Heat swept over her and she realised she was shaking with excitement. Oh, this wasn’t good. Or safe. Or sane. Her mouth went dry. She ought to leave, right this minute. But she couldn’t seem to find the will.
Dear God, it frightened her how much she wanted him.
* * * *
Grey reached for the doorknob and took a deep breath, struggling for control. After two weeks, he’d been sure he’d never see her again. He had wanted her to the point he’d lost all interest in his current Philadelphian mistress and scarcely been able to keep his mind on business. To see her here today had been like a typhoon rush of excitement.
But no matter how much he wanted to, he wasn’t going to pounce on the woman and carry her to bed. Instead, over champagne, they would discuss their relationship. Define it. So they knew where they stood, because two weeks of uncertain waiting had been intolerable. He was prepared to make her terms no sane woman could refuse, and she seemed sane.
Once defined, their liaison would start anew as he intended it to go on, no different from with any of his mistresses. There would be no room left for emotion. No distasteful power struggles or disappointments.
He entered his room and locked the door. Soft footfalls sounded on the polished floorboards. He turned to see her running towards him.
She was completely naked. The vixen.
She flung herself at him. Instinctively, he caught her, reeling backwards a little. While he struggled to keep his balance, her hands latched on to his shoulders, her legs wrapped around his waist and gripped tight. He braced her bare, satiny bottom.
His heart hammered in his chest. As welcomes went, it was staggering. Her mouth found his, her tongue flirting along his lips.
“Damn.” He half-groaned against her lips. Kissing her deeply, with one eye open, he bore her to the bed. Bright light flashed through the gossamer white curtains, illuminating her porcelain skin against the dark blue velvet bedspread. She rolled onto her back, all pink-tipped breasts, flat, youthful belly and luscious, long legs.
Thunder rumbled as he stretched over her. Fitting his hand to the curve of her waist, he bent his head. Her pulse beat a tattoo against his lips, her skin like smooth cream on his tongue, her scent exotic, all sweet and tangy, like the tangerines he had enjoyed so much in the Orient. Slowly, he kissed his way down to the soft swell of her breasts. Capturing her hardened nipple between his lips, he ran the tip of his tongue gently over it.
She shivered and moaned, arching her back, pressing up and clutching his head. Her soft, plump mons pressed against his erection. Every male instinct screamed for him to wrench his pantaloons open and thrust into her immediately.
Light flashed, followed by an immediate loud boom. He raised his head, focussing glassily. This was going too quickly. However much her artless honesty was a refreshing departure from Maria’s lace-and-silk calculation and Kate’s cool sophistication, he shouldn’t let his instincts rule.
He rolled away and got up to peel off his jacket. Then he took out his cotton banyan for her to wear. So they could talk.
When he turned back to the bed, she lay with one hand caressing her breast, one hand between her legs, a finger stroking her nub. He sucked in his breath, his balls tightening.
She moaned and his eyes flicked to her face. Her body writhed as the speed of her stroking, circling finger increased, and her every hitching breath reverberated in his cock. Good God. A long-held fantasy brought to writhing, moaning life. It defied everything he thought he knew about women. Ladies would never do it. Mistresses might, if they were in a good humour—but in a practised way, every movement showing that they were play-acting. This was no performance. This was woman at her most sensual, intimately abandoned.
He approached the bed and stretched out alongside her. “Do you want it that much, Beth?”
“Can’t wait… Please don’t make me wait.”
“Christ.” His hand raced up her thigh. Entering her with two fingers, he explored her forward wall until she caught her breath.
“There, my darling?”
“
G—god
.”
His palm flat against her nether lips, he stroked her deeply with his fingers.
On a moan, she laid back and closed her eyes. Those honeyed walls hugged his fingers and she flattened her palms on the bed, pressing down. Her hips thrashed as uncontrolled moans tore from her throat.
He circled her erect nub with his thumb while he moved his fingers inside her with steady, firm motions.
“
You’re…a…
”
He redoubled his efforts. Her cunt spasmed, her body jerked off the bed, she screamed. His mouth came down over hers a moment too late. Her pleasure reverberated in the chamber, still echoing in his ears as he lifted his mouth.
They’d be lucky if someone didn’t call the watch.
Cool, rain-scented air billowed the curtains and rushed in. Beth lay panting, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on her skin, a rosy flush fading from her breasts. Gooseflesh rose on the flesh that would fit his hands perfectly, and their tips were tight, raspberry points. He bent and tasted their salty sweetness. Hunger pounded through his blood, demanding he cover her body with his.
A crash of thunder brought him to his senses.
Damn it, this wasn’t the way to take charge of the situation. He went and closed the window. Then he returned to her and laid a soft flannel blanket over her nakedness. His cock throbbed in aching protest. He ignored it.
“I am a what?” He rested his hand over her flat belly.
“A…genius at dexterity,” she said, breathlessly.
He laughed. What would she do or say next? He daren’t guess. “Sit up.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to undo your hair.”
She raised her brows. “Is it necessary?”
“Absolutely.”
“But it takes so long to fix.”
He sensed she was being difficult on purpose. Irritation intruded on his pleasurable excitement. One thing he prized above all in a mistress was a willingness to please.
“Come on, up,” he said, forcing his most implacable tone.
With a small shrug, she complied, and he began removing her hairpins. “You think of words like ‘dexterity’ when you’re on the verge of coming?”
“When it applies. So how did you become so dexterous?”
“The sextant requires it.”
She laughed breathily, leaning towards him. Her hair fell over her face, a heavy mass of spun gold and silver threads. He regarded her plain wire hair pins with disdain. Hair so beautiful should be dressed with pearls and gems.
No, wait—a silver tiara of diamonds and aquamarines.
Could such an item be found in the United States or would it have to come from Europe? Factor in the blockade-runner—Christ, she was going to cost him a small fortune.
She traced along the fall of his pantaloons.
He clasped her wrist and detained it. “I sent a note for my valet to fetch us some strawberries and champagne. He’ll be here soon.”
She gave an exaggerated shudder. “I hate southern berries.”
“These are local. Very sweet.” He smoothed the hair off her face, delighting in its thistledown texture.
“Impossible, the spring has been too cold.”
“They grow them in a hothouse or something, I don’t know.”
“Sounds terribly expensive.”
The reference to her poverty reminded him of something that had been bothering him since he’d met her. “Beth, why aren’t you married? A beauty like you should have done well on the marriage mart.”
She shrugged. “I enjoy my freedom.”
“If you could do anything you wanted to, what would you do?”
Her expression grew serious. “I would teach the piano.” Enthusiasm electrified her eyes to blue pearlescence. It gave him a sensation like having the wind knocked out of him.
“Really? You can play it that well?”
“Yes, or so I have been told. I play for wages at Mrs Bickle’s Inn on Maple Street in the afternoons. But it doesn’t bring in much.” She sighed. “I do it for the privilege of having access to a piano.”
“Where did you learn?” he asked, warmed by the passion resonating in her voice.
“My mother worked for a kindly lady who had lost her own daughter to the yellow fever, and she allowed me many liberties in her home. She taught me how to play.”
“You should take on as many students as you can manage and earn as much as you can while youth and health are on your side.”
“I don’t have my own piano.”
“You could teach the children of the wealthy in their own homes, on their own pianos.”
“I can’t right now. My brother needs my help in his cobbler shop. He doesn’t like me to spend too much time away. He’s not happy about my working for Mrs Bickle as it is.”
Inhaling deeply, he struggled to keep his voice patient. “Why would you allow your brother to dictate your chosen employment?”
“I have an obligation to my family.”
“Your brother can hire more help.”
“He can’t afford it.”
“You can help pay for it out of the wages you earn teaching, instead of ruining your eyesight and”—he took her hand and kissed the palm—“your beautiful hands slaving away making shoes, which, I’d wager all the sealskin in the Pacific, you loathe with every fibre of your being.”
“Charlie tried to hire some apprentices but he says no one stitches as evenly as I do.”
Not trusting what he might say next, he released her hand and got up from the bed. He went straight to the sideboard and poured a healthy dose of bourbon into a glass.
“Grey?”
He looked up and saw her dressed in his banyan, rolling up the too-long sleeves, her silver-gilt hair shining against the dark blue fabric.
He put the glass down. “All I hear are excuses.”
“Are you angry with me?” she asked, her tone incredulous.
“I am trying to help you and you are fighting me.”
“I am not fighting you, I am simply explaining my life.”
“You are making excuses. Excuses won’t get you anywhere in this world.”
“You don’t understand.” Her sad, little voice only increased his vexation. Anger at any brother who would allow his sister to sacrifice herself. Frustration at her for allowing it. She was clearly meant for better things.
“No, I don’t understand. You aren’t lazy. I have seen and felt your hands. They are not the hands of an idle woman. You certainly don’t seem to be shy about going after what you want. You say you have talent. However, you won’t go after your heart’s desire because your brother wants you to waste yourself sewing shoes because no one else can stitch as neatly. It sounds like complete nonsense.”
“I have a duty to my siblings. They are a good deal older than I. I had a different father. I had advantages they never had.”
“But you could be earning good money doing something you really—” He raised his hands in mock defeat. “No, as you say, I don’t understand.”
“Anyway, I don’t want to teach ungrateful children who are uninterested because they’ve been handed everything in life. I want to teach girls who have talent but no prospect of learning.”
He gaped at her, stunned. He knew society ladies who did charity work to enhance their image, but he’d never met a truly idealistic woman. Yet the sincerity in her eyes was unmistakable.
“Well, however illogical your logic, I admit that is a worthy goal,” he said.
“But as far away as China right now.” She looked so sad. He felt that peculiar tweak in his chest. It made him want to fix her world. But he knew better. He didn’t champion causes or rescue sad-eyed damsels. Not anymore. His interest in her was purely sexual.
A knock at the door sent her running back to the bed.
Grey answered the door. Meeting his valet’s serious brown eyes, Grey took the ice bucket from him. “Get yourself over to the offices and assist Daniel with his audits.”
The younger man nodded.
“I am not to be disturbed, Will.”
“Very good, sir.”
Grey went to the sidebar and poured two glasses of champagne. He turned and nearly collided with Beth. She was gloriously naked, without a trace of modesty, false or otherwise. Damnably distracting. His cock twitched. With difficulty, he pulled his gaze from her firm, high breasts. “We need to talk, Beth.”
Chapter Three
“Talk about what?” Beth asked.
Trying to keep his eyes north of her gorgeous nakedness, Grey handed her a glass of champagne. “About us. How we shall proceed.”
“Come again?” An amused smile curved her soft, pink mouth as she caressed the glass stem with suggestive motions.
Despite his best efforts, his blood stayed at a low simmer. “Our expectations of each other.”
“Oh dear, this sounds too serious.” She placed the glass to her lips and took a sip. Then she stopped and grimaced.
He froze with his glass at his lips. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s too sweet.” She went to the sideboard, her breasts bobbing with her every move, and filled her glass to overflowing with claret.
“Oops.” She licked her wet fingers.
His erection swelled and lengthened painfully but the refined gentleman in him regained control and blinked in disbelief. “What the devil are you doing?”
“Improving it.”
“That’s first-rate champagne.”
“I like the taste of claret with the bubbles.”
He couldn’t stop staring at her glass—at the abuse of fine champagne. He couldn’t believe his own eyes. “But no one drinks it that way.”
She shrugged. “I do. In fact, I have great preference for it.”
Wait… Her family was poor. So they couldn’t afford things like imported champagne, given all the embargoes in the past few years. Something twisted through his guts, something burning and yellow-green. “Who gave you champagne before? A lover?”
She rolled her eyes. “Let’s not bore each other with our pasts.”
Her airy tone grated on his ears like sand in gears. He set his glass down, untouched.
“Why are you scowling at me?” she asked.
“I am not scowling.”
She came closer and tugged on his waistcoat. “It’s hot today. You’d be in a better temper if you shed some clothes.”