Promise Me Heaven (13 page)

Cat sighed in exasperation. “Women already influence politics, manage estates, and are responsible for the population of their households. And, by the by, still produce heirs.”

He was silent a moment, pondering her statements. “You may be correct, Cat. But given that your intellectual abilities are already engaged, I fail to see the reason you take exception to the manner of your dress.”

“It is not the dress, Thomas. It is what the dress represents. The fashion that commands me to be a bizarre mixture of siren and religious novitiate. Somehow less accountable than males, yet somehow more. It is a schism most uncomfortable to live with. I take exception to the supposition that merely because I am a woman, I do not harbor the same curiosities as a man. Particularly when the manner of my dress stimulates those ‘curiosities.’ The same ‘curiosities’ which, when aroused in the male, by a manner of dress which he has decreed, it is then my responsibility to discourage!”

“Perhaps the matter of sexuality—for we are speaking plainly, are we not, Cat?—is best left to men, who may be more responsible in controlling these curiosities?”

“Pish.”

“Really, Cat. Your fondness for that particular expletive is irksome, particularly as I seem to be the one you most favor it with.”

“Pish. If you men have so much greater restraint than women, why are we the ones who must always say ‘stop’? I’ll warrant you wouldn’t have the moral fiber to withstand the siege of a determined suitor.”

Thomas snorted. “In your own words, pish.”

In the ensuing silence, Cat’s teeth could be heard grinding together. The silence stretched on.

“Would you care to make that a wager, Mr. Montrose?” Cat finally purred.

“I would be delighted, Lady Catherine,” Thomas came back at once. “And how would you go about proving your theory?”

“First the rules, then the ante.”

“And they are?”

“First, you must be guided by the rules which govern women’s behavior. You must not use your strength, or size, or masculine proclivities in any instance.”

“Agreed.”

“And the ante shall be this. Should I win, you will agree to escort me to the Pavilion tomorrow night.”

“Now, Cat—”

“What? So certain of defeat? And with ample cause, I am sure,” she said smugly.

“Fine. Agreed. Now—Where are you going?” Thomas asked as Cat jumped up.

“To lock the door.” She turned the key in the latch before pocketing it.

“Cat, should anyone try the door, your reputation will be in tatters.”

She eyed him, bracing her hands behind her and leaning against the door. “It is nearly five o’clock, a highly unfashionable time to be viewing the flora and fauna. Besides, any potential gossip will only know there are some persons in here, not who they are… Thomas.”

She smiled at him as his eyes widened in surprise at the husky accents with which she caressed his name. Slowly she sashayed toward him, her hips undulating in a thoroughly provocative manner. Inches from him, she stopped.

“A woman,” Cat said, reaching out to lightly brush his collar, causing him to go instantly still, “… a woman on the marriage mart would never be seen so bundled up.”

Slowly, she worked his cravat free and let the white linen ripple to the ground. She stood back and frowned. “Still much too prudish. You do want this to be an accurate enactment?” She did not wait for an answer but set her hands to the button at the top of his shirt. He felt his chest muscles leap painfully taut as her slender fingers brushed the heated flesh at his throat.

This was quickly getting out of hand. “Are you not afraid you are playing too deep a game?”

She threw back her head and laughed. “Not at all. Why, we are just begun. Not even that! We are but evening the odds as yet. And besides, you are a model of masculine restraint.”

Chapter 12

C
at popped another button free and, feeling him tense, smiled. Stepping between his knees, she slid her hands beneath his coat, easing it off his shoulders. She paused only once to look down into his eyes.

They were midnight black, his features hardened into stone. His jaw had gone dusky red beneath the blue-black tint of his incipient beard. She hesitated just a second, caught by his gaze, but tore her eyes from his to concentrate. It was nearly impossible. Her fingers wanted to linger in their task. His coat had trapped his body’s heat, and he was warm beneath the thin cloth of his shirt.

“Almost at the disadvantage a woman finds herself,” she murmured.

Suddenly Thomas surged upward, towering over her. With an inarticulate growl, he wrenched his coat off the rest of the way. “Is there any other article of clothing I might oblige you by removing?” he demanded.

“Your waistcoat.”

He fairly ripped it open and then, at variance with the angry gesture, turned and casually tossed it onto the chair. He lifted his arms high, raising his palms upwards, and turned slowly, mockingly, in front of her. “Have I disrobed to your satisfaction?”

“Not my satisfaction. It is the unspoken law of men which govern what is worn or rather what is not worn,” Cat threw back. She had his measure now. He thought to shame her into stopping. Or anger her, or himself, to the point where his righteousness would shield him from her challenge.

Cat smiled. Thomas glowered, tall and imposing over her, his arms still spread wide for her inspection.

“Come,” she said, “I have not asked you to do anything a woman does not do. Surely a few articles less clothing cannot be so awful a price to balance the contest? Look here, the conservatory is lovely, is it not? I would we just walk. Just a stroll through a hotel conservatory on a mild day. What harm is there?”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Thomas said, abruptly lowering his arms and planting his fists on his hips. “You do this so badly!”

“I do not!” Cat shouted, her decision to be leeringly conciliatory forgotten.

Thomas grinned, apparently well pleased to have provoked her. “Horrible. Quite awful. Your imitation is far too exaggerated, m’dear.”

“You aren’t allowed to say that,” she snapped. “An unmarried woman would never call an eligible man ridiculous. He would bandy her name about until she became a byword for harpy, were she to so much as giggle at him. No matter
how
idiotically he behaved!”

Thomas sobered, but a smile still played about his mobile lips. “Quite. What was it then? A stroll? I’d be delighted, Lady Catherine.”

Somewhat mollified, Cat seized his forearm and would have dragged him forth had he not weighed nearly twelve stone. She looked up into his devilish, handsome face. The expression he bent on her was warm and open, tender and smiling. She mentally shook herself, reminding herself he was an expert at dissembling.

“Come along, m’dear,” she said. “There is a particularly lovely plant in bloom just around the corner here.”

She patted the arm she had secured next to her side and set off at a leisurely pace along the bricked walkway. Her sprained ankle slowed their progress, but she took advantage, pointing out some of the more choice blooms in the collection, pausing to allow him time to appreciate their unique characteristics, nodding encouragingly and inwardly grinning as his smile slipped into an expression of bewilderment.

Whatever Thomas said, Cat smiled and agreed. If his comments held no botanical merit, she adopted an attitude of amusement. If they did, she acted surprised and congratulated him with disproportionate enthusiasm on his insight.

They finally gained the corner of the path and turning, found a wrought-iron love seat nestled in a small alcove hung with ivies and trailing flora. She led him there, motioning him to rest, as though their brief walk had been an arduous trek and he a valiant invalid. Glowering at her praise, Thomas acquiesced as she slid in next to him.

Through her dress’s thin layers of fabric, her thigh pressed lightly against his but once settled she did nothing to remove herself from that intimate touch. Instead, she turned fully towards him and casually reached up to touch his temple.

Thomas jerked his head back. Unprepared for her touch, he could not feign indifference. His eyes flew to where she held a leaf dangling from her fingertips. She smiled.

“Excuse my forwardness, Mr. Montrose.” She did not sound the least sorry. “But you seem to be sprouting no end of greenery. May I?”

Without waiting for his consent, she once more reached up, lightly plucking another frond from where the dark locks grew overlong and curled upon his collar. But this time she lingered in her task, winnowing her fingers through his hair and testing the texture of the skin on his neck with delicate, insubstantial caresses.

Thomas held himself motionless under her exploration, fixing his gaze forward like a man facing a firing squad as Cat grew bolder. She measured the tightening swell of biceps beneath his shirt sleeve, trailed a hand down his long arm, pausing only when she reached his wrist. She turned his much larger hand over as he forced his fingers to uncurl.

His hands were large, strong but not as callused as she would have imagined a farmer’s to be. His fingers were long; dark, downy hairs were sprinkled along their backs. Placing her palm against his, she compared their relative sizes, and then gave in to a sudden impulse, bending her head and laying her lips gently on the ridge of his knuckles. Her hand was bruised in a sudden convulsive grip.

Gently she loosened it, reaching up and sliding her fingers beneath his collar. She curled them over the muscle that ran thick atop his shoulders. And then her palms were lying flat against his naked skin, and he sucked in his breath as she rubbed them downward, lingeringly, over the top of his pectoral muscles. She left them there. He did not look at her.

Cat had never had such license. The sensation was headier than that which the strongest wine could impart. To look at a man until sated, to study his form, his movements, his gestures. But this was beyond even that! This was the liberty to touch a man without fear of repercussions or reprisals. Not
a
man,
this
man who constantly occupied her thoughts.

Her fingertips seemed abnormally sensitized to the texture of his flesh: warm, dense, and supple. The muscles, which leapt beneath her slightest touch, turned the velvet skin to hardness, as though granite had a chamois sheath. A vein stood out along the side of his neck. She could see the dark stubble of his beard on the hard angle of his jaw. He was so large, so appealing in his masculinity.

Cat could not stop herself. Seeking more of his heat, she stroked the hard curve of his chest. More of his shirt’s buttons loosened, working free, and she glimpsed the ladder of ribs, followed their curves to the satiny smooth skin stretched taut across his chest, down to where the muscles on his flat stomach stood out in ridged relief. Her hands, following her eyes, rode the dip and swell of sinew, tendon, and thew with artless urgency. She caressed him, petted him, searching farther back until her arms encircled him beneath his shirt, her hands mounting the hard bulge of his shoulder muscles. Her gaze fell between them and she saw her own white skin, exposed by the low-cut bodice, pressed lightly against his tanned flesh. Her warmth merged with his, her over-stimulated nerves dancing at the contact.

She felt him shudder. Still, he did not move, and now—abandoning all thought of games, or roles, or contests—she pressed her lips to the hollow at the base of his strong, tanned throat and caught the heavy pulse beneath her partially opened lips. Breathing deeply, she inhaled, catching the unique combination of heat and scent that rose from his skin. He was hot, and the flesh here was thinner and silkier than the plush density on his chest. She was fascinated by the endless textures of his male body. Wrapping her hands more tightly about him, she rested her brow against his exposed torso, unsure of what to do next, only certain she did not want to draw away, and wanted a great deal more. She lay pressed to him and listened to the heavy drumbeat of his heart, felt him drag in his own deep breaths.

Apparently Cat would be content to stay with her arms wrapped around his quivering body and her brow against his chest, but Thomas knew he would not be. Not for long. And so, after a long moment, he lifted and set shaking hands upon her upper arms. Slowly, he pushed her back from him and looked down at her flushed countenance.