she was telling the truth. It was a foolish hope. He would never be able to tell, and yet, when he looked at her, her face looked different. Whatever mask she wore had slipped away. He knew it because he had seen it slip away in Melbourne’s office when she was in pain. She looked very young and very beautiful.

He saw the truth of her words in her eyes, and he saw something else as well. She wanted him. Dominic took a ragged breath. She was not the first woman to look at him with desire in her eyes, but she was the first one he’d wanted in return—the first one he’d thought of as more than simply an object for physical release.

“I will admit,” she said, “that I have kissed men. Perhaps too many men, a half dozen, I suppose.” She looked down. “I have touched and been touched, but I have never lain with a man, never given my maidenhead.”

“Why not?” His voice sounded ragged in his ears. “Are you not married to your work?”

“Yes, but perhaps I have always hoped there might be something else—
someone
—worth saving myself for.” She looked down, and he realized at some point she had removed her gloves. In her hand she held a piece of hay. She’d broken it into tiny pieces. “And, of course, there was God.”

“God?” He frowned.

She looked up at him. “He might smite me for fornication.”

He felt a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Yes, that’s a definite cause for concern. Of course, it’s not very likely. If God were to go about smiting all those who engaged in fornication and adultery, most of the
ton
would be little more than black marks on an Aubusson rug.”

“Is that what those marks are? I thought they were burn marks caused by sparks from unguarded hearths.” She laughed, and he could not stop himself from laughing too. How long had it been since he’d laughed? And then, her broad smile on her face, she looked up at him, and he could not resist. He leaned forward, cupped her cheek, and kissed her. It was a light, friendly kiss, and it must have surprised her, because she did not kiss him back. It was brief and chaste.

And it was not enough.

For either of them.

She met him halfway, her mouth as hot and hungry as his. He felt as though she were a lodestone, and he could not escape his attraction even if he’d wanted to. He did want to, though at the moment he could not remember why. He cupped her face, plowing his hands into her hair and knocking the shawl to the ground. Her hair was fine and soft, and he stroked it even as his tongue stroked hers.

She had been kissed before. She undoubtedly had more experience at kissing than he, and she did not hide it. She was not shy or hesitant about kissing him back. Her tongue met his, stroking him, and then sucking him lightly until he fisted his hands in her hair, because otherwise he would be tempted to place them elsewhere. He’d pushed her up against the wall of the stall, and now she slid down it; he slid with her until he was kneeling before her, her body trapped between his thighs.

He pulled back and looked down at her. He could not breathe. His chest was tight, and his heart pumped furiously. She was so beautiful. Too beautiful for him. His hand reached out and touched the collar at her chin, and he saw his fingers tremble as they unfastened the tiny buttons and opened the material to reveal her collarbone and the hint of the swell of her breasts. His lips were foul. He would defile her by touching them to that alabaster skin, but he could not stop himself. He bent and pressed his soiled lips to her warm flesh, inhaling the scent of violets.

Her heart beat as quickly as his, and when he moved his lips to graze the soft flesh swelling above her stays, she took a shuddering breath. He laid his forehead on her chest, trying to regain control, listening as her heart thundered out of control for him.

She
wanted
him
.

“You see the effect you have on me,” she murmured. Her voice was low and velvet with his ear pressed against her. “Will you think me horribly wanton if I ask you to finish with those buttons and touch me?”

“Yes,” he said, even as he reached for the next button. A tiny, round black button that his large hands had to fumble with to unfasten. And then there was another and another. He would be undressing her for days. “But I am as wanton as you, and I did warn you not to tempt me.”

“I am very bad at heeding warnings,” she said, drawing in a sharp breath when one of his hands grazed her breast. He almost had the bodice open. Then there were the stays, of course. Finally, he pushed the fabric back over her shoulders and watched as her breasts rose and fell from her rapid breathing. There was a small satin bow at the valley between them, and he loosened it, tugging the lacings apart. He slid the stays down until only the thin, fine material of her shift covered her. He imagined if he’d had more light, if he’d been outside in the light of the moon or in a bedroom with a lamp burning, that he would have seen the dark of her areola through that thin fabric. He could only imagine it now and see the outline of her hard nipple. He bent his head and took it in his mouth, material and all.

She bucked under him, her hands coming up to wrap around his neck and invite him to continue. He slowly withdrew, took her hands in his and removed them from his neck, setting them firmly at her sides. Then he looked down at the wet material. Her nipple was apparent. It was a hard, swollen peak straining against the fabric. Slowly, he moved to her opposite breast, swirling his tongue around her nipple until the fabric of her shift clung to the point of flesh.

“Touch me,” she whispered. “Really touch me.”

He longed to do so. His hands gripped her waist as a drowning man grips a shard of floating debris. He would not sully her with his hands; those hands had done unspeakable things. His mouth too was vile. He had already soiled her by touching his lips to hers.

“Then allow me to touch you.”

“No.”

But in typical fashion, she acted without listening. He could not have said exactly what happened, but one moment he was above her, and the next he was on his back and she straddled him. He felt his breathing hitch, an edge of panic creep in, but he held it in check. He could do this. He wanted to enjoy this. Her bodice gaped open, and he endeavored to keep his gaze on the precarious edge of her shift. Her breasts were about to spill out, and if she bent a little more, he could take one in his mouth. He closed his eyes and felt her hands on his neck. She’d loosened his neckcloth, pushed the standing collar aside, and begun to unbutton his shirt. Fire raged through him as she touched her sweet lips to his skin. He’d never been touched like this. Never allowed this.

“I know you want me,” she said, her lips against his neck. “I feel your pulse beating here in a rapid staccato.” She looked up at him, and his gaze shifted down. Her breasts had fallen loose of their confines, and they were as full and perfect as he had known they would be. He gritted his teeth and looked back at her face. “I cannot help but think,” she said quietly, “that perhaps I have been waiting for you. You make me feel…” She touched his rapidly beating pulse. “Like this. I cannot stop imagining your hands on me.” She took them from her waist, and he watched as she placed them on her bare breasts. He should have pulled them away. His skin was dark against her pale flesh, but she was so soft and so warm. Instead, he kneaded her, then plucked at one nipple until she gasped. He rose, taking it into his mouth and sucking hard. She arched back, and he sat, sliding his hands to her back and holding her pressed against his mouth.

Her hips moved against him, and he knew she must feel his hard cock straining against his trousers. He could release the fall so very easily. He could thrust into her, take her, give into this temptation.

Her mouth met his again, and his hands were on her generous breasts. Her hips continued to move, and he lowered a hand to still them, but found it sliding against the silk of her thigh. She moaned, and he slid higher, slid deeper until he could feel her heat. She slowed her movements then, as though waiting in tortured anticipation of what he would do next. He should not touch her. He’d already gone too far. He should not reach for her, but his fingers extended, and he felt the warm wetness of her center. He groaned at the fierce wave of need that crashed over him. He wanted to be inside her. He wanted to plunge into her heat, feel her tighten around him. He wanted…

His head swirled, and he shook his head to clear it. Suddenly everything was pitch black.
No,
he said in his mind.
You
are
in
the
stable.

The stable was not completely dark. This was not real. It wasn’t. But he heard his own breath wheezing in and out, and he felt himself curl into a ball on his hard pallet. If he could just make himself small enough, no one would find him. The room was dark. He’d begged his mother to leave a candle burning, but she said it was a frivolous expense, and they couldn’t afford it. Now he was in the dark. He was not alone in the dark.

“Mama?” he asked. Please let it be her. Please. He’d heard her come in from the theater. He’d heard her talking to The Man. Please do not let it be him.

His mother did not answer, and Dominic curled tighter, trying to make himself smaller. It wasn’t his mother. She was asleep, sleeping soundly from exhaustion and wine. She never woke. Never came to save him. The Man wasn’t the first one to find him cowering in the dark. And his mother never knew. She couldn’t protect him. She couldn’t even protect herself from vicious men who slapped and hit and flew into drunken rages.

Dominic tried to still his breathing and listen. He heard nothing. Perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps he was alone. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

And then a hand clamped on his shoulder, and a deep voice said, “Hello, lovely.”

Twelve

With the cry of a wounded animal, Griffyn threw himself off her. Jane blinked, the haze of arousal making her mind sluggish and slow to respond. Part of her wanted to protest his abrupt cessation. She wanted more. She wanted everything.

No! She didn’t want that. What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been thinking, obviously. For a few minutes of pleasure, she might have lost everything. What would she do if she became with child?

Saint was with child…

But she wasn’t Saint. And she—Jane glanced with some alarm at Griffyn. Only a few seconds had passed, but she finally noticed his breathing was fast, and his face was white.

“Mr. Griffyn?” That sounded ridiculous. He’d been kissing her, touching her intimately only a moment ago. “Dominic.” She rose on her knees and moved toward him. “Are you unwell?” He looked very poorly, indeed. His eyes were black and dead. He didn’t seem to see her. He was staring at something else. Something beyond her. She looked over her shoulder, but there was nothing.

“Dominic?” She reached out and touched his hand. His skin was freezing cold. He jerked his hand away and hissed at her.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t
ever
touch me.”

The voice was his, but it didn’t sound like him. It was animalistic and low, almost a growl. Even his hand had curled into a claw, as though he were a wolf, prepared to strike at her. “I won’t touch you. What is wrong? What’s happened?” But she didn’t expect an answer. She’d seen this before. He was in shock. He probably wasn’t even aware she was beside him. Something had triggered this change in him. She couldn’t think of anything she’d done. They’d been kissing; he’d been touching her, that was all.

“Stay back,” he warned.

“I will.” She took the moment to right her clothes, pull her hair up. His breathing was slowing, but he still did not look like himself. He still had not focused on the stall or on her. Something was horribly wrong, and she had better take him back to the house. The thief be damned at this point. And then she heard a sound. Good. If it was the thief, she’d make him help her move his master from the stables to the house. She thought about calling out and decided to wait until he entered the stable. If he thought he could escape, he might run in order to avoid being identified. She heard what sounded like a footstep, and then Griffyn began to rise.

She shook her head at him and hissed, “No. Stay still.”

He didn’t seem to hear her, and she heard another sound—something like a scrape. For some reason, her heart was thumping wildly now. Something was wrong, and it was more than simply Griffyn’s current condition. The groom was too quiet, too stealthy. A common thief would never go to that much trouble to steal grain. Dominic tried to stand again, and she grabbed his hand to tug him down. His hand tightened on hers, and she was hauled against him then pushed against the wall of the stall. The prickly wood cut through the thin fabric of her gown and into her back.

“Three rules,” he said through a jaw clenched with what she could see was enormous restraint. What was he restraining himself from? Hurting her? Taking her?

“I heard a sound—”

“Do not touch me is the first,” he said, voice thankfully low and muffled. “I can touch you, but you never touch me. If I want you to touch me, I tell you where and how. Secondly, no kissing.”

She was beginning to comprehend what he was saying. Had he not heard her? Did he not realize the thief was about? “Griffyn,” she said. “You have to listen to me. There’s someone coming.”

“And last,” he went on as though she had not even spoken, “never, ever surprise me. You won’t like me if I’m surprised.”