Unveiled (13 page)

Her slipper fell off her foot once more. She didn't even seem to notice; instead, she felt about for it on the ground with her foot, her toe pointed, revealing her ankle beneath the edge of her gown. And suddenly he could think of nothing but sliding his hands up the sinuous curve of her calf.

“A voyage?” she asked, her voice shaky. “But…but we can have no mutual destination.”

Clearly she'd not realized they'd left the docks behind days before. “It's not about where we go, but how we arrive.” Slowly. At great length, savoring every last inch of her skin.

She bit her lip, perhaps balancing her sense of propriety with her desire. And then she leaned forwards, canting towards him. As she did so, the bodice of her gown shifted. The lamplight caught the curves of her bosom. The strangled noise he heard must have issued from his own throat.

“When you do that, I can see.” He made a gesture in the direction of her cleavage. “At least, I can see more.”

She drew a deep breath. Her hand raised one inch, as if to block his view, but then she let her arm fall to her thigh. And then—oh, God—she leaned another inch towards him. She crooked one finger at him, and he found himself standing, drifting towards her. She licked her lips, and then she whispered, “Come here and kiss me.”

He was transfixed: by the lamplit swell of her breasts, barely visible above her neckline, by the damnably enticing rose of her lips, by the clarity of her eyes, untouched by her usual grief. She smiled at him—an expression both shy and brazen, a smile as old as woman herself.

“You should always be like this,” he said roughly.

“Forward?”

“Sure of yourself. Powerful. Unshadowed.”

She shook her head. “I'm not sure of
myself,
Ash. I'm just…just…”

“You're sure of me.”

Her head jerked up. She looked at him in surprise, and then, slowly, she nodded. “Yes. Because you'll understand the spirit in which this is offered. You'll know what it means to me.”

“And what will it mean?” His breath caught, hurting him. “What will I mean to you?”

She looked into his eyes. “Oh, you told me that the first day I met you. Do you not recall what this is about? ‘A little defiance,' you said. That's what I want from you. A little defiance. I want to know what it
should
be like. What I should have had, when I lost…lost it all.”

Defiance.
He swallowed. It wasn't enough for him—not anymore. He wanted to be more than her defiance. He wanted to be her strength, her amusement. He wanted to be her lover. He wanted to be her every wicked desire and her safe haven, all at once.

But if what she wanted at the moment was
defiance…
Well, he could give her that, too. Until she was ready for everything else.

He reached out and took her hands in his, pulling her to her feet. Her fingers trembled in his. He didn't want to know what memories plagued her. He just wanted her to forget them. She reached up on her toes and leaned into him, her breasts brushing against his chest, her fingers intertwining with his.

He couldn't help himself.

He kissed her. Hard, too; his mouth met hers with open lips, taking her with a ravenous intensity. He'd held back from her for too long, had held back this kiss, until it broke over him with all the ferocity of a summer storm. He was the lightning striking fertile ground, the hard rain driving into a field. And if he was a bolt of energy, swift and sure, she was the thunder, a low, powerful rumble that passed through him and stood his hairs on end.

Her lips were the welcoming fields, parched for his rain. She fit him, her body molding to his, her lips latching on to his. Her hands ran up his arms to his shoulders; he enfolded her in his embrace. He was hot
and rigid for her, had been ever since she'd spoken about ankles. Her body cradled his erection, even through all the layers of their clothing. He could feel the rub of the fabric, harsh friction against his member.

He kissed her and with his fingers he sketched what he wanted from her. He traced her cheeks, and willed the sadness in her eyes to be swept away in the tumultuous aftermath of passion. His hand painted a line down her spine, inch by inch, and spoke of his desire to have her naked in his arms. He wanted
her,
needed her, with a sheer animal intensity that would not be gainsaid.

It was that sheer want that led his hand to her breast, that unthinking desire that made him touch her there. It was lust, pure and simple, that guided his hand to that curve. But her response—that sweet arch of her spine—meant more to him than mere lust. It was desire, yes. But it was also a recognition, twanging through him, a poignant acknowledgement that with her, he could be vulnerable.

He could barely feel the shape of her beneath her corset, but he could imagine the peak of her nipple. He could feel her response as he circled that bud with his fingers, could feel the desire in her kiss increase in intensity. She leaned against his hand. It was a form of trust.

He'd already trusted her with far more than his bodily response. Somehow, he guided her back onto the sofa. Somehow, he straddled her, loosened the sash of her dress, and then, one by one, undid the little buttons of her bodice. It was rough work, his hands jostling with every breath she took. Somehow, he finished—and thanked the Lord for a front-lacing demi-corset, finer than he'd imagined a nurse would wear. The ivory flowers underneath her dress seemed like a feminine
little secret, one known by just the two of them. He unlaced this to reveal a thin shift, beneath which he could make out the dusky pink tips of her nipples—a darker rose than her lips, but begging for his kiss just the same.

He gave it, taking that peak in his mouth, while his hands slid down to her waist.

She moaned and rolled beneath him, her hips cradling his frame, his erection pressing into her thigh. He could have tasted her forever, could have let the feel of her seep into him. She came alive beneath him, pressing up. And he needed more. He lifted his lips from the curve of her breast to kiss her lips again. It was maddening, utterly maddening, to have her so close and yet so far from him. He pulled away from her—only for a moment, only long enough to set his hands on her ankles. And then he traced the perfection of her skin up, up, up the curve of her calves, to her knees.

Her skirt slid up, and still she didn't pull away from him. She hadn't flinched. Instead, she threw her head back and parted her thighs at his invasion. Her legs— God, the feel of them, warm and round and long and slim beneath his palms. He pushed a mess of petticoats out of the way.

He could have adored her knees until dawn came. He would have, had the rest of her not been so compelling. Her thighs, trembling at his touch. And then he rearranged her drawers and discovered the damp curls between her legs, the folds of her sex, wet with desire. He parted her and ran his thumb along the seam. She was rosy-pink there, too. The scent of her feminine musk overwhelmed him.

It would take so little to make her
his.
His thumb paused on her flesh. Belatedly, he realized that he'd
been tracing his own wants against her skin—a figure eight, lying on its side. Eternity. Infinity.

Sanity returned, greatly unwanted. She'd asked him for a little defiance. Ash was getting carried away by the fervor of the moment. If he were to unbutton his trousers and take her, it would be shabby recompense for the gift she'd given him. From what she'd told him, he doubted she had much experience with the sweeping feel of passion. She was too overwhelmed to deny him. But then, she hadn't precisely said
yes,
either.

Ash wanted to beat his head against brick in frustration. It would probably be the only thing that would banish his lust, and then, only if he did it hard enough.

Her eyes opened. “Ash?” she said shakily. “Why did you stop?”

“Darling, if you think about where I was about to proceed, you'll have a pretty good notion. I promised you a voyage, not a tumble.” Still, he was caressing her. He couldn't take his hands off her.

She swallowed shakily and then sat up, as if only now noticing precisely where his hands lay. “Oh.
Oh.
” She looked up into his eyes. “I would have…I would have let you, you know.”

“You still would let me,” he said. “That's not the point. I won't take you merely because it's
allowed
of me. I want you. All of you. Not just the portion of you that I managed to overwhelm.”

She stared at him. “I don't understand you.”

Ash pulled his hands from her. A futile attempt to dissipate the raging want inside him. It didn't work—especially not with Margaret looking at him so sweetly. His body screamed at him to complete what he'd begun,
to simply take her before her thoughts coalesced into objections.

“I want you too well to desire anything except your wholehearted participation,” he ground out. “Chastity…is hard. But—damn it—it's necessary. For now.” He covered her hands with his and laced up her corset. When he was finished he stood and helped her to her feet. Her legs were unsteady. His own weren't much better. Still, they worked together to arrange her clothing into a semblance of unwrinkled order. After he'd retied her sash, she turned to him.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“For calling a halt?” His body was still regretting it. He didn't want her thanks, damn it. He wanted a medal for bravery above and beyond the call of duty.

“For everything,” she said solemnly and walked to the door. There was an unsteady waver in her step—a tiny compensation for the pleasure he'd given up. He'd done that to her, and that thought made him fiercely possessive. Perhaps that was why he trailed after her, why, when she turned to take her leave, he kissed her once again, hard and bruising, so that she would remember him while she lay in bed tonight.

When she pulled away, he watched her go.

God, he ached all over. He needed a cold bath. He needed a good right hand. Preferably, the one before the other.

He let out his breath. It was only then that he saw Mrs. Benedict standing, frozen, down the gallery from him. She must have ascended the stairs moments before. Her eyes were narrowed, and she looked as if she were about to do murder. Oh, hell. She'd seen Margaret leave his chamber—alone, with her dress rearranged. She'd likely seen that last kiss.

“That wasn't what you think,” he said.

Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “I'm not a fool, Mr. Turner.”

“At least,” he amended truthfully, “it wasn't
exactly
what you believed.”

“I've seen the way you look at her.”

Ash shrugged helplessly. “You've seen her. You've listened to her. Can you blame me?”

Mrs. Benedict tapped her hand against her skirts. “Yes,” she said shortly. “I can. That poor girl has had enough to contend with without—” She grimaced and cut herself off.

“Without what?”

“Without your taking what little she has left,” Mrs. Benedict said. Her voice had dropped, almost quiet, but there was nothing in her tone of softness. Instead, she spoke with a fierce promise. “Of all the girls for which I take responsibility,
she
is the one I most wanted you to leave in peace. You have no notion what you're doing.”

“I have some idea what she has suffered.”

Mrs. Benedict's lip curled. “I doubt it. I'll be having my key back, then. If you please.” She said those last words in a tone that left no doubt: he had no choice in the matter.

“I can't.”

She drew herself up—sheer bravado, for a woman who came not even to his shoulder—and marched towards him. “There
is
no can't,” she scolded, her palm outstretched. “You will, or I shall—”

“I gave it to Miss Lowell,” Ash confessed.

That brought her to a standstill. “You
what?
”

“I gave the key to Miss Lowell. I thought—well, I thought she ought to have it.” He shrugged helplessly.
“I don't know why. It just…seemed like something she ought to have.”

She stared at him in disbelief, and then shook her head. “It isn't enough. I doubt you're the sort who needs to force your way into her room, when it comes down to it.” But she sounded less sure of herself. For a second, he had thought she was going to snap his head off for giving the master key to not only a servant, but a servant beneath the housekeeper. But then, this household was filled with surprises.

Hell. The only thing Ash knew was that it would take only a few more nights like this one for Margaret to grant him that impassioned
yes
he so longed to hear. And then it
would
be a tumble, not a voyage—a glorious, wicked, unchaste tumble headlong into sin. It all sounded very well for him, but for a servant, with no prospects?

No. She deserved better than that.

“I know. That is to say…” Ash heaved a great sigh. “You're entirely right, Mrs. Benedict.” He'd promised the housekeeper he wouldn't despoil the staff. He'd promised
himself
the same, because these people were his dependents. He couldn't just debauch Margaret. And yet now that she was willing, keeping his hands off her would prove nearly impossible.

He shook his spinning head, trying to find his way out of this mess. And then he knew—simply
knew,
with an intensity that rattled him—how he could set this all to rights. How he could have Margaret, and his tumble, too. Of course.
Of course.
He'd already understood it in some corner of his mind, since the day he'd seen her on the steps. He'd just needed to
realize
it.

“Of course I'm right.” She set her hands on her hips and glowered at him. “But I was right the last time I
admonished you on this score, as well. The only thing I need to know is what you'll do about it.”