Love and the Single Heiress

room.

Dear God, the things Genevieve had described in the Guide… incredible, unthinkable, unbelievably tantalizing things. While she’d taken dictation from Genevieve, writing in a shaky hand such intimate wonders, she’d questioned whether Genevieve was creating fiction. But her friend had assured her she was not. Genevieve had spent ten years as the mistress of an earl, captivating him with her sensual prowess. Prowess she’d learned as a result of tutelage from her mother, who’d spent her entire adult life as a mistress, and Genevieve’s own imagination, which was inspired out of deep love for her earl. It was very unwise for me fall in love with him, Catherine, Genevieve had said. It broke my heart when he ended our liaison. He found someone younger. Prettier. He no longer wanted my ugly hands to touch him…

Catherine paused near the window. Leaning her forehead against the cool glass, she stared out into the darkness, seeing nothing save the images bombarding her. Herself and Mr. Stanton… hands exploring. Mouths touching. Limbs entwined.

What would his large, strong, callused hands feel like caressing her? His lovely mouth kissing her? His long, muscular legs pressing against hers?

She actually felt feverish. She should not have reread that book. Should have allowed her wants and needs to remain dormant. And surely they would have. If Mr. Stanton had not brought them roaring to life.

After she’d helped Genevieve write the book and had learned of the wonders that could physically exist between a man and a woman, she’d been stunned. Never had she experienced anything like that with Bertrand.

After being exposed to the tantalizing information in the Guide, however, her thoughts had much more frequently strayed to sensual matters, piquing her long-suppressed desires and her curiosity. Since embarking on writing the Guide eleven months ago, shortly after Bertrand’s death, how many nights had she lain in her lonely bed, her body throbbing with newly awakened, unfulfilled needs? More than she cared to recall. Her attempts to ease the aching had left her only more frustrated.

In the past, whenever she’d imagined a lover touching her, the man’s image had been shadowy and unformed.

Not anymore.

Mr. Stanton’s face filled her mind’s eye, igniting her imagination and fantasies in a way they’d never been lit before. He was no figment of her imagination, but a flesh-and-blood man. Who had called her beautiful. Who’d made her feel as if she were soaring above the clouds when he waltzed with her. Who could inspire pleasurable tingles with a mere glance. Who, Genevieve believed, cared for her-or at the very least, desired her.

Desired her. She closed her eyes and blew out a long breath at the myriad sensual images that inspired. Images that did nothing to cool her arousal or relax her tension. She longed for the oblivion of sleep, but knew from experience that sleep would not come.

As they always did when her body and mind would not relax, the springs beckoned with their soothing warmth. She loved the privacy of taking the waters in the dark, alone, only her and the gentle night sounds surrounding her. Turning from the window, she crossed to her wardrobe and pulled out the thick, quilted robe that accompanied her on all her nighttime excursions.

She needed the soothing waters on her like she never had before.

Andrew paused on the dark path and strained his ears. A splash of water. Must be nearing the warm springs, or perhaps the small lake Spencer had mentioned. A shudder ran through him. He’d best take care lest he inadvertently locate the springs or the lake with his body, in which case this would be the last nighttime stroll he’d ever take.

Another soft splash sounded, seeming to come from behind an outcropping of rocks outlined in the moonlight about a dozen yards ahead. Might as well look at the damnable springs, so as to be prepared in case he could not find an excuse to avoid going there with Spencer. If forced, he’d look, but wild horses would not drag him into the water.

He took several steps forward, but then froze when another sound reached his ears. Something that sounded distinctly like… humming? Followed by a long purring hmmmmm of unmistakable pleasure. Unmistakable pleasure that sounded distinctly feminine. Surely it couldn’t be-

Cutting off the thought before it could take root and fill his head with a hundred fantasies, he moved forward. Quickly, silently, he approached the outcropping. Keeping to the shadows, he moved around the rocks until his view was unobstructed. And his heart nearly stalled.

A circular pool of water, approximately twelve feet in diameter, surrounded by the rocks on three sides, met his stupefied gaze. Sinuous curls of steam, glowing in the moonlight, wafted upward from the water… and surrounded Lady Catherine in an ethereal fog.

He blinked, certain that his desperate imagination had conjured her up, but when he opened his eyes, she remained.

Submerged in the steamy water up to her neck, eyes closed, a half smile playing about her lips, she breathed out another long purr of pleasure.

As if in a daze, he stood perfectly still, utterly transfixed by the sight of her.

He meant to do… something. Make his presence known, or slip away, but she reached up and slowly pulled pins from her upswept hair, and he lost the ability to move. Dark curls tumbled down, over her shoulders, and he instantly imagined combing his fingers through the strands, burying his face in those soft, fragrant tresses.

She opened her mouth, took what appeared to be a deep breath, then sunk below the surface. Andrew’s brows snapped together. Damn it. He hated to see anyone disappear beneath the water like that. And where the hell was she? Why was she under for so long?

His eyes scanned the surface. Why hadn’t she yet reappeared? She shouldn’t be under this long. How much time had passed? Surely only a few seconds, but still, tiny talons of panic clawed at him.

He started forward. What if she’d become entangled in something beneath the water? How could he hope to save her? He couldn’t swim. They’d both die. He’d jump in to save her, but would he be able to do so before he sank like a stone?

Still she didn’t reappear. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and the talons of panic gave way to stark terror that clamped around his heart.

“Catherine,”he yelled, breaking into a run. “Cath-”

Her head broke the surface, and he skidded to a halt about three feet from the edge of the spring.

She opened her eyes, caught sight of him, and gasped. “Mr. Stanton!” Her eyes widened to saucers. “What are you doing here?”

His breath still came in ragged pants, his lungs working like a bellows. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to regain control of his emotions. He actually felt weak-kneed. Weak-kneed and angry as hell.

He moved to the edge of the spring in one furious stride and glowered down at her. “A more apt question is what the hell are you doing here?”

Her mouth dropped open, and she simply stared. He didn’t know if she were more shocked by the clear menace in his stance and voice or by his use of an obscenity. But at the moment he simply didn’t care.

“Have you taken leave of your senses to come out here alone?” he fumed. “At night? To swim alone? Does anyone even know that you are here? What if something had happened to you? What in God’s name were you thinking?”

She blinked several times, then pressed her lips together. Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like irritating, overbearing man, she reached for the side of the pool. Before he realized what she was about, she’d gracefully hoisted herself out of the spring onto the rocky ledge. Then, water sluicing down her body, she stomped over to him.

Every thought he’d ever had, and a few he hadn’t yet managed to think, drained from his head and flopped onto the ground at his feet-to join his jaw.

She looked like a pale sea nymph, her dark hair slicked back, the dark curls flattened straight by the water, falling to her waist. Her body was covered, or more aptly not covered, in a wet chemise that clung to her form as if painted on-with transparent paint. His stupefied gaze traveled downward, over her delicate clavicle, to the generous