She took a sip of champagne, gazing up at him, pretending she was considering her answer carefully. She’d known from the moment she’d said she wasn’t hungry what her answer would be.
‘I think a quiet hour would be absolutely divine,’ she replied softly, with what she hoped was a seductive smile. ‘Perhaps we could escape the crowd by heading down towards the maze?’
Angelstone quirked a brow, his smile almost mocking, but he allowed her to lead him off down the steps and into the garden, where many like-minded couples were strolling about, drinking and flirting. Imogen glanced over her shoulder as they slipped past a couple half-hidden inside an alcove of jasmine. The supper room must be wall to wall gentlemen, so many of the ladies being otherwise occupied at the moment. She smiled and hurried her steps, trying to match her stride to Angelstone’s. As they passed the dowager house he paused.
‘Do you think, perhaps…’
‘My maid will be waiting up for Helen and me, and the children have all been moved there for the night.’ She smiled sadly at the rueful expression on his face. She felt the tug of disappointment herself. Resolute, she wrapped both hands about his upper arm and pulled him along into the darkened paths of the lowest terrace.
The maze was lit with lanterns, splashes of red and yellow light bobbing in the breeze like giant fireflies. So nervous she could barely breathe, Imogen led him quickly through the maze to the courtyard where she’d first encountered him.
She strained her eyes and ears. Was there anyone else playing in the maze? Not so much as a hushed giggle came back to her. The only sounds were the bubbling of the fountain, the crunch of their shoes on the gravel, the sweet, lonesome song of a nightingale.
‘If a truly private assignation is denied us, let us take full advantage of this secluded spot,’ he scooped her up and carried her over to one of the stone benches that surrounded the fountain. Imogen gave a little squeal of surprise when her feet left the ground, but she didn’t protest. Soon he’d be gone, and her pleasant life at Barton Court was likely to seem rather flat in the ensuing weeks.
Angelstone lowered them both onto the bench, Imogen balanced in his lap.
‘We’re going to have to do what we can without destroying the pearly façade you’ve worn tonight.’
He sounded pleased with the prospect. Amused even. One hand at her waist, fingers splayed over her ribs, he tugged the glove from his free hand with his teeth and slid her round so that her hips were wedged between his thighs, her back to his chest.
‘Wha—’
‘Hush.’ His gloved hand held her to him, his erection evident where it pressed against her. His naked hand slid into her bodice, lifted one breast free. He glanced down. ‘Of all the nights not to have a full moon,’ he complained, tipping her back and to one side, lowering his head to take the peaked nipple into his mouth.
Imogen froze. Her breath hitched strangely. Her nipples had tightened as soon as he’d touched her, and now her breasts felt full and hard. He bit down lightly, flicking his tongue over the tight peak of her nipple. She bucked in his lap, causing him to chuckle.
She could easily make out the glint of his smile. He looked like some wicked demon lover half-hidden in shadows. The way he was touching her only added to the illusion. He took her nipple back between his teeth while his hand slipped down to her ankle, and up under her skirts.
Imogen resisted the urge to squeeze her legs together, to bat his hand away as it slid up over her knee, past her garter, over top of her stocking, onto the bare flesh of her thigh. She swallowed hard and took a deep, panting breath, cold night air nearly drowning her. He released her nipple and blew softly across it, causing it to ruche almost painfully.
He sat her up, her back once more to his chest. His hand moved further up her thigh, the soft scrape of the whorls of his fingertips electric. She couldn’t seem to get enough air, couldn’t think straight. The slightly roughed texture of his cheek against hers was exciting in ways she’d entirely forgotten.
His thumb caressed the tendon that joined her thigh to her body, fingers slipped past the curls at the apex of her thighs caressing, probing, seeking.
His gloved hand curled around her knee, lifted her leg so that it hooked over his, opening her to him, opening her to the night and the air. Imogen was past caring. It had been far too long since a man had touched her. And Perrin had certainly never bothered flattering her, seducing her in such a manner.
She’d had no idea what she’d been missing.
He leaned forward, his chin ever so slightly abrasive against her ear, his hand—naked and sinful—between her thighs. ‘These are the wings, like the wings of an angel. Delicate. Sensitive.’ His fingers traced the slick inner folds of flesh. ‘And here,’ his palm rested on her mons, one finger touching the sensitive bud normally hidden between her thighs, ‘is what the Greeks call the little hill, but I prefer Aristotle’s name for it,’ he pressed down, rubbing, teasing, ‘the throne of lust.’
Imogen gasped and arched, embarrassed to be responding like a cat in heat, to be pressing her hips forward, rocking in harmony to the rhythm he established.
His tongue traced the curve of her ear. ‘Do you think anyone else might find their way into the maze?’
Imogen froze, but his fingers continued their dance, sliding down to swirl about the entrance to her body, gliding back up, wet and slick to reclaim their place upon her throne.
‘The maze is lit, the true path is red, false ways yellow. Did you notice?’
She hadn’t…
One finger slid into her. Her body clenched around
