Duchess Quartet - A Wild Pursuit Part 27

When Slope arrived with the morning post, Bea looked in the other direction. It was foolish of her to wish that one of her sisters would write. They had never answered her letters, and she was fairly certain that her father was intercepting them. Surely Rosalind would have written. They were only separated in age by a few years. Rosalind was to make her debut next year, and Bea wanted so much to tell her- Well, to tell her not to make her mistake. Or did she mean to tell her to follow her example? Bea kept thinking and thinking about it. On the one hand, it was grievously hard to turn down Stephen's marriage proposal on the grounds that by accepting, she would ruin his career. On the other hand, had she married whomever her father had seen fit to select as her husband, she would still have fallen in love with Stephen at some point, she was sure of that.

So Bea bent over her tapestry and surrept.i.tiously watched the way Stephen leaned toward Helene, the way their shoulders touched as they played. What would it mean to him, to no longer be the estimable Member of Parliament? Would he be happy? If he were married, would he give up his mistresses, not to mention his supposed fiancee, Esme?

Helene received a letter. "I'm going from pillar to post," she told Stephen. "This is from my friend Gina, asking me to visit her during her confinement."

"I gather you refer to the d.u.c.h.ess of Girton?" Stephen said. And at her nod, he added, "Cam, her husband, is my cousin."

Wonderful, Bea thought sourly. Splendidly cozy.

"She and the duke returned from Greece a few months ago," Helene was saying, "and now they are living on their estate. Apparently Gina will be having a child this summer." She made a funny, rueful face.

Bea bit her lip as Stephen put a comforting arm around Helene. They had the intimacy of an old married couple.

"I can't even bear to look at William. Although I love him." The agony in Helene's voice mirrored that in Bea's heart. Nothing more was said, and after a moment Helene and Stephen returned to playing a Turkish march for four hands. Bea was sick of pieces written for four hands. She was sick of everything that had to do with one prim countess and one proper politician.

Abruptly she got up and walked out of the room. She might as well visit the goat. She still kept a daily pilgrimage to the ungrateful beast, although she hadn't encountered Stephen again in the lane. He seemed to be avoiding the goat, as well as her.

As she tramped down the lane, regardless of the mud clinging to her boots, Bea was actually beginning to think that perhaps she could live in the country. Some sort of wild rose grew over the hedges in the lane. They were pale pink and hung down like faded curtains. For the first time in her life, she had a sense of what happened in spring. A scraggly tree next to the road had broken out all over in white buds. They stuck out from the branches like the knotted ribbons on debutantes' slippers.

And there were daisies growing all up and down the lane. Impulsively Bea started gathering them. Finally she took off her bonnet and filled it with daisies. It hardly mattered if her skin colored in the sun. She could powder it white, or powder it pink. The sun felt kind on her cheeks. Finally she reached the end of the lane and leaned on the pasture gate. He was there, of course, the old reprobate. He trotted over and accepted a branch Bea gave him to chew. Bea even walked in his pasture sometimes; he had never again tried to chew her clothing. She pushed open the gate and headed for the small twisted tree in the center. There were no daisies in the pasture, of course. The goat presumably ate them the moment they poked up their heads. But the tree was in the sun, and surrounded by a patch of gra.s.s.

It was when she was sitting against the tree that she realized what she had to do. She had to go home. Go home. Back to her irate father, who wouldn't throw her out again if she promised to be a model of proper behavior. And back to her sisters. She missed her sisters. She didn't want to play the voluptuary role anymore, not after meeting Stephen. He made her games seem rather shabby and hollow, rather than excitingly original.

Without really thinking about it, she picked all the daisies from her bonnet and braided a daisy chain, a rather drunken daisy chain that had a few stems sticking out at right angles. It was just the sort she used to make for her little sisters. Perhaps she would ask Arabella to send her home tomorrow morning.

He was there, in front of her, before she even noticed his arrival. "How you do sneak up on one!" she snapped.

"You are the very picture of spring," he said, staring down at her.

Bea allowed him a smile. She rather fancied that compliment, since she was wearing a horrendously expensive Marie Antoinette-styled shepherdess dress that laced up the front and had frothy bits at the sides. Suddenly he dropped onto his haunches in front of her, and she blinked at him. His eyes were dark and- She reached out and touched his cheek. "What's the matter, Stephen? Are you all right?" She forgot they weren't on intimate terms and that, in fact, she had hardly spoken to him in virtually a week.

"No, I'm not," he said, rather jerkily. "I've made rather a mess of my life."

"Why do you say that?" Bea asked, taken aback.

"Because I asked a lady to woo me," he said, and the look in his eyes made her knees weak. "Because I asked a lady to woo me, and she very properly refused. I was unfathomably stupid to ask such a thing."

Bea bit her lip. "Why?" Don't say that you never wanted me, she prayed inside. But there was that something in his eyes that gave her hope.

"Because I should have said, 'Seduce me. Take me. Please! "

Bea supposed that was her cue to leap on him like a starving animal, but she stayed where she was. Her heart was beating so fast that she almost couldn't feel her own disappointment. Wasn't this just what she wanted? Of course it was.

"You see, I need her any way she'll have me," Stephen said. His voice had lost all those liquid rolling tones he used so well. It was almost hoa.r.s.e. "Any time she'll give me. I don't care. I won't make any demands."

Bea couldn't quite meet his eyes. She fidgeted with the ribbon on her parasol, tilting it slightly so that she couldn't see his face. "I've decided to return to my father's house," she said almost inaudibly. He was silent, and all she could hear was her own pulse beating in her throat and the goat ambling away to the other side of the pasture.

"Am I too late, then?" he said finally. There was a bleakness in his voice that wrenched her heart.

She took the parasol and neatly closed it. He would always have a patrician's face. It was the face of an English gentleman, long chin and lean cheeks, laughter wrinkles around his eyes, tall, muscled body. He would wear well. She raised her eyelashes and gave him the most smoldering look she had in her repertoire.

He made a hoa.r.s.e sound in his voice and pulled her into his arms so fast that her parasol flew into the air.

"Will you, Bea, will you let me..." He was plundering her mouth, and he couldn't seem to finish the sentence. Finally he raised his mouth a fraction of an inch from hers, so close that she was almost touching his lips. His voice was husky. "Will you seduce me, Bea? Or let me seduce you?"

She strained forward, trying to catch his mouth with hers, but he held back.

"Please?" The urgency in his voice awed her. "I was a fool to refuse you. I'll take anything, any little bit you'll give me. Of course you don't wish to woo me, marry me. But I'll take whatever you give me, Bea.

Please."

She closed her eyes. One of the proudest gentlemen in the kingdom was literally, as well as metaphorically, at her feet. "I didn't mean that," she whispered, clutching his shoulders as hard as she could. "It's not that I don't wish to marry you-"

"Hush," he said, rubbing his lips across hers. "I know you don't want to marry me. I was a conceited fool to think you'd even consider me. But I don't care, Bea. Just-just seduce me, Bea."

She could untangle this later. At the moment she unwrapped her arms from his neck and smiled at him with the slumberous smile of Cleopatra. "But what if I lead you to do things that are less than gentlemanly?"

"You already have," he said. "This is absolutely the first time in my life that I have begged a young unmarried woman to seduce me."

"Oh, well, in that case," she said, with a gurgle of laughter. Then she settled back against the tree trunk and, looking at him, very, very slowly raised the ruffled dimity of her skirt. She was wearing gossamer silk stockings, with clocks, and her slender ankles were crossed. She pulled her skirts up just past her knee, so that Stephen could see the pale blue stocking, and its darker garter, and then the pale cream of her thigh.

She saw him swallow. "Bea, what are you doing?" he said, and the rasp in his voice was a warning.

"Seducing you." Her smile was blinding. He didn't seem to be able to stop staring at her legs.

"What if someone comes?"

"No one ever comes down this lane," she said blissfully. "It leads nowhere except to the goat. And you and I, Stephen, are the only persons who have ever shown interest in the goat." Just as deliberately she uncrossed her legs and drew them slightly higher. Her skirt fell back against her thighs.

"And where is the d.a.m.ned goat?" he said hoa.r.s.ely.

"The other side of the field." Her knees came a little higher, and her skirts slid farther down, exposing smooth, milky thighs.

"If I touch you, Bea, there's no stopping this," Stephen said, meeting her eyes.

Her heart tumbled in her chest. "I wouldn't want to stop you. I never have."

He put his hands gently on her ankles. "Last chance, Bea. Are you sure you wish to make love in a goat's pasture?" But she was laughing, and her eyes were s.h.i.+ning. There was desire there, so that was all right. And obviously, she didn't mind the goat's pasture. So Stephen let his fingers wrap around that delicate little ankle, slide up the faint softness of her stockings. He stopped at the garters and untied them. They left angry red marks on her skin.

She was watching him with a half smile, but there was something uncertain there too, for all she was such an accomplished seductress. He smoothed the red marks with his fingers. "Why so ruthless with your poor skin?" he said, as he lowered his head and ran his tongue along the groove in her leg.

She gasped and squirmed in his hands. "It's particularly difficult to keep stockings this flimsy from collapsing around my ankles."

"Ah." He had his hands on both her knees now, and he pulled them apart. She resisted for a moment and then gave in. She was wearing some sort of fluttering gown that obediently fell back, as if it had been designed for outdoor games. Stephen ran a finger down the inside of her thigh. He stopped at a burst of lacy cotton, then ran his finger over all the fabric.

She visibly shuddered and reached for him. But he pushed her back against the tree and knelt in front of her, between her raised knees, and pressed his lips there, on the inside of a quavering knee. And then let his lips drift down, down smooth, ivory flesh.

And all the time his finger was running inquisitively over the white cotton between her legs, dancing a little surface dance that made her hips jiggle a bit. He could hear her uneven little whoosh of breath, and it made him feel a steely wave of triumph, and then a wave of l.u.s.t so pure that he almost wrenched that cotton down- "What do you call this?" he asked, and his voice came out hoa.r.s.e. He put his hand between her legs, firm, and rocked forward.

"Oh," she said, and her voice seemed very small.

He ran his thumb under the frilly border. "This?"

"Pantalettes," she said, quivering all over.

He leaned forward and put a leg over her left knee so he was straddling her, and then he let that thumb sink, fall into sleek, hot folds. She had been lying against the tree as if she were too shocked to move, but that shudder woke her up; she reached out and pulled his head toward her.

Her lips trembled under his, and opened, and Stephen let his thumb take on the same rhythm as his tongue, although his chest felt like bursting for lack of air, or for the thumping of his heart in his chest.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she was beautiful. This close, her eyes had the green of a rock glimpsed at the river bottom, greeny blue, with small specks of light. All the more beautiful for being slightly glazed.

Suddenly she focused on him. "You seem to have forgotten that this is my seduction," she said. Her voice was such a deep purr that he almost didn't catch her meaning. But with one flip of her hip, she pushed his hand away and came up on her knees. Alas, her skirt fell down and covered her legs again.

He reared up so he was facing her. Then he very, very deliberately took his thumb and rubbed it over his lips. She gasped in shock, and he felt a throb of pleasure. She wasn't so jaded then. He licked his lips, enjoying the faint taste of her.

"Stephen!" she said. He grinned. But she was pulling at his neck cloth. She seemed to have some trouble undoing it, so finally he tossed it to the side and undid the placket on his s.h.i.+rt.

It was her turn then to inch that s.h.i.+rt up his muscled abdomen. Her fingers were everywhere, delicate, admiring. The s.h.i.+rt billowed past his eyes and disappeared. Now her fingers were at his waist. But she couldn't seem to undo the b.u.t.tons there either. She looked so serious.

"I thought you'd make my clothes fly off like greased lightning," he said teasingly. But she didn't look up, so he pushed up her chin. "That was only a jest, Bea. In poor taste, to be sure, but a jest."

"I-" Her eyes were larger, not so pa.s.sionate now. Stephen felt a pang of pure fear. She'd changed her mind. She didn't want him. He was too old.

"I'm afraid I'll disappoint you," she said.

"Never."

"I don't-I don't have as much experience as you might think," she said, staring fixedly at his waistband as she tried to undo it. The very feeling of her fingers fumbling around his pantaloons was driving Stephen crazy.

But once he registered what she'd said, he laughed. "I don't care what kind of experience you've got, Bea. All I want is you. You." He pushed up her chin again. Her lips were swollen with his kisses. "Oh G.o.d, Bea, you're so beautiful."

But she wasn't really listening. "You see, I did-that is, there was Sandhurst, but it was only once, and I'm afraid I didn't learn very much, especially as we were interrupted by Lady Ditcher. And then I allowed Billy Laslett, but I didn't truly enjoy it towards the end, and so I told him to go."

Stephen laughed. "Are you trying to tell me that the bold seductress herself didn't find the experience pleasurable?"

Bea blushed. "No, I did. Although I wish I hadn't."

"Why?"

"Because it would make me almost like a virgin, wouldn't it?" Her eyes were shadowed. "But I did-did enjoy it, up to a point. I haven't liked-well, that's irrelevant. I took another lover once too." The last came out in a rush of admissions. "So you see, I've had three lovers. But I never gave anyone a second chance, and I'm not certain that I actually learned very much, if you see what I mean."

Stephen threw back his head and laughed, laughed so hard that four starlings and a wren flew out of the crooked tree and wheeled into the sunlight. When he looked back, she was still there, blinking at him, looking a little defensive, extraordinarily lovely, and far too young.

"Bea, you are over twenty-one, aren't you?" he said.

"I'm twenty-three."

"Good. Are you trying to tell me that you won't let me have a second round? That one time with lovely Bea is all any man could hope to achieve?" He let his hands settle on her waist.

She blushed faintly. "No." But he could hardly hear her.

"Because I want more, Bea." He lowered his head and brushed his mouth over hers. She opened to him, willing and shuddering. "I'm going to take more," he told her.

Her eyes closed, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Take me, Stephen."

An invitation no man could refuse. He took over the job of removing his pantaloons himself. And threw off his boots and every other st.i.tch of clothing he had on as well. She sat on the ground in front of him, mouth open.

He laughed at her. The sun was warm on his shoulders, and under her eyes he had that sense of his body that he only seemed to have with her. A sense of powerful muscle and a lean stomach. He came down on his haunches. She watched him in fascination, her eyes looking either at the powerful muscles in his thighs-or between them. He wasn't quite sure. But she seemed to like what she saw. That faint blush in her cheeks had turned rosy.

"I can't believe you're quite naked in the outdoors!" she said. She had her hand over her mouth, but giggles escaped.

"Your turn," he said, and her eyes grew serious.

"Oh, Stephen, I don't know... I wasn't thinking..." She kept squealing. But Stephen was very good at removing ladies' clothing, and so he had her dress over her head in a moment, and her chemise followed. She wore no corset, to his great interest. He left her only that flimsy little garment she called her pantalettes, a foolish little trifle of white cotton and lace.

The sun threw dancing spots over her ivory skin, skipping shadows of dappled color. Her face was quite rosy. She sat on the ground with her hands covering her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, for all the world like a timid virgin. Though of course, even an experienced courtesan might never have made love outdoors.

He kneeled just before her and put his hands over hers. "It's all right, love," he whispered. "Truly, no one will come down the lane."

"It's not that!"

He peeled one of her hands away from the alluring curve of her breast. They were perfect, rosy-tipped, uptilted, just the size for a man's hand. He bent his head and drew her nipple into his mouth, roughly for such a sweet bit of flesh. One hand flew away from her breast and curled around his neck instead.

He couldn't play this game much longer. It had been too long, weeks of longing for her, watching her secretly, watching her openly, dreaming of her. He swept her up in one decisive movement and then put her down gently on top of his jacket. As he kissed her, he let one hand shape her breast so she strained into his hand, and he let his other hand pull down that bit of cotton she called a pantalette.

She wasn't sure about that. "What if someone?..." but her voice was melting. He moved down, kissed her breast in pa.s.sing until she squeaked out loud, until she writhed upwards, kept going further down her body until he found her. Until he had all that sweet, lemony flesh in front of him, and she was moaning, all deep in her throat and begging him, and begging him, and- She reached out, grabbed his hair and yanked it hard. Bea could hardly breathe, because her whole body was on fire, but she knew there was a remedy here. There had to be. And his tormenting her was not going to be the answer.

"I want you," she said fiercely, having got his face where she could see it.

"It's your seduction, darling," he said. His lopsided grin made her heart somersault, and she almost forgot and just started kissing him again. Instead, she reached down and wrapped her fingers around him, and that did give her a shred of sanity. He was a great deal larger than Billy Laslett, and a great deal, well, firmer than Sandhurst.

For a moment she froze. What if this wasn't possible? Billy had been difficult enough. It was embarra.s.sing to have been a party to that encounter. She had been phenomenally pleased when he'd stopped bucking about on top of her and taken himself away.

But Stephen was smiling down at her, and he seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. He unwrapped her fingers and brought himself forward, nudging her knee out of the way. Bea couldn't help herself. She arched up to meet him. But he was just teasing her, bringing her that hardness and taking it away again.

She may not have learned much, but she had learned one thing, because Billy Laslett had asked her to... She brought her hands down from his neck and deliberately brushed his flat nipples with her fingers. He jumped and arched forward for a moment, deliciously hard. How could she ever have thought that-but this wasn't the moment for comparisons.

Instead, she gave him the same lazy, mischievous grin he gave her, and leaned forward and nipped him with her teeth. He groaned and drove forward. The rush of feeling was so exquisite that she flopped backwards and clutched his shoulders. And this time their eyes were serious.

"All right?" he said, hardly able to recognize his own voice.

And she nodded, clutching him so hard that he was going to have ten small bruises on his shoulders. He drove forward again. She cried out, unintelligible, the sound swallowed into the bright air. But it didn't seem to be pain she was registering.

He bent to kiss her, and she made startled, gulping sounds, as if she thought he might lose his balance if he tried to do two things at once. He finally managed to coax her mouth open, but she kept trying to speak.

"What is it?" he finally said, huskily.

"Nothing-oh! Don't stop that!"