“Dear, sweet Emily,” he murmured as his lips brushed gently across her skin. Her breath came in quick bursts that set his soul on fire. So sensitive was she to his touch that when his hand pressed down against her thigh, he felt her body tremble.
“So beautiful,” he whispered as he placed small butterfly kisses on the mounds of her br**sts, paying tribute to each of them with great reverence.
He waited for her to push him away—certain that she would shy away from his obvious intentions. But instead he felt her fingers raking through his hair and pressing him toward her. Dear God in heaven—how was he to control himself when her passion so ardently matched his own?
As a gentleman, he had no desire to ruin her, but as a man, he didn’t give a toss about the consequences. She was like a sweet piece of fruit, just ready for the picking. A strong sense of responsibility loomed in the distance. He determined to do the right thing, but not before allowing himself one final delicacy.
Moving his hands up along her sides, he ran his thumbs heavily against her br**sts, forcing them upward, her ripe n**ples popping out from beneath her bodice. His eyes blazed as they gorged on the crimson buds. Then, all other thoughts swept aside, he buried his face against her.
She moaned with pleasure as he drew her into his mouth, sucking lightly, his tongue soft and gentle against her skin.
Pulling away with unparalleled willpower, he looked up at her. Her eyes were dizzy with longing—a longing he recognized as that carnal need to sate an unrelenting desire to mate.
He wanted nothing more than to satisfy both of their cravings, but an inner voice called for him to stop—though not without allowing himself one last kiss.
As he brushed his lips against her, she wrapped her arms tightly about his neck, drawing him closer. She wished he would have lingered longer at her br**sts. Never before had she felt such eager yearning for something that she did not fully comprehend. An ache had settled between her thighs and she knew that only Francis had the means by which to placate it.
Yet as he nibbled on her lips and ran his tongue across them, all focus went to her mouth. He teased her lips apart, then pushed his tongue inside to tangle with hers. There was a potent flavor of brandy on both their breaths as they each explored the inside of the other’s mouth with fervent pleasure.
Francis suddenly paused, pulled back, and glanced toward the half-closed door.
“I thought I heard something,” he said with some degree of frustration.
She stilled and held her breath to listen. A peel of laughter suddenly reached them, coming seemingly from the front hall. “Oh God,” she exclaimed. “It must be Beatrice and Claire returned home.”
With agile dexterity, Francis leapt away from her, rose to his full height, and adjusted his waistcoat. He looked rather stiff and awkward as he tried to find a place for his hands. He eventually clasped them behind his back, standing at attention, before realizing that he was not the only one doing so. Without further ado, he promptly sat down on the chair closest to him, and quickly crossed his legs. Then, casting a glimpse in Emily’s direction, his eyes widened as he saw that her n**ples were still protruding from behind her gown. Voices grew louder as they approached. He spoke her name, but she failed to hear him—too flustered, no doubt, to notice. Exasperated, he stomped his foot loudly on the floor. Her eyes shot toward him. With a quick nod of his head, coupled with an elaborate wave of his hand, he made her aware of her indecent exposure.
She had only just managed to make herself presentable and placed her glass of brandy to her lips in an attempt to conceal all evidence of their kiss, when Beatrice pushed through the door, her elegant gown swooshing about her ankles as she entered the study with a marvelous smile. “We saw that the light was on so we thought we might join you. Are you all right, though? We heard a loud thud just a moment ago.”
Francis cleared his throat in hopes of hiding his smile. He wasn’t sure that he’d be able to help Emily, though. Her eyes were already creased with signs of laughter as she peaked out from behind the brim of her glass. “Yes, yes, we’re quite all right. I merely dropped a book—clumsy of me, really—please, do join us.”
“What was it?” Claire asked as she made her way past Beatrice. Jonathan followed her inside and made his way straight to the side table.
“Hmmm? What was what?” Francis asked, distracted by Jonathan, who was making a racket out of inspecting all the bottles.
“The book, of course,” Claire insisted. “The one you say you dropped.”
“Oh that—it was The Apology of Socrates, I believe.” A muffled sound was heard coming from Emily’s direction as she did her best to choke back the laughter that threatened to spill out of her.
“I love that book,” Beatrice commented. She then frowned. “It’s not very big, though—hardly big enough to make such a loud sound. Are you sure that it was indeed The Apology of Socrates that you dropped?”
Why in God’s name he was having this harebrained conversation was beyond him. Nevertheless, it seemed as if he was unlikely to escape from it, so he straightened his spine and ploughed on. “Well, it was actually a compilation of all the Socratic dialogues—including the apology—thus making it a large enough book to produce the sound you heard.” Taking a brief breath of air, Francis continued like a runaway coach—not allowing anyone the opportunity to interrupt. “So, how was your evening? Splendid, I take it, judging from your smiles. These affairs can be quite taxing; in fact, I generally find myself exhausted by the time the season draws to an end. But it doesn’t seem to have taken a toll on either of you yet. You look as if you’ve just had the time of your life.”
The sisters immediately launched into a detailed description, while Francis let out a slow sigh of relief and touched his hand to his forehead. The topic had been changed. He looked over at Emily, sending her an admonishing scowl for her lack of self-restraint. She replied with a merciless smile that had his insides tied up in knots within a heartbeat.
She was truly remarkable, and she had let him kiss her. It was as if part of his heart had softened and opened, allowing her in. But aside from the kiss, he had thoroughly enjoyed their conversation. Not only had she told him something that he did not already know, but she had also given him something to think about. He wondered what else he might learn from her, given the time and assuming that she would be happy to talk to him again. With an impish smile, he wagered that she would.
“Claire danced two more sets after you left.” She nodded her head in Jonathan’s direction. “Mr. Rosedale was kind enough to take pity on me and so I also enjoyed a waltz.”
“Really, Miss Rutherford, if anyone took pity on anyone, then you were surely the one taking pity on me. I was so nervous when I asked you, for I was sure that you would say no.”
Emily wondered, was that a blush in Beatrice’s cheeks? It certainly looked like it. She had never in her life known Beatrice to color with embarrassment or self-awareness—or for any other reason, for that matter. She would be sure to ask her about it later.
“Would anyone care for a drink?” Jonathan asked as he raised a carafe in the air to highlight his question.
“A sherry for me, if you don’t mind,” Beatrice told him.
“And for me too,” Claire added, then turned sharply toward Emily. “So, what have the two of you been up to all this time?”
Brandy sprayed from Emily’s mouth as she coughed and sputtered.
“Oh dear, Emily,” Beatrice exclaimed, rushing to her sister’s side and relieving her of her glass before she did any more damage to the silk carpet. “Are you all right?”
“I’m so sorry,” Emily muttered, wiping her mouth and chin with the handkerchief Claire had produced for her. “Please forgive me. I’m not usually this unladylike—how embarrassing.”
“Don’t concern yourself too much about it, Emily,” Francis told her in a soft voice. “We’re all friends here.” He had also had to fight for control at Claire’s words. Emily had thankfully managed to grab everyone’s attention so that none of them saw the cheeky gleam in his eyes or the smile that played upon his lips. “Though perhaps Veronica was right in suggesting that you see a doctor—it seems you have rather an alarming tendency to choke.” He sent her a wink, to which she responded with a glower.
“Well, if you will please excuse me—I wish to retire for the evening. It’s quite late and all this excitement has thoroughly worn me out,” Emily said as she got up from her chair.
“I’m sorry to hear it. I hope you shall be better rested next time, so that you may fully enjoy all that such an evening has to offer,” Francis told her with a devilish smile. The implication could not have been clearer. Yet had she missed it, the roaring fire in his eyes told her that he was not referring to exerting oneself on the dance floor, or participating in amicable conversation.
Heat rose to her face as she flushed with color. She could do little more than send him a look of annoyance as she ignored the warmth that tugged at her belly or her knees that were suddenly weak like pudding. Damn the man and his roguish looks, his Corinthian physique, and his masculine scent . . . she would have none of it—at least not for now. “Good night, then,” she said as she gathered strength and fled the room.
Breathless, she leaned against the closed door in her bedroom, her palms resting against the smooth, cool surface. At least not for now . . . the thought reverberated in her head. He had awoken something in her—a dormant passion she’d never thought she possessed.
As much as she had wanted to remove all thoughts of Francis from her mind, all possibility for that had been dashed away that evening. Each and every corner of her mind was filled with him, relentlessly tormenting and teasing her.
He was like an oasis in a desert where she was parched from thirst. Nothing would satisfy her until she allowed herself to partake in all he had to offer.
All he had to offer.
She trembled slightly, a rush of heat filling her as her thoughts strayed to . . . she gasped in horror. Good Lord!
He must think me a complete Cyprian to have carried on with him the way I did.
She felt mortified, and quickly determined not to let herself get so easily carried away the next time she happened to be alone with him. For some peculiar, unimaginable reason, Francis’s opinion of her had suddenly become vitally important. Something had changed in both of them, she felt, and she didn’t want to ruin it by acting like a demimondaine. Besides, if she allowed him to kiss her like that again, things were sure to get out of hand. She knew she’d wanted it in the heat of the moment, but now that the moment was gone, she was able to think more rationally.
If she allowed Francis to take her innocence, she feared that she might lose her head over him, and that was something that she wasn’t prepared to do. She’d been hurt enough by Adrian already—falling for Francis (as unlikely as it seemed) would be no better. He was not the kind of man who might return her affection, particularly since he wasn’t very affectionate in any way, whatsoever. He was moody, brooding, and stern, though she did acknowledge that he had smiled more in the past couple of weeks than she’d seen him do in the past ten years. It was no matter—her mind was made up—she would not allow herself to fall in love with him.