The Wicked Games of a Gentleman, page 14
“Eloise.” He pressed a kiss against each corner of her mouth. “I wasn’t going to see you again until you sent for me. Please, may I keep touching you?”
“I don’t—I don’t know.”
She wasn’t ready to open her eyes to look at him again. Just for a moment longer she wanted to concentrate on the sexual heat that shivered through her. The secret place between her legs had begun to pulse unbearably; a sense of loss left her sighing when he drew his hand from her swelling breasts. But then slowly she felt the cool invasion of that same hand under her skirt, and loss turned into longing. She felt her body opening, aching, inviting more of his touch.
“Drake,” she whispered in a breathless voice.
“Tell me when to stop, sweetheart.” He groaned softly. “But, please, don’t say so yet.” God, not yet, he thought, his hand drawn to her heated cleft. He could practically taste the musk-scented moisture of her arousal.
She thought that this was probably the sensible time to tell him to stop. But when his long fingers suddenly parted the damp folds of flesh between her thighs, sinking deeply into her aching crevice, she found she could not speak. Hot shocks of pleasure streaked into the secret reaches of her body. Instead of resisting, she arched with her thighs opening to invite him.
“This is a warm welcome,” he whispered in a raw voice. He worked another finger into her wet passage and stretched her wide.
She sank against his hand, drenching him with her desire, unable to mount a defense. Her body would have betrayed whatever protest she could have made, anyway. Every private fantasy she had suppressed clamored for satisfaction. He made her so aware of her sensuality that there was no room for shame.
She shifted restlessly and moved her hips. He seemed to understand what she wanted and pressed another finger deep inside her. She ached for more but couldn’t ask. But then he plucked the sensitive hood of her sex between the thumb and forefinger of his other hand. She fell back gasping against his arm. Her swollen cleft wept with need.
“Please, Drake,” she begged, pressing her face into his shoulder. “Please…”
“You will be mine,” he whispered, unlacing the back of her gown and her chemise with one hand so that her breasts spilled out, soft and ivory pale. He leaned down and sucked a taut pink nipple into his mouth. Wild with desire, on fire for him, she gave a soft cry and arched against his other hand.
His fingers quickened, sinking even deeper, stretching her virgin sheath until pain and pleasure blurred. The muscles in her belly tightened with maddening tension. The need for relief built unbearably until she reached for him in desperation.
“Your answer is yes, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice raw. “You can’t refuse me, Eloise. I know you wouldn’t let me touch you otherwise.”
He silenced her muffled sob with his mouth. How could she stop him when she was stricken with the same insatiable hunger that she saw in his eyes? She laced her arm tightly around his neck and drew his dark face to her breasts. She needed for him to ease this helpless longing. He pulled her bodice down to her waist as if she were a wanton. Even then she couldn’t tell him to stop. She was beyond thought, offering herself to him, inviting his possession. The damp warmth of his mouth on her breasts only intensified the pulsating ache between her legs. She was half out of her mind when she felt him pull back…felt him push up her dress to expose her woman’s place to his scrutiny.
“Drake,” she gasped as he forced her knees even further apart. His tongue scalded her, drove between her plump folds in merciless enjoyment. She shuddered, throwing one arm across her face. She could not bring herself to look at him, to watch him suck and nibble at her hidden pearl. She twisted her hips, shocked and aroused at the same time. He slipped one hand beneath her bottom and held her immobile as he ate at her.
“You taste so sweet, Eloise,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “Just let yourself enjoy it.”
Her mind drifted into darkness. There was no fight in her. Her hips arched involuntarily, and his tongue drove into her core, the stabbing pleasure more than she could bear. Her breath caught on a broken cry, and then, oh, God. She shattered in complete abandon.
Drake could have died with pleasure himself when he felt her body stiffen and convulse in climax against his face. Her musky fragrance intoxicated him and he struggled to suppress his own desire, his control challenged as never before. As badly as he wanted to ease his erection inside all that honeyed warmth, this was as far as he would go until he was certain of uninterrupted privacy. It was enough she understood what pleasure he could give her even if his nerves were frayed raw with frustration.
He laid his face against her inner thigh and inhaled her womanly perfume. Faint aftershocks of pleasure still quivered through her lower body. He sighed. He’d loved watching her lose control, loved knowing that he could wring such sensuality from her.
She struggled to sit up. Her hand rested on his shoulder. He lifted his head and stared at her, unable to hide a smile. She looked spent and more than a little dazed. “Are you all right?” she asked hesitantly.
He regarded her with wry resignation. “I might be in a few hours.”
She shook her head, a smile lurking on her lips. “I don’t know what to say.”
He leaned forward and lightly kissed her, his mouth still bearing her fragrance. “I think I understand.” With another sigh he drew her dress down around her knees.
She put her hands to her loosened chemise and gaping bodice. “I don’t know what would have happened if we’d been caught.”
“I would claim that you made me shameless.”
She laughed. “As if anyone would believe that.”
He shook his head, laughing, too. “Your answer is yes?”
She bit her bottom lip. “You promised me time to think.”
He nodded slowly. A black despair had brought him to her door tonight. Now that too-familiar darkness had lifted, even if his body ached like the very devil with unfulfilled desire. Her answer would be yes. He would patiently pursue her until she relented, and when they were together his patience would be rewarded.
“I ought to leave,” he said softly, glancing away from her. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything more from Thornton?”
She frowned. “No. Not after his one message.”
He bent to kiss her once more before he rose. “All the more reason why you need a protector, Eloise.”
Throughout the remainder of the night she wrestled with her thoughts. After the past week, she could not deny the advantage of having an aggressive protector like Drake Boscastle. Perhaps she would have to compromise her principles. They had not served her particularly well thus far.
By becoming Drake’s mistress, she would not merely cross the line of respectability, she would leap over it and never be able to return. She would go from being an impoverished gentlewoman to a nobleman’s paramour whose sole purpose would be to fulfill a rake’s desires.
Quite obviously it would be the most demanding position she had ever held. And the most enjoyable. Her body flushed with feverish longing at the thought of lying with him. She’d be deceiving herself if she denied that deep in her heart she wished to accept his offer.
She had simply never thought of herself as a woman who could play the role of seductress.
By the next morning all she had really decided was that she had to come to a decision soon.
Perhaps later in the day.
The entire household had started off on the wrong foot. Everyone overslept, and no one was in a good mood over breakfast tea because there was no money to pay the coal man. The downstairs rooms were freezing, and Heston claimed that someone had broken into the house and stolen a carving knife. He knew because he’d just had it sharpened the other day. Then Mrs. Barnes came thundering into the parlor from the kitchen like a war horse because creditors had snatched a copper pot right out of her hands.
“Bloody ’ell,” Freddie said, running into the room with his jacket pulled on over his nightshirt. “Now we don’t even ’ave the proverbial pot to piss—”
Eloise held up her hand. “Enough. Hide whatever valuables are left. Especially the rest of the silver carving knives.”
“They’re all gone now,” Mrs. Barnes said with a wail of misery. “I have nothing to chop vegetables for soup.”
Eloise turned pale. “I thought Heston said only one was missing.”
“That’s right.” Mrs. Barnes folded her beefy arms over her stomach. “I threw them at the bill collectors for taking my pot.”
Anarchy, Eloise thought. The household had gone to hell in a handbasket. “Freddie, put some clothes on, please. The constable will probably come to ask why the housekeeper, like a country fair performer, is throwing knives at people. Not that it really matters, I suppose. We won’t be living here much longer.”
“Where will we be living, miss?” Heston inquired, his back creaking as he spilled the last of the broken coal onto the hearth and halfway onto the carpet.
She hesitated, awash in sympathy for the whole sorrowful lot of them. No one in his right mind would hire a butler who looked liable to drop dead at a dinner party. Or a housekeeper who had a secret calling as a performer in Astley’s Royal Circus and kept a brandy bottle in the pocket of her apron.
None of them had pensions, or relatives willing to provide shelter until they got back on their feet.
“Not to worry,” Mrs. Barnes said with a hopeful look at Eloise. “Your fancy gentleman will find you a nice house in Piccadilly, I reckon.”
“My fancy gentleman, indeed.”
Lord, they were all looking at her like a herd of starving deer during a famine, Eloise thought in annoyance.
“If she decides to take him on, that is,” Freddie said under his voice.
“You could all come and work for me.” Thalia appeared in the doorway, her cheeks as white and puffy as balls of pastry dough. Clearly she had overheard the conversation.
Eloise turned around. It gave her chills, the thought of living at Thalia’s beck and call for the rest of her days. “That’s most kind of you, but I’m sure Sir Thomas already has a staff of his own.”
“I have an uncle who owns a bar in Blackfriars, come to think of it,” Mrs. Barnes said.
Heston straightened his back. “I might open a tavern myself one of these days.”
“Better make sure it’s next to a graveyard,” Freddie muttered. “People’ll perish of thirst waitin’ for you to serve ’em.”
Thalia tapped her slippered toe on the floor. “Has everyone forgotten that I’m the one supposed to be served? I’ve been waiting an eternity for my breakfast tray. And you, Eloise, you have to do something about your hair for Lord Mitford’s anniversary ball.”
“What ball?” Eloise asked in consternation.
Thalia subjected her to a long-suffering stare. “The one I told you about last month. Lady Heaton and her brother are escorting us. Aren’t you the one who insisted I should go?”
“And so you should,” Eloise retorted. “But I don’t have a decent dress to wear.” Besides, the last thing she wanted to do was sit against the wall listening to spinsters discuss their bunions and boils.
“Borrow one of mine,” Thalia said. “The crimson ball gown covered in silk poppies absolutely swims on me. You should be able to fit into it if we let out all the seams.”
“Lady Heaton will be there to chaperone you,” Eloise said, frowning. “This will be a good opportunity for you to grow close to her before the wedding. I should only be in the way.”
Thalia planted her hands on her hips. “But you’re paid to be my companion.”
“We haven’t been paid in a month,” Freddie said, ignoring the warning look Eloise gave him.
“You haven’t?” Thalia’s eyes grew red and watery. Her nose quivered. “I didn’t realize. I’m certain that Lady Heaton could be persuaded to pay your wages.”
Eloise felt her annoyance melt away. What a gratifying surprise to see the spoiled girl showing signs of becoming a thoughtful young woman. “That’s very kind of you. I wouldn’t ask for myself, of course, but for the others—”
“Good. Then it’s settled,” Thalia said, rubbing the tip of her nose. “You can ask Lady Heaton yourself at the ball. I don’t want to spend my whole evening talking to her, anyway. She bores me stupid.”
Eloise looked at Freddie as Thalia flounced back upstairs to await her breakfast. “I’m not quite sure how that happened.”
“My God, miss.” He shook his head. “You’re too soft, that’s how. Still, an evening out won’t do you any harm. No pleasure sitting about on that old sofa every night.”
Her eyes strayed to the aforementioned old sofa. An illicit image flashed through her mind before she could stop it. Drake’s shadowed face between her legs. Her body straining against him, his dark blue eyes drugged with desire. Oh, there was pleasure for her on that sofa, all right.
A door banged open upstairs. Thalia’s shrill whine trembled through the house. “El-oh-eeeze! I thought you were going to help me go through my gowns. Will you please come upstairs this instant? I need you.”
“Cor,” Freddie muttered, “sometimes I’d like to take the flat of my hand to ’er scrawny backside and—”
“Really, Freddie,” Eloise said. “One does not speak of one’s employer that way—”
“Are you coming or not?” Thalia shouted.
“—even if one thinks it,” she muttered, stomping with clenched jaw up the steep stairs to Thalia’s bedroom.
She wondered whether this really was what the future held for her. Was she destined to fulfill a calling to refine the uncouth young Thalias of the world? Would she devote her life to dignity and duty? Or would she submit to the lure of the wicked and become Drake Boscastle’s lover? Would pearls and a pampered life take precedence over her principles? She paused at the top of the stairs.
“Help me, Eloise,” Thalia shouted from the bedroom door, and a pair of shoes went flying into the air. “Everything I own is so horribly outmoded. And you, well, all I can say is that if you’re going to be a fashionable impure, you shall have to consider your appearance.”
Several exhausting hours later Thalia had decided on what to wear to Lord Mitford’s ball. A silver-white gown and tissue overskirt whose clinging lines embued her with the elegant silhouette of a Grecian sylph. Her moon-blond hair took another two hours to arrange until each scented ringlet hung just so on her slender shoulders, rather, Eloise thought happily, like a cluster of spring lilies in half-bloom.
None of Thalia’s inexpensive but attractive gowns fit Eloise properly. In contrast to Thalia’s sleek, long-waisted figure, Eloise possessed a body that was mostly bosom and bottom. After squeezing in and out of a selection of dresses, she was breathlessly reduced to choosing the stiff red brocade ball gown emblazed with huge poppies. She felt as if she were wrapped in the parlor carpet.
“It belonged to my great-grandmother,” Thalia said nostalgically. “Try not to spill anything on it. She was wearing that gown when she drew her last breath, and it has special meaning to me.”
“If I sit down tonight,” Eloise said, “I think I may be mistaken for an armchair.”
Thalia threw her arms around her in an impulsive hug. “I am going to miss you, Eloise. In fact, I will beg Thomas unceasingly to send for you once we’re settled, unless you become Lord Drake’s mistress. Have you decided?”
She disentangled herself from Thalia’s arms in alarm. “You don’t think he’ll be there, do you?” She moved stiffly to the mirror in the ball gown of Thalia’s deceased great-grandmama. “If he sees me in this dress, he’ll probably retract his offer.”
Thalia raised her brow. “If he sees you in that dress and still desires you, you will have to know that he deserves your love, and there really won’t be any decision to make.”
Chapter Seventeen
The ball had gone fairly well. Thalia had been on her best behavior, attentive to her future mother-in-law. Eloise had privately fended off four inappropriate advances, scolded a footman for snidely asking her if she was Queen Elizabeth’s ghost, and sneaked her third glass of champagne between sets. The champagne soothed her jangled nerves and lifted her into a floatingly pleas ant if detached frame of mind.
How many days left until her client was married? She’d lost count. Blame it on a Boscastle. Ever since meeting Drake she had lost track of time. Was he here tonight? she wondered. She wanted to see him, but not like this. She’d scare the daylights out of him looking like…like the Virgin Queen’s ghost.
She scanned the ballroom for a sign of his dark, broad-shouldered form. She was standing against the wall with Lady Heaton’s relatives, attempting to fade into the background unnoticed. Perhaps people would think she was a Flemish wall tapestry.
Suddenly there was a buzz of excitement amidst the older matrons seated around her. Lady Heaton surged to her feet and gasped, her blue-veined hand over her heart. “He’s here. Oh, my heavens, he’s here. The darling boy did not alert me of his return.”
Eloise turned in mild curiosity to examine the slightly plump young man plodding awkwardly across the floor toward them. By no stretch of the imagination did this lumbering barrel-chested figure cause a similar consternation in her heart. Yet he did seem vaguely familiar—
“It’s Thomas,” one of Lady Heaton’s maiden sisters said, clapping her hands in glee. “Oh, where is Thalia? She’ll be beside herself at this happy surprise.”
Lady Heaton glanced in agitation at Eloise. “Would you please find her, Miss Goodwin? I vow she was on the dance floor with my brother only a few moments ago.”
Eloise could have sworn the same thing herself. In fact, Thalia had not made a single misstep the entire evening. She’d danced with only one or two of the most decent, if boring, young gentlemen. And now, in the middle of a country reel with her betrothed’s uncle, she appeared to have vanished into the ethers.
