The Perfect Kiss (20 page)

He shrugged. “Nicholas probably didn’t spend his childhood diving for pennies thrown from rich people’s boats. You develop an ability to stay down longer.” His voice was deep and quiet, creating a small intimate space of the stretch of the lake.

“What? Why were you diving for pennies?”

“Pennies add up. Sometimes I got enough to buy a meal.”

“A meal? You mean you needed the money
to eat
?”

“Everyone needs money.” He smoothed back a damp lock of hair from her eyes.

Not like that, she thought. It meant he was in danger of starving! “Where was this?”

“Naples, mostly. And a couple of times in Alexandria for fun.” He looked down into her eyes and said softly, “Don’t look so horrified, Greystoke. I quite enjoyed it at the time. I was very competitive and I outdived and outswam the other boys, so my efforts were quite well rewarded.”

She put a hand to his cheek, knowing it was futile to wish to comfort a boy who no longer existed. “Poor little boy,” she whispered.

“Nonsense,” he said gruffly. “I was a tough little urchin.” He turned his face and kissed her inner palm. She felt it clear to her toes. They curled in the depths.

“I ruled the street urchins.” His hands kept sliding up and down over her waist and hips, but she was so distracted by his story that she forgot to push them away. Besides, it felt so good.

“In Naples? And Alexandria?” She stared at him, trying to see in his face some sign of a young boy who needed to dive for pennies to make ends meet. “But how could that be? You were—you are—the heir to Wolfestone. The lords of D’Acre have never been poor. Did your father not—”

“I was born in Italy and grew up abroad.” He’d cut her off. She’d noticed before that he didn’t like talking about his father. Dimly she realized his hands were under her chemise and against her naked skin but she couldn’t seem to care.

“Yes, and that’s why you didn’t know where anything was that first day.”

“You remembered.” His teeth glinted. “It’s also why I am so good in the water,” he murmured and slid his hands around to cup her breasts. His thumbs rubbed across the tips of her breasts. Her lower body curled up as if to meet him, and something deep within her clenched. He rubbed them again and her whole body convulsed in a shudder. She was so surprised she nearly sank. She clutched his shoulders tightly.

“Wrap your legs around my waist,” he told her. “That will make you more secure.”

Dazed, she obeyed without question and it wasn’t until she felt his warm, hard body pressed against her inner thighs that she realized how exposed this position made her. She started to shift, but his hands dropped to her thighs and stopped her.

“Stay where you are,” he growled softly, cupping her thighs and then her buttocks. “You’re quite safe here with me.”

Safe was hardly the word. She felt open, exposed, vulnerable. But before she could say a word, his mouth captured hers, taking possession with a gentle, searching tenderness that completely undid her, as if he was learning her, worshiping her.

Her eyes were shut and she could see the sun glowing redly through the closed lids, then a shadow fell over her face and he kissed her eyelids with a tenderness that made her want to weep.

She opened her eyes and looked at him, drinking in the features of his face anew, as if she’d never seen him before.

Golden eyes burning into her, he bent and kissed her again, as softly as before. She did not want to be worshiped, was not yet ready to be possessed quite so completely. She clutched his head with both hands and kissed him back, softly, carefully. She had some vague notion that she could exercise some command—of herself at least, if not of him or the situation.

It was a foolish notion. The moment she returned his kiss he gave a fierce growl, deep in his throat—exultation, triumph, satisfaction perhaps, and deepened the kiss and she was swept away by the unleashed power of his wanting her. It vibrated through his body; the very air around them thrummed with it.

He kissed her as if she meant all the world to him.

She had no resistance to him. She was his creature, his being. And she gloried in his every caress.

Her body clung to him, molding her curves to his hard-muscled strength. She kissed, licked, nipped, oblivious to anything but the taste and feel and smell of him.

His hands held, caressed, squeezed and suddenly she realized her chemise had come undone and her breasts were bare and bobbing in the water. She opened her eyes, in time to see the flare in his as he beheld them.

“Such a beauty you are, my love,” he murmured and cupped them, smoothing his big thumbs back and forth over her engorged nipples. She shuddered and clenched around him, flinging her head back, her eyes closed to the sky. Her world had shrunk to this moment, these feelings, and this man. He stroked and caressed her until she felt she could bear no more and then he lowered his head and his hot mouth closed around a cold and tender nipple.

She made a soft, high sound deep in her throat and convulsed, gripping his waist hard with her thighs, as if trying to take him into her. She shuddered and thrust against him in need, silently demanding he take her, blind to everything.

The blood roared in him and for a moment Dominic forgot—forgot his resolution to make love to her the first time in a bed, forgot that they were out in the open, standing in a lake.

Her legs straddled him, and he could feel the warm nakedness of her against his belly. He slipped his hand down between them and cupped her there, where the slit in her drawers exposed her to him. Not for the first time he applauded the practical design of women’s drawers.

He cupped and stroked her soft, warm folds and she trembled against him, urging him with her thighs and making breathy little squeaks of abandon. He circled the hard little nubbin with his thumb and watched the sensations take her as it built and she arched and climaxed against him.

He was hard and aching and his cock was hot and nudging at her entrance when the sound of frenzied barking and splashing nearby distracted her. His own blasted dog!

Her eyes flew open. She looked around dazedly, clutching his shoulders and as he watched, her eyes widened with awareness of the position they were in. She stared blindly at where Sheba had startled some creature and was barking excitedly and splashing through the shallows and reeds at the far end of the lake.

She turned back and stared at him, panting. He was breathing nearly as hard as she was. He saw confusion and then panic dawn in her eyes as she worked out exactly what was pressing against her so intimately.

One quick thrust and she would be his. It took all of Dominic’s self-control not to do it.

She must have seen it in his eyes, because she said, “No!” It came out in a gasp. She loosened her grip on him and pushed herself away, almost going under as she’d forgotten she couldn’t stand. He caught her by the arm. “Steady, you’re all right now.”

She blinked and looked away. She was embarrassed, he saw. A surge of tenderness washed over him.

“We did nothing wrong,” he assured her quietly.

She made a small sound of disbelief.

“We are free agents, you and I,” he reminded her.

She froze, her back still to him, then whirled, “No,
you
are a betrothed man!” she said and began to swim to shore.

Grace was mortified. Admittedly their lower regions had been hidden by the water, but what she’d been about to do shocked her.

She swam as fast as she could, seeking to put as much distance between them as possible.

What had come over her? His hand had been inside her drawers, touching her in the most intimate way a man could touch a woman. Almost.

As the thought occurred to her, she felt her body clench deep inside, and an echo of pleasure rippled through her. She swam harder.

Granny Wigmore had warned her she’d lose her morals if she bathed in Gwydion’s Pool.

 
 
FREY RODE SLOWLY UP THE DRIVEWAY LEADING TO DOMINIC’S home. No, not Dom’s home, he corrected himself— Wolfestone. Lord, but the entire estate had seen better days. He wondered what plans his friend had for it.

Somehow he couldn’t see Dom settling down to contented domesticity. He’d never settled anywhere. The original rolling stone, that was Dom.

He dismounted at the front entrance and when no one came running to fetch his horse, he espied a couple of fellows working on repairing a window and gave them a whistle. One looked up and Frey gestured him to approach. The moment the man was close enough, Frey tossed him the reins.

“Take this beast to the stables, will you and make sure he’s well watered and gets a good rubdown.” He pressed a copper coin into the man’s hand and horse and man trotted off happily enough.

Frey rang the doorbell. It was opened by an urchin, the same urchin who’d tried to make off with his luggage earlier, only now he had dirt on his nose and hair full of cobwebs. Frey wrinkled his nose fastidiously. “I’m here to see Lord D’Acre,” he said.

“Sorry, ’e’s not ’ere,” the urchin said and made to close the door.

Reluctantly, for they were his second-best boots, Frey stuck a foot in the door and prevented him. “Listen, you scrubby bra—” Luckily he remembered he was now a vicar and as such was above squabbling with urchins. He reopened the conversation in a more dignified tone. “My son, I am here to visit Lord D’Acre. He is expecting me.”

The urchin frowned. “I’m not your son and I told you a minute ago, Lord D’Acre’s not ’ere.”

“It’s a figure of speech,” Frey explained testily. “I’m the new vicar and I will come in and wait. I spoke to Lord D’Acre not an hour since and he invited me here. He told me he was on his way home.” He pushed open the door and entered. He glanced around at the grim, gray hallway. Dom had told him conditions were spartan, but really!

He looked down his nose at the boy. “And who might you be?”

The child threw out his chest. “Billy Finn. I’m Lord D’Acre’s personal gen’ral factotum!”

“Good God!”

The brat scowled at him. “You wouldn’t talk to me like that if I ’ad me uniform!” he muttered.

“No uniform could lend luster to a boy with hair full of cobwebs,” Frey declared austerely. “Now, conduct me to a sitting room and fetch me some refreshments.”

The boy combed at his hair with his fingers, wiped his hands on his breeches, then sulkily threw open a door. “In ’ere, then.”

“Such grace and style.” Frey was about to enter the room when a soft voice behind him said, “Are you looking for Lord D’Acre? I’m afraid he’s out at the moment.”

He turned and coming down the stairs was a girl who seemed to Frey to be all softness and curves. She descended the stairs carefully, with an earnest expression that charmed him. She had a round, soft face with a quantity of brown curls, simply drawn back and pulled into a loose knot from which dozens of tendrils had escaped. She saw him watching her and blushed. Her hand went to her hair. “I’m sorry, things have been at sixes and sevens this afternoon and my hair is a mess—”

“You look charming,” Frey assured her.

She gave him a doubtful look. “Billy, dear, would you please ask Mrs. Stokes to send us a pot of tea and some of her lovely lemon biscuits—” She turned to Frey. “Or would you prefer coffee? Or something stronger?”

“Tea and lemon biscuits would be delightful,” he said, surprising himself. He hated tea. He watched her organizing the urchin. He supposed he’d have to get used to drinking tea. It was the sort of thing vicars were forced to drink.

“Please, will you take a seat?” she invited. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

He bowed instantly. “Humphrey Netterton at your service. I’m an old friend of Dominic’s—Lord D’Acre’s I should say.”

“And I am Miss Pettifer.” She said it as if he should know who she was. She held out her hand and he took it in his. Like the rest of her, it was small and very soft. Her eyes were brown and exactly matched her hair. Her skin was like cream.

They stood there, staring at each other until Frey recalled himself enough to fill the silence. He said, “I am also the new vicar of St. Stephen’s.”

“Oh.” Her face crumpled. “I am v-very p-p-pleased to meet y-you,” she managed and burst into tears.

There was only one course of action a man could take under these circumstances, Frey realized. He drew her against his chest, put his arms around her, and let her sob her little heart out all over his exquisitely arranged neckcloth.

She sobbed against him, quivering in his arms like a little mouse. He held her and patted her back and made soothing noises. Her curls tickled his nose. He inhaled the scent of her. She smelled of . . . he frowned, trying to place the scent. Something sweet and uncomplicated . . . like soap and . . . pansies? Did pansies have a scent? He wasn’t sure, but that’s what she reminded him of, a pansy.

“I’m sorry,” she managed to say on a hiccough after a few moments. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“There, there,” he soothed. “You said things had been at sixes and sevens.”

She looked up at him, her eyes swimming. “My father is very ill. The doctor is with him.”

His arms tightened around her. “Hush now, I’m sure everything will be all right.”

“I—I think h-he’s going to—going to—.” She could not say it. Her full lower lip quivered.

Without thought Frey cupped her chin, tilted her face up, and kissed her gently. She tasted of sweetness and peppermints.

“It will be all right.”

She blinked and gave him a watery smile. “You’re very k-kind, but I fear the worst. Papa has been asking to s-speak to a m-minister for days. I think he wants to make his p-peace with God, b-before . . . before . . .”

She looked at him with tragic eyes. “And now y-you are here and he can and s-so I fear he will d-die soon.” Her face crumpled again, and she sobbed anew into his neckcloth. It was ruined anyway, Frey thought, rubbing her back in soothing circles.

Poor little soul. If her father was dying . . .

Good grief!
He
was the minister who was expected to help Miss Pettifer’s father make his peace. Frey swallowed. He’d never given comfort to the dying before. He hoped she was mistaken.