The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection Volume 2(124)

She could hear the low pipe of a bird in the distance, and could taste the salty tang of the seaside air on her tongue. The sun warmed her languid limbs and breasts. There was not a cloud in the sky. It was almost as if the storm had never been.



Storm. Shelter. The cave. One hand flew up to her bosom in alarm. But no, she was decently clad. Her shoes and stockings lay beside her, and her gown was neatly down around her bare ankles.



She got up and stared at the base of the cliff, but could see no sign of any entrance. She walked up and down for some time, looking for some tell-tale sign, a footprint, scrapings, anything. All was gently rolling, without a trace of any human presence except her own. Soon even the dune she had awakened upon was indistinguishable from all the others as the sands shifted in the sea breeze.



Burning with shame, confusion, and not a little fear, she grabbed her shoes and stockings and fled back to Ellesmere Manor as fast as her trembling legs could carry her. Once there, she took the servants' back stairs, for the last thing she needed was to run into one of her family party. She was wet, covered in sand, crumpled, hatless, shawl-less and barefoot.



She ran into the room, and shut and locked the door. Only when she was in the safety of her small primrose, pale blue, and white room did she dare to think about what could have happened.



But had anything happened? There had been no sign of a storm, a cave. Had she simply lain down upon the beach and dreamed the entire erotic experience?



She blushed with mortification, ran into her small bathing chamber, and began to strip off her ruined gown.



Looking at herself in the mirror, the truth began to dawn on her. She touched her face, dared to touch her breasts, and admitted with another blush that she looked like a woman who had been well and truly tumbled.



She removed her gown and drawers, and with another blush of shame and wonder, touched herself below. It had been real. There was heated moisture but no soreness or blood. He had touched her intimately, but she did not think she had to fear pregnancy. Not through any resistance on her part, she admitted candidly, mortified at the way she had responded to a complete stranger. She hadn't even seen his face, nor asked his name....



Elizabeth padded barefoot into the bathroom and opened the taps, lighting the small oil burner to heat the water as it passed through the tank which was filled from a rainwater trough at the top of the house. It was just many of the conveniences her brother had added to the house since he had become Duke several years before, and one she and the servants never took for granted.



As she swirled some Epsom salts into the running water, she replayed the entire scene over again in her mind, trying to put a face to her shadowy lover. She had no idea what had happened to her at the end. It had been like nothing she ever could have imagined. Her soul had taken flight in his arms. The next thing she knew she had been on the beach by herself.



She touched herself gently once more, and set herself aquiver all over again. She summoned up his presence once more in her mind, his taste, feel, scent, but dragged her hand away when she felt her breath catch in her throat in an impassioned sob.



Good Lord, what had he done to her? He might not have ruined her in the physical sense, but she had lost her innocence almost as irrevocably. For as Elizabeth got into the tub to scrub herself, every part of her body tingled.



Her lathered hands reminded her of his upon her, questing, seeking, thrilling. She dragged her hands away from her breasts, staring in horrified fascination at her peaked nipples and the rosy flush which tinged her skin from throat to knees. She felt as if there was nowhere he hadn't caressed her lingeringly, though he had never even removed any part of her clothing.



She added more cold to the bath, trying to freeze the heated passion from her sensitized flesh, but the contrast between her skin and the chilly water only made her shiver more with longing. Longing that he would come back and warm her with his magnificent huge body, his incredible large hands…



With a dismayed groan Elizabeth finished washing her hair and flung out of the tub. But the friction of the towels only made matters worse. She hurled them from her and reached for her silk wrapper. The soft material whispered over her breast and thighs sensually, and she gasped and hugged her arms to her to try to stop whatever was happening to her.



Was she ill? Had she caught some sort of fever? She couldn't stop tasting him, smelling him, wanting him.



As she lay on the four-poster bed, Elizabeth had to admit to herself she was fevered all right. She had been infected by wanton desire. She wanted nothing more than to lose herself in the extraordinary sensations he had evoked. But how was she ever to find him again?