Loving a Lost Lord (12 page)

At Mariah's words, Adam glanced up at the sunny sky, which contained only a few puffy white clouds. “I hope that doesn't mean I must wait until nightfall to eat.”

“We'll eat now, but blindfolded,” she explained. “My father once attended a gaming house in Paris that served a
souper noir
—a black supper. The dining chamber was completely lightless and the servants were blind men skilled at working in darkness. A variety of foods were served. My father said it was interesting, if rather disconcerting.” She grinned. “He also said the dinner was essentially the prelude to an orgy.”

“Your father said such a thing to his young daughter?” Adam said, scandalized.

“He used rather more delicate language, but yes, that was the general idea.” For a moment she felt again the suffocating pain of loss. But it was not so bad since Adam had arrived. She had, almost, given up hoping that a cheerful, news-filled letter would arrive from her father apologizing for not having written in so long.

Forcing herself to continue, she said, “He thought I should know the ways of the world since I accompanied him to all those country-house parties. The black-supper story was just for amusement, since it happened so many years ago. He was a lad on the Grand Tour, I believe.”

“He made the Grand Tour? He was fortunate to have the opportunity.” Adam folded down onto the blanket. “Since the French Revolution, young English gentlemen have been deprived of the chance to make fools of themselves in the great capitals of Europe. Was your father from a wealthy family?”

She made a face. “He never talked about such things. I had the impression that he was traveling companion to the heir of some grand lord. An alarming thought, that my father might have been considered the responsible one!”

Adam chuckled. “Whatever his faults, he raised an excellent daughter.”

She untied the second scarf from the handle of the basket. “I have no more idea what is here than you do. I explained about the dark luncheon to Mrs. Beckett and told her to use her imagination. She looked quite keen on the idea, so be prepared!”

She rose on her knees and wrapped the scarf around his head. “Can you see anything?”

“The faintest hint of light comes through the cloth, but I see nothing. It's an odd sensation,” he said thoughtfully. “Different from nighttime dark. More…vulnerable. Now for you. Can you blindfold yourself? Mustn't have any cheating!”

“That would take the fun away. I'll do the wrapping, but it would help if you could tie the scarf.” She wrapped the length around her head, covering her eyes as thoroughly as she'd done with Adam. “I'm going to bend over the basket so you can fasten the scarf.”

She heard the slight sounds of a man shifting position. Then his seeking fingers touched the nape of her neck. She caught her breath as erotic sensations shot through her. Her voice was less than steady when she said, “That's my neck. The scarf is a few inches closer to you.”

“Sorry.” His hands moved to where she was holding the ends of the scarf behind her head. As he deftly tied the scarf, she marveled how every touch between them seemed more intimate in their blindfolded state. Even the brush of his fingertips on her hair was riveting.

Once the scarf was tied on, she flipped back the lid of the basket. “Now to discover what we have. Ah, four napkins so we can cover our laps and have a spare for cleaning up spills. Here—I'm holding yours above the middle of the basket.”

“She's a wise woman. Mess is inevitable. But amusing, I think.” His seeking hand located his two napkins.

“This will probably be easiest if we eat one dish at a time, since anything set down might get lost.” Mariah spread a napkin across her lap, then dug into the basket again. “Let's start with our drinks. Mrs. Beckett said she's put in two bottles of something suitable, but she didn't say what. Here's yours.”

Several moments passed before his hand touched the bottom of the bottle, then moved up over her fingers, his palm caressing. She licked her lips, wanting to lean forward and nibble on him.

She was startlingly aware of his presence, in some ways more so than if she could see him. Body heat. Motion in the air when he reached toward her. The faint sounds made even when a person was sitting still. His individual scent, which she hadn't noticed consciously. His was…intriguing. Male. She wanted to rub her face against him.

She blushed as she realized that consciousness could not be sharper if they were sitting on the blanket naked. Thank heaven he couldn't see how she was reacting!

His fingers closed on the bottle, brushing the side of her hand. “I have it now, so you can let go. A cork, I see, not shoved in too deeply.” There was a pop, followed by fizzing sounds. “Champagne! Mrs. Beckett certainly entered into the spirit of the occasion. Let's see if the other bottle is the same.”

He opened it. More fizzing. “Champagne for each of us. Here's yours.”

She took her bottle and tilted it up to sip. The wine bubbled down her throat, making her feel equally bubbly. “Delicious! The pride of Burke's cellar, I suspect.”

“Lovely stuff,” he agreed. “What next?”

His bottle gurgled as he tipped it to drink. She imagined his lips closing over the glass lip and shivered at the suggestive thought. To keep her bottle safely upright and easy to find, she set it between her knees, again grateful that he couldn't see her unladylike behavior. “You choose.”

Soft sounds as he explored the basket's contents. “There are all sorts of interesting shapes. I'll take a look at this round object wrapped in cheesecloth.” He gave a rueful chuckle. “Sorry, looking and seeing are so much a part of the language that it's hard not to use the words.”

She smiled with him. “What does your prize feel and smell like?”

A rustle of wispy fabric in motion. Then he sniffed. “The package contains two spheres about three inches across. They're warm and yielding. Crisp and rather greasy. Some sort of fried meat, I believe.” He paused. “There are places where certain…essential parts of a bull's reproductive equipment are eaten as a special delicacy. You don't suppose…?”

“Surely Mrs. Beckett wouldn't do that to us, even assuming the ingredients were available!” She also paused, disconcerted. “Or would she? Which of us will taste first?”

“I will, because I'm a brave husband who protects his wife from unpleasantness.” His bite sounded cautious. “There is meat, but inside it's smooth and slippery. I don't think it's what we were discussing. Here's the second one. Maybe you can identify it.”

After an enjoyable tangling of fingers, she took the warm sphere from him. A bite confirmed her guess. “A Scotch egg! I should have realized, but I've always identified them by sight.” She washed the bite down with a generous swig of champagne. She was starting to feel a gentle, happy buzz from the alcohol. If they were at a ball, she would dance all night. “A hard-boiled egg is covered with ground sausage, rolled in egg and bread crumbs, then fried. Quite tasty when one knows what it is.”

“This tastes much better now that I know.” There was a grin in his voice. After they finished their Scotch eggs, he said, “Your turn.”

She felt around inside the basket. “I've found two short, broad jars with corked tops. Warm.” She lifted one and tilted it. “Soup, I suspect. Mrs. Beckett makes marvelous soups. Would you like some?”

He took the warm pottery jar and removed the cork stopper. An exotic, spicy aroma was released. “Good God, curry!” he exclaimed.

She opened her own jar and inhaled. “It's very distinctive, isn't it? I've had curried food occasionally. Obviously you have, too.”

“The scent is very evocative,” he said slowly. “I think I've had it often, but I don't remember any actual occasions.”

“Perhaps eating the soup will refresh your memory. There should be spoons in the basket. Ah, here's yours.”

They had developed some skill at passing items back and forth by using the same area over the basket. When his hand touched hers, his fingers stroked down her wrist, trailing across her pulse. “Hmm, soft,” he said. “Not a spoon.”

Her fingers clenched involuntarily on the metal implement. It was an effort to say calmly, “Your spoon, sir.”

He accepted it, and she sampled the soup. “Creamy. I think there are chopped onions and carrots, but I'm not sure what the bits of meat are. Chicken, maybe?”

“That or rabbit. It's hard to say since neither of those are particularly distinctive. It's good, though.”

After they finished and Mariah set the empty jars back in the basket, he said, “The curry flavor is tantalizing, but no memories surfaced.”

Hearing the frustration in his voice, she said, “I shall ask Mrs. Beckett to make curried dishes until the memories take shape. Now it's your turn to choose.”

Adam dug in again. “Here's another soft item wrapped in cheesecloth. Let's see…two slices of a squishy substance with pastry around the rim. Here's your slice.”

Her portion had an intense aroma, familiar but maddeningly elusive. “Not cheese. Something meaty.” She nipped off a bit and let it dissolve in her mouth so she could taste the flavors completely. “Paté.”

“With mushrooms,” he agreed. “Mrs. Beckett has an impressive range.”

She ate the rest of her slice and washed it down. Everything tasted better when followed by champagne. “I'm getting rather full, but the basket is not yet empty. I'll see if I can find a sweet ending to the meal.”

Her probing hand found an oval bowl with a lid, the earthenware warm to the touch. “Here's a shallow crock that might hold a baked pudding. Let's see….” She lifted the lid and poked in a tentative finger. She jerked it out quickly. “Oooh, that's disgusting! It feels like chopped worms.”

“Surely not.” His fingers touched hers as he felt for the bowl. He gave her a little caress before reaching into the bowl. “Definitely…odd,” he agreed. “But it smells good and I have faith in Mrs. Beckett. I'll try some.”

She heard him taste and swallow. “Macaroni cheese,” he announced. “And a very good version. I never realized just how alarming macaroni cheese feels if one can't identify it by sight.”

It was a dish Mariah liked, so she said, “We'll have to share since there's only one bowl. Have a fork. We can hold the bowl between us and both eat from it.”

The dish was so tasty that soon they were laughing as their forks clashed. “I'll have to use fingers to find if there's any left. Ah, here's some. You get to eat it since you braved the chopped worms. Can you take this last bit from my fingers?”

“To prove that you have me eating out of your hand?” he said with a smile in his voice. “Most willingly.”

She shivered with pleasure when he found the tidbit and nibbled it away with warm lips. He lingered, sucking gently on her fingertips.

She inhaled sharply as her whole body tingled with awareness. “Fingers are…not on the menu.”

“No?” He trailed his tongue over the exquisitely sensitive center of her palm. She gave a choked moan.

Adam caught his breath and pressed his cheek into her palm for a moment. “You are sweeter than the finest dish ever created,” he whispered. Shoving the basket aside, he pulled her down onto the blanket. His mouth found hers and their tongues mated with fierce sensuality.

Dizzy with champagne and erotic play, Mariah yearned for his touch in every fiber of her being. Their mutual exploration in the last nights had taught her something of passion's delights. Now she wanted him—all of him. The blindfolds removed them from the normal world to a realm of pure pleasure. Her senses were on fire. She loved his taste, his scent, his voice.

Most of all, she loved the feel of his hands and lips as he tugged up her skirts and caressed the smooth skin of her belly. She gasped as his hand slid between her thighs, his fingers as intimate as his wickedly skilled mouth. “Beautiful,” he breathed. “Every aspect of body and soul, you are beautiful.”

Giddy with desire and champagne, she didn't care about morals or the future or possible consequences. Passion had been building since the night they first met, and nothing mattered but to join in the most primal of ways.

She moaned into his throat when his fingers slid deep inside her. She was all heat and moisture and hot need. The moments when he paused to unbutton the fall of his trousers and free himself were too long. She bit his shoulder, wanting to consume him.

“I don't think I can make this last,” he said raggedly as he pressed against her.

“I don't care!” She wrapped her arms around his chest and pulled him hard against her body.

They joined together with a swiftness that left no room for second thoughts. He was inside her, hot and hard, amazing and shocking and
necessary.
The brief spike of pain didn't dim her desire, only intensified her need to become one flesh. She rocked against him, feeling every movement in his lean, powerful body.

They swiftly found a rhythm that intensified the searing pleasure with every thrust. She was a coiled spring, winding unbearably tighter until he slid his fingers between them and touched her with expert skill.

She shattered, no longer aware of boundaries between them. Only intimacy and unholy pleasure beyond anything she'd ever dreamed.
Dear God, dear God, dear God…

As her nails bit into his back, he gave a choked cry and went rigid. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him safe as he spilled into her.

With passion burned out, normal awareness returned. She drew a ragged breath as she recognized that they were locked together on a scratchy blanket, the birds singing as if the two humans below hadn't just performed an act that changed their relationship irrevocably. Her head spun with champagne and shock.

“Mariah, my love.” Adam rolled onto his side but kept her close. She heard the rustle as he removed his blindfold. Then he tugged hers off. As she blinked from the light, he kissed the corner of her eye with aching tenderness. He was so honest, so true. And she was not.