Authors: Cheryl Holt

Promise of Pleasure (12 page)

BOOK: Promise of Pleasure

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A blaze of sensation shot through her.

She rubbed in small circles, moving up and down and around, learning the width and breadth of him. His skin was very hot, as if he burned for her, and he was extremely responsive. When she touched him in various spots, he trembled.

He eased her forward and bestowed a lush, stirring kiss, then he rooted to her bosom and suckled her breasts, the fabric of her nightgown providing an extra measure of friction.

Very swiftly, her pulse was racing, her nipples throbbing.

How was it that she’d so rapidly become a wanton? Why was he able to spur her to such licentious conduct?

“Stop, Jordan,” she ultimately said, pulling away. “You drive me wild with your caresses.”

“Good.”

“This is too overwhelming for me. I think you should go.”

“In a minute. There’s no hurry.”

Due to her moral underpinnings, she knew she should demand his departure, but when he’d refused to leave, she was so relieved. She wanted him to stay; she wanted him to stay forever.

“Did you enjoy the passion I showed you the other day?” he asked.

“I won’t deny it. Yes, I did.”

“Would you like me to do it to you again?”

Her entire body, down to bone and pore, quivered with anticipation.

“If you feel you must.”

“Oh, I must, Mary. I definitely must.” He clutched the hem of her nightgown and worked it up her torso. “Even though I’m nearly comatose with the headache you’ve inflicted, I shall martyr myself in the name of your pleasure.”

The hem was raised higher and higher. At the last second, she panicked and tried to fight being disrobed, but he was too quick for her, and she was naked.

She was still hovered over his lap, her nude form fully visible, and she wondered if she might ignite from discomfiture.

“You’re embarrassing me,” she murmured.

“Hush. Let me look at you.”

She folded her arms over her breasts, but he gripped her wrists and urged them away so that he had a clear view. He evaluated her, taking his time, as if memorizing every detail, then he drew her to him and kissed her tenderly, sweetly.

“You’re very beautiful, Mary.”

Secretly, she was thrilled by the pretty compliment, but she didn’t know how to reply to it. She burrowed her face into the crook of his neck, wanting to hide, but strangely, wanting to be more brazen for him, too. She was suffering from a peculiar combination of exhilaration and shame.

She was aware of what type of female tickled his fancy—a woman like Mrs. Bainbridge—but Mary had no idea how to go about being so loose. She wished she knew every coquette’s trick, and she was depressed by her lack of turpitude.

She’d always been a perfectly behaved daughter, but where had it gotten her? What if she was a little ill-behaved? Would the world cease to spin if she reached out and grabbed for what she craved?

He settled her onto her back, and as he came over her, he was staring at her with an expression of great affection. It made her heart pound, made her eager to do whatever he asked—without hesitation, without regard to the consequences.

He started kissing her again, and as her hips began to respond, he abandoned her mouth to nibble a trail down her bosom, to her belly.

“What are you doing?” she inquired.

“I’m going to kiss you in a special way.”

Not able to imagine what he meant, she lifted off the pillow to see that he’d spread her legs and wedged himself between her thighs.

She frowned.

“You’re not going to ... to ...”

“Yes, I am.” He grinned.

“But ... but ...”

He laved his tongue across her privates.

“Jordan!”

“What?”

“It’s unseemly.”

“And tremendously wicked, which makes it just the sort of deed I relish.”

He laved her again, and all complaint was silenced. She flopped back onto the pillow and gazed at the ceiling as he kept on with his torment. Very soon, she cried out and soared to the heavens.

As she spiraled down, he was nuzzling up her body, laughing, kissing her. He pulled her into his arms, and he appeared so delighted, his usual air of boredom and arrogance having vanished.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked.

“Because you make me happy.”

“I do? Why?”

“You’re so different from the women of my acquaintance.”

“How am I different?”

“You’re just ... you.”

“What a lovely thing to say.”

He sighed, holding her sprawled across his chest. “Before I’m through, I intend to thoroughly corrupt you. Do you mind?”

“Will I enjoy it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then, no, I won’t mind a bit.”

“I’m so glad I’m here,” he said. “I’m so glad I met you.”

“So am I.”

He seemed on the verge of making an important confession, when suddenly, footsteps sounded in the hall.

They froze, his eyes widening in question as to who was approaching, but Mary hadn’t a clue. She shrugged.

“Mary,” Felicity snapped, banging on the door, “are you in there?”

Felicity hadn’t visited Mary’s room in months, so what were the chances that she’d arrive when Redvers was in Mary’s bed and behaving precisely as he oughtn’t?

When Mary had been alone with him, it had been easy to forget why he was at Barnes Manor, but with Felicity on the other side of the door, reality crashed down.

“Mary!” Felicity called again, impatient for an answer.

Mary raised up on her elbow. “Felicity, is that you?”

“Yes. Let me in.”

Felicity rattled the knob, and Mary shuddered with relief that Jordan had had the foresight to spin the key in the lock the prior evening.

“I’m not dressed.”

“For pity’s sake. It’s after nine. Get up before I tell Mother.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m going for a ride in the carriage. Lord Redvers was supposed to accompany me, but he’s nowhere to be found. Will you come with me instead?”

“Yes.”

“When, exactly, will you drag yourself downstairs?”

“I’m getting up this very second. I’ll be down in the foyer in ten minutes.”

“You’d better not keep me waiting any longer than that!”

“I won’t. I promise.”

She stomped off, and as her strides faded, the intimacy between them had been shattered.

“I should go,” he said.

He slid to the floor, seeming unaffected by their near discovery.

He tugged on his shirt, his boots, then he glanced in her mirror and ran a hand through his hair. With that minimal adjustment, he looked completely put together, providing no discernible evidence that he’d just debauched her.

Coolly, he assessed her, then he leaned over and kissed her hard and fast on the mouth.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Mary advised as he drew away.

“Why not?”

“We’ll be caught. You know we will.”

“Oh, don’t worry about her,” he scoffed as if Felicity was of no account whatsoever. “I’ll stop by again tonight. After everyone is abed. What time is best?”

“Jordan!” she protested. “Will you listen to me?”

“How about midnight? Don’t lock your door. I’d hate to have to kick it down.”

He walked over, peeked into the hall, and sneaked away.

Chapter 8

“HELLO, Mrs. Stewart. I thought I might find you here.”

Without waiting for an invitation to sit, Paxton pulled up a chair.

“Hello, Mr. Adair.”

“Were you suffering from insomnia again? Or were you loitering in the hopes that I’d join you?”

“I couldn’t sleep, Mr. Adair.
You
had nothing to do with my decision.”

“I’d be delighted if you would call me Paxton.”

“If I referred to you by your Christian name, it would indicate a heightened regard.”

“Yes, it would. What keeps you up? Bad dreams? Bad memories?” She glared, but didn’t answer, and he added, “I’ve heard all about your husband. If I’d been married to him, I wouldn’t be able to sleep, either.”

The remark brought a ghost of a smile to her pretty lips. She wasn’t immune to his many charms—no woman was— and eventually, he would seduce her. He was too much of a cad not to.

She was holding a deck of cards, and he took it from her. He shuffled, then dealt a single card, facedown, one to her and one to himself.

“Let’s play,” he said.

“I’d rather not.”

“You wouldn’t? You’d rather mope in the quiet and the dark?”

He went to the sideboard and poured two brandies. She accepted hers without complaint, keeping an eye on him as if he was a wild animal that might bite.

He extracted a cheroot from his pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No.”

He touched it to the flickering candle, and she was particularly focused on the glowing tip. He offered it to her.

“Would you like a taste?”

“You won’t be shocked?”

“I’m
un
shockable.”

“Thank you.”

She reached for it and puffed away, and she appeared so comfortable that it couldn’t have been the first occasion she’d indulged. He imagined her passing the long hours of the night, lost in rumination, alone, depressed.

Oddly, he was saddened to think of her being so tormented, and he actually wished she’d confide in him, that he might have a chance to ease her woe.

His relationships with women were always fleeting. He had few attachments, and he viewed life as a grand lark where he expected—at the end—he’d feel he’d lived extravagantly and well.

If he behaved despicably toward her, it would be typical conduct for him. But if he was kind—if he was a friend—now
that
would be peculiar.

“Let’s play,” he said again.

“What are the rules?”

“High card wins.”

“Wins what?”

“Whatever you’d like.”

“You don’t gamble for sport? There must be stakes?”

“Yes.”

She assessed his coat, his clothes. “You don’t have anything I want.”

“You might be surprised.”

She snorted. “I suppose you’ve already picked out what you want from me.”

“Yes, I have.”

“What would that be?”

“I’ll start with your bracelet.”

She twirled it on her wrist. “No.”

“Partial to it, are you?”

“Not necessarily, but it was quite expensive, and as I’m positive you’ll cheat, I have no desire to surrender it to you.”

“Cheat?” He placed a palm over his heart. “Mrs. Stewart, you wound me.”

“I doubt that’s possible.”

He turned over her card, then his. Hers was a king; his, a deuce. It was an old trick, a ruse to keep his opponent in the game.

She wasn’t fooled, though, and she scrutinized him, trying to figure out how he’d done it.

“I win,” she said, dubious over her victory.

“You certainly do.”

“Take off your coat.”

“Are you claiming it as a prize?”

“No. I’m simply curious to see what you have hidden up your sleeve.”

He chuckled and slid out of it, tossing it over to her. She checked the lining and hem for suspicious openings, but finding none, she gave it back. He laid it on a nearby sofa.

There was a companionable intimacy growing between them, which he was happy to exploit. He loosened his cravat and rolled his cuffs, delighted that he could reveal his forearms without sending her into a swoon.

“Do you ever worry,” she asked, “that you might be shot?”

“Shot for what? Cheating?”

“Yes.”

“Never. But as to illicit fornication, larceny, or various other scams in which I regularly engage, I’m always a tad nervous.”

“Have you dueled?”

“Many times.” He grinned. “Shall I regale you with tales of my adventures?”

“My maidenly constitution probably couldn’t stand it.”

“If you fainted, I’d have to carry you to your bed.”

She made a sour face. “A fate worse than death, I assure you.”

He dealt them both another card. She flipped them over, and they were the exact opposite.
He
had the king, and she had the deuce.

She scowled. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?” He looked as innocent as a cherub painted on a church ceiling.