You May Kiss the Bride(82)

Livia didn’t move, only looked at him long and searchingly.

Finally, as if satisfied with what she had seen, she said, “Come.”

She turned away and went softly into her bedchamber without waiting to see whether or not he followed.

But he did.

And went into her room.

And slowly, carefully, he closed the door behind him.

The sound of it, the little click, wood fitting neatly into wood, seemed loud in his own ears.

Livia stood a few feet away, her back to him. In the flickering golden illumination from a small candelabra on her dressing-table he saw that of the twenty or so little buttons on her gown, there were five—he actually counted them—five of them, little and white and reminding him of pearls, located just below her shoulder blades, that remained fastened.

“Are you going to lock the door?” she said, without turning around.

“Yes.”

He did, with that same careful deliberation, then came up behind her, close but not touching her with any part of him. He could feel again that galvanic pulse of energy, surging between them, roiling all throughout his body like an elemental storm. He was hard, so hard, but with a sort of wonderful, willful denial he stayed where he was; and saw, with pleasure, that Livia was breathing more quickly, as if she, too, was experiencing the same rush of all-consuming desire.

She swayed a little, and he slid his arms around her, embracing her lightly. Then he pressed his lips to the warm skin of her nape, exposed by hair still upswept, and he breathed in that elusive, spicy, cinnamon-like fragrance which seemed to be uniquely hers.

“Yes,” Livia said, “yes, Gabriel,” and leaned against him, against his hardness. It was another way to say yes and he smiled, and with his tongue he lazily traced a path along the side of her neck, tasting, exploring. God in heaven, he could eat her up.

From outside the room a strong gust of wind sent raindrops splattering hard against the windows.

“Rain,” he whispered into her ear, “again. But this time, perhaps, we might lie down together.” He kissed the delicate flesh of her lobe and sent the tip of his tongue, lazy, soft, wet, to the canal of her ear, in a provocative mimicry of that other, more intimate act, that sweet joining of their bodies. A shudder rippled through her, and she pressed herself against him more firmly.

He laughed, gently, and drew back, but only to unfasten those five remaining buttons, and to slide her gown from her shoulders, where it puddled at her bare feet, leaving her in only a white petticoat, white stays, white shift. Only these few, flimsy layers of fabric. Excitement, hot and urgent, gripped him, but still with that same lack of haste he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him.

She tilted her head to look up at him. Her expression was a mixture of calmness and tension, serenity and passion. Seeing it, understanding her willingness, filled him with a wild exhilaration.

Yet he kept himself in check.

In the far reaches of his mind he marveled at his own control, when what he really wanted to do was to rip those garments from her, grab her up, naked against him, lay her down—gently or not—onto the bed, and have her, have her until she cried out in ecstasy as she had before, in that ridiculous little shed somewhere on the road between Bath and Stanton Drew.

“You are certain?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“We must be quiet.”

“I know.”

“I hope your bed isn’t noisy.”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

“Don’t rush me,” he said. “Take down your hair.”

“You do it.”

He slid his hands from her shoulders to lightly encircle her throat. Easily did his big hands span this fragile circumference; at once that mysterious, intoxicating energy radiated between himself and Livia and his palms felt as if they were on fire. “Are you telling me what to do?”

“Yes.”

He smiled then, and began pulling out the pins and jeweled clasps that had meticulously been set in her hair. Great thick strands, chestnut, deep red, brown, gold, shining and silky, tumbled free, and he remembered how, standing in the none too clean parlor of the Spotted Hare, he had looked at her mane of hair and wondered, despite himself, what it would feel like against his skin.

And now he was going to find out.



Livia watched Gabriel intent at his task. She stood passive, both relaxed and taut, relishing his closeness and the intimate feel of his fingers in her hair. A few minutes ago, in the hallway, she had stared up into his face. She had known that she was in control of what would happen next, knew that he would accept her decision, yes or no. When they had made love before, she’d ended up feeling ashamed, sorry. In the hallway she had asked herself if this time, it would be different. Had things changed between them?