ignited, an incendiary living torch of need burning bright, like the wick of gunpowder snaking down through his being. Unstoppable.
‘Are you a virgin?’
He knew she was by the way she was breathing, barely enough air to fill her up, lost in the moment and her lips parted.
‘Yes.’
‘Why the hell did you come to this party, then?’ The layer of civilisation that he had tried to keep in place was gone with the feel of her, but there was no withdrawal as he asked the question. Rather she pressed in closer and shut her eyes, as though trying in the darkness to find an answer. He felt the feathery waft of her breath in the sensitive folds of his neck and wondered if she was quite as innocent as he presumed. If this was a game she played, then it was one that he had long been practised in and she would need to be careful. His hands went around her back of their own accord, like a pathway memorised.
Salvation.
The word came unbidden and blossomed into something that he could not deny and his pulse began to quicken. It had been years since he had felt like this with any woman and surprise spurred him onwards.
He twisted her and his mouth fell lower, laving at the skin at her neck, his attention bringing whorls of redness to the pale. Her breath matched his own now, neither quiet nor measured, for the power of the body had taken over and his thumb caressed the budding hardness of one nipple through crimson silk.
She arched back, thighs locked tight, her breasts twin beacons of temptation.
He wanted her as he had never wanted another in all his life, the feel of her, the softness, her hair light-spun gold against his dark. With a small motion he had her bodice loosened and his palm around the bounty of one breast, cupping flesh, stroking the firmness. He needed her devoid of clothing, wanting pure knowledge without a covering. If she had not been the lady he knew she was, he would have simply ripped the garment off from neckline to hemline, and transported her naked to his bed to take his fill. His mouth ached for the intimacy of her curves.
‘The taste of a lover is part of the attraction,’ he stated simply as he raised his head, watching as understanding dawned. Uncertainty chased on the heels of wariness, but still she did not pull away as he thought she might. Only a slight frown marred her brow, measuring intent without any fear whatsoever. A guileless allowance.
Such an emotion was something he had rarely experienced. His reputation had protected him, he supposed, and kept others at a distance. But Lucinda Wellingham was different and more dangerous than all of the sirens who had stalked him across so many years. The connection between them was unexpected and startling as it drew him in, his body tightening in the echo of an old knowledge. His head dipped and he brought one soft peak into his mouth, the force of the action ripping stretched red silk and the seam shirring into uncountable and damaged threads. He liked the way she arched into him, her fingers combing through his hair, nails hard-edged with want, taking his offering and giving him back her own.
His hands now moved from the rise of her bottom around the front to feel for the hidden folds of womanhood, the silk only a thin barrier to taking. He pressed in to find her centre.
‘No.’ A single word, moaned more than stated, but enough.
‘No?’ He had to make certain that that was what she had meant, his breath coming thick with need. She shook her head this time, sky-blue eyes devoid of everything, a frown on her forehead and her chest rising and falling.
No, because she could not envisage what a yes might mean? No, because he was a man with enough of a reputation to destroy her?
Breaking away he moved back, the anger in him mounting with a pounding awareness of guilt. The road to ruin was a short one and he knew a lady of her ilk would have no possible defence against his persuasions. Suddenly his own chosen life path seemed seedy and vulgar.
‘I will take you home.’
She did not repair the damage to her dress as she watched him so that one breast stood out naked from the loosened fabric, a pink-rosebud nipple beckoning against scarlet silk. With her glassy eyes and stillness she was like a sensual and pliant Madonna fallen from heaven to land at the feet of the devil. Indecision welled, but he had no shield against such goodness, no way to safeguard his yearning against her righteousness.
Stepping forwards, he readjusted her gown, retying the laces on the flimsy bodice so that some measure of decency was reinstated. He could do nothing to repair the ruined seam and his eyes were drawn to the show of flesh that curved outwards beneath it, calling for his attentions. Swearing, he took a blanket from his bed and laid it around her, the wool almost the same shade as her hair. Then he collected his clothes, pulling on his breeches and placing a jacket over the shirt. He did not stop for a cravat. His boots were shoved on stockingless feet at the door as he retrieved the key and unlocked it.
‘Come, sweetheart,’ he murmured and found her hand, liking the way her slender fingers curled around his own.
Trust.
Another barrier breached. He yearned for others.
Outside it was quiet and, as the stables materialised before them, a lad came to his side.
‘Ye’d be wanting the carriage at this time of the night, your Grace?’ Disbelief was evident in the query. Normally conveyances were not sent for until well into the noon hours of the next day. Or the one after that.
‘Indeed. Find Stephens and have it readied. I need to go to London.’
When the boy left them Lucinda Wellingham began to speak, her voice low and uncertain. ‘My cloak is still in the house and my hat and reticule. Should I not get them?’
‘No.’ Tay wanted only to be gone. He had no idea who would talk about her appearance at one of the most infamous and least salubrious parties of the Season, but if he had her home at the Wellingham town house before the morning surely her brothers would be able to fashion a story which would dispel all rumour.
‘My friend Posy Tompkins might wonder what has happened to me. I hope that she is safe.’ She did not meet his eyes at all, a contrite Venus who had tripped into the underworld unbidden and now only wanted to be released from it.
‘Safe?’ He could not help laughing, though the sound was anything but humorous. ‘No one at my parties is safe. It is generally their singular intention not to be.’
‘Enjoying herself, then?’ she countered without missing a beat, the damn dimples in her cheeks another timely reminder of her innate goodness.
‘Oh, I can almost swear that she will be that. The thrall of a good orgasm is highly conducive to contentment.’
Silence reigned, but he had to let her know. Who he was. What he was. Her muteness heartened him.
‘I am not safe, Lady Lucinda, and neither am I repentant. When you came to Alderworth dressed in the sort of gown that raises dark fantasies in the minds of any red-blooded man, surely you understood at least that?’
Tears glittered and Tay swore, causing more again to pool beneath the light of the lamp.
‘Lord knows, you are far too sweet for a sinner like me and tomorrow you will realise exactly just how close to ruin you were and be thankful that I took you home, no matter the loss of a few possessions.’
