Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

Charles pressed her hand, stepped back and saluted her. “I’ll call on you later.”

His eyes met hers, then he turned and strode off toward the back of the house and the garden door.

She stood watching him, wondering what she was supposed to infer from that last look, then, inwardly shaking her head, she climbed the stairs and headed for her room.

Her maid, Ellie, was waiting. She climbed out of her gown, into her nightgown, then sat on the stool before her dressing table and let down her hair, brushing it while Ellie fussed, shaking out the gown and hanging it, then brushing down her cloak, finally shutting away the pearl necklace and earrings she’d worn in her jewel box.

“Good night, miss. Sleep tight.”

In the mirror, she smiled at Ellie. “Thank you, Ellie. Good night.”

She continued to brush, laying the long strands of shining pale hair over her shoulders, then she sighed, stood, and snuffed the candles in the sconces on either side of her mirror. Crossing to her bed, she extinguished the candle left burning beside it.

The moonlight streamed in through her windows, a ghostly white light painting all in muted shades.

She was tired, she decided, that was why her mind wouldn’t focus, wasn’t interested in thinking about the five strangers or whether Nicholas knew Phillipe Gerond. Slipping her robe from her shoulders, she tossed it across the foot of her high bed; drawing back the covers, she hitched up her nightgown and set one knee on the white sheet.

A faint, muted click reached her.

She looked toward the door—and saw it opening.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Frozen, she stared as Charles slipped around the door, shut it silently, then locked it.

He turned, saw her, nodded, then walked to the armchair before the fireplace. Dropping into it, he stretched out his long legs, crossing his booted ankles…with a start she noticed that he’d changed out of his evening clothes; he was now garbed in breeches and boots, a neckerchief loosely knotted about his throat, a soft hunting jacket hugging his shoulders.

Sitting up again, he pulled the cushion out from behind him and tossed it on the floor, then he shrugged out of his coat and flung it over the chair’s back, then relaxed back once more.

Remembering her position, her raised and bare knee, and that he could see extremely well in poor light, she abruptly lowered her leg, twitched her nightgown down, fleetingly considered redonning her robe, but decided that smacked too much of accommodation. She wasn’t feeling accommodating at all.

She marched around the end of the bed, but halted a safe five paces from him. “What the devil are you doing here?”

Her hissed whisper filled the room.

He turned his head and looked at her. “I told you I’d see you later.”

“I thought you meant tomorrow. What on earth do you think you’re about, settling down there like that?”

“I was thinking of going to sleep.”

“You can’t sleep here , in my room—you know that perfectly well!”

He regarded her for a long moment. “You don’t seriously imagine I’ll allow you to sleep under the same roof as Nicholas, a potential murderer, unguarded?”

CHAPTER 10

THE QUESTION HADN’T, UNTIL THAT MOMENT, OCCURRED to her, but now he’d uttered it, the answer, she realized, was in fact No .

However …she drew in a deep breath, focused on his face. “This is not possible. You can’t just sleep here, in my room.”

“I grant you this chair isn’t the most comfortable bed”—he shifted his shoulders—“but I’ve slept in far worse. I’ll manage.” Putting his head back, he closed his eyes. “Where’s Nicholas’s room?”

“In the other wing. You can’t stay here—if you insist on guarding me, I’ll lock my door, and you can sleep in the next room.”

“The lock on your door’s too easy to pick—I looked. If I’m next door and Nicholas is good at this game, I’ll never hear him. Get into bed and go to sleep.”

The sheer command in his voice had her turning back to the bed before she caught herself; exasperated, she swung around and, seeing his eyes were closed, marched up to the chair. “Charles. No . Wake up.” She put a hand to his shoulder. “This is simply—”

He moved.

She landed in his lap. Swallowed her shriek.

“I did tell you to get into bed.”

His arms came around her.

Planting her hands on his shoulders, she tried to hold him off—tried to stop him from drawing her to him. “Don’t you dare kiss me!”

From a distance of inches, his eyes met hers. A fraught second passed, then one black brow arched. “Or you’ll what?” His voice had dropped an octave. “Scream?”

She blinked at him.

He closed the distance, closed his lips over hers.

He kissed her. Not as before but as he never had before.

Ravenously . With a hunger, a need, that simply slayed her. That poured through her, vanquished any resistance she might have made, vaporized any wish to do anything other than gather to her that greedy, rapacious, devastatingly desperate need, and appease it.

Her hands rose; she wrapped them about his head, clung rather than pushed him away. Held on until she found her feet in the welling, surging tide. Until she could meet him and kiss him back—give all he so flagrantly wanted, take all he so blatantly offered in exchange.

Their mouths melded; their tongues dueled. Heat flared and raced under their skins.

Sexual awareness awoke; she had nothing on beneath her lawn nightgown. The realization only fired her more, anticipation flashing like lightning down her nerves—neither modesty nor caution rose to cool her ardor.

Nothing, she was sure, could cool his; he was like a living flame, burning for her. She spread her palms over his chest, through the fine linen of his shirt drank in the pulsing heat of him.

Like before, yet not. He’d been twenty then, not a boy yet a mere shadow of the man he now was. What he now was held more than fascination, was more than enthralling. To her, he was life, all she’d denied herself for so long, all she’d forced her lonely self to do without—and he was here, potent, powerful, and so clearly hers if she wished.

He was temptation incarnate, at least to her.

She wasn’t even aware of undoing the buttons down the front of his shirt, yet the instant it fell open, she wrenched the halves apart and spread voracious hands over his burning skin.

Traced the taut muscles, fingertips curling, sinking in.

She sighed with satisfaction, felt giddy delight surge as through their kiss she sensed his groan. Sensed his pleasure. She pandered to both—his and hers—and let the sensations pour through her.

She was unaware he was opening her nightgown until his hand closed over her bare breast, skin to naked skin. Something leapt within her; for one instant, she thought it was fear, then she recognized it as excitement.

He caressed, artfully stirred her senses, and excitement heightened to anticipation. Anticipation that grew with every sweep of his fingertips, every whorling caress, until her nerves were tight, and anticipation edged into desire, and desire became edged with need.

She gasped, pulled back from the kiss, had to; she needed to breathe. He let her lean back against his arm and catch her breath.

His lips traced her jaw, then dipped beneath to follow the long line of her throat. They skated into the hollow between her collarbones, pressed heat into her veins, then drifted lower.

Over the full curve of her breast, to just lightly, oh so lightly brush the aching peak. Then with his tongue, he traced the same path; when he reached the end, she heard a shocked gasp and realized it was hers.