had no doubt that sharing a bed with Lindsay would be beyond what she could ever possibly think of while she pleasured herself. As if he knew her thoughts, he looked at her, his gaze burning, his lips lifting in a secret smile.
Yes, wicked. Wanton. She wished he would lean into her and whisper into her ear all the naughty things he whispered to her in her dreams. Instead, she swallowed and broke the spell of his gaze holding hers.
Her gaze lifted, landed, as she suspected they would, on his face. There was no teasing in his eyes. No smile.
“You attempt to flatter me,” she said as she stole a look at Mary Grantworth. She was watching them with unabashed venom.
“No, Anais. I would never speak false words to you. You know that.”
Of course she did. They were friends, after all. Friends. How the word began to feel like a noose around her neck. She did not want to be friends with Lindsay. She wanted more. She wanted the same things she dreamed about. The same feelings coursing through her body as when she pleasured herself, while dreaming it was him touching her.
She felt her face warm and glanced away. If Lindsay knew what thoughts she had of him. How erotic. How unchaste and unmaidenly those thoughts were, he would run as fast as he could in the opposite direction.
While he might not speak falsely to her, he certainly could not mean anything by his words. They were meant to be kind, to help a friend. She mustn’t read more into them, or into the scene they had shared in the salon. She must not think it anything of import, how he had pressed closer to her, how his mouth had lingered over her hand and he had seemed to inhale her essence deep within his chest.
No! She was being fanciful. Allowing her bedtime wishes to become real. Lindsay did not desire her the way she desired him.
“My lord, shall you be attending the agricultural fair next week in Blackpool?” Mary Grantworth asked, drawing Lindsay’s attention away from Anais’s face.
“I had not considered it, Lady Mary.”
“No? You should. My uncle has entered his Belgian Warm-bloods to be judged. I know he plans to sell a few of his stallions. As you are known around town as the most accomplished horseman, as well as a connoisseur of flesh—”
“Flesh?” Lindsay asked with a raised brow.
Mary colored prettily, but it was far from innocent. “A connoisseur of horseflesh, Lord Raeburn. I thought perhaps you would be interested in the sale of those stallions, since you are interested in starting a breeding program here in Bewdley. At least, I assumed that was what you meant when you spoke of breeding during our walk last week.”
Mary shot Anais a look of triumph from across the table as she waited for Lindsay’s reply. With a stern nod that bordered on impolite, Lindsay shifted his focus to his plate and the piece of prime rib that sat on it. He gave no answer to Mary’s inquiry and Anais saw a look of pure menace cloud Mary’s beautiful expression.
Anais’s appetite abandoned her at once. She couldn’t possibly stomach anything, not when her insides had turned to lead. Anais struggled for composure, for inner calm against the tumultuous thoughts running with abandon through her mind. Just when she thought she’d go mad with her thoughts, she felt the softest of caresses against the top of her hand as it rested on her lap beneath the table. It was followed by another, then another. The tingling rose up her arm, covering her skin in gooseflesh. The caress reached higher, until it wrapped around her wrist.
Lindsay.
She looked up at him, saw the way his gaze had darkened; saw the way he looked down at her. Then he took her hand in his, entwining his fingers with hers, and placed their hands on his thigh. With his free hand he traced her knuckles and the veins beneath her skin in such a tender way she began to tremble.
It was singularly the most erotic thing ever done to her. To be holding hands and touching beneath the supper table while two dozen guests sat around them was the most scandalously wicked thing.
“I want to kiss your lips,” he murmured for her alone as his gaze slipped to her mouth. “I want to have you all to myself—alone,” he clarified. “Do you want that, Anais? To be alone with me?”
He’d taken his hand off hers and rested it on her leg where his fingers traveled lightly over her thigh. She could barely think, couldn’t breathe as his hand slid inexorably closer to the apex of her thighs.
“Be with me, Anais?” He rose from his chair, carefully removing his hand so no one would see. He dragged his palm across the taffeta of her gown, the motion slow and teasing. He made a show of bending down, a pretense of reaching for his napkin, but instead he took that moment to whisper in her ear.
“Come to me.”
He straightened, made his excuses and left the table. Anais finally let out her breath. Come to me… The words tumbled through her mind for the next half hour.
2
Blue eyes flashed at him from behind the veil of her curling golden hair. Her lips parted, taunting him with innocence. Lindsay’s gaze slipped to those red, plump lips, telling him of the sinful delights that could be found in her mouth. Sweet innocence mixed with forbidden sensuality.
She was a lady born and bred. His childhood friend, although a child no more. She was a woman, with a woman’s mind, a woman’s body. But had she the appetite of a woman? Did she hunger for him? Would she allow him to appease the ache—the same damn ache that had gnawed at his insides for years?
The way they had touched, their hands hidden beneath the table, had told him that she might just welcome an advance from him. He had felt her tremble as he made the caress more intimate. There was no mistaking his intent. No more denying what he wanted.
“You’re falling behind, Lindsay,” Anais called as she looked over her shoulder and through the long curls that waved and flapped in the cold evening air. “You should have ridden the chestnut bay. Now I’m going to beat you to the stables and you are going to lose our wager,” she said with a laugh. Urging her mare forward, she bent low over the saddle, her full, lush bottom perched in the air as she brazenly rode astride.
Desire curled in Lindsay’s belly as his gaze strayed to the roundness of her bottom. He should have stayed in London, should have kept himself buried in Tran’s opium den, numbing himself to these wanton appetites. In truth, he could no more keep his distance from Anais Darnby than a moth could keep from flying into a flame.
A familiar ache settled in his gut and he gripped the reins in his gloved hands, urging his mount forward as he closed the distance between him and Anais.
He should never have offered this evening ride. Should never have tempted himself by touching her beneath the table. Bloody hell, he should have known not to ask her to accompany him—alone. He knew better. He had been unable to take his eyes off her during dinner. Had watched her eat, studied the erotic play of her tongue on her lips, the fork. He had hungered and lusted through the entire damned meal. He’d been humiliatingly erect watching her, his blood heating with the desire to make Anais more than just a friend. Damn it, he should have known that a bruising ride through the woods would not assuage the dangerous desire he had flooding his veins.
Again, she glanced over her shoulder, her
