Lust (12 page)

“Miss?” Annie asked. “Shall I begin brushing out your hair?”

“Please,” she murmured, watching the mirror for another glimpse of the stranger. But he never reappeared, and Chastity blamed her overwrought nerves for seeing it in the first place.

 

Being a paragon was stifling at best, but it was made all the more bearable by indulging in one simple vice. As the perfumery bells tinkled, signaling her arrival, Chastity secretly smiled. This was the only time she ever felt truly alive—as though her body was awakening. Except for two nights ago, when she had found herself in the arms of a masked stranger, her breasts bared and her blood pounding.

But she refused to recall that almost addictive sensation of desire. It was over. The black-haired stranger was gone, nothing but a figment of her mind, and last night, her dream. She had seen his fleeting image that morning in her looking glass; however, it was nothing but a folly. Just a fanciful girl thinking of the impossible.

In truth, she should be scandalized by what the rogue had done to her in the maze, and how she had allowed him to do it. As Annie had brushed her hair, remnants of her dream came back to her…

She'd entered the house from the garden and had immediately gone to her chamber, where Annie had been turning down the bed. After getting into her night rail, Chastity had slipped swiftly into sleep, and promptly her subconscious had plunged her into a dreamworld.

Even now her cheeks flushed as she lost the battle to push the memories of that vision out of her mind. At first she had been horrified to recall the memory of her body pressed up against another's. A man whose own body was hard and hot against hers. She had let her midnight dream lover touch her and whisper words into her ear that still had the ability, even now, hours after awakening, to make her body tremble.

In her dream, she had asked for a kiss. A simple one, but he refused her, and Chastity had feared that she would awaken before she could feel his lips upon hers.

Please,
she pleaded, afraid to open her eyes and have her dream vanish in the darkness.
Kiss me,
she asked over and over, but he only traced her face and the shape of her mouth with his fingertip.
I won't be able to stop at a kiss,
he replied, his voice deep and husky, calling to her womanly needs—needs she had only just discovered she had.
One kiss,
she pleaded, touching her pursed lips to his throat.
Just one, please…

One kiss,
he'd replied, lowering his face to hers so that his breath whispered against her upturned face.
Open for me, Chastity, for I want all of you in this kiss,
and then he pressed his mouth against hers, kissing her softly, reverently, until she moaned and touched her tongue to his. He deepened the embrace, bruising her lips and clinging to her, kissing her hungrily, devouring her mouth, stroking her tongue with his as he pushed her deeper into the mattress so that she found herself beneath him. Wantonly she kissed him back, clutching at him, as if he would turn to vapor in her arms. In her innocence,
she was wild, untutored, but she gave herself up to the heady pleasure with abandon.

Beautiful Chastity,
he murmured against her as he nudged her head back, seeking her throat and unlacing the demure silk ties that held her nightgown together.
I ache for you. I ache to be inside you
.

She had pleaded with him in her dream, nearly begged him to show her passion, but he had refused. And then she had fully awakened to the brilliant sunlit morning, aching to return to him.

Good God, what was happening to her?

The memories of the dream and the hypnotic scent, she had no difficulty in recalling. But the events in the garden, the minutes or hours that had elapsed between discovering the gate and returning to the salon, were frustratingly blank. What had happened in that interval? How had she received the mark on her ankle? Try as she might, she could not recall any of it.

“May I help you, miss?”

Chastity glanced up to see the perfumer studying her. His powdered wig, which at one time had been white, was yellowing, and sat upon his head askew. His eyes, which were bright and cunning, fixed on her. Good Lord! She was standing in the middle of London's most famous perfumery and she was woolgathering about an indecent dream she'd had. What must he think of her?

With a flush she nodded and gripped the strings of her beaded reticule tighter. “I am just browsing, thank you.”

“There is much in my little shop to tempt a lady.”

“Indeed, I've never seen a perfumery that could rival this one.”

The little old man beamed with pride, then, with a curt nod he moved away, down to where a group of fashionable women were congregated near the back of the store.

With a deep breath, Chastity looked about the elegant shop, which was decorated in the heavy rococo fashion.

Gilt and pale cream tones filled the large space. Mirrored shelves offset the glimmer of the exquisite rows of perfume bottle and atomizers, creating a dazzling display of sparkles and glimmer.

Excitement lanced through her. She had never seen anything so superb. The small perfumery in Glastonbury certainly was nothing like this.

Vice
. This was hers. The desire she had begun to crave with the stranger in her dream was something she absolutely could not indulge in. This vice, however, was utterly harmless. She need not feel guilty about this one, simple pleasure. This one was perfectly safe.

The aromas hit her, filling her nostrils with thrilling temptations. She could spend hours here, breathing in the intoxicating scents. She loved perfume, and the pretty bottles that went along with the feminine luxury.

In every facet of her life, she was a paragon. But in this one thing, she allowed herself one weakness. Perfume.

Strolling along the marble floors, she watched the gathered women, resplendent in their fashionable clothes, sniffing an assortment of aromas. Chastity found herself
wondering if the women were out merely to be seen, or if they too held the same sort of appreciation as she.

Stopping before a crystal-encrusted bottle, Chastity pulled the topper out and held the tip to her nose. The heavy floral notes of rose dripped from the pointed tip. She loved the smell of roses. But then, what woman didn't?

Rose was an interesting flower, she thought as she watched a clear drop of essence fall back into the bottle. A famous and favored scent, the rose was a symbol of love and devotion. But its bouquet, heady and heavy, had a deeper connotation. One of sensuality and eroticism. In ancient Rome, a rose fastened to the ceiling told visitors and revelers that anything happening in the room should not be spoken outside it. Which meant, of course, that sinful things were happening within those walls.
Carnally
sinful, she reminded herself.

Yes, the rose was sensually evocative—to both sexes.

“Beautiful,” she murmured as she inhaled the perfume once more.

“There cannot be a perfume here to match the natural radiance of your beauty, or your own natural scent.”

Startled by the deep voice that seemed to be addressing her, Chastity glanced to her right, and saw a tall man standing beside her. He was looking down into a glass case that bore lockets filled with perfumed creams. His black hair was tied back in a queue and his profile was both masculine yet beautiful.

Slowly he raised his gaze to her and she was pinned by
beautiful blue eyes. Removing his tricorn hat, he bowed elegantly before her. “My lady.”

She gasped, instantly recalling the man standing before her.

“Perhaps you remember our meeting in Glastonbury, Lady Lennox? I am Thane.”

“I do not know you, sir,” she snapped. Heart racing, she turned away from him and walked to another section of the store, where more customers were gathered. The perfumer was eagerly unveiling his newest creation, and she pressed in, trying to lose herself in the small huddle.

She was being utterly rude, she knew, but she could not help it. She had seen that man before, and not just in Glastonbury, but in the maze and, God help her, last night in her dreams.

Good God, what was happening to her? Perhaps she really was going insane after all. It was all too much. The strangers. The dreams. The lapses in memory. It was as if she was the victim of a cruel spell. A faery spell? she wondered.

“I will not give up until you at least say hello.”

The deep timbre of his voice washed over her and she closed her eyes, steeling herself against the way his voice made her weak and warm. He was standing too close; the heat from his chest burned into her back through the thin pelisse she wore.

A matron glanced at her from beneath the wide brim of her bonnet, then her stare darted to the man who was standing behind Chastity. His position, pressed into her,
was too close to be considered civilized. Even if they were husband and wife, his proximity to her person was positively indecent.

“Let us try again. Good day, my lady,” he murmured next to her ear. The whispering caress of his voice made her shiver before she steeled herself.

“Hello,” she grumbled, hoping it would satisfy him and he would move along, but it only made him chuckle.

“You wish me far away, do you not?”

“You are not known to me, sir. It is not done to converse with someone you do not know.”

“I am trying to remedy that, but you're proving most difficult.”

“I must leave,” she muttered. Slipping the strings of her reticule onto her wrist, she tried to gently push her way out from the crowd, but he followed her, like a black cloud looming over her head.

“Not yet.”

“I do not even know you, sir,” she snapped. But images of Glastonbury, the maze, trickled through her mind, replaced by the fleeting image…the figure of this very same man awaiting her beyond the garden gate.

She gasped, straightening her spine. The memories were foggy, disjointed, but she recalled a garden bench, and a man bent on the ground—between her thighs. Struggling, she tried to pull at the memory and bring it forth. Had it really happened, or was it only part of a dream?

“There is no use running or feigning our lack of acquaintance. For I will only pursue you,” he whispered,
breaking into her thoughts. “I will hound you until you allow me to call upon you.”

“That is impossible,” she scoffed as she extricated herself from the crowd and made her way to the door of the perfumery. Oh, where was Prudence when she needed her? Next door, at the bookseller's, she thought peevishly. Oh, why had she ventured in here, without even a maid or a footman?

This was too much. She was out of her element, afraid not only of him, but herself. She was a paragon, she reminded herself. Born to a higher standard. She was not a dockside doxy.

Reaching for her wrist, he grasped her, stopping her with the barest pressure of his fingers.

“Am I so terrible to converse with that the thought of having me for tea makes you tremble?”

No, she was quivering for quite another reason. Good Lord, he was spectacularly handsome. In the sunlight that filtered through the window, his eyes appeared to be the most brilliant shade of blue. Offset with black lashes, his gaze was penetrating and intense, and it made the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand to full attention. Good heavens, she had been in the maze with this man, her breasts bared, her lips swollen from his kiss. For what purpose had he left Glastonbury to pursue her in London? Desire was one thing, but to come all this way to kiss her? There were any number of women who would fall at his feet for a chance to be seduced by him, so why had he chosen to mark her for his games?

Barely able to focus on the conversation, Chastity felt
trapped in his gaze, her body no longer her own. “You must release me, sir,” she found herself murmuring, “for I am not able to speak with you.”

“Why?”

“I am promised to another.” Technically, it was not a lie. She was promised. She just didn't know to whom, and if he would be man or fey. Besides, she would have said anything to get away from him. She was not herself in his presence. She would do, say anything to put space between them, to deter him from his ardent pursuit.

His fingers squeezed hard against her wrist. “Who is he?” he demanded.

Thankfully she was spared from having to answer by the perfumer. “Does the lady wish to have a signature scent?” he asked, his shrewd gaze volleying between them.

“No,” Chastity answered.

“Yes,” Thane replied at the same time. “The lady does wish to have something created especially for her.”

The perfumer's eyes lit with excitement—and greed. “Of course, signature perfumes can be rather expensive to make and—”

“Cost is no matter,” Thane drawled as he reached for her reticule and slowly slipped the strings from her wrist. Carefully he set it aside and placed the bag on the counter.

“Does the lady know what flowers she prefers?”

Thane cocked a brow in question as he lifted her hand in his and began to slowly unfasten the buttons of her leather glove.

“Floral? Citrus?” the elderly shopkeeper asked as he reached below and lifted three glass jars onto the counter.

Swallowing hard, Chastity watched in fascination as Thane slowly pulled her glove from her fingers and placed it atop her reticule.

The perfumer was watching them intently. “Does the gentleman have a preference as to what sort of perfume the lady should have?”

“He does indeed,” Thane murmured as he brushed the tips of his long fingers along the inside of her wrist. The sensation went straight to her womb and the tips of her breasts. What was he doing to her? Why was she feeling this way?

Despite knowing that they were causing a scene, that everyone was watching them, Chastity could not break the spell of this moment. He seemed to know it, too, because he smiled wickedly as he lowered his mouth to her wrist. And she was helpless to do anything but allow it.