The Lady By His Side(112)
She eased her hands from the tight sleeves, then pushed and sent the dress with its wide skirts slithering to pool in a heap about her feet.
She felt his gaze brush heat over her breasts, over her torso, screened though they still were by chemise and corset.
His voice had deepened and grown rougher when he said, “No one mentioned your name to me, either.”
His gaze remained locked on her breasts. She heard him draw in a deeper breath—all but sensed him tighten his hold on his own reins—then he grasped her waist, spun her about, and set his fingers to the laces of her petticoats. A second later, he said, “It’s curious, now I think of it, that none of the grandes dames we both know ever pushed me in your direction.” He seemed to be concentrating on unraveling the laces, then he asked, “Did your mother or the others ever steer you toward…anyone?”
She frowned. “No. They always seemed to be waiting for me to choose…oh.” She realized what he was suggesting. “You think that they knew all along, and we were the only ones who didn’t?”
That thought wasn’t comforting.
He grunted, and the waistband of her petticoats loosened. “Let’s not think about that. The gloating will be enough to endure if and when it occurs.”
“Indeed.” Between them, they pushed down the froth of cotton and lace that was her multilayered petticoats. Taking her hand, he steadied her as she stepped free of the pile. She would have turned and walked into his arms, but his hands gripped her waist again, and he drew her back until her derriere met his thighs.
She leaned against him, her shoulders to his chest, and tipped her head back. He bent his, and their lips met again in a teasing temptation of a kiss.
Then he raised his head, and their lips parted. He didn’t straighten, but through the shadows, studied her face, watched her reactions as he cruised his palms upward, then closed his hands about her breasts.
Her eyes locked with his. She drew in a slow, tense breath—then couldn’t release it. She felt trapped in his gaze as he kneaded her flesh, then his artful fingers cruised the firm mounds, circling the puckered buds of her nipples, then closing, tightening…
Her lids fell, her spine arched, and she gasped and heard the sound hover in the dimness as if it came from someone else. He played, and her body bowed against his, her breasts pressing into his palms, an invitation he didn’t refuse.
Yet still they danced to that slow, rousing—arousing—beat.
Power of a sort she hadn’t encountered before, strange and compelling, rose and wreathed about them.
His hands possessed, then shaped the lines of her body, her hips, thighs, and derriere barely screened by the fine cotton of her chemise and drawers.
Her breathing had quickened, and her senses had come alive when he eased back an inch, steadied her, then withdrew his supporting hands and set his fingers to the laces of her corset.
Sebastian felt the power driving the desire that thudded, heavy and resounding, through his veins. Through his body, his mind, reaching into his soul. A compulsive beat that held him to its rigid cadence—slow, slow, slow.
The better to appreciate, to know and savor, the beauty before him. Not just the body, but the elemental being held within it.
The other half of him.
Where she was concerned, control was nothing more than an illusion, yet he wanted to give her this—this interlude, this engagement—one perfect moment encapsulating the promise before them.
His fingers were operating largely by rote, unpicking the laces of her lightly boned corset. A distraction seemed wise. He cleared his throat, then ventured, his voice gravelly with harnessed hunger, “When we’re married…” He glanced briefly around and tried not to sound overly diffident as he continued, “We could buy a house somewhere else in town, if you prefer…”
Her head rose; he sensed her draw breath and swiftly scan the room. Then she glanced over her shoulder. He felt her gaze touch his face, but doubted she could read much through the dimness.
After a second, she faced forward. A second later, she murmured, distinctly breathlessly, “Let’s leave such matters aside for now—we can deal with such things whenever we wish.”
The last lace gave, and relief flowed through him. He grasped her corset, drew it from her, and tossed it to join her petticoats. “An excellent idea.”
He closed the inch between them. His hands curving about her hips, he drew her flush against him, then skated his hands slowly upward, possessively reclaiming her curves; she all but purred as she instinctively arched against him.
They’d both, it seemed, accepted the imperative of clinging—for as long as they could—to that slow, rigid, compelling beat. It informed their every movement—their very breaths—as they continued to disrobe, there, in the moonlight before the windows.