Joan Smith - Regency Masquerade

A warning bell rang inside his head. Why was she telling him this? Was the lady about to involve him in some shady business of her own, some business that had nothing to do with Stanby? He remembered her look of fear when the major had been introduced to her.

"Have you any reason to think so?” he asked.

Moira bit back her annoyance at his unhelpful response. “Not really. It is just the way he looks at me, with those horrid gooseberry eyes, saying all the right things but not meaning them."

"I think you are overly imaginative, Lady Crieff, but if you dislike the man, you need have nothing to do with him."

She let her head fall forward, then looked up at him shyly from the corners of her beautiful eyes. “I am glad you are here to protect me, Mr. Hartly."

Hartly considered it as good as an invitation. His arm reached out and went around her shoulder. He pulled her against his chest. Lord, but she was a beauty, with those deep silver pools of eyes and ripe cherry lips, just asking to be kissed. The creamy mounds of her full breasts strained against their velvet nest. As if by instinct, he raised his hand and placed it on her breast. She gave a convulsive leap.

"What are you doing, Mr. Hartly!” she exclaimed in a shocked whisper, though her voice was not raised, presumably to prevent David from hearing.

"Just what you invited me here to do, milady. Making love to you."

Without further ado, he crushed her against him and plundered those full, lush lips. He paid no heed when she made an attempt to free herself, taking it for a token resistance, to save face.

Moira felt helpless. She admitted it was at least partly her own fault, as she had invited Hartly into her room. She knew she was in no real danger, with Jonathon next door. She could make some commotion-shout or knock over a lamp-but she was not happy to let Jonathon see what was happening.

Living quietly in the country, she had had no opportunity to discover the secrets of love. Naturally it was a matter that intrigued her deeply, and here was her chance to learn. It was not at all what she had imagined her first kiss being like. She had pictured a gentle embrace, perhaps by moonlight, with a tame lover asking permission.

Hartly's embrace was nothing like that. He did not ask; he took, and she found that, after all, that was the way an embrace should be. There should be a sense of compulsion to it. She stopped trying to push him away and gave herself over to the strange experience. Odd how lips pressing on lips sent those hot rushes of pleasure through the whole body. When Hartly moved one arm away, she did not rush to free herself but waited to see what he would do. She felt his fingers lightly brushing her cheek. It felt pleasant at first, but when his fingers began to slide down toward her breast, she drew them back up.

His lips continued nibbling at hers, murmuring husky endearments against her fevered cheek. “My God, you are a temptress, milady.” His warm fingers found their way to the bodice of her gown but did not stray lower. “Your skin is like Devon cream, so lush and smooth."

Moira felt a stab of weakness invade her being. She was allowing Mr. Hartly unspeakable liberties. What would Lady Marchbank think if she ever found out? “You must not say such things, Mr. Hartly!” she said primly.

He lifted his head and gazed at her with wildly dilated eyes, which were like a glitter of dark sapphires. Then he lowered his head and kissed her again. She felt a flicker of moistness pressing insistently against her lips. What was he doing? She pulled away sharply. His arms went around her, pulling her more tightly against him until her soft breasts melded to his firm chest.

An inchoate gasp hovered on the air. In her state of perturbation, she was not sure whether it came from herself or Mr. Hartly. Her fingers rose to tangle in his crisp hair. She felt his strong hands drawing along the contours of her sides, measuring her small waist, lingering over the flare of hips.

When he lifted his head, he was breathing heavily, and his face was flushed. He was immensely relieved that she was only a lightskirt and nothing more.

"Is he asleep yet?” he asked in a ragged voice. “I cannot take much more of this. Let us go to your bedchamber. He will not hear through the sitting room. I want you now."

Moira drew back and blinked dumbly. “Mr. Hartly!” she said. “I hope you do not think I am that sort of girl!"

A bark of laughter erupted on the still air. “I know exactly what sort of girl you are, milady. Come, why waste time? Or is there a fee to be settled first? Is that it?"

"What… what do you mean?” she asked in perplexity.

"I mean do you charge for your services, or is this an exercise in mutual gratification? I have no objection either way."

"What services?” She blinked twice, then a mask of outrage seized her features. “Mr. Hartly! You had better leave at once."

"The hell I will. You brought me here. You have excited me beyond control."

He made a lunge for her. Moira leapt up and grabbed the poker. “Get out."

Hartly looked at her and saw the real anger sparking in her eyes. Those lips that had been so warmly inviting a moment ago were now firmed in determination.

"Well, well,” he said satirically. “It was misleading for you to suggest Stanby should be watched, madam. It is women like you who ought to be banned from decent establishments."

Moira bit her underlip. There was some truth in what Mr. Hartly was implying. She had led him on, but she had not intended for it to go so far. Even she had nearly lost control, and from what her friends told her, gentlemen had a much harder time of it.

Her hand flew to her lips, and tears started in her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Hartly, whatever must you think of me? But I did not mean for it to happen. Indeed I did not.” She gave a hiccup of fear. “I had no notion… You must forgive me. You will not tell anyone?"

Hartly just stood, staring in confusion. It seemed impossible that a widow had so little notion how lovemaking proceeded on its inevitable course. Just how old had her husband been?

"I am not likely to boast of my failure,” he said grimly.

"Failure? But… but it was rather enjoyable, was it not?” she asked uncertainly.

A rueful smile seized his lips. “So it was, madam. But when a man is shown an appetizing dish, he usually expects to do more than look at it. I suggest you bear it in mind in future. Good night."

He strode to the door and opened it.

"I am sorry, Mr. Hartly,” she said in a small voice.

He stopped and looked back at her. Her fingers were raised to her lips. Her angry determination had changed to an appealing air of uncertainty. She looked about fifteen years old and as innocent as a maiden.

"So am I, Lady Crieff,” he said with great feeling.

"Do you still want to take me and David for that drive tomorrow?"

He just looked at her, shaking his head in wonder. “Well, if that don't beat the Dutch,” he said, and left.

He went straight to his room to ponder the strange interlude. A wanton widow had invited him to her chamber. She had welcomed his embraces, had shown every eagerness for his advances. Then suddenly she turned into an outraged female. And if that were not enough to confuse Solomon, she had apologized after and asked if he still wanted to see her tomorrow. He decided he must be as mad as Lady Crieff-because he was eager for their date.

After Hartly had thought about that odd episode, he began to feel some concern for Ponsonby, who had been bragging about his full pockets. Stanby might relieve him of that thousand pounds.

Mott came to the door of the adjoining room. “Well, what happened?” he asked.

Hartly had to think a moment before he realized Mott was inquiring about Stanby.