Ian held my hand under the table the entire meal. Isabella knew—of course she did. She seems quite enchanted with Ian’s attentions to me. But if she knew how Ian held my hand, she might not be so sanguine.
Ian cannot do something so simple as hold a woman’s hand. He moves his thumb up my wrist and under my glove, finding points that shoot wild heat through my body. He caresses the inside of my palm with soft fingers, and then he threads his fingers through mine and holds hard, as though teaching me that my hand belongs there with his. He calmly eats his sole meuhiere, or whatever exotic concoction Isabella has insisted we try, and says not a word. Ian and I are lovers—how strange for me to pen the word. And yet, we have not consummated our affair, not in the way of the marriage bed. I had thought, in Mac’s studio, that he would remove his clothes and couple with me on the couch. But he did not. He didn’t take off one stitch, not even loosening his collar, while I lay against him in my altogether. Quite disappointing.
However, my bare skin against the fabric of his coat was a strange but pleasing sensation. I never thought myself so depraved, but it made me feel rather wild and wanton. I would have done anything in that room, anything he wanted me to, but he gently suggested I dress and go before Isabella worried where I was.
I did, but the way he kissed me before I departed promised more adventures at a later time. And good heavens, did I , have an adventure today. . . .
Beth paused in her writing to listen to the rain beating at the windows. Paris had come in for a series of summer storms, rain and wind gushing endlessly through the city. It had ruined Beth’s morning walk and put paid to her and Isabella strolling along looking at shops.
Ian had said he’d take Isabella and me driving in the park today, and he arrived at the appointed hour. Isabella took one look at the slate gray sky and flatly refused to go. If we wanted fresh air so much, she said, Ian and I could go without her. Ian didn’t look as though he minded one way or another, so I found myself climbing into the carriage alone with him. Was Isabella a bit too easily put off by the weather? Did she too readily press her hand to her head and declare she felt a migraine coming on? She seems to want me to be improper—perhaps to encourage Ian to propose? But Ian and I are grown-up people—he is twenty-seven, Isabella tells me, which puts him two years younger than 1.1 am not a virginal debutante sheltering behind her mama’s skirts, and he is not a dark villain. We are simply a widow and a bachelor of the same age enjoying each other’s company. When the carriage began moving around the park at a fair clip, I boldly told Ian how much I’d liked feeling his clothes against my body in Mac’s studio. He smiled that warm, melting smile of his and said that if I liked that sort of sensation, I could pull down my drawers then and there and sit bare-buttocked on his lap.
The thought aroused me instantly, and Ian knew it, drat the man. I believe he delights in putting me in this state. I did not obey, because I could imagine the coach having an accident and me scrambling to safety with my lacy drawers about my ankles. Paris is a more permissive place than London, but I think even here I’d never live it down. Ian smiled at my fears and told me that nearly getting caught was part of the fun. I countered by mentioning that he had seen quite a lot of my bare skin, while I hadn’t seen a bit of his.
He then asked me which bit I had in mind.
I, of course, want to see all of him. The feel of hard muscle beneath his suits suggests a body well honed, and the thought of viewing any part of it makes me pulse with excitement. Unfortunately we were in a moving carriage, and Ian removing all his clothes, then resuming them wouldn’t have been practical. He told me I could view any bit I wished, but I’d have to open that part of his clothing myself. Depraved thing that I am, I reached over and began to unfasten his trousers.
Ian sat back and let me, his eyes closing to slits of gold. He spread his legs but refused to help me. This vexed me, because men’s clothes are wretched things. I don’t know how they manage. I had to unbutton and untie and move several pieces of fabric before I finally found what I sought. Ian was shaking by the time I finished—with laughter, I believe. At last his clothes parted, and I was able to reveal that part of a man’s anatomy that is the cause of so much wickedness. I am pleased to say I felt no embarrassment or timidity as I closed my hand around it and drew it forth.
Ian did not need to be embarrassed either. He is perfectly shaped. His shaft is smooth and dark, very warm in the cool carriage. It ends in a wide tip, like a cap with a tiny slit in its middle. I stroked my finger over this slit, and Ian made a hungry noise.