My Fair Groom (The Sons of the Aristocracy) (11 page)

Sliding his lips off of hers but quickly moving them back to rest against the corner of her mouth, he said, “You have left me breathless, my lady,” he panted, saying the words so that every one forced his lips to make contact with hers.

“As have you,” Sarah whispered, her lips moving to his jawline to leave kisses there. Not sure what to do, Gabriel let Sarah continue her moves, amazed at the sensations her lips could leave on him as they supped and suckled his skin from his jawline to his neck and, finally, to his ear lobe. When her tongue pulled it so it rested between her teeth, Gabriel allowed a groan to escape. Did the woman realize what her simple nibbling was doing to him? Did she realize his manhood had swelled and was right this very moment trapped behind the fall of his breeches? Which was pressed rather hard into her soft belly?

Aroused more than he ever remembered being –
from my ears to my cock!
– Gabriel ran one hand up Sarah’s side until his thumb brushed against the side of her breast. When she inhaled sharply, Gabriel took her mouth in his, plunging his tongue in deep to taste the flavor of strawberries that still lingered there.

He wanted to be doing this with his cock inside the warm, wet cocoon he knew lay between her legs. Those long, luscious legs that led to a round rump he remembered molding with his splayed hands. A round bottom he remembered pounding against the front of this thighs the second time his cock was deep inside the woman he now held tight against his body. His manhood was remembering very well the last time it had been in that haven, that sweet, tight and very wet haven where he had spilt his seed in a glorious orgasm that left him feeling satisfied and drained and energized all at the same time. Whoever claimed sexual intercourse was a religious experience had likely worshipped at the altar that was Sarah Cumberbatch.

None of his mistresses had ever made him desire them like Sarah did. Never had he felt such a need to bury himself into a woman, bury himself and claim her as his own, so that no other man could enjoy her favors, no other man could enjoy her kisses as he was enjoying hers this very moment. And he was about to say so when he was suddenly aware of the fall of his breeches coming loose, of his cock springing forth into Sarah’s waiting hand, of her fingers wrapping around his shaft and sliding down the length so that the end of her fingers could cup his sac before sliding back up to the wet tip and squeezing it so it was even more wet.

At some point, he knew not when, his lips and tongue had given up their claim on her mouth, for her lips were down there, this very moment suckling his cock and sliding down his shaft in a way that made it almost impossible for him to place his hands on either side of her face and lift her away from him.

“If I am to take my pleasure, my dear, dear Sarah, I shall do it in a place and time where I can be assured of your ecstasy, and not one moment before,” he managed to get out, or maybe just a moment before, his breathing so labored and his cockstand so hard he was sure it would disown him for his words, no matter that they were honorable.

Or perhaps because they were.

Sarah straightened and stared at the earl, stunned at his words.
When had a man ever stopped her from doing that?
she wondered, her mouth opened more from her surprise than from what she’d been doing with it only a moment before. “My lord?” she whispered.

Perhaps she hadn’t heard him correctly.

“Gabriel,” he managed to get out between pants for air. “I wish to ...bed you now, if you’ll allow it,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
For the rest of my life
, a voice said in the back of his head. And before Sarah could give him an answer, he pressed his lips against hers in a kiss that was so sweet and soft – not the frantic, slurping, sucking kind she was expecting from him just then – Sarah nearly whimpered.

“Gabriel,” she breathed, her hands clutching his arms. Gabriel wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her hard against his body before his fingers went to work on the fastenings down the back of her gown. The serviceable dress was opened and off her shoulders in a moment, revealing her smooth, white shoulders and a corset that barely contained her breasts. His lips took purchase on one of those even before he managed to get the ties undone, marveling at their size – none of his three mistresses had such charms, and none smelled like hers.

His hands tugged the corset down her body, along with the chemise she wore beneath it. When he had divested her of everything but her stockings and garters, he regarded her with an appreciative look. “I know I said I just wanted to talk, but ...”

Sarah smiled, a brilliant smile that said she wanted this even more than the earl. It had been over a year, after all, and he had been her last experience with a man, as awkward and satisfying and memorable as it had been.

If Gabriel really had required her tutelage to learn how to kiss, then he had been a quick study. Even now, her lips were remembering how very firm and soft and possessive and generous they had been. She wanted those lips on her breasts, down her belly, between her thighs, and around her womanhood. She wanted his tongue laving across that engorged nub, teasing it and tasting it and taking her to that place where nothing else existed but the two of them. And she wanted his manhood deep inside her sweet, wet haven, the space that, at this very moment, throbbed with a need she had never felt before. “Take me, Gabriel,” she breathed, her lips covering his before he could offer a reply.

Gabriel wasn’t sure if a woman had ever said such welcome words to him, but at that moment, they were his favorite words. And coming from Sarah Cumberbatch made them all the more welcome.

Chapter 12

Dancing with a Dance Master is a Disaster

The dance master began his count, accentuating each number with a quick flick of his wrist. From the tone of his voice, Alistair figured the man had to be bored out of his skull. If Alistair didn’t have Lady Julia’s hand in his and her body less than a foot in front of his, he might have been as well. He couldn’t recall dance lessons being so tedious. In fact, he couldn’t remember learning the contradances by way of lessons and wondered if he had just learned by watching them being performed during the various soirées his mother had forced him to attend. His sister had helped a bit, he just then recalled. She’d been at least a head taller than him at the time and quite vocal about his two left feet. Well, he had outgrown those feet years ago and thought he did just fine when he last attended a ball during the Season two years prior.

Or was that three years ago?

Unfortunately, his momentary lapse in concentration resulted in a missed step – a step he had done a thousand times before – and Julia was forced to take two in order to catch up, breaking the rhythm and drawing the unwanted attention of Monsieur Girard.

“No, no, no!” he shouted suddenly, his knuckles rapping on the dais to this left.

Julia rolled her eyes and glanced in his direction. “I apologize, Monsieur. I lost count,” she lied, hoping the dance master would allow them to continue from where he stopped them. They had executed this same maneuver four times and couldn’t seem to get through the entire sequence.

“Pardon, my lady, but it was entirely my fault,” Alistair countered, still keeping his hold on her. “Might we continue?” he called out. He returned his attention to Julia and gave her a smirk. “I can think of ten things I’d rather be doing right now,” he said
sotto voce
, one eyebrow quirking in a suggestive manner.

Julia had to suppress a gasp and wondered if the groom was thinking of including her in any of those ten things. She hadn’t realized until the beginning of the lesson just how handsome Alistair could be, especially in the setting of her mother’s ballroom. He was handsome out of doors, she knew, for from the first time she and Samantha had watched him from her bedchamber window, she thought his dark hair and bronzed skin made him look like a pirate she had seen in a painting. His wide shoulders, not at all in the style of a typical gentleman, would require custom tailoring for the topcoat she planned to order for his debut. She wondered about the color, deciding just then that he would wear black. No need to call too much attention to him as would happen if she choose a blue or green satin suit.

Although only one ring of candles were lit above them, sunshine spilled in from the bank of windows on the garden side, bathing the wood floor in yellow and gold light. Dust particles danced in the beams, seemingly keeping time with Monsieur Girard’s count and slowing their movements when the dancers were standing still, as they were now.

“You must concentrate, Mr. Comber,” the Frenchman announced. “Your partner should not take the blame for your mistake,” he added before clearing his throat. “From the top!”

Julia gave Alistair an apologetic glance and resumed her perfect pose. The dance master began his count. Alistair willed himself to concentrate, willed himself not to allow his gaze to fall too low, to take in the rise and fall of Julia’s bosom as she breathed, for he knew if he did, he would not only miss a step or two, but so would she. And they would be facing one another again and again for who knew how long until they mastered the blasted dance.

Although, the thought of facing Julia over and over again shouldn’t cause him such stress, he considered. She was pleasant to look upon  – more than pleasant, in fact –  and her demeanor seemed agreeable. She could have accused him of causing her to miss a step or two, but she instead took the blame on his behalf. When had a chit ever done that before?

So it was with a bit more enthusiasm that Alistair resumed the dance. And perhaps it was that very enthusiasm that caused him to get ahead of the beat of the metronome within moments. He stepped out of the dance and shook his head. “I apologize,’ he said as he held up a hand to stave off any comments from the dance master. He reached out and captured Julia’s hand, kissing the back of it before he continued where he left off.

Stunned by his move, Julia missed his cue and had to take a couple of extra steps to match him in the dance. She knew the dance master was about to berate her and held up her own hand much like Alistair had done. Aware of Monsieur Girard’s frown, she concentrated on her partner and blocked out any thought of the dance master. In a moment,  she and Alistair were dancing in sync and in time to the metronome. Unfortunately, the metronome’s beat seemed to slow down with each bob of its pendulum until the things suddenly stopped. Even as Alistair continued the count verbally, it was Julia who finally looked over toward the dance master to discover he had fallen asleep – standing up!

“Shh!” she said as she brought a finger up to her lips.

Concentrating on how her lips looked just then, with her slender finger poised in front and nearly touching their plumpness, Alistair missed the sudden jerk of her head in Monsieur Girard’s direction. He raised an eyebrow in question.

Julia jerked her head again and Alistair turned to where the dance master stood. “Oh,” he mouthed, nodding his head. “Should we ... continue?” he wondered, willing to create his own beat, if necessary.

Shaking her head, Julia rolled her eyes. “This is ... this is a
disaster
,” she whispered to no one in particular.

Alarmed, Alistair furrowed his brows. “Now see here, we’re doing fine,” he tried to assure her.

“We’ll never get through all the dances you’ll need to know at this rate,” she countered, obviously upset.

Alistair glanced around, wanting to ensure there was no one within earshot. “Perhaps we’re going about this a bit ... wrong,” he suggested. “When you say ‘all the dances’, which dances do I really need to know how to do?” he wondered. “It’s not as if I’ll be dancing every single dance at the ball.” Good grief, he hoped not. He usually spent more time in conversation than on the dance floor, making sure he was only committed to a few before the supper dance.

Julia’s eyes widened. “But you’ll need to know at least four or five,” she countered.

Alistair tried to hide his disappointment at hearing her words, but Julia noticed and crossed her arms. “You promised,” she said defiantly.

Not having promised her he would learn every dance done at a
ton
ball, Alistair had to bite back his first response. “I did,” he acknowledged. “And, I will,” he assured her. “But in the interest of actually getting through a complete dance, perhaps we should go about this a bit ... differently,” he said carefully.

“Differently?” Julia repeated. “What are you suggesting?”

Alistair shrugged, glancing over to be sure the dance master was still asleep.
How does he do that without falling down?
he wondered.
Horses do it, but they stand on four legs.
“Is there someone who might be agreeable to actually play music during our lessons?” he asked quietly. “Your friend, perhaps?”

Julia seemed surprised by the idea, but she gave it some thought before shaking her head. “Lady Samantha doesn’t play the piano-forté, but my mother does,” she replied.

About to agree, Alistair then wondered if Lady Mayfield would recognize him. She knew his mother. She had been at Aimsley House on several occasions when he’d been there. She had seen him riding in Hyde Park, although it had been several years ago. Would she recognize him?
They only see what they expect to see
, he reminded himself. “Will you ask her if she might favor us with her skills then?” he wondered.

Julia lifted one shoulder as a blush seemed to creep up her face. “I will,” she agreed before she swallowed.

“What is it, my lady?” Alistair asked, noticing her sudden embarrassment.

She dared another glance at the dance master. “Monsieur Girard is about to fall over. He’s leaning a bit too far to the left.”

Alistair turned his attention to the dance master and had to agree that the man was, indeed, about to fall over. If the sense of falling didn’t awaken him before he got his legs back under him, he would crash to the ballroom floor, perhaps damaging himself – or the floor – and certainly bumping his head in the process. “I’ll see to it,” Alistair said as he made his way to where Monsieur Girard stood. Reaching around to the back of the dance master, Alistair gave him a firm pat on the back and said, “Well done, Monsieur, I do believe I’ve got it!”

The dance master pitched forward but managed to catch himself and straighten in a move that befitted a man who taught others how to dance. His expression was rather wild, though, his eyes wide and rolling about as if he didn’t quite know where he was. Finally, he seemed to gather his thoughts and gave Alistair a firm nod. “If that is the case, Mr. Comber, then you shall prove it by doing the entire dance from the top without making a mistake,” the Frenchman said in an accent so thick Alistair could barely understand him.

“Now?” Alistair replied, his eyebrows furrowing. The lesson had already gone on far too long.

The dance master glanced about the room as if he hadn’t heard Alistair’s protest. “Of course, now,” he said firmly. He reached over to the metronome and wound the instrument, setting the pendulum to swinging in the monotonous beat for the Cotillion. “Form up,” he called out.

Alistair hurried over to where Julia stood, her eyes blazing. “How could you?” she asked in hoarse whisper.

Giving her his most apologetic shrug, Alistair said, “I apologize, my lady,” and positioned himself for the second attempt at completing the dance. “I thought he would end the lesson.”

Instead, Monsieur Girard’s standing catnap only made him more awake – and more aware – for the remainder of the excruciating lesson. When he had stopped the couple no less than five times before they were even halfway through the dance, Alistair could tell Julia’s composure was wilting. At any moment, she would say words no lady should speak in mixed company. Alistair knew this because he had witnessed his older sister’s occasional eruptions of anger when she had been pushed too far. He even had a scar from one such eruption, from where her fist had made contact near his right eyebrow. He rather doubted Julia would haul off and punch him with a closed fist – she would probably slap him with an open palm – but he didn’t want to tempt fate.

In an attempt to stave off Julia’s impending eruption, he imagined himself on a ballroom floor in the middle of one of Lady Worthington’s balls, executing the perfect Cotillion with his favorite partner from the days before he’d joined the army. Each step was perfectly placed, each movement of his hand precise, all to the rhythm of the metronome. When the dance finally ended, he bowed to a rather startled Julia.

“You did it perfectly,” she breathed, awe in her voice.

“As did you,” Alistair countered, taking her hand to kiss the back of it.

Julia widened her eyes as she watched Mr. Comber kiss her hand. When he let go and stood up, he turned to the dance master, apparently to bow to him when he suddenly stopped and stared. Julia followed his line of sight and sighed rather loudly when she witnessed what he was seeing.

Although he was leaning against the dais and was still on his feet, Monsieur Girard was sound asleep.

“
Damn
him,” Julia stated as she stomped a foot.

Alistair turned his attention back to his dance partner, a stunned look on his face. “My thoughts exactly, my lady,” he whispered. After giving her another bow, he took his leave of the room. He was halfway to the back door of the mansion when he heard Julia’s eruption, a combination of a scream and a yell of frustration followed by a rather satisfying
thump
and a male’s yowl of pain.

Alistair couldn’t keep a grin from his face as he returned to the stables.