Lady Eve's Indiscretion

“Does it involve my undressing you as well?”

He sat back on his heels, proud of her. “It can.”

And then a cloud passed before the sun in her gaze.

“Lucas, there must be a limit—”

Ah, common sense was nipping at her heels too. He put one finger on her lips. “There must. Trust me to see to it. I promise you’re safe with me, Eve.”

She didn’t hesitate for even an instant. She reached out and started unknotting his cravat. Before Deene could take three steadying breaths, his shirt was open and Eve was drawing a single, incendiary finger down the length of his sternum.

“Back to my idea, Eve…”

Her lips quirked up. “I liked it better when you were kissing me, not just spouting ideas.”

Eve, impish and intent on her designs, had Deene counting the pulse beats in his groin. “Then we get back to kissing.” He lifted her up and turned, then sat so she straddled his lap. Before she could latch her lips to his, he stared in amazement.

“What on earth are you wearing, Eve Windham?”

Her glance flicked down her front, over an elaborately and very colorfully embroidered set of stays that, thanks to some innovative genius whom Deene would like to genuflect before, laced up the front.

“Jenny makes them. Kiss me.”

It took concentration, to kiss her, to loosen those ingenious stays, to not spend in his breeches at the feel of her breasts all silky and warm beneath his fingers.

It took a little contorting too, to get his hand under her skirts while she used her tongue—hot, wet, wicked— on his ear and undulated her spine so her breast pushed against his palm.

And it took persistence, wagonloads of persistence to get her skirts out of the way and find that slit in her drawers, and then kiss her past the bolt of surprise that went through her when he first made contact with the sweet, damp heat of her sex.

“Lucas, what are you—?”

He did not answer with words; he showed her by repeating a caress of his thumb over the little bud of flesh an aroused man neglected at his peril.

Her breathing changed. She rested her forehead on his shoulder, and he touched her again, more firmly.

“Ohhhh… Lucas.”

Eve conveyed wonder and surrender with just his name. He relaxed, certain she’d allow him to give her this pleasure, certain she’d take what he offered.

Though not immediately. He had to experiment a little with pressure and speed, had to pause to pleasure her breasts with his mouth, and pause again to gather the reins of his composure.

He could give them both this much, not more. More was for… not for them.

She hitched against him.

“That’s it, Evie. Move if it makes you feel better.”

She heard him. He knew this because her hips started a slow, languid roll to go with the movement of his thumb. Her pace was voluptuous and savoring, so arousing Deene had to count his breaths to keep from spending.

She did not moan, but he felt it when the shocks of pleasure started to grip her body. She twisted her fingers in his hair, her breathing became harsh, she pushed against his thumb, and then went still while, even with his relevant parts outside her body, Deene could feel her drawing up inside, convulsing for long moments with silent ecstasy.

The need to finish pounded through him even as Eve hung over him, panting against his neck. He got his falls undone on one side, extracted himself from his breeches and was spending all over his belly within half a minute.

Likely less.

And then… more bliss, just to hold her, to hold her and marvel at what had gone before—and mourn that it could not have been more.

* * *

Sensations registered with heightened clarity while Eve drowsed on Deene’s shoulder:

The scent of lavender and cedar about his person.

The cherishing quality in the way his hand smoothed slowly over her hair.

The feel of his heart, beating in his naked chest against her naked breasts.

The exact temperature of his neck, the weight of his cheek against her hair.

The luminous and novel lightness suffusing her body.

Each impacted her awareness with bell-tone perfection.

And this was just a taste, just a delectable sample of what and whom Eve must give up for the rest of her life. Further intimacies were out of the question, and thank a God in the mood to show some rare mercy, Deene had somehow understood this.

She could not have borne for him to be disappointed in her, could not have borne to see the warmth and approval in his gaze shift to speculation and disdain.

To whom had she surrendered her virtue?

Upon how many had she bestowed her favors?

Was she diseased from all that excess?

Had she borne a child, perhaps, as a consequence of her folly?

But no, Deene had not disappointed her, had not let her down by asking too much or giving too little.

All those promises Canby had made—glorious pleasure, nothing like it, you’ll want it again and again, you’ll want me again and again—what lies they’d been.

While Deene had asked nothing and given her true pleasure.

What a goddamned perishing shame they were destined never to share more.

Eve was marshaling her courage to draw back and remove herself from Deene’s lap when his hand tightened on the back of her head, and a shocked, very familiar voice sounded from the doorway.

“Good gracious God in heaven.”

And then Jenny’s voice, urgent, low, and miserable. “Mama, come away. Come away now, please. We must close the door.”

Six

Eve tried to scramble away from the man holding her so gently on the couch, but his embrace became inescapable.

“They’ve gone, love. Stay a moment more. There’s nothing to be gained by haste at this point, and we need to sort this out before we face your family.”

Love? Now he called her love?

“Let me go. I can’t breathe…” She tried to wrestle free, but he had his hand on the back of her head, his arm around her back.

Out in the hallway, the front door didn’t close; it banged shut with the impact of a rifle shot ricocheting through the house… and through the rest of Eve’s blighted, miserable life.

“Mama slammed that door, Lucas Denning. Her Grace, the Duchess of Moreland, slammed a door, because of me, because of my stupid, selfish, useless, greedy, stupid, asinine…”

There were not words to describe the depth of the betrayal she’d just handed her family. She collapsed against Deene’s chest, misery a dry, scraping ache in her throat.

“Eve, many couples anticipate their vows, even a few couples closely associated with the Duchess of Moreland.”

The reason in his voice had her hands balling to fists.