willing him on when his fingers found the buttons closing her bodice and deftly, expertly, flicked them free.
To have her closing her eyes, head falling back, trapped in a web of expectation when he pressed the halves of her bodice wide and slid one hard hand beneath, with a quick jerk and a tug stripped away her chemise…and touched.
Her senses seized. Her lungs locked.
On a strangled gasp, she drew his lips back to hers. She had to kiss him, deeply, passionately; she couldn’t breathe but through him and she was desperate. Desperate to know, to feel, to experience…the pleasure in his touch. The reverence, near worshipfulness with which his fingers traced, tested, learned. Until at the last he cupped her breast in his palm, hot skin to hot skin, and gave her all she wanted.
All she suddenly needed.
Gervase inwardly shuddered. He wanted nothing more than to taste the firm flesh beneath his fingers, but that couldn’t happen, not now, not here. He ached, and knew matters were only going to get worse. Much worse. She was so responsive, so uninhibitedly ardent, so free of all guile in her wanting that all he could think of was appeasing her. Of slaking her sensual thirst, even at the cost of his own.
But he couldn’t let matters go any further. Even though they were both on fire, bodies heated and urgent for far more than just a touch-although he knew exactly what they needed to sate the intense hunger that gripped them both, he knew far too well that it couldn’t be.
Especially not with her, given what he wanted of her.
Drawing back, reining both of them in and turning aside from the sensual brink they’d been galloping toward far too fast, was a battle beyond any he’d previously waged. He managed it, just, by the skin of his sensual teeth, and only by gripping her shoulders and physically setting her, holding her, back from him, breaking all contact between his body and hers.
She blinked at him, dazed; he was growing accustomed to seeing that sensually stunned look in her eyes, a balm of sorts to his scoriated libido, slashed, wounded, denied what it saw as its rightful prey.
He’d never been more aware of the beast within, of the strength of his own passions. That she awoke something no other had ever touched was both a marvel and a trial.
They were both breathing too fast; he could hear the dull thunder of his pulse in his ears.
She blinked, and confusion and uncertainty swam into her sea-green eyes.
He drew in a breath, and forced his hands from her shoulders. Held her gaze. “This is neither the time, nor the place.”
His voice was deep, gravelly, but she made out his words.
She nodded, drew a huge breath, then realized and glanced down, and quickly did up her bodice. She glanced at him again; she tried for cool censure, but her gaze was still hot. She must have realized; she blinked, then, straightening, she inclined her head and without a word turned and walked on toward the house.
He watched her go. With every step she took, he found it harder not to smile; eventually he gave in and did.
She hadn’t said anything, because what could she say?
She went into the house. Turning, he headed back to the stable, still smiling, inwardly imagining all her possible ripostes, which only made him smile all the more.
In the darkest hour of the night, Helen, Lady Hardesty, her senses still reeling, her breathing yet to slow, pushed up from the low gardener’s bench over which her lover had bent her.
Squinting in the poor light, she brushed her fingers over the pearly skin of her ample breasts, nipples still erect, a darker pink after he’d rolled and squeezed them. Drawing the gaping halves of her evening gown closed, she quickly refastened them. Reaching behind her, she tugged loose the back of her skirts and petticoats from where he’d tucked them above her waist, and shook them down.
She could hear him behind her, cloaked in darkness, righting his clothing. Whenever they met in restricted locations-in this case a rarely used gardener’s shed concealed in the thick trees that grew along the riverbank-while he insisted on baring her breasts as well as her legs and bottom, he invariably did no more than open the flap of his trousers to service her.
However, as he did that exceedingly thoroughly, and equally invariably, she wasn’t about to complain. Lovers like him did not grow on trees, a fact to which from long experience she could attest.
He drew nearer; she felt him at her back. One long-fingered hand circled her throat, gently stroking, then his lips brushed her temple.
“Meet me here tomorrow night.” His voice was deep, dark, edged with that hint of danger that tempted so many ladies to spread their legs for him. She knew she wasn’t his only lover, just, at present, the most convenient.
Of course, he wasn’t her only lover either, just the most exciting.
She stifled a sigh. “I can’t see why you won’t join the party. My suite is at the end of the west wing-you could share my bed. I assure you Robert won’t be a problem.”
Glancing up and back, she saw his lips curve.
“You have to admit he was an excellent choice.”
“Indeed.” Then, knowing what hint was buried in the words, she added, “I’ll always be grateful to you for pointing him out.”
“And telling you how to land him.”
She nodded. He’d been inspired in that, too. An impoverished gentlewoman, at twenty-eight finding herself the still-youthful relict of an impecunious lord who had gambled away her portion as well as his estates, she’d had little choice but to look for a wealthy protector.
And she’d found one. But in him she’d found a gentleman with a deep comprehension of their world. He’d understood her need for security and position, and had shown her how, in the person of young Robert Hardesty, she might achieve her goals.
For one of her talents, further tutored by him, seducing Robert Hardesty had been child’s play, roping him into marriage even easier. The boy doted on her.
As the gentleman who stood behind her could have informed Robert, that was not the way to win her devotion.
Behind her his hand drifted down, passing over her hip to stroke one globe of her silk-clad bottom, idly fondling. Her gaze on the dingy window before her, she caught her lower lip between her teeth; he never did anything idly.
“There are too many guests at Helston Grange.”
“You asked me to invite them.” He valued his privacy, yet still…“You know them all-you chose them.”
“Indeed. They’re the excuse for me to join you socially, if and when I choose. What more natural than that, while paying a duty visit to an aging relative in the neighborhood, I should join your party for a day or an evening?” He paused, then continued, “No. The arrangements are perfect as they are.”
His arrangements. She didn’t even know where he was staying, couldn’t even guess whether there truly was an aging relative or not.
“If only the rest were going as well.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The ship I’m waiting for. It hasn’t come in.”
His fingers continued to play, palpating her firm flesh; although his touch had grown harder, edged with suppressed anger, it was his tone, flat, cold, that set her nerves skittering.
“I expected it two or three nights ago, but it hasn’t been sighted.”
His accents had grown more clipped, quite different to the drawl he usually affected.
He had a temper. She’d only seen glimpses, fleeting at most, yet she knew it was there, formidable and frightening. He was ruthless, entirely devoid of softer feelings, and sometimes his intensity, his obsession with his plans, with having them succeed, made her more than uneasy.
She swallowed, kept her gaze on the darkness beyond the window. “Perhaps I could ask around, see if anyone has heard anything?”
He was silent, considering, then replied, “Not yet. But I want what that ship is carrying of mine.”
His thirty pieces of silver. His payment-his ultimate reward, also his ultimate triumph. His ultimate
