Ensnared by Innocence Page 13

  She felt him shake with laughter, the rapscallion. He held her still when she would have jerked away and thwacked him after all.

  “You are so damn innocent,” he said into the valley between her breasts, barely suppressing his mirth.

  “I am not. I already told you.” It was an effort to keep her tone low. She was starting to sweat, their innocuous little space quickly becoming hot and sultry. “Especially not after what we did last night—”

  “What we will do again now if you will only acquiesce and obey.” His hands slid to her back, over her gown, where he proceeded to trace a path down every vertebra of her spine, starting from her nape and stopping only when he reached the sensitive indentation leading to her bottom. He palmed the fleshy area, squeezed her backside, pressing the fabric inward with his lower fingers. “Unless you are overly chafed. Here.” His fingers snagged against the delicate fabric as he urged them deeper between her legs. “Are you?”

  “How can you ask such a thing out loud?” she said by way of distraction. She wasn’t about to confess how very tender she was nor let such a thing stop her, not when his touch only increased how aroused, how moist and swollen her netherlands felt. Staunchly refusing to acknowledge any of that or how trembly he made her, she stiffened her knees. “Nay, not sore at all.”

  “Liar,” he laughed softly. “For shame, Francine. ’Tis totally against your word.”

  “All right. Yes, but not too sore.”

  He kissed each of her breasts through her gown. “My hearing’s beyond excellent. No one will approach within thirty paces without my knowing. And aye, I am going to lick and suck on your bosom. Now take your blasted dress off before I rip—”

  Francine leapt to obey. At the promise of his lips upon her flesh, her gown fairly flew off, landing somewhere in the dark magical space, leaving her in shift, stays, stockings and slippers. She balanced her hands upon his shoulders, feeling skin and cloth where his shirt had parted and she began to explore him, touching his collarbone, his neck…

  The music grew louder, gaining in tempo, a swift barrage of melodious notes that filled the air, further insulating them from the realities of life occurring beyond their private haven.

  * * *

  That was a surprise. So, his brave, bold lass found utter darkness unsettling?

  Yet another reason you ought not be dallying with her. Your cursed soul is nothing if not dark.

  Yet dally he damn well would.

  Did he not deserve the solace, the escape her presence afforded, if not forever, then for a few precious moments? For his sanity, if not his life.

  Selfish, man.

  Damn necessary.

  He gripped her waist harder, held on tight to both his conviction and his woman, lest his conscience gain the upper hand.

  After the mews, the sordid news, he needed oblivion as he’d never needed before.

  And damn his rotten soul, for the next few minutes, he would take.

  And if you scare her off for real this time?

  Then so much the better.

  Beyond determined, Blakely swung one leg over, sitting astride the bench, forcing his hold to gentle, calling on his human will to temper the maelstrom of agonizing desperation tied up with want and need.

  Barely shielded by her shift, thrust upward by her stays, the tops of her breasts jiggled in front of him as her fingertips danced across his jaw, his cheeks, along his nose—

  Putting his olfactory senses on alert. “I smell dirt on your person.” Not the earthy, sunshine scent she always exuded. “Dirt.”

  Her touch stumbled to a halt above his eyebrows.

  She jerked back, taking those tempting mounds farther from his mouth. “Are you saying that I’m dirty? That I stink? I washed just before—”

  “Nay, sweetheart. As always, I think you smell divine. I’m talk of literal earth. Soil.” Clean and fresh, unspoilt by city refuse.

  She drifted back, closer, as he spoke. “After you left, I did some weeding.” Which explained much. “’Twas that or listen to Aunt Prudence complain about your spontaneous—”

  “Hush now. When we are together, like so, I would rather that woman not cross either of our minds.”

  “Agreed.” The word breezed from her lips as gently as a butterfly might land upon a petal. Her hands fluttered about his shoulders before going round his neck, her nails digging in—exquisitely so—above his nape. “Consider thoughts of anyone other than you banished henceforth.”

  He pulled her shift down and feasted on the glorious sight. “By God, Francine, you might not be able to see well at night but you, my dear, are a vision.”

  Her sigh of pleasure rewarded the compliment but he sought other bounty. He cupped both of her breasts, pushing them toward each other. A noticeable delineation crossed both creamy globes, the upper swells several shades darker than the flesh below. Just how much time did she spend outdoors? The milk-white skin led directly to her hard-tipped rosy nipples.

  His thumbs circled the stiff points, fingernails edged over the nubby flesh. He meant to tell her what she was missing, describe how she looked to him. He intended to, if only he could find the words…

  “Oh.” She pushed herself into his hands and sank her fingers deeper into his hair. He wanted to tell her how her nails digging into his scalp felt better than they should, how satisfaction roared through him when she shuffled ever closer, bringing her breasts to his lips—which he proceeded to take full advantage of, flicking his tongue over the invitation of one nipple.

  He wanted to tell her how the curious juxtaposition of innocent seductress fired his blood in a way he’d never experienced. Most of all, he wanted to describe how her demure blonde ringlets had fallen free in her haste to remove her gown, how the loose curls cascaded down the sides of her neck and made her the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  He wanted to tell her all those things. But he couldn’t.

  His lips were occupied.

  “Umm. I, um, like to garden,” she puffed over his head, just the lightest of sounds. “And dirt…you—ah—know goes along with…umm…”

  His tongue swirled around the puckered flesh, drawing more moans of appreciation from the delight who bewitched him so. Her beauty—her beauteous reactions to him—helping blot out the horror he’d discovered a few weeks ago and revisited tonight.

  “Mmm. Herbs and such,” she gasped. Her nails scraped along his scalp, raising his hair, his desire. “Plants and…um, passion.”

  Stifling a growl, he drew upon her breast, sucking the appetizing tip into his mouth and drawing hard. His nostrils flared. The womanly scent of her cream overrode the remnants of dandelion and fennel he’d just identified.

  Heated petticoat or further discussion on garden plants?

  Not much of a dilemma, was it? He released her breast and rolled the damp bead between his thumb and forefinger while his other hand went to his fall. He needed to climax, to discharge his seed before he bent her over and forgot himself. “Stand over my face.”

  Ignoring her startled gasp, he shuffled her back and scooted forward till he could recline upon the settee. He was still in control, by damn, and it was going to stay that way. “Now.”

  Using her hands to guide her, she sketched her way up his body with a tortuous precision that left him gritting his teeth and wishing to God he’d never freed his blasted erection. Too blame slow for him but so elegantly, he didn’t have the heart to tell her to hasten.

  When she reached his shoulders, she carefully arranged one leg over his chest, bracing her knee next to his head. “Do you mean like this?”

  Her scent surrounded him. Near his face, her velvet slit pulsed, glistening with moisture. He could practically hear the heartbeat reverberating between her thighs. His pelvis contracted, instinctively rising up, his cock seeking her heat, but he tamped down the urge to plow into her. He wasn’t an animal—not tonight anyway.

  But his blood felt like liquid fire rushing through his veins, burning him
from the inside out. And he needed her release to douse the flames.

  “Hold this.” Blakely pushed her shift to her waist. He spread his hands on her inner thighs. “Do not make a sound.”

  He angled his head and surged upward, latching on to the saturated folds, licking the swollen flesh, eating the very heart of her—and tasting heaven.

  He heard her breath catch, the tiny murmurs she couldn’t completely stifle. He felt her thighs quivering, drank the wash of desire that flitted past his lips and realized he’d never experienced anything so pure. So perfect as Francine’s passion. For him.

  Her respiration increased and her hips started thrashing, spreading her essence over his mouth and chin. She was almost there. How he wanted to join her. His erection was straining. Rigid. Needing to feel the heated welcome of her body.

  He thrust his tongue higher, almost wishing he didn’t want her so fiercely. That she didn’t taste so blasted innocent. So much for describing what she looked like, for telling her how the toasted skin of her arms and upper chest tantalized him…confessing how the reflected candlelight shining beneath the curtain glinted off her pale hair, creating a halo about her head.

  Making her look like an angel. His angel. Cast out from heaven to save him from his cursed existence.

  But he couldn’t tell her those things. Not and maintain his sanity.

  So he growled into her slick opening. Frustrated. Exhilarated.

  Hearing her whimpers grow louder, knowing if he didn’t do something soon, she was going to shout the curtain down, he took one final swallow and reached between her legs to plunder her wet slit with his hand. She flinched and trembled above him.

  Her thick honey dripped down, coating his fingers. He teased the top of her treasure with his tongue and removed his hand to clutch his erection, wrapping his crevice-warmed fingers around his shaft.

  He grunted at the sensation and flicked his tongue over her pearled flesh as swiftly as he could. His thoughts flew faster than his tongue. There was no way he’d trust himself to pull out. Not tonight, when the wanting of her was like a fever in his blood. Maybe later, before he took her home. But for now…

  Stroking himself, he spread her thick heat along his cock, feeling his ballocks draw up, his anus clench, his pelvis jerk upward, forging his rod through the tight grip of his fingers while his tongue continued its foray into paradise.

  Francine bent forward and shoved one fist against her mouth, muffling her cries. He looked up, past her bunched shift, past her exposed and pouty-tipped breasts, to her face. He saw the look of wonder she couldn’t hide—didn’t try to.

  And he exploded, coming so hard, so fast, semen shot from his cock before he could cover it.

  To keep from roaring his frustration—his satisfaction—he sucked one side of her labia into his mouth and bit down with his lips, loving her moan of surprise.

  His cock jerked twice more. The proof of his eruption oozed past his hand and over his abdomen and still he loved her with his mouth, each one of her tiny squeals spurring him on.

  After one last squeeze along his shaft, he unfurled his hand and brought it to her lips. She sucked two fingers into her mouth, hummed and flailed her juicy flesh over his jaw. He slid his other hand to the crevice of her buttocks. Edging between, he rimmed the tight ring. It opened, then squeezed shut against the pad of his finger.

  His cock strained toward her in response.

  The only warning he had of Francine’s orgastic onslaught was the sudden tensing of her entire body. Then she screamed around his fingers and melted, every muscle going limp as she flooded his mouth with her release.

  The roar of the applause below masked her throaty cries, her shouted, “Erasmus!”

  And damned if he didn’t climax again.

  9

  Horrid Horrors of Horrible Humidity

  Rowden House, London, Thursday (June 18), 1812

  Dearest Kat—

  I trust this letter will find you exceptionally well. Although, it feels as though I have been waiting an age to hear from you, I vow, I cannot let yet another day expire before taking pen to page and sharing my exciting news.

  In truth, I stand (or rather, sit) awed that I managed to delay this long, but in addition to needing time to lapse, so that I no longer felt quite in such a dreamlike state as to question the authenticity of what continues to occur around me, I also needed time to help order my disorderly thoughts. Yet the more I mentally ramble about, the less I believe this has proved the case!

  Let us not forget, the only way to ensure my letters get posted timely, is to do so myself, and not rely on one of my aunt’s servants. Though Burford can be trusted explicitly, too many of them are in her pocket, and report any little infraction. So now that they—and she—have taken themselves off for a short holiday, I can be free!

  Free with my time. With my correspondence. Free to indulge myself by divulging the most intimate of details that I cannot imagine confiding to anyone else. Not even young Temperance, though I profess a gladness of heart to impart that she and I are slowly—out of eyesight and earshot of her mother and sister—becoming close once again.

  But enough of that. Oh, dearest, I miss you so! When will your wretched husband bring you back to London? Tell him for me, if you would, that another short visit is all I ask—though a long one would prove a thousand times better.

  I cannot believe so many months have gone by with nary a note to mark their passing. But neither can I quite believe what I write you next…

  What I ask.

  About things of an intimate nature.(I am quite certain I must be the most wicked lady in all of London, for what I’m about to share—and with such giddy abandon too!)

  Kat, when we were but fifteen, laughing together, thinking about potential beaus and our upcoming come-outs, could either of us ever have imagined how differently things would have evolved? For us both…

  Nay. I shall not go looking backward, but ever onward. (You taught me that.)

  Now, find yourself a quiet spot, candles if you need, for I intend this to be a long and salacious, mayhap even gossipy, letter, full of all manner of exciting, confidential tidbits whereupon I shall not finish until asking you all sorts of questions about relations. Relations between men and women!

  Faugh! Once again I ramble ahead of myself…

  A soft knock upon the already open morning room door, not quite audible over the tumultuous downpour beyond the windows, did not prove sufficient to capture Francine’s attention.

  Not from the onerous task at hand—untangling yesterday’s pathetic pictorial efforts in thread.

  Nor from the tempest railing just a few feet from her comfortable perch upon her aunt’s favorite settee. Which is precisely why Francine had chosen to make herself comfortable on it.

  The dark sky and thick clouds beyond the seldom-used furniture obscured the sun to such a degree that the multiple candle flames surrounding her (many more than would be lit had her aunt been in residence), while not replacing the precious sunlight, at least brightened the room from its meager state prior.

  Overlooking the informal gardens as it did prompted Francine to use the space whenever she could. Her preference for this room—when her aunt was away—certainly had nothing whatsoever to do with Aunt Prudence’s stingy use of it, forbidding her daughters and Francine from enjoying the serene setting. No matter that she herself usually slept far too late to ever savor the dawn of a new day or witness the colorful, vibrant plants reaching toward nature’s mothering warmth as the sun rose from the east.

  But not today. No precious sunlight today, neither early dawn nor after nuncheon, a quick glance out the rattling window confirmed.

  Nuncheon. What a pitiful meal that had been, poor Cook floundering when everything she had prepared, along with every transportable kitchen store, had been nabbed by her aunt and cousins before they took off on their jaunt. And on a public coach, no less. Poor horses, forced to trudge miles on a day like today. They were to
be pitied—if not the passengers, who made the choice of traipsing through the mire.

  Outside. How she’d rather be on the other side of the rain-lashed windows, palms deep in the earth, coaxing her summer seedlings along. Of a certainty, despite the mud, rivulets and thunder, how she’d rather be anywhere other than “occupying herself as a well-bred lady ought”: fingers knotted in the woven mess of yesterday’s unproductive efforts, attempting to untangle what had become of her threads.

  Three days.

  She tried not to groan at the thought.

  Three days now that she’d not seen Erasmus, likely three more before she would, given how his trip to his country estate was expected to last five or six, “a sennight at most” he’d promised when last they’d parted.

  After all their efforts establishing themselves as an affianced couple via frequent public appearances these past weeks, the dear man had likely relished his steward’s letter requesting his presence. ’Twas no doubt relieved for the valid reason to avoid Francine’s altogether unpleasant aunt altogether. She chuckled at the wordplay, however uninspiring.

  “At least that takes my mind off wanting to pillory the steward for stealing away my exciting betrothed,” she muttered, frantic fingers making little if any progress against the stubborn tangles.

  Exciting. Only one of a handful of words she’d used in the long letter composed to her dearest friend back home. Katherina, the only childhood friend she’d maintained any regular correspondence with since her reluctant relocation to London.

  Kat had been married for three years now, still without issue, poor dear, and…well…

  Well, now that Francine was finally engaged? Finally engaging in her own clandestine activities—stolen kisses, brief touches and heated looks aplenty, if not the significantly more she’d rather. Well, Francine found that she had to tell someone. Had multiple topics to question her friend on, both about things she and her betrothed had done together—and several they hadn’t but ones she wondered about all the same.