The Taste of Innocence (28 page)

Stepping back, he surveyed his handiwork. “That should hold them.”

Turning to her, he smiled, then, closing the distance, he saw her eyes, saw her sudden nervousness. His smile eased, became more gentle—personal and reassuring.

Reaching her, he took her hand, cruised his thumb over her knuckles. Simply said, with total sincerity, “I don’t want us to be interrupted.”

He looked into her eyes, then raised his other hand and framed her face. Slowly, he tipped her chin up, equally slowly bent his head, and kissed her.

A gentle, easy kiss, asking nothing more from her than her instinctive response, a response she gave without thought, without hesitation.

His lips firmed and she yielded, parted her lips and waited. His tongue found hers, caressed, and she sighed.

Long moments passed while his lips moved on hers, while with his tongue he engaged in a slow, unhurried exploration, a claiming renewed by one who had the right. His fingers traced her jaw, then slid lower to firm over one side of her throat, his thumb beneath her chin keeping her face tilted as he wielded his considerable expertise and lured her to him; his other hand rested at her waist, anchoring her before him.

His.

When he raised his head and looked into her eyes, studied her face, she was already immersed in the web of sensual plea sure she knew would intensify over the minutes to come.

As he’d intended.

His lips curved, but only faintly, his face already set in the sensual mask she now knew well. Releasing her face, he retook her hand and turned to the double doors across the anteroom.

As he led her to the earl’s bedchamber, she understood that what had passed between them in the summer house would be as nothing compared to this—to the moments that were to come.

She was now his wife—that’s what was different.

Opening one door, he ushered her through. Eyes widening, nerves stretching, she walked in and looked around. Behind her, she heard the door shut; lips faintly throbbing, her breathing already shallow, she gazed at the huge ornately carved four-poster bed, hung with blue silks and covered with blue satin.

She felt his gaze on her face; he paused, watching as she took in the sumptuous furnishings, the tasseled gold cords holding back the bed curtains, and the long blue velvet curtains at the windows. The entire room was decorated in shades of blue; even the wallpaper was ivory figured with blue fleurs-de-lis. Against the blue, the richness of golden oak shone and glowed. The wood of the bed, the tall armoires against the walls, the dressing table with its oval mirror sitting between two long windows, the frame of the comfortable armchair set nearby, balanced and contained the blue, keeping it from being overwhelming.

Glancing down, she saw the same pattern repeated, the rich medley of blues, ivories, and golden browns in the Persian rugs framed by the polished floorboards.

Every item on which her eye alighted was elegant, expensive, yet not overpowering. Every lamp, every wall sconce, every dish, seemed to fit within the overall scheme so that the totality exceeded the sum of the parts.

Enchanted, she drifted to the dressing table, and found her brushes laid out. The sight made her nerves quiver, why she didn’t know.

She moved to look out the windows. The view was to the south, over the western end of the wide south lawn to the ornamental lake. Massive ancient trees edged the lawn, their canopies still bare and brown but with the first glimmer of green buds appearing.

It was late afternoon; the day was closing in, the sun starting to wane, but enough light remained to clearly see. To see, as he joined her before the window and she drew in a tight breath and faced him, his features, his eyes.

He stood before her with less than a foot between them, and looked down at her. Banked desire etched the angular planes, giving them a sharpness, an edge she now recognized. His blue eyes were intent; he was studying her, his eyes searching hers, her expression, trying to read her thoughts.

She wished him luck; she couldn’t have told him what she felt in that moment—there simply weren’t words for such a medley of feelings.

After a moment, he said, “I could picture you in the blue. I hope you like it, but if you don’t, you can change it.”

His voice was low, his tone private, undisguised.

Looking into his eyes, she realized what instinctive understanding had made her shiver. He’d created this place for her—here, in this room, she would be his wife in the most private and fundamental way. In the most intimate way.

Echoing her thoughts, he took her hands, one in each of his. His eyes locked with hers, he lifted first one, then the other to his lips, placing a kiss on the sensitive backs of her knuckles.

“All you see,” he murmured, “is now part of your domain. Yours to rule.”

She looked at him, and felt the power that had welled between them in the summer house flare anew, sensed that it was now a part of them, steady and true.

That it would only grow and burn brighter, here in this room, between them.

It was she who slipped her fingers from his grasp and reached up, slid her hand about his nape and stretched up, and kissed him. Offered herself to him, to that power.

His arms went around her; he drew her to him. Lips firming on hers, he effortlessly took control of the kiss and whirled them into the flames.

It was like waltzing on some sensual plane; the thud of their hearts, the building, artfully driving rhythm of passion provided the beat, the kiss, hot and ardent, in this setting unrestrained, provided the power to swing their senses around and around, and leave them giddy.

Their hands took turns removing their clothing. She dispensed with his cravat while he started on the tiny pearl buttons trailing from her nape down her spine. There were dozens of them; she interrupted him to wrestle free his tight-fitting morning coat, seized the moment to discard his waistcoat as well.

He hauled her back against him, his hands busy at her back, his lips and tongue increasingly insistent and demanding. Increasingly distracting.

The familiar heat had welled and rushed through them by the time she managed, with her hands all but trapped between their bodies, to open the front of his shirt. In the same moment, he flicked the last pearl free and with a frustrated growl released her to strip away the heavy silk gown.

She pulled her arms from the long tight sleeves; beneath his hands, the bodice slid to her waist, then the skirts fell with a swoosh to the floor. He took her hand, steadying her as she obediently—eagerly—lifted her petticoats and stepped free of the stiff skirts.

One step away from the window, one step closer to the bed.

Aware of that, of the intense burning in his blue eyes, she let him tug her back to him, but raised her hands and pushed the shoulders of his open shirt wide—off his shoulders, down his arms.

The cuffs were still fastened. He muttered an oath and reached around her, fumbling with the closures behind her back while with his arms he urged her against him, bending his head to kiss her—to kiss her witless she had no doubt, but this time she wouldn’t be denied. Palms to his chest, she pushed back, held him back enough to allow her to do as she wished.

He, after all, was a part of her domain.

One she wanted to explore.

Fully. More fully than she’d been able to in the restricted amenities of the summer house. Now, in the clear if fading light of a winter’s day, she could appreciate the muscled expanse of his chest, the sculpted sweep of each muscle band, the heaviness, the harnessed strength. Spreading her fingers, she explored, palms pressed to warm skin stretched over what felt like heated steel. A band of crinkly brown hairs adorned the width, tangling with her questing fingers. Beneath that pelt her searching fingers discovered the flat discs of his nipples and boldly caressed.

He stilled, breath suspending, muscles tightening; delighted, she pressed her hands wide, and let her fascination show. Intuitively she knew he liked seeing it, that the sight of her absorption in turn fascinated him.

How far would his fascination stretch? How far would it tempt him? Lifting her gaze from his chest, she trapped his eyes, and skated her hands down, over his ridged abdomen, lingering to savor the muscles tensing beneath her touch, then she reached his waistband and the buttons fastening it.

The planes of his face tightened, the edges growing harder, more defined. His jaw tensed as she slipped the buttons free, but, his eyes locked with hers, he let her.

Let her disrobe him until he stood naked before her, until there was no distracting clothing to detract from his male beauty.

Her lungs locked, her mouth dry, she gazed, wantonly amazed; he was even more handsome, more sculpted, more elegantly and intensely male without his clothes than with. She longed to step back, to take several steps back to get a better perspective, but she instinctively knew he wouldn’t allow that. That just holding still and letting her look her fascinated fill was taxing his control to its limit.

A limit she fully intended to break, but not yet.

Dragging in a breath, she reached out, with the fingers of one hand touched the side of his waist, then slowly she moved to the side, letting her fingertips trail over his stomach, across to his hip, and around as she circled him.

As she passed beyond his shoulder, she saw his eyes shut, saw his jaw tip upward and clench. His hands fisted, but with her hand on his skin assuring him she remained close, near, he allowed her to slowly circle him. She did, marveling at the long graceful lines of his body, the smooth hard planes, the lean muscles flickering and flexing in his shoulders and back, cording his legs.

He could have been a sculptor’s model; every line of his body seemed fashioned by the gods.

Behind him, she paused, her fingertips resting in the hollow of his spine; she sensed the tension thrumming through him, in reaction to her touch, to her gaze.

She went on, continuing to look, to savor, as she rounded him. His eyes opened as she did. The instant she returned to face him, before she even had a chance to lift her gaze, he reached for her. Gripping her waist, he turned her around—so he could more swiftly deal with the ties securing her petticoats.

She felt the near-violence in his quick, impatient tugs. Thanks to their earlier step back and his turning her, they now stood in line with the dressing-table mirror; in the reflection she saw him behind her, head bowed, his attention focused on unraveling the knots. On undressing her.

A sultry chuckle escaped her. He lifted his head, in the mirror met her gaze—and heat flared and swamped her.

What she saw in his eyes stole her breath.

Stole her wits, or rather focused every one she possessed, and all her senses, on him, on them.

She was completely and utterly caught when he looked down; with a final jerk, the pressure about her waist eased. With a tug, he sent the ruffled petticoats falling, sliding down her legs to pool about her feet.

Leaving her clad in chemise, stockings, garters, and wedding slippers. For the occasion, her chemise was of the finest silk, translucent, nearly sheer. His hand closed about her waist, and the fabric was no more substantial a barrier than spider’s silk between his skin and hers.

Her skin heated beneath his hard hand. He looked up, in the mirror trapped her gaze. “My turn.”

His voice was low, gravelly, laden with male emotions she couldn’t name. His gaze roved her silk-clad body. Eyes wide, she waited, breath bated, to see what he would do.

Bending, he reached around her; grabbing the dressing stool, he drew it closer, setting it before her.

Straightening, he stood behind her, close, his heat like a flame down her back, one hand at her waist, holding her. In the mirror he met her eyes. “Put one foot on the stool and take off your stocking.”

Her nerves shivered, tensed, tightened to a knot. She drew breath, and complied; slipping her left foot free of her satin wedding slipper, she raised it to the top of the stool. Her toes on the velvet, she reached to where her chemise had drawn back, revealing the antique garter holding up her silk stocking.

As her fingers touched the richly embroidered garter, his palm made contact with the back of her thigh, which with her leg raised was fully exposed. A long slow comprehensive caress made her lungs seize. Giddy, she gripped the garter; his blunt fingertips helped her ease it down. His palm followed her stocking to her knee, tauntingly caressed the sensitive spot behind it, then slowly, provocatively, retreated up the back of her leg as she removed stocking and garter, then set her foot down.

Gathering the strength to repeat the exercise, knowing what would come, took a moment. “The garters were your mother’s, did you know?” She sounded breathless, hoping to distract him and gain another minute to steel her nerves. “They were my ‘something borrowed.’”

“Indeed?” The word was a low growl. His fingers tightened on her waist. “Other leg.”

She hauled in a breath, and did as he asked, unable this time to quell a shiver as he stroked, not just down but, once her stocking fell, all the way up past the top of her thigh to caress her bottom.

Her knees weakened, nearly buckled.

He removed his hand unhurriedly and stepped nearer.