wasn’t clear.
Not that Fitz could ever be accused of being anyone’s prey. But susceptible he certainly was to the lady’s outrageous allure.
As for Rosalind, she more demonstrably fell victim to Fitz’s noted charm, but then his skills in that regard were legendary.
“You are indeed an attractive rogue,” she said some time later, half raising her glass to him. Dinner had been superb, the champagne was like drinking stars, her companion was surely one of the most charming of men; she was content and happy to a degree that had eluded her for a very long time.
“As you know, I find you the most beautiful of women,” he said, smiling back. “Would you like more champagne? ” Without waiting for an answer, he picked up the bottle, rose from his chair opposite her, topped off her glass, and sat back down.
She was lounging on a large chaise upholstered in brilliant scarlet raw silk, the contrast of color against the saffron of her gown dramatic.
“You could be one of Alexander the Great’s ladies from his India campaign in your Grecian gown, lying on that hot red silk,” he softly said. “Roxana perhaps instead of Rosalind.”
“And you have the look of a swarthy corsair, dressed all in black with your shirt collar open, your feet bare, and your black hair ruffled from the breeze.”
“If you like, we could pretend-”
“Or not,” she interrupted. Setting her glass on the table beside the chaise, she decided that she’d fought off her desires long enough. The man was God’s gift to women and not just physically… well, perhaps especially there, she thought, recalling his stamina of the night past. “At the risk of sounding like the most shallow of women,” she said, prettily crinkling her nose, “I find you much too handsome in every respect.”
“And? ” He knew the rest, but he was polite.
“I was wondering if you’d like to do something other than talk.”
“Yes, certainly.”
She smiled. “Do you always just sit back and wait, Groveland? I suppose you do.”
“I wasn’t exactly sure how to play Lancelot,” he replied, sportive and teasing.
“I’m not sure I care.”
“Ah, in that case…” Having been given license, he came to his feet, walked the few steps to her chaise, and sat beside her. The lounge chair was big enough for two for a reason, not that he had women to Mertenside often. But occasionally he did.
“Tell me I’m not the thousandth woman you’ve made love to on this chaise.” Even as she spoke she had no idea why it mattered with a man like Groveland. And so she said a second later, “Strike that last comment. It’s quite irrelevant.”
“You’re not the thousandth, or even the hundredth or twentieth. Is that better? ”
“No, none of this is better in any way.” She made a small moue. “This is all very much a breach of custom for me. But I want the pleasure you bring me.” She shrugged. “I expect it’s the champagne talking.”
He smiled. “Like last night.”
She laughed. “Indeed. Give me another last night and I’ll be content.”
“When do you have to be back? ”
“It depends,” she said to the insinuation in his query.
“Good.” They were in agreement then. “Would you like to go to the house? ”
“If it’s private here, no. The night is beautiful.”
“It’s completely private.”
She half turned to him on the chaise and softly sighed. “I wish I didn’t feel this way. I should go home.”
“I don’t want you to go home. In fact,” he murmured, shifting slightly so he could brush a finger over the brooch on her right shoulder, “I’ve been thinking of unclasping this ever since I saw you at the National Gallery. And by the way,” he said, softly, “you lit up the room.”
“How charming you are. I almost believe you.”
“Believe me, darling. I haven’t been able to get you out of my thoughts.”
“Nor I, you, when I should.” She grimaced. “You’re the enemy.”
“No… we’re lovers in the moonlight,” he whispered. “And I promise to be gentle.”
“Right now, I’m not sure that’s necessary.” Her gaze was amused. “I’m hot, hot, hot-touch me… you’ll see.”
He did then, tracing the swell of one breast partially visible in the deep vee of her gown, his fingers rough against the silk of her skin.
“Yours aren’t the hands of a prince of the blood,” she said gently, lifting his hand to her mouth and brushing the pads of his fingers over her lips, remembering his touch from the previous night. A tiny frisson raced through her body at the memory. “These are a workman’s hands.”
“I play polo and ride without gloves, and shoot”-he shrugged-“and do most everything myself.”
She smiled. “Just so long as you do this yourself, I’m content.”
“Believe me, I wouldn’t relinquish this role to God himself.”
“How sweet.”
“I’m not in the least sweet, darling.” Drawing his hand away, he began to shrug out of his jacket.
“So I recall with great fondness,” she purred, kicking off her sandals. “Do you want to undo these pins?” She pointed at the brooches.
He grinned. “It’s been my dearest wish all evening. I’ll be right with you,” he added, quickly unbuttoning his waistcoat.
Tantalized and restive, conscious of their mutual impatience, she watched him discard his waistcoat, slip his suspenders off his shoulders, tug the studs from his evening shirt with one jerk, slip the garment over his head, and toss it aside. Drawing in a small breath at the sight of his powerfully muscled torso, she felt the pulsing between her legs shamelessly pay homage to his potent virility. He was lean and taut, bronzed by the sun or dark by nature, honed to the inch by polo perhaps or maybe his boudoir athletics. And her every sexual nerve and receptor responded to his raw maleness with giddy eagerness. Philanderer he might be, the Don Juan stud of London, but he was so immeasurably fine, she was quite willing to overlook his rash prodigality for one more night of pleasure.
Pushing herself upright on the chaise, she clasped her hands in her lap to stop their excessive trembling. And unlike last night, she couldn’t blame her long celibacy for her feverish desires. Tonight it was lust pure and simple.
Glancing up from unbuttoning his trousers, he whispered, “Wait for me.”
She nodded, unable to speak, clenching her hands more tightly.
Recognizing Mrs. St. Vincent’s precipitous arousal, remembering her tendency to impatience, he abruptly dispensed with his undressing and turned to her before it was too late. “Here, darling, I’m here,” he murmured, slipping his hand under her skirt, shoving the silk fabric aside with his other hand, briefly surprised she was sans drawers. Quickly dropping the back of the chaise to a horizontal position, he bent to kiss her, his hand sliding between her legs. At her soft moan, he carefully slid one finger into her tight pussy-Christ-really tight pussy, and at her little whimper, stopped.
“No, no…” she breathed into his mouth.
“Sorry.” He jerked his finger out.
“What are you doing?” A blurted gasp and then she shoved his hand back.
Far be it for him to gauge her pain threshold, he decided, and proceeded to do as she wished. Not that he wasn’t handy with his fingers. Not that he didn’t feel strangely responsible that the lady’s orgasm be gratifying.
But she was slightly swollen. He could feel the difference from last night, although in very short order-he should have known-she shifted into her frenzied mode, her tissue turned moist, succulent, and pliable, and he was able to make progress.
Increasingly heated whimpers echoed in the night. The lady’s hair-trigger libido was in fine form and she climaxed before long, screaming in her wild, willful fashion-the sound ringing out over the verdant lawns and moonlit river.
