“What?”
“What you’re doing down there. It’s called mulabandha. Very advanced.”
Darlington gazed down at his beautiful woman. Did he guess that the thoughts racing through her extraordinary mind consisted of the realization that this was light years better than any amorous encounter she had ever experienced? Not only that, but if there had been any doubt of it before, she was truly sure now that she was deeply, irrevocably, irreversibly in love with Owen Percival.
They lay quietly in each other’s embrace, enjoying the warmth their bodies produced. Percy reached for one of the sherry glasses and, dipping his finger into the wine, traced a wet path along C.J.’s lips, then proceeded to kiss the aromatic liquid away. He was without a doubt the most sensuous man C.J. had ever known. Her head was swimming with satisfied desire. Outside, it sounded as though the storm was making another appearance. “A coup de foudre,” she whispered, stroking his chest.
“What?” he responded, startled.
“A coup de foudre,” she repeated. “Not just the clap of thunder from the storm this afternoon—and now,” she explained, translating the phrase, “but what happened when we met.”
“I know what a coup de foudre is,” he said softly. “What I never knew . . . until now . . . is the extent of your mastery of . . . French.”
“Merci,” C.J. replied. She cradled him in her arms and smiled, then kissed his lips. “I have yet to find a better expression to describe what I felt when we were introduced in my aunt’s drawing room. It was exactly as though a clap of thunder echoed through the heavens, and in an instant, I believe I was head over heels in love with you.”
“I felt it too. The coup de foudre,” Darlington murmured, twining a tendril of her hair about his fingers.
She drank in his appearance in the firelight. “Percy?” she began tensely. “I must get back home.” Her voice was lower than a whisper. “I have been away for so much longer than I had anticipated that I fear Lady Dalrymple will be anxious for my return.”
“I shall have my carriage brought ’round and take you there myself.” Darlington pulled her close. “Promise you will come back to me.” She stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. He caught her wrist and turned it over to kiss her palm. She held his gaze. In the candlelight, his eyes sparkled like Indian sapphires. He kissed her tenderly. “What is your favorite color?”
“My favorite color? Why?”
“I should like to show you more of Bath, but my route cannot be easily accomplished on foot. Therefore, I propose that we ride out together.”
Her eyes shone. “I love to ride.”
“Well then, I must speak to Madame Delacroix about having a riding habit made up for you, since I doubt your aunt has seen to it that such an ensemble should form an essential asset to your wardrobe. Lady Dalrymple is not overfond of horses.”
“Is it too warm for a hunter-green velvet?”
He stroked her soft cheek, brushing his hands against her lips, for which he was rewarded with a gentle kiss along the back of his fingers. “I shall endeavor to see that my lady is accommodated in her every desire.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I am already quite convinced of that.”
Darlington held C.J. at arm’s length, studying the play of the candlelight across her face. God, but she was exquisite. So yielding and sweet; so willing and enthusiastic a partner. How she came by her sexual knowledge was a matter more of curiosity than concern. Clearly, she was gently bred. And though it was uncommon for young ladies of her ilk even to evince lustful desire, let alone have any experience in connubial practices—in this generation at any rate—such things were not entirely unknown. As Cassandra had reminded him, her family were renowned for following the dictates of their hearts; and from there, he reasoned, it was but a short step before nature took its course. “Well then,” he sighed. “You now have something to look forward to.” He ran his fingers through her hair, once again creating a shivery sensation all along her spine.
Did he mean the tantric sex or the horseback riding? “You need not have bribed me with the promise of a green velvet riding habit,” C.J. teased. “I would freely return to learn more about the Kama Sutra.”
“I will teach you everything I know . . . with the greatest pleasure.”
“I promise to be a most attentive student.” C.J. ran her hands through Darlington’s soft, shiny brown curls. The gesture produced a sudden thought: “I was wondering if you might allow me a . . . a memento,” she said, twining her finger around a tendril or two. To her delight, the earl took her meaning immediately and fetched a pair of fine Toledo scissors. He handed them to C.J. and inclined his head. “Pick one.”
The recalcitrant spiral that flopped across his brow when he bent toward her gave the earl an even more tousled appearance. “Would you mind standing up straight, your lordship? I’d prefer a more discriminate ‘rape of the lock.’ We would not want to cause speculation on the sudden loss of your barber’s sense of symmetry.”
“What is so willingly bestowed can hardly be construed as rape,” Darlington replied as C.J. discreetly snipped one perfect curl. “And you will require a proper place to store your treasure.” He went to his escritoire and opened a small chest. “This was my mother’s,” he told C.J., placing a small silver locket into her hand. “A gift from my father for the selfsame purpose. Omnia vincit amor,” he added, reading the inscription to her. “Love conquers all.” He took the C-shaped ringlet from C.J.’s palm and placed it inside the locket, then closed their joined hands around the gift.
Ever so softly, C.J. kissed his lips. “It’s a price beyond rubies,” she whispered. “Thank
