An Invitation to Seduction (12 page)

The hell of it was, though, that he didn’t want her to turn to him under those conditions, on those terms. Nor did he want her heart shattered, and the possibility ex
isted that it would if she learned the naked truth. How many times had she professed her love of Farthingham, how diligently did she struggle against her desires where Richard was concerned? He did not want her to suffer a rude awakening. He did not want her to suffer at all.

Which was the very reason that as soon as she slipped outside, he quickly glanced around to make certain that no one was paying attention to the little drama unfolding, then followed in her wake.

Kitty had enjoyed her dance with the Duke of Harrington, an extremely handsome and proper gentleman, who obviously doted on his wife and daughter no end. During one of their turns, she’d spotted Farthingham standing near the French doors. He’d given her a passing glance, but it was enough for her to know—when she saw him slip outside—that he wished for her to follow.

She couldn’t have been more grateful when the duke mentioned that he’d like to run up the stairs and see his daughter. She’d excused him from the waltz and headed onto the terrace and out into the garden.

She desperately longed to have some time alone with Nicky. He was such fun to be around that he drew people the way a magnet attracted metal shavings. She completely understood everyone’s desire to be in his company. Possessing an uncanny ability to make people feel comfortable and at ease, he made them laugh and smile and enjoy the occasion so much more.

Although she was spending more and more time with Farthingham, they barely had any opportunities to be alone and scarcely had a chance to discuss the most private of matters. They had time for little more than a few whispered words and quick touches.

She knew the British etiquette of courtship wasn’t nearly as informal as Texas customs. In Texas, her half
sisters, when they were of a proper age, would no doubt attend dances and picnics without the benefit of chaperones. Kitty had done so herself on several occasions when her family wasn’t in England.

But never with Farthingham. Not since their first clandestine waltz. Once his intentions had become clear, at his insistence, everything had become so irritatingly proper. His desire to be above reproach was only one of the many reasons why she loved him as deeply as she did. He’d never instigate her fall from grace. He walked the high moral ground, and she wanted to stroll right along with him.

But she realized that never having any time alone was probably as difficult for him as it was for her. Hence, the subtle message in his gaze and his disappearance from the ballroom.

Walking cautiously and peering through the shadows, she discovered that Harrington’s garden was a maze of shrubbery and hedgerows. Not nearly enough light to guide her way, which was probably the reason Farthingham had determined it would be a perfect place for them to meet. She knew even if they were alone in the darkness, nothing untoward would happen. They would behave, but they would have a few moments of holding each other, whispering intimate thoughts, perhaps experiencing a kiss or two. Pleasant.

It would all be pleasant and away from prying eyes. But not wicked, never wicked. Farthingham never sought to tempt her into wickedness. It was not his way, and she couldn’t have been more grateful for that aspect of his character, an aspect sadly lacking in Weddington.

She heard a quiet murmur, a muffled giggle—so Farthingham wasn’t the only one with the notion of seeking some privacy. She did wish he’d alert her to his whereabouts. If she tarried much longer, they’d be missed, and
she certainly didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that she’d left the ballroom. While she didn’t mind being a little bit naughty, was even excited by the prospect, she didn’t want to sully her reputation.

A hand wrapped gently around her arm, drawing her off the path and behind a trellis of roses, deep into the shadows.

Nicky!

But the mouth that swooped down to cover hers, the tongue that parted her lips, didn’t belong to the man she sought. Neither did the taste that filled her mouth nor the scent which teased her nostrils. Nor did the broad chest she was pressed against or the wide shoulders that she’d wrapped her arms around. Nor the thick strands of hair that were curling around her fingers as she scraped them along his scalp.

She knew she should withdraw, step away, return to the path, and escape back into the house. Her next dance partner would surely be looking for her soon. But she had no desire to leave.

She sank against Weddington as though she possessed no will of her own, as though he were a safe harbor when she knew he was anything but. He was the tempest, the storm that caused dizzying sensations to swirl through her. Changing the angle of the kiss, he settled his mouth more firmly against hers, his tongue darting and probing, enticing her to join him in playing the same game.

She clutched his hair, tugged on the strands, found herself wanting to crawl all over him. To know him completely, absolutely. His naked form was emblazoned on her mind, and she could envision him as he’d been on the rocks—without the confinement of clothing. Man at his most vulnerable, his most savage, his most primitive.

Raging desire surged through her. And suddenly nothing was enough. Not his touch, not his kiss, not their hips
rubbing against the other. She alternately touched his cheek, ran her fingers through his hair, slipped her hand beneath his jacket, pressed her palm against his chest, and felt the hard pounding of his heart against her palm.

He glided his hand along her neck, throat, and collarbone, as he had at the opera—except no gloves protected her from the heat of his touch. She wondered when he’d removed them, because he’d been wearing them when they’d danced. She relished the strength she felt in his hands, the warmth pulsing between his flesh and hers. His mouth, damp and hotter than imaginable, replaced his fingers, skimming along her throat, his tongue swirling over her skin, his teeth nipping her flesh here and there.

Then he was peeling the bodice of her gown down, as though its low, revealing cut had been designed for exactly this purpose: to give him easy access to that which he desired. He closed his mouth around her turgid nipple, suckled hard, and she cried out.

“Shh, shh,” he commanded as he returned his mouth to hers, his tongue delving inside while his fingers kneaded her breast. “Shh, shh.” Another kiss. “You must”—a kiss—“remain quiet.”

But how could she when she felt as though her entire body was erupting with intense sensations she’d never before experienced. She needed someplace to put them, because they were not of a nature to be kept tightly inside. They screamed for release, insisted on it. She didn’t understand what her body was demanding of her, of him. She only knew he appeared to possess the remedy.

When his mouth began to journey along her flesh again, she moaned and dropped her head back, lost in the sensations he stirred to life. Shivering, yet burning, she dug her fingers into his shoulders, seeking purchase. This time when he took her nipple between his teeth, she swal
lowed back her cry, but couldn’t prevent the escape of a whimper.

Her knees jelled and threatened to melt beneath her. “Richard.”

Groaning low in his throat, he snaked an arm around her waist, brought her up against his hard body, and turned her, walking her backward two steps until her back met a stone wall, the hardness of which matched that of the man pressing his lower body against hers.

Peering through half-lowered eyelids, she studied him—immersed in shadows, moving silently, his motions only detected by the pleasure left in their wake. Oh, God, she thought she might die there and not care one whit. She felt as though her body were already ascending to heaven, carried on the wings of his unrelenting fervor.

With his head bent, he continued to play his lips and tongue over her bared breasts, giving attention to one, the valley between, then the other, suckling and stroking, caressing and nipping, while his free hand gathered up her skirt until it was bunched between them, held in place by two bodies pressed tightly together.

He skimmed his warm fingers up her thigh, trailed his fingers down, then back up. She shouldn’t allow such liberties, but she didn’t have it within her to protest because to deny him would deny her. Instinctually she realized that, and she’d become too lost in the sensations even to consider stopping the madness. The ability to control anything had moved rapidly beyond her realm of power and into his. From him she wanted to beg for deliverance, for an easing to what she couldn’t name, for the rendering of a climax to a sensation that should have never been created, but having been started left no recourse except to be allowed to reach its full potential.

He skimmed his fingertips along the inside of her
thigh, up, up, higher, higher, until he reached his destination: the heart of her womanhood. Squeezing her eyes shut more tightly, she clamped her hands around his shoulders. With a finger, he stroked intimately, with his thumb he rubbed provocatively. Her body jerked in response to his attentions before pressing against his palm, urging him on, all thought of retreat lost in the wicked sensations cascading through her, rippling over her flesh, curling toward her core.

The tender nub between her thighs was almost unbearably sensitive, and when he glided his thumb over it, she released a tiny whimper, a resounding plea. To stop, to continue. To carry her ever higher.

He returned his mouth to hers, deepening the kiss as his fingers increased their pressure. She bucked against his hand, like a wild thing, untamed, savage, desperately seeking what hovered unknown on the horizon.

And then she exploded into a thousand sparks of intense pleasure, every conceivable color shimmering behind her eyes, every glorious taste filling her mouth, every distant sound muted except for her frantic gasps and his harsh breathing.

She thought she might never again move a single muscle, that she would simply stand there forever, a wilted woman who had scaled the pinnacle of wanton pleasure and somehow managed to survive.

Breathing heavily, he slid his mouth close to her ear. “Farthingham will never make you feel like this,” he rasped.

Her eyes flew open, her chest tightening as the knowledge of what she’d done slammed into her. Oh, God, oh dear God, she’d opened herself up to him, urged him on with moans, undulations, and writhing. Drawing him near, holding him close when she should have been push
ing him away. Tears of mortification stung her eyes for what she’d allowed him to accomplish. Allowed? She’d relished it, encouraged it.

And well he knew it. As though needing to affirm his knowledge, he pressed his hot mouth to the side of her neck. “You were meant for this,” he growled.

“No,” she whispered, terrified by the implication of his words.

“There’s more, Kitty, so much more, and I can give it all to you.”

“No.” She shoved against his chest until he staggered back. “No.”

She quickly straightened her clothes, sickened by the dampness on her skin where his mouth had been and passion had flourished. She darted past him, around the trellis, stumbling toward the house. As she neared, she took refuge in the shadows near the terrace. She patted her hair, surprised to find it still in place. Her cheeks were burning, her swollen lips tingling from
his
kisses. Her skin was more sensitive, each whisper of the breeze a caress that reminded her of
his
touch.

“Kitty?”

She spun around. “Nicky.”

“My sweet, whatever’s wrong?”

“I couldn’t find you. I saw you come outside…I couldn’t find you.”

“There, there, dear girl.” He took her in his arms, and she felt him stiffen, before drawing her closer until her face was pressed within the nook of his shoulder. “You’re trembling. What happened?”

She shook her head quickly. “I couldn’t find you. I feel safe when I’m with you.”

“Because you are safe with me. You’ll always be safe with me. I promised you that long ago.”

She leaned back until she could see his familiar, trust
ing blue eyes, the color obscured by the night, but she’d memorized it by sunlight and gaslight and candlelight. “Do you love me, Nicky?”

“Of course, I do.”

“Then marry me.”

He laughed softly, a quiet chuckle filled with affection. “I thought we agreed on that outcome months ago. No need to ask me.”

She shook her head. “No, I mean marry me now.”

“Now? This moment?”

“This year. As soon as the Season ends.”

“I thought you wanted a proper period of waiting after the announcement—”

“I’ve changed my mind.” Reaching up, she cradled his beloved face between her hands. “I’m so afraid I’ll lose you.”

“My sweet”—he pressed a kiss to her forehead—“you’ll never lose me. I am yours until the end of time.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He held her close. “Are you certain nothing untoward happened?”

“I was simply feeling lost without you and not knowing where you were.”

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

She nodded, suddenly aware that her face was wet with tears. “I’m only safe with you. Will you please take me home now?”

“Of course, if that’s what you wish. Let me escort you to the carriage, and then I’ll find Freddie and Lady Priscilla and let them know that we’re to leave.”

“Do you have to get them?”

“Certainly I must. We brought them, did we not? I can’t very well tell them that they have to hire a hansom. Has Lady Priscilla done something to upset you? I know she often speaks without thinking.”

She shook her head briskly. “No, of course Lady Priscilla hasn’t upset me. It’s simply that you and I never seem to have any time alone.”

“Time alone? That’s an American courting ritual that we have yet to adopt over here. A gentleman does not put a lady in a compromising position where she might draw unwarranted gossip.”

A gentleman might not, but Weddington certainly had no qualms about doing exactly that.

“But we never have any time together when it’s only you and me,” she told him.