Secrets of a Perfect Night (16 page)

The thought of all the people in the ballroom below—the majority of whom had seen him, master seducer that he was, carry her upstairs—sent a most peculiar shiver down her spine. It was a thrill—a dare. Her hands were gathering the soft material, swiftly raising the front hem, before she’d made any conscious decision.

Adrian’s lips claimed hers. The kiss spun her away, into a realm where nothing existed but the heat swelling between them. Cool air feathered across her stomach; she stopped gathering her skirts. Then he touched her, fingers splaying over her stomach, then sliding down, through her soft curls to slip between her thighs.

Heat flared across her skin.

She nearly dropped her skirts. Her knees threatened to buckle as he stroked. The hand at her back slid lower, cupping her bottom, supporting her as the wicked fingers between her thighs continued to fondle, stroke, caress. She was quivering inside, and tense, and suddenly very warm. The continuing kiss made it impossible to think; she could only feel.

Feel him large and strong and so very male before
her. Feel his hardness, his muscled strength surrounding her. Feel the possessiveness in his grip as he held her steady while his artful fingers probed. The kiss had turned demanding, demanding all her wits as his tongue claimed her softness, a tangible echo of the claiming to come.

A deeper echo sounded as his hand shifted between her thighs; one long finger entered her. She gasped, then shuddered in his arms. The finger withdrew, then returned, even deeper. Another finger joined the first. The intimate probing continued; her nerves tightened, coiling like a spring. Her skin flamed.

Then he drew his fingers from her and she ached.

He broke their kiss and lifted his head. Raising her heavy lids, she watched as he slipped the buttons at his waistband free. She couldn’t resist; she reached for him, closing her fingers about his length, thrilling to the strength and the promise of pleasure to come.

He groaned, and tried to catch her hand. She brushed her thumb over his velvet head and he shuddered.

“Enough.” He sounded hoarse. Shackling her wrist, he drew her hand from him and returned it to her rucked skirts. “Hold your skirts.”

“How…?”

He sat on the chair and drew her to him. Abby saw how. She straddled him eagerly, lowering herself, letting him guide her until she felt the familiar blunt pressure at her entrance, then she took control, drew in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and slid slowly, smoothly down.

It was even better than her memories—he seemed to
fill her until he nudged her heart. She felt him slowly, tightly exhale; lips curving, she rose, up, then higher. Instinct told her when to stop, then she took him in again.

Adrian sensed her fascination; she hadn’t taken him this way before. He mentally gritted his teeth, held back his raging impulses, and let her experiment.

Let her love him. Five fraught minutes later, he realized that was what she was doing—eyes closed, her face a mask of passionately blissful concentration, she used her body to pleasure him and exulted in the act. The realization nearly shattered his control.

She chose that moment to press down, then tighten about him.

He broke, groaned—and reached for her, fingers sinking into firm flesh as he held her down. He managed to draw breath, managed to wrest the reins from her grasp. And knew he had to keep them. “Wait.” He prayed she would, that her curiosity would play into his hands. Once again, she’d jockeyed him into doing something he hadn’t intended to do. Exposing her to a deeper level of sexual surrender hadn’t been on his agenda for this evening. However…

Easing his hold on her hips, he traced her long legs. “Lock your ankles around the chair legs—like this.” He showed her and she complied—then swallowed a shriek when he grasped her hips, tilted her, and shifted within her. Before she realized that losing all leverage left her completely in his control, he took her lips in a searing kiss. Then he lifted her, rocked her—loved her.

Her body was his, his to fill as he wished, deep one
minute, less so the next. He brought all his skills to bear, concentrating on loving her. Pleasing her. Pleasuring her.

Her unexpected surrender, the sudden change of pace and intent, momentarily shocked her. Then, tentatively at first, then with greater confidence, she softened in his arms and gave herself up to his loving. Gave herself to him.

Still clutching her skirts, Abby clung to their kiss and let him love her as he would. Let each calculated slide, each rolling thrust, fill her and sweep her away. Let him coax her body into a deeper surrender, let him press upon her pleasures still more intense.

Then he released her lips and ducked his head; she smothered a cry as he found one ruched nipple. The intensity of their sensual dance escalated. Pleasure and passion coalesced, capturing them both, claiming them both—nothing existed beyond the moment, beyond their heated bodies and the urgency drumming in their veins.

Then a tidal wave of yearning, of sensual longing, of desire, need, and love, rose through them both, merged and exploded, flinging them high. Abby gasped. Releasing her skirts, she wrapped her arms about Adrian’s shoulders and held him fiercely as they flew, then fractured, then slowly tumbled back to earth.

He groaned softly, then lifted his head and found her lips. “Just love me, Abby—always.”

She closed her arms about him, drew him into her mouth, held him deep within her. And did.

The day after the Wardsleys’ grande ball, the ton was atwitter, flush with rumors of the latest lascivious doings—and the attendant, impending marriage—of Scandalous Viscount Dere.

Coming in February 2001 from Avon Books

All About Love
Stephanie Laurens

Six notorious cousins, known to the ton as the Bar Cynster, have cut a swath through the ballrooms of London. Yet, one by one, each has fallen in love and married the women of their hearts until only one of them is left unclaimed…the most rakish of Stephanie Laurens’s captivating clan…and he’s not about to go easily
.

Alasdair Cynster—known to his intimates as Lucifer—decides to rusticate in the country before the matchmaking skills of London’s mamas become firmly focused on him, the last unwed Cynster. But an escape to Devonshire leads him straight to his destiny in the irresistible form of Phyllida Tallent, a willful, independent beauty of means who brings all his masterful Cynster instincts rioting to the fore. Lucifer isn’t about to deny his desire for Phyllida, and he’s determined to use all his seductive skills to enjoy the benefits of destiny’s choice—without submitting to the parson’s noose.

Romances set against the backdrop of Regency England were the first
Stephanie Laurens
ever read, and they continue to exert a special attraction. On escaping from the dry world of professional science to carve out a career as a writer, Stephanie published eight Regency romances, then turned to longer, historical romances set in the Regency. Her first
—Captain Jack’s Woman—
was published by Avon Books in 1997. Subsequent books from Avon have told the tales of the Bar Cynster—a group of masterful, arrogant cousins of the ducal Cynster dynasty
. Devil’s Bride, A Rake’s Vow, Scandal’s Bride, A Rogue’s Proposal,
and
A Secret Love,
have documented the inevitable surrender to love of the devastatingly handsome Cynsters
. All About Love
continues the series
.

Residing in a leafy bayside suburb of Melbourne, Australia, Stephanie divides her free time between her husband, two teenage daughters, and two cats, Shakespeare and Marlowe. Stephanie loves to hear from her readers. Letters can be sent c/o The Publicity Department, Avon Books, an Imprint of HarperCollins, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022-5299, or via email to
[email protected],
or via Stephanie’s website at
www.stephanielaurens.com.
Updates on the continuing Cynster series can be found on the website
.

The Last Love Letter

Victoria Alexander

One

It is a sad story, my dear Rachael, of misguided interference. Of lies told and believed. Of squandered opportunities and hearts broken. And love unrequited and true love lost
…

L
ADY
R
ACHAEL
N
ORCROSS
surveyed the crowded ballroom before her and tried to push the words of her late husband to the back of her mind. It was as futile as trying to stop the beating of her heart. The lines had burned themselves into her memory the moment she’d read them this afternoon—in a letter delivered now two years after George’s passing.

She moved through the crush with a nod here and a smile there, confident that no one would suspect her thoughts were on anything but Lady Bradbourne’s annual New Year’s ball and anywhere but the New Year: 1815.

Would
he
be here tonight? It was entirely possible. She had heard he had returned to England this very week, and she had steeled herself for the inevitable confrontation. After all, Jason Norcross was her hus
band’s cousin and only male heir. With George’s death, Jason was now the Earl of Lyndhurst.

She’d hoped to be able to conclude their dealings, officially ridding herself of the responsibility of the estate and all else that accompanied Jason’s legacy, with a businesslike attitude and a minimum of personal contact. With any luck, she could avoid him entirely, leaving everything in the hands of solicitors, which had been her plan since the day of George’s passing. A plan shattered along with everything she’d based her life on the moment she read his letter.

A waiter offered a glass of champagne and she accepted with a feigned air of indifference.

Dear God, Jason had thought I was dead
!

The revelation still stunned her. George’s letter explained her father’s part in the deception. Her hand tightened on the stem of the glass and a wave of bitterness washed through her.

Her own father. Even on his deathbed he had not sought reconciliation or forgiveness. No doubt for the best. She didn’t know what she would have done if he had. And only now did she know the full extent of his betrayal.

Betrayal? She sipped the wine in an effort to wash the taste of the word from her mouth. As brutal a word as it was, it still was not harsh enough. Her father had made certain the man she loved would never so much as write her a note of regret. Or seek her out to explain his abandonment. Or ease her pain.

No, her father made certain all Jason Norcross would leave her with was a broken heart, bittersweet memories, and half a gold coin…

Ten years earlier

“Is anyone in there?” Rachael Gresham peered into the dark stables, pulling her cloak tighter around her against the chill December night.

She stepped into the ancient building cautiously and shivered, as much with excitement as with the cold. She’d become quite adept at slipping out of Gresham Manor late in the night. The threat of discovery and ever-present possibility of danger only added to the thrill of the illicit adventure.

The moonlight cast her shadow before her and she paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the dimmer recesses of the decrepit structure. Here and there, brightness fell in shafts on the straw-littered floor from holes in the roof that grew larger with each passing season. Her father had built a new stable several years ago and planned to tear this one down. Until that time, it served for little more than the occasional storage of hay.

But it was the perfect spot for her purposes. She bit back a smile. If her father only knew what use she had found for the place.

“Is anyone there?” she called again, and strained to hear a sound in the dark shadows. Was she indeed alone? She took a step. Straw crunched beneath her foot. She took another. Was that a noise? Behind her? Fear shot up her spine. Perhaps she had tempted fate once too often. Her heart pounded in her chest. Perhaps her sins had caught up with her. Perhaps—

Without warning a hand covered her mouth and strong arms pulled her back against a hard body. She struggled, but the grip tightened.

“Quiet,” a voice murmured against her ear, and she stilled. “What’s a lovely thing like you doing out here alone in the middle of the night where any manner of beast could have his way with you?” His hand slipped through the opening of her cloak and covered her breast.

She gasped and jerked free to swivel in his arms. “Waiting for a beast exactly like you.”

She threw her arms around his neck, and his lips crushed hers in a greeting of greed and desire. He pulled her tighter against him and slanted his mouth over hers, his kiss hard and demanding, and she returned it in kind with the wild hunger that had held her in its grip since the first time they had lain together.

He swept her up into his arms and carried her the few steps to a corner stall and the blanket-covered pile of hay they had claimed as their own.

“For a moment, I thought you weren’t coming,” she said, her lips caressing his neck. “I thought you’d forgotten.”

“Never.” His voice held that odd, husky tone she recognized as desire. A need as great as her own. “I would never forget.”

She slid from his arms and yanked free the tie of her cloak, the garment falling unheeded to the floor. He pushed the simple dress she’d chosen precisely for its uncomplicated nature down over her shoulders and bent his head to taste the flesh already aching for his touch. She slid her hands under his coat and ran her fingers over his muscled chest, the heat of his body beneath the fabric of his shirt inflaming her senses. She
pushed at the coat and he shrugged out of it, his lips barely leaving her skin.

He pulled her bodice lower to free her breasts and cupped them in his hands. His thumbs traced slow circles on her nipples, in teasing contrast to the plundering of her mouth by his. He dropped to his knees before her, his lips trailing down her neck to the valley between her breasts. Her eyes closed and her head fell back. She tunneled her fingers through his hair and clutched his head closer.