The Magic of His Touch (May Day Mischief) (5 page)

“I know that. I’m not deaf,” she hissed, trying to free her
hand, to no avail. “Let me go!”

“Not on your life.” He pulled her close and clamped his arms
around her. “Hush.”

That laugh drifted up again, a man’s laugh, not far away. Peony
remained absolutely still, staring over Sir Alexis’s shoulder, only her splayed
hands separating her from his chest.

Who would be out here at this time of night? Everyone should be
in bed by now.

Meanwhile, Sir Alexis was ruining everything again. She
wriggled in his grip, trying to push away, and he loosened slightly, only to
tighten his arms again, one hand firm on her waist, the other around her back.
Her nipples sprang to aching attention as they brushed his chest.

Desire crashed over her. A shudder coursed from her breasts to
her belly to her privates, and now her heart’s pounding had nothing to do with
fear. Her fingers crept up his chest of their own accord. It was all she could
do to stop them from making their way up his shoulders and around his neck.

His heart beat powerfully beneath her fingers. His hot hands
shifted on her back, one squeezing her waist, the other moving downward. His
breathing quickened.

So did hers, and she found herself moving against him, the
tingling in her breasts becoming an ache, golden fingers of desire moving and
spreading and shimmering...

A muffled curse brought her to her senses. She froze. Whispers,
faint and unintelligible, floated through the darkness. That curse had surely
been feminine. The whispers slowly faded away.

She turned her head slightly. “Do you hear them anymore?” Their
lips were mere inches apart.

“No,” he said, so close his hot breath made her tremble.

“Thank heavens.” Her heart beat wildly. Her lips yearned for
his.

“Oh, God,” he said, and kissed her.

* * *

She gave a little moan and let him, opening her mouth
shyly beneath his, leaning into him. She put her arms around his neck and
clung.

And then broke the kiss and shoved away, kicking and clawing
like a barnyard cat. He let her go.

“You mustn’t!” she said, her voice catching on a sob.

“I beg your pardon. You’re a lovely, tempting lady. I couldn’t
resist.”

“What complete nonsense.” She dashed her hands at her eyes.
Dear God, he’d made her cry. Then he remembered something Lucasta had
said—everyone thought Peony unattractive.

“It’s not nonsense,” he said. “I find you very beautiful.”

For a long moment, there was silence but for the sounds of the
night. “That’s most kind of you,” she said in a tight, unhappy voice, “but will
you please go away and leave me alone?”

Not
again
. “No, I will not leave you. Your lover, if he
has the courage, will have to deal with me.”

* * *

“I have no lover!” Peony moaned. Why wouldn’t he believe
her?

“Miss Whistleby, you deserve better,” he said for the third
time since they’d met. “I cannot leave you alone out here.” His voice, so
protective and kind, made her want to cast herself into his arms again.

No, that wasn’t the effect of his voice. It was the result of
faulty magic, just as the kiss had been. Oh, no,
he’d
been affected by the spell, too! There was no other
explanation. Once she reversed it, she wouldn’t like him more than any other
man, and he wouldn’t think her beautiful anymore.

That made her want to weep, but she firmed her resolve. “You
must
leave me.”

He crossed his arms and didn’t budge. “That would be monstrous
of me and utterly unbefitting the conduct of a gentleman.”

“Kissing me when you are betrothed to another is conduct
unbefitting a gentleman,” she said hotly, and immediately regretted her
outburst. She at least knew she was under the effect of magic, but he didn’t.
“I’m not blaming you. You couldn’t help yourself, but—”

“Of course I could have, and I apologize.”

There was no point arguing; he wouldn’t understand. “There is
something I must do out here, right now, and I—and I would rather you weren’t
present.”

“Why? Does it involve disrobing?”

A blush soared up her cheeks. Thankful for the darkness, she
said, “No,” but she couldn’t keep the regret from her voice or the images from
her mind...of taking off her clothing in front of Sir Alexis, and...of him
removing his clothes, as well.

His voice was a caress. “Then why does it matter whether I’m
here?”

She recalled herself to sanity with a huge shudder. She took a
deep breath and let it out. And another. She didn’t want him there, and yet when
she imagined him leaving, imagined being all alone again in the night, she
couldn’t help but be glad of his presence.

Maybe it was all for the best. She would be safe, and he would
forget the nonsense about her being beautiful and think of her as nothing but a
superstitious fool.

“I’m here to undo some magic,” she said.

* * *

He couldn’t bring himself to be unkind about it. Whether
or not magic was real didn’t matter as much as how it affected Peony. “What sort
of magic?”

“To counteract what you saw me doing this morning,” she said, a
tiny tremor in her voice. She was embarrassed, he thought, and more than a
little aroused at the memory. As was he.

“You were practicing magic this morning?”
Naked
magic
, he was tempted to add, but he stopped
himself.

“I don’t practice magic,” she said. “I wouldn’t know how.
Often, I don’t even know what’s real and what isn’t. I was just trying out a—a
custom, and I’ve realized that I did something terribly wrong, so now I’m going
to try to undo it.”

“What sort of custom?” Damn, did that sound a little
derisive?

“A folk custom, like wishing upon a star or keeping a rabbit’s
foot for luck.”

“And this custom involves nakedness?” he asked before he could
stop himself.

“Yes,” she retorted, “which means undoing it involves being
clothed. If you will simply stay here and keep watch, I shall go into the meadow
and take care of it.”

“Take care of what? What are you undoing?”

“Does it matter? You wouldn’t believe in it anyway.” She
marched away into the meadow.

He kept watch with a tenderness of a sort he’d never felt
before, never would have believed himself capable of feeling. What determination
in her slender figure! Such passion in every roll! Such indefatigable
insistence...on a mission which made no sense at all.

After a while she stopped rolling and lay still. Her chest rose
and fell in the moonlight. God, how he wanted this woman.

She turned onto her side, curled up and... Dear God, she was
shaking. Was she weeping?

He strode into the meadow and knelt beside her, laying a gentle
hand on her arm. “My dear Miss Whistleby—”

She shook her head, shivering, then hiccupped on a sob. “It
didn’t work, and now I don’t know what to
do
.”

He sighed long and slowly. He removed his coat, spread it on
the ground and stretched himself beside her. He lifted her off the cold, damp
meadow and into his arms. “Don’t cry. Everything will be all right, I promise
you.”

She shuddered and shook her head. “I’m not crying.”

He kissed her hair. “I don’t know what you were trying to undo,
but from my point of view, everything is perfect. I’m lying in a moonlit meadow
with the most beautiful girl in the world.”

* * *

She couldn’t bear it. “Please don’t say such things.
Please don’t. It’s not right. It’s not real.”

“Of course it is.” He dropped a soft kiss on her brow. It felt
so kind and sweet and wonderful, and anguish roiled through her, because this
love didn’t belong to her.

The next kiss, at the corner of her eye, took her by surprise.
A long quiver echoed down her spine. “Blue eyes, cornflower blue,” he said.
“Since I can’t see their color in the dark, it proves I noticed them earlier.
And fine long flaxen hair.”

He slipped the ribbon off the tangled mess of her hair and ran
one large warm hand into it. Meanwhile his lips meandered to her ear, her jaw,
her throat. She’d failed miserably at reversing the magic, but it didn’t seem to
matter so much when his lips pleasured her this way. She closed her eyes and let
her head fall back, swept away by the joy of his kisses. Her mouth fell open of
its own accord, wanting his...

“And soft pink lips, begging to be kissed.” His lips wandered
slowly upward, then lingered at the corner of her mouth, so hot and enticing, so
close and yet so far.

Kiss
me
,
then
! She couldn’t
wait. She turned her head and took his mouth.

He chuckled low in his throat, and then they were wrapped in
one another’s arms, kissing and kissing. She stretched against him, every inch
of her pressed to his long, hard chest and thighs. They fit together
perfectly.

Her breasts tingled with awareness, demanding his attention. He
seemed to know, for one hand moved to cup her breast through the fabric of her
gown. Gently, his thumb rubbed her nipple, and it responded eagerly, hardening
under his touch. He eased the fabric down, and cool night air swirled over her
bare skin.

“Such sweet, perfect breasts,” he said, taking her into the
heat of his mouth, teasing with his tongue, suckling gently, moving to lave the
other breast, as well.

She knew they weren’t perfect—nothing about her was perfect—but
in the face of such adoration she shut away the truth and arched toward him,
bathed in the pleasure wrought by his hands and his tongue.

Oh, his hands. They slipped under her skirt, sliding between
her thighs, and an urge she’d never imagined told her to spread her legs, to
open to him, to wrap herself around him, to become his entirely and...

No
! She jerked away, closing her
legs tight together, ashamed and horrified at the wild throbbing. “Why am I
doing this? Why are
you
? You’re Lucasta’s
betrothed.” She rose to her knees, aghast at herself and at him.

He lay back on his coat and smiled up at her. “No, I’m
not.”

Halfway to her feet, she stopped. “What do you mean, you’re
not?”

“It’s not a real engagement,” he said. “Just an arrangement
between us until she’s twenty-five and comes into her inheritance. After that,
we’ll go our separate ways.”

“Oh.” Suddenly, much of what had bothered her about Lucasta
made sense—the lengthy engagement and postponements, the lack of interest in
spending time with her fiancé when in London, the un-lover-like air about them
when he’d arrived and at dinner. “Why?”

“We both wanted to escape the pressure to marry,” he said,
taking hold of one of Peony’s hands and then the other. He caressed the delicate
area between fingers and thumb, sending tiny tremors to her core. “My mother was
determined that I should wed and kept parading the latest eligible women in
front of me. Lucasta wished to remain single and pursue her scholarly interests,
but her uncle wanted her married and off his hands.”

Peony understood only too well, except she was one of the women
being paraded and constantly told what to do. Often she’d wished for even a
little independence, a little right to order her own life. “Once Lucasta has
control of her money, she’ll have the freedom to do as she pleases.”

“That’s right.” He pulled her down to him again. “Feel how much
I want you.” He didn’t wait for her to scramble awkwardly atop him, but lifted
her by the buttocks and lowered her.

Peony gasped, surprised by the firm length of his member
beneath her. She’d seen dogs, of course, and horses, but she’d never really
thought about the size of a man... He took her by the hips and ground himself
against her, and she moaned, a drawn-out, wanton sound.

He chuckled again, the low sensuality of his laugh resonating
within her, playing her. He kissed her again, longer, deeper, while his member
pressed hard against her, and want and need and desire built and built within
her. He cupped her buttocks and squeezed them, then slipped between her thighs
to the hot wetness of her core. “My beautiful Peony,” he breathed, “my lovely
flower,” and his fingers made her whimper and squirm, helpless against the
onslaught of pleasure.

He rolled her over beneath him, moving lower to nuzzle and lick
her breasts. She writhed under him, wanting more and more...and got it, for he
had freed his member from his breeches, and its firm heat pressed against her,
pushed gently, insistently at her core, played up and down her privates and
pushed again, and then he was inside her.

Oh, the pleasure of their joining, the throbbing of her core,
the slight withdrawal of his member, making her moan, and then another, harder
push, and he was deep in her, deep inside. They were one.

For a long, long moment he didn’t move, gazing down at her,
breathing hard, and she wondered if that was all there was to it. She didn’t
feel complete; she writhed and panted beneath him, wanting more, even as he held
absolutely still.

He released a long sigh and began to move, pushing in, pulling
out, drawing his member against her sweetest spot, and she heard her own wanton
cries of delight and didn’t care, it was so good and so perfect and so right.
She broke at last in a spasm of throbbing so strong she soared.

With a harsh, rasping breath, he pulled out of her and spilled
his seed onto her thigh.

He collapsed next to her, cradling her in one arm, and kissed
her hair again. They lay still, not speaking, their mingled breathing loud
against the silence of the night.

After a while he cleared his throat. “You were a virgin.”

“Yes,” she whispered, and realized why he’d said it. “I told
you I didn’t have a lover.”

“I didn’t believe you,” he said. “If I’d known...” He didn’t
end his sentence.