Private places, p.15
Private Places, page 15
“Clearly,” he said, still studying her too closely, the net of desire slipping from him as thought and speculation returned. “But the question is, can you take care of me?”
He said it lightly, even frivolously, but there was something, some thread of intensity that he could not mask. They were so swiftly moving onto ground that could not hold them, not yet. Only their desire to punish Westlin bound them and that, however meaningful, was not enough. She wanted more from Lord Dalby than that. Every minute spent with him confirmed it.
“You can’t mean you want your throat slit, Lord Dalby,” she said, tilting her head to look at him coyly. “I know the English aristocracy has little to live for, still . . .”
“We’ve been known to live for revenge,” he said lightly. “I think you understand about that, don’t you, Sophia?”
She did not want to look into his eyes any more, and more importantly, she did not want him looking into hers. She withdrew her blade from his throat and, leaning up, ran her tongue over the wound, licking up the blood, trailing her mouth down his throat until she found the hot beat of his jugular and there she set her mouth and bit him, sucking hard at the heat beneath her lips.
She held him hard by his hair, holding him precisely as she wanted him while she sucked at his throat.
He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her hard against him.
They stayed that way, entwined, her mouth on his throat, his hands gripping her hips, for more minutes than they had to spare. Westlin would not stay in the theater all night and this was still all of Westlin. She was almost certain of that.
“I understand,” she said, watching as he tied his cravat clumsily, “that the best way to punish Lord Westlin for his various and never-ending crimes against us is to cut him with the same blade.”
Dalby looked at her, his brows drawing down into a small scowl. He had the cleanest, straightest brow, like a statue of marble in perfection, and quite the most beautifully shaped nose. It was nearly a pleasure just to look at him, though she normally measured pleasure by the size of the jewel or the weight of the silver.
“What blade do you mean?” he asked.
Sophia slipped her blade inside the sheath in her bodice and took a breath before answering him. When she looked at him again, it was with her composure and her plan fully in place.
“The finest and sharpest blade of all, my lord. A woman,” she said, with a smile. “Me.”
“You would use yourself to wound Westlin? Have you not been hurt enough by him?” Dalby said.
Sophia kept her expression stony and said, “I don’t know what you think you know, Lord Dalby, and I would say that if you are foolish enough to believe anything Lord Westlin tells you then you deserve to be the butt of his jest, but Lord Westlin did not hurt me. I am here, am I not? I have a home and Westlin gave me the means to keep it. What harm has he done me? It is he who bears the scars, is it not? Is that not what you set out to prove tonight?”
“There are many kinds of scars, Sophia,” he said tenderly.
“The only scars that matter are those that come from the edge of a knife, my lord,” she said. “If you believe otherwise then you are too civilized to be of use to me.”
Dalby snarled softly, saying, “You despise civility? Very well, then.”
He grabbed her, clasping both of her hands in his, pressing them to his tackle, pressing his body against hers and trapping her against the wall. She was not truly trapped. She could use her legs or her head to defeat him. She knew how to fight. She knew how to survive. She had learned those lessons long before London had claimed her.
Freeing one of his hands, Dalby pulled her blade from her bodice and held it to the base of her throat.
She did not make a sound. She did not allow her breathing to quicken.
“A silent captive,” Dalby said in admiration. “I should have known.”
She did not answer him, but her gaze was calm and her posture arrogant. He would not cut her. He liked her skin too much to scar it.
Dalby released her hands, the blade still at her throat, his arm fully extended. It was a wise decision as he had removed himself from her easy reach. Still she knew how to disarm a single man with a single blade. Dalby was no threat to her, not physically.
“Take down your bodice,” he commanded.
She obeyed. This was an old game between men and women, and she understood how to play it. She was still in control. If she wanted to stop, she could do so, but she did not want to. Where would Dalby take this? How far would he go? What would be unleashed in him by seeing her so?
Her bodice was perfectly fitted to her, which meant it was quite snug. She managed to free a single breast to nearly perfect nakedness and stopped, awaiting his next command.
“You do not fear the blade,” he said, tracing her bosom with the tip of the knife.
“I fear no man’s blade, my lord,” she said, staring into his eyes.
“Did your father teach you that?” he said, still tracing her, laying the flat edge of the knife against her erect nipple, the chill steel warming against her heat.
“No,” she said. “My mother did.”
Dalby froze, his gaze locked with hers, the knife pressed against her nipple.
“She was a captive?” Dalby asked.
“Yes.”
“Of which tribe?”
“Mohawk.”
“He married her?”
“Eventually.”
“Why did he marry her?” Dalby asked. He wanted to ask more; he wanted to ask why her English mother had married her Mohawk father. Sophia answered truthfully, though she did not know why.
“Because he would not live without her,” Sophia said softly, her voice carrying in the hall, the words lingering. “The very same reason that you will give for why you want to marry me, Lord Dalby.”
Dalby, to his credit, did not drop the knife. He did, however, lower it.
“This is to be our revenge against Westlin?” he asked.
Her breast was still bared, a single breast to entice him. She suspected she looked exactly what she was: a Mohawk woman wearing English silk.
“It is the perfect revenge, my lord. He took your woman. Take his.”
Dalby shook his head and motioned for her to rearrange her bodice. “He told you?”
“He tells everyone,” Sophia said. “Did he not tell all why I left him? What happened at his estate? How I was used?” Sophia laughed sharply, tucking her breast back underneath silk, hiding as much of her Mohawk training as she could. “To think that you would want me and take me in such a way, in marriage. I’m not at all certain he would recover from it. But it is only a rumor you start, my lord. I would not marry you. You must know that.”
Dalby’s dark head lifted, his pupils dilating dangerously. “You would not? Why not?”
Sophia shrugged. “You are too . . . English, my lord. Far too civilized.”
It was exactly the prod to his pride that he needed. Sophia knew then that, at some future date, Dalby would beg to marry her, perhapseven kill for her. It was what her father had done to win her mother, after all. It might even become a family tradition, if Lord Dalby was agreeable.
She would be entirely surprised if he was not perfectly agreeable to almost anything, eventually.
SIX
“Most certainly, Your Grace,” Zoe said agreeably, her heart pounding. “I shall touch you. I will hold nothing back. What else would you have of me?”
“I would have all of you, mademoiselle,” he said hoarsely, his voice only just loud enough for her to hear.
“But of course,” she answered, thinking quickly, “but piece by piece, I think. The palate can be so quickly overwhelmed, the appetite gorged. It is best to savor the meal, is it not, Your Grace?”
“You are truly willing?” he asked, his gaze growing quite seductive, his sadness fleeing like the outgoing tide. “Here and now? You would do that?”
“I would,” she said, looking deeply into his eyes. What hesitation was there and why should a duke balk at such a little thing as this? Men plunged themselves into women upon the merest notion and did they think to care if the woman was willing?
Of course she was likely biased in her view of things, but one worked with the information one had.
“Are you not frightened, Miss Auvray?”
“I can be frightened if you wish,” she said. “Shall I run? Shall you catch me? There is not much space here to run, but perhaps you should like me to slap you?”
“Stop it, Zoe!” he said in suppressed fury. “You cannot be as experienced as all that.”
“I can be as experienced as you like, Your Grace,” she said softly. “Shall I prove it to you?”
“Certainly,” he said, his anger like a taunted cat, silent and twitching and ready to claw.
And now the play truly began. Zoe moved in such a way that Aldreth was visible from the stage below. Miranda stumbled upon the hem of her skirts, her pose ruined.
Zoe smiled and ignored Miranda. She knelt at Aldreth’s feet, though she could hardly afford to abuse this gown so. Running her hands up his silk encased legs, around the back to his buttocks, which were quite nice and firm, and up to his waist, she looked up to Aldreth’s face.
“A sumptuous feast,” she murmured. “I know exactly where I shall begin. The meat course, obviously. I am quite hungry and refuse to deny my urges. Your permission?”
“Continue,” he said, his voice low and rough.
And so, with as much theatrical flair as possible, she unleashed his tackle from within the collar of his breeches and, giving every indication of ravenous hunger, proceeded to swallow him whole.
He did not appear to enjoy it, which was peculiar. Most men did. The poor Duke of Aldreth did need some cheer in his life. Licking him along his length, pausing now and again to sigh, a kiss upon the tip, a nip along the side, her hands delicately clasping his arse . . .
“Enough!” he snarled, dragging her to her feet by her arms, forcing her mouth away from him. Zoe stared at him, her eyes filling with tears. “You are not such a wanton as you pretend, Miss Auvray.”
“If I failed to please you, then teach me how,” she said. “I know I can please you. I know I can give us both what we surely want.” Standing, Zoe pressed herself against him, putting her mouth on his and whispering, “Kiss me and taste what I have tasted. A fine meal you make, Your Grace.”
He grabbed her a bit roughly and, clearly against his better judgement, devoured her mouth with his own. His kiss was passionate, almost desperate.
Aldreth’s hands were demanding, his mouth hungry. Running her hands over his shoulders, she slipped his coat partly off, trapping his arms to his sides.
“Dessert course, Your Grace,” she informed him, and pushed him into a chair, straddling him before he could say a word. Zoe lifted her skirts and positioned herself just over his eager point. She did not lower herself. She did, as it happened, have a lovely view of Miranda, who appeared to have forgotten her lines entirely. Zoe smiled at Miranda, redirected her attention to Aldreth, and said, “I am ready for you. Take me, Your Grace, and I shall prove to you that I am as wanton as you need me to be.”
His kiss was a violent thing of longing and hunger that shocked her. His tongue swept in and scoured her mouth, hot and driving, starving. Her poor duke was starving. She moaned and opened to accept him, her tongue dancing against his, enticing him, welcoming him.
It was so difficult to play this game to win. She could not lose her way, forgetting everything in the blaze that defined desire. Aldreth was capable of arousing that in her. Even so soon, he was capable of it. Men enjoyed the hunt, not the meal. They lost interest and wandered off as soon as their lusts were fed, their bellies full. Through the haze of passion, her loins throbbing with need, she made herself do what she must to keep him intrigued.
It would be all too simple for him to forget her name an hour from now. Was that not the way of things with men? French or English they were, after all, only men. Yet was she not a woman? Could she not tame this man even for an hour?
She could and she would.
He thrust his hips upward to impale her and made some small headway, but she raised herself up and he lost ground. He thrust again and she let him in a bit more, stay a bit longer, and then she released him.
“You want me,” she said in French, half certain that he would understand her. “You want this, even now. You are angry. Yet you burn. In life and in death, we burn. Let us burn together and make a fine blaze.”
Aldreth scowled at her and tried to reach her, to lift her from him, she suspected. She plunged down upon him, impaling herself, capturing him, riding him when he would have thrown her from him. Like an angry stallion, he bucked and snorted. He wanted, yet he fought at every point.
He yanked his arms forward, ripping the tiny stitches of his jacket. Yes, that was only right. He must fight, even a little, for his pleasure. How else to fully enjoy it?
“I will not do this!” he said. “I will not use you this way!”
“And yet you are,” she said. “We both know that you can release yourself. All you must do is to lose your desire. You will fall away, leaving me empty. Can you do it? I do not think you can.”
“I can do anything,” he snarled. “Certainly I can resist you.”
“Can you? I do not think so. I will not make it easy for you, that is certain. You need this, Your Grace, I think. This wild ride within the heat of a Frenchwoman. Let me give you this,” she whispered, taking his face in her hands. “It is a small thing.”
“It is no small thing,” he whispered in response, his breath fanning her face. “It is because you think it small that it must not be done. You must stop this, Zoe. Stop.”
As an entreaty it was ridiculous. He could have overpowered her at any moment, yet he did not. He needed this and he needed to be free of the guilt of it. She did not understand why, but she did recognize guilt when she saw it, even in the eyes of a duke.
“No, no, Your Grace. I will do all, but I will not release you. Can you not remember passion? Can you not ride the crest of it and let it abandon you where it will?”
“Who taught you that? Who turned you into this?” he snapped, the veins on his forehead and throat extended as he fought passion and lost.
“It matters not. The lesson was learned. The past is dead. We live only now,” she said. “We must convince Miranda that you are irresistible to women, a task that falls to me. When I am done with you, then you may prove your insatiability, a task that will fall to you. Are we in agreement, Your Grace?”
“This is not what you learned in the convent, little Zoe,” he said, “and you did not live long on the streets of Paris.”
“No?” she said, with a seductive smile. “I do not think you know Paris as well as I do, Your Grace. It is the city of learning, is it not? Now are we in agreement? Yes?”
But, in fact, he was more right than wrong. Life, as was often the case, had spun wildly out of control and left her here, in a London theater with a duke held firmly within her folds. One made of life what one could. A salty tear or two to mark the divergence of a course and then a smile and onward. What else? Life must be lived.
“Agreed,” Aldreth said hoarsely. “But nothing of Miranda. Just us. Just now.”
She ground herself abruptly onto him, impaling herself sharply and marking it with a loud gasp of unbearable pleasure. She was quite certain Miranda heard it, but she did not care about Miranda now. Miranda might have propelled them together, but she was fading away into the past. In a week she would be forgotten completely. Aldreth was consuming her, inside and out. This strange, intense man, wounded in some way she could not quite see.
Zoe looked down at him, at his earnest and slightly desperate face, at the intensity that shimmered from his eyes, at the deep loneliness that hovered in the air around him.
“It is just us,” she said, taking his face in her hands, Miranda and all that she had caused forgotten for the first time that night. “It is just you,” she whispered along his cheek.
He shuddered and released his seed into her.
“Just you,” he whispered, his coat in place, his arms wrapped around her, his hands buried in her hair. He lifted her and placed her on her feet, pressing her back against the dark wall of the box, far away from the edge and the open theater below them.
Her heart tripped. His eyes told her that he spoke the truth, but could it be that simple? But what was simple? She felt empty and alone, as she always did at the end of passion. Aldreth had spoken the truth. She had not known this life long enough to be at ease in it. When she had the luxury of time, she would admit that she did not want to be at ease. She wanted something else, something lasting, something tender and careful and kind.
But she did not have the luxury of time. She could admit nothing. She could not even admit that Aldreth and his sharp, sad eyes made her want only him.
“Stay,” Aldreth whispered to her, his eyes beseeching.
“Yes,” she said eagerly.
“Leave,” he commanded, not taking his eyes from hers.
A man grumbled something. Zoe blinked and looked. She had not heard anyone enter Aldreth’s box. It was that horrible man, Sophia’s enemy, Lord Westlin.
“You win,” Westlin said. “I didn’t think you’d do it, not this quickly, but she’s pretty enough, if you like the type. Is that it, Aldreth? Was Sophia too dark for your tastes?”
“I won every term, met the wager,” Aldreth said coldly, shielding Zoe as much as he could. “Did you expect otherwise?”
“You know what I expected, what I thought after that . . . after . . .” Westlin stumbled.
“After what?” Zoe said, pushing Aldreth away from her. He did not push easily.
“This is a wager that does not concern you,” Westlin said dismissively. “But as it is amusing, I will tell you. I wagered that the duke could not pleasure himself with a woman tonight, yet there you are.” Hideous man, little wonder that Sophia hated him so.
