Seduced by His Touch (7 page)

Twice, she had to double back, worried every time that she would stumble upon Lord Jack, or he upon her. But as the minutes ticked past, she realized that he must be as mired in confusion as she. She also became aware of the fact that the two of them were completely alone—no hint of other human voices or movement anywhere in the vicinity.

Finally she sensed she was nearing the center of the maze, her goal barely feet away. But being close to the middle and actually finding it were two different things.

Turning again, she glided forward, her steps bringing her into a square-shaped section of hedge that functioned as a box. An inescapable box from which there was no exit save the one through which she had come. Trapped, she raced back toward the break in the vegetation.

She was just passing through when a long male arm emerged seemingly from out of nowhere, coiling like steel around her waist.

She squealed, the sound reverberating in the air, as she twisted for a moment in Lord Jack’s grasp.

“Got you!” he exclaimed, triumph plain in his voice.

“Oh, you scared me!” she said, breathless as she met his gaze. “You’re as silent as a breeze.”

“And you’re as lithe as a gazelle, slipping from row to row as though you were made of fog. For a few moments, I thought I’d lost track of you.”

“This is a tricky maze. The center is nearby, though. Shall we both dash to find it?”

A gleam came into his eyes, along with an expression she’d never seen him wear before. He shook his head, his gaze roaming over her face before lowering to her lips.

“No,” he murmured in a tone as rough as gravel. “I have what I came to find.”

She trembled, abruptly aware that he was still holding her against him. Her heart leapt when he reached up and began untying the bow that anchored her bonnet in place.

“What are you doing, my lord?”

He smiled. “Claiming a forfeit. I caught you. I believe I deserve a reward.”

“B-but the game isn’t finished.”

“You’re right about that,” he mused aloud, lifting her hat from her head. “The game has only just begun.”

Without giving her time to consider, he tossed her bonnet to the ground, angled his head and kissed her.

She froze, completely unprepared for the heady sensation of his lips moving against her own. His mouth was surprisingly warm and luxuriously soft; his kiss demanding and persuasive in ways that made gooseflesh pop out all over her skin in spite of the late summer heat.

On a quivering gulp, she forced herself to break away. “M-my lord, what are you doing?”

“I believe you asked me that once already,” he remarked. Reaching up, he traced the curve of her ear with his thumb and forefinger. “I should think the answer is obvious.”

Catching her earlobe between his fingers, he rubbed the nubbin of flesh in a circular motion, then bent to scatter kisses along the column of her neck. Her eyelids fluttered, her toes curling like petals inside her shoes.

“Y-yes, but I don’t understand why,” she said on a half-gasp. “You d-don’t think of me that way.”

“Do I not?” he said in a silky tone. “Are you sure?” Moving to her other side, he fanned a line of kisses over her throat.

“You see me…as a sister.”

He stopped and lifted his head to meet her gaze. “I assure you, I do not.” His arm tightened around her waist, yanking her flush against the long length of his body. “Now, I ask, does this feel at all brotherly to you?”

Locked hip to hip, she became aware of an insistent bulge pressing against the lower portion of her stomach, just slightly above the juncture of her thighs.

Is that him?
she thought.
Is that hard jut wedged against me—his sex? Mercy, surely he isn’t aroused? For me?

Having never felt an erection before, even through the barrier of clothing, she wasn’t certain. But a glance at the fixed set of his jaw and the intense gleam in his azure eyes made her realize she must be right.

“But I’m so plain and tall,” she cried, unwilling to let herself believe that this man—this big, virile, gorgeous specimen of masculinity—could possibly want her.
Her.
Grace Danvers—unremarkable spinster—who had never so much as tempted a man to kiss her in all her twenty-five years. Not even Terrence had tried. Despite having asked her on repeated occasions to be his wife, he had never once attempted to take liberties.

Yet here was Jack Byron, sophisticated libertine and lady-killer—a man who could have any woman of his choosing no matter how beautiful or well-born—demonstrating his attraction for
her.

“You don’t want me,” she whispered.

“Don’t I?” He dropped a lingering kiss on her lips, then another on her cheek, and a third on her temple. “You continue to be mistaken in your estimation of my opinions, and in your own as well.

Her brows drew tight. “My own?”

“You are
not
plain,” he told her, his words low and husky.

When she made a sound of disagreement, he hushed her. “You may not be beautiful in the traditional sense, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t lovely all the same. Uniquely lovely, with an inner radiance that far transcends what passes for pretty these days. Take your eyes, for example.”

“My eyes?”

“Hmm. Have you ever noticed how they change color with your moods?”

She shook her head.

“Well, they do. When you’re happy, they’re a pure pristine blue, like twin brushstrokes of sky. And when you’re displeased or lost in serious thought, they shift to grey. Silvery, sensual grey, the sort that ripples like dawn mist over a lake. I can think of no other woman with eyes like yours. Magnificent, soul-deep eyes in which a man could drown if he weren’t careful.”

He laid a hand against her face and touched his lips to hers. She quivered, blood throbbing in her temples, her skin turning hot beneath his touch.

“As for being tall…,” he went on, stroking his thumb in an arc over her cheek as he scattered random kisses along her brow and chin and neck, “…I am tall myself. I like that you’re tall, too. I like that I can hold you and gaze with ease upon your face. I like it that I can do this”—he captured her lips for a slow, soft kiss—“without having to stoop or crouch or dip in order to make you fit against me. You are a perfect complement, Grace. The feminine half that makes me whole.”

He bumped his hips gently into hers and drew a ragged gasp from her throat. “See what you do to me?” He cupped a hand over one breast. “See what I do to you?”

Of its own volition, her nipple peaked, the stiffened bud rising traitorously against his palm. Her breath soughed fast between her lips. Her knees grew weak, making her thankful he was holding her, since she was sure she would have crumpled to the ground in a heap otherwise.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he told her.

Trembling, she did as he asked, bringing their bodies even closer together.

His thumb stroked over her breast, back and forth across the hardened tip, then back and forth again.

“Shall I stop?” he whispered, changing his caress to a circular glide. An ache rose between her legs, a yearning that drew an involuntary whimper from her throat.

“What did you say?” he asked, his breath warm against her ear.

She shook her head. “No, don’t stop, your lordship.”

“Jack,” he said, tugging her even tighter. “From now on, you are to call me Jack.”

“Yes, my lord. Yes, Jack.”

And then, as if the sound of his name on her lips broke through some self-imposed restraint, he crushed his mouth to hers, kissing her with a fierce possession that scattered every sensible thought in her brain.

She jolted as his hand slid lower, his wide palm stroking over the full curve of her bottom to knead her through her gown and petticoats.

“Open your mouth,” he muttered against her lips. “Let me in, Grace. Let me have you.”

Blindly, she obeyed, his tongue sweeping inside the instant she parted her lips. Her heart hammered against a flood of new sensations, nerve endings sizzling in places she hadn’t known she had nerves. Her body grew hot, but not from the sun shining overhead. Instead the source was an inner heat that threatened to burn her up from the inside out. She groaned, surrendering to the dark, wet, delicious slide of his flesh tangling with hers.

Ravenous, he showed her how to respond, how to follow his lead and mimic everything he did. He seemed to approve of her fledgling attempts, coaxing her to try, then try again.

When she felt his fingers working open the buttons at the back of her gown, she made no demur, too abandoned to object to anything he might do.

Jack shifted his stance, using his legs to spread hers apart so he could step between. Kissing her harder, he quaked as she tentatively used what he’d been teaching her to draw circles inside his mouth with her tongue. Her taste was intoxicating—like fresh strawberries and champagne—the sweet, light flavor tingling in his mouth and buzzing in his brain.

He knew he needed to slow things down, to put a halt to what he’d originally intended to be no more than a few simple kisses. But the moment he’d touched her, he’d been lost, unable to keep himself from wanting more, taking more. The keen ache riding him wasn’t helping matters either. He was so hard it was a wonder his straining member didn’t pop the buttons right off his falls.

He considered laying her down, finding some small patch of grass where he could take her. She would let him. He could tell she was as far gone as he. Without further preamble he could have her beneath him, her skirts tumbled upward as he thrust himself deep into her tight, wet depths.

But despite his powerful longing, some niggling spark of conscience still remained, reminding him that she was a virgin and that a hard plot of earth was no place for her first time.

And it would be her first time.

Based on her untutored responses alone, he knew she’d never even been kissed. A fierce rush of possessiveness roared through him, an atavistic satisfaction that was totally at odds with his usual relaxed attitude concerning sex and female chastity. Never before had he cared whether a woman was innocent. Rather, in the past, he’d always chosen experienced partners, women who knew what to expect and relished the opportunity to explore the boundaries of their sensuality. Virgins, on the other hand, were nothing but a bother.

Yet he thrilled now to the knowledge that he would be Grace’s first. Grace’s only. The one man with the privilege of touching her and teaching her everything she needed to know regarding the depths of sexual satisfaction and human desire.

Ah, the pleasure we shall find together when I get her in my bed.

He shuddered at the idea, ravishing her mouth while he tugged open the buttons on the back of her gown. He wouldn’t take her today, he swore to himself, no matter how much his body screamed for release. But he had to have a little more, a last drink of ambrosia before he tore himself away.

Yanking down her bodice, he unlaced her stays, loosening the stiffened cloth enough to free one of her breasts. She cried out as he fastened his mouth over her, shuddering with a clear mixture of surprise and delight as he drew upon her tender flesh. Nestling the fulsome curve in his palm, he kneaded her with gentle finesse, licking her in gradually diminishing circles before pausing to press his tongue and teeth against her sensitized peak.

Her body jerked, her fingers sliding into his hair to cradle him closer and urge him on. With a groan, he freed her other breast and repeated his ministrations—licking and suckling and claiming her utterly. She swayed, trembling and all but insensate, when somehow he found the Herculean strength to stop and pull away.

Ragged breaths bellowed from his lungs, one fist clenched against his thigh in an agony of longing.

He nearly dropped to his knees, seriously tempted to lift her skirts and bury his face between her thighs. Given her innocence, he could likely bring her to completion and have her well on the way to a second release before she even knew what he was doing. But he supposed such diversions would have to wait for later. Closing his eyes, he fought for control.

When he opened them again a few moments later, he found her flushed pink from breast to forehead, visibly trembling as she plucked futilely at her disheveled clothes.

“Shh,” he murmured, brushing a comforting kiss over her lips. “I see I’ve shocked you, and for that I’m sorry. Here, let’s get you righted again.”

With a minimum of fuss, he had her laced and dressed, her gown smoothed into place with nary a wrinkle. Anyone seeing her would assume she had merely taken a little too much sun. Unless they looked into her eyes. She wore an overly bright, slightly dazed expression—obviously still trying to adjust to everything that had just transpired between them.

Moving a few steps away, he leaned down to retrieve her bonnet. After brushing a speck of dust off the brim, he turned and gently fit it over her head.

“A shame to cover up your glorious hair,” he remarked, “but you know what they say about fair-skinned redheads burning, and I believe you’ve had more than enough sun for today.” He tied the blue grosgrain ribbon beneath her chin. “Let us retrieve your sketchbook and find your maid, then I shall escort you home.” Taking her hand, he laid it over his arm.

Only then did she speak. “Jack.”

“Yes?” He met her gaze.

“Did you mean it?”

He tipped his head to one side. “Mean what?”

“What you said? You know…about wanting me.”

A guffaw escaped him. “After everything that just passed between us, you still have doubts?” He sobered, reading the uncertainty in her eyes. “Yes, Grace, I want you. Quite badly, in fact.”

“And will I see you again? You aren’t leaving town?”

“No, I’m not leaving, and you will most definitely see me again. Why do you imagine otherwise?” He paused, as a new thought suddenly struck him. “Did someone else leave you?”

She shook her head and looked away. “It is nothing. I should not have said.”

“But you did say. Now tell me, what is this about? Did a man hurt you? Leave you?” At her renewed flush, he knew he was right. “Who is he?”