The Mammoth Book Of Regency Romance Part 74

Three.

Frieth House, the Rose Garden.

Philippa thought she was doing quite well, managing her conversation with Alec. He had, after all, given her his honest opinion of Captain Bancroft, and that was something. She had successfully ignored the trip in her pulse when he touched her or when their eyes met. Her reaction was not proper. They were friends. Not lovers or even potential lovers. So she had suppressed all her inconvenient admiration of his person.

And then, well, things simply went wrong. How it happened, she didn't understand. But Alec, whom she had known since he was a boy, who was still, in her mind, unconscionably young, took her in his arms and kissed her.

Not on the cheek. Or the forehead.

On the mouth.

There really wasn't any misunderstanding his intent.

She'd been thinking about kissing him for some time. And, when it happened, G.o.d save her soul, her stomach took flight.

She had a single moment of clarity during which she understood the enormity of her mistake in coming out here with him. One moment when she might have put a stop to whatever madness took her over. One moment, and all her good intentions dissolved like sugar into tea.

She was caught up, swept along by the way he wrapped his arms around her as if he had every right to, as if this was something they ought to do. As if doing so was actually a good idea. Surely it wasn't. But if he thought so, who was she to object when she was so lonely without him?

He felt delicious. Warm and strong and certain of what he was doing. And she, she didn't feel quite as alone any more.

He fitted his mouth to hers and, in her last moment of sanity and good sense, she recalled that he wasn't even twenty-six and she was six years his elder, a mature woman who ought to know better.

Alec cupped the back of her head with one hand and slid the other tighter around her waist and, for the first time in her life, she had to lift her chin in order to be properly kissed. He was taller than her husband had been, and he was kissing her increasingly as if he wanted to do more than just kiss her. Something inside her wanted that. And more.

She gave up because Alec had grown into a man, and he knew, she quickly discovered, how to kiss. She had not been held like this since William died. Until this very moment, she hadn't known how terribly she'd missed the physical intimacy, the knowledge that someone found her desirable even though she was no longer young.

Not to mention the unsettling discovery that she could be aroused by another man. She'd begun to think she would never want anyone but William. In Alec's embrace, the greyness that had enveloped her since her husband's death vanished. Her body came to life with a selfish desire to be touched, caressed, and even, Lord save her soul, to be penetrated. She was mad. She must be mad. Lulled into foolishness by the moonlight.

She wanted Alec Fall inside her, this young man who had grown up and become so much more than the handsome boy he'd been.

His mouth opened over hers, and she responded in kind. His chest was solid against hers, his arms strong, and she melted against him because he felt so good, because she missed a man's embrace. He smelled of bergamot and lemon and oh, how lovely he wasn't tentative at all. His tongue was in her mouth, and she wasn't sure she could support her weight on her trembling knees. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

She was aroused. s.e.xually. Carnally. Wickedly, thoroughly aroused for the first time in months and months. All this time, she'd been afraid Captain Bancroft would do more than kiss her cheek, to the point where she'd concluded there was something wrong with her. Alec forced her to confront the lie of that. She wanted him to do more than hold her. A very great deal more.

Somehow, she found the strength to push away. "Alec." Her mouth felt bruised, her body alive. She swallowed. "My Lord."

He kept his arms around her as if he had no doubts. "Mm?"

She closed her eyes, shivering. "You are so young."

"But not too young." He kissed the top of her cheek, just below her eye. "And not too inexperienced, I hope."

"I didn't imagine you were." There was no way on earth a man could kiss like that and be a virgin. The thought of Alec in bed with a woman shocked her into stillness. But he had been. Of course he had been. Some other woman had been his first. And there had been others after that, she was certain. He seemed to have guessed what she was thinking because his beautiful mouth curved. She tried for dignity and suspected she'd failed. "You must have been very much in demand in London."

"Oh, yes," he said, a laugh in his voice. His fingers splayed over her lower back and kept her close. "All the young gentlemen are put to stud in London."

"That isn't what I meant." The whole time, she stroked his face, tracing the outline of his mouth, the slant of his cheekbones, the soft depression just beneath his eyes. She wondered about the woman who'd been his first and imagined him touching her, kissing her body, the very first time he slid into a woman. "Was she very beautiful?"

His hand on her waist slipped to the small of her back and his fingers angled down. Tonight, of all nights, she'd worn a short corset and there was, in fact, very little material between his hand and the side of her hip. "Yes. But not as beautiful as you."

Alec kissed her again and she buried one hand in his lovely, thick dark hair, while the other clutched his shoulder. Her shawl was tangled between them with one corner dangling to her feet, which she knew because she was stepping on the end. She let her neck relax until the moment his palm supported the weight of her head, and imagined how the moonlight must be silvering her face, seeping into her blood, into the marrow of her bones.

His breath felt warm on her cheek. "Philippa."

Her name was a whisper. Soft as a petal. Calling to her in a way that made her heart feel too big for her chest. No one had whispered her name like that since William. An endearment, his whisper was. So achingly sweet. She did not release him. In such moments of inaction were momentous decisions made.

He lowered his head again, and his lips slid down her throat, trailing soft kisses. Gentle kisses. Needful kisses that brought tears to her eyes. His hand on her hip moved away, but only long enough to gather up her shawl and drape the end over her shoulder. He took a step forwards, holding her, moving them, she realized, deeper into the garden.

Philippa's eyes fluttered open and her gaze locked with his. She understood the look in his eyes, the touch of his fingertips, the reason they were now standing completely out of the circle of light from the house. If one of the servants happened to look out the window, they would not be seen.

She shivered. Not because she was cold. These feelings were wrong, but, oh, since he'd been away he'd become a lovely man. Not a boy any longer. A man, fully grown. And her friend, too. They had written to each other, holding back so little of themselves. She knew so many of his secrets, and he hers. She trusted him. She knew him to be thoughtful. Principled. A gentleman.

"Don't go home tonight," he whispered. "Stay with me. Even if only for a while, Philippa." His voice slid between them, a low, enticing whisper. In the dark, in just the light from the moon, she had to strain to see him. He wrapped his fingers in the folds of her shawl and pulled her closer.

She missed the pa.s.sion of her marriage and now that this so very young man had awakened such longing in her, she wanted to say yes. She wasn't sure she could do anything but a.s.sent. Seconds ticked away.

"Christ," he said, his voice low and dark. And he sounded like a man who knew what he wanted and intended to have it. "Don't say no."

She cupped his face in her hands, leaning against his torso. "Alec, how can we?"

"The usual way," he said. "The way any man and woman do."

She shook her head then realized he probably couldn't see her. Not well enough. His cheeks were smooth, but since he was so dark-haired, he'd probably shaved before he came downstairs for the ball. Once again, she didn't step away. She didn't even let go of his face.

"Good." He kissed her again, sweetly, cajoling her, keeping her close against him, and, Lord save her, she kissed him back again. Foolish. So foolish. Even while she thought that, her hand slid around to the back of his neck, and she wished desperately she wasn't wearing gloves. She pulled back, and he drew in a quick breath.

He let go of her and dug into an interior pocket of his coat. "There's a private entrance round the back. The stairs exit directly into my room. We can go there now and see where this leads us."

"No," she whispered. She pressed her palm over his hand, trapping it in his pocket. She could salvage this. Save them both the awkwardness of a moment lost to moonlight. "No. Alec," she whispered. "I can't."

"Why?"

"I never meant for that to happen. To let you kiss me like that."

He worked his hand free of his pocket and caught her hand in his. "Lie to me if you like, but don't lie to yourself."

Good heavens, he was throwing her own words back at her. Words she'd said to him years ago whenever he said something dishonest. She took a step back and shook out her skirt. She was horribly aroused. Her body tingled with antic.i.p.ation and desire. "Touche, My Lord."

"I'm sorry you lost William." He caught her other hand in his and held both hands tight. Her heart gave a twist in her chest. "I am sorry. Believe that if you believe nothing else I ever say to you. If he were still alive, I'd be happy for you." He lowered his voice. "But he isn't, Philippa. Don't live as if you'd died, too."

"I thought I had." To her horror, her voice hitched.

He pulled her into his arms again. "That's the reason you think you ought to marry that prig Bancroft, isn't it? So you won't have to love anyone again." He closed the gap between them and put his mouth by her ear. "Don't deny it."

And then, the wicked, wicked man's tongue flicked out and touched the side of her neck.

"You're wrong," she said.

"Liar."

She didn't answer.

"I'm going to strip you naked," he said. "And ask you to do a hundred sinful things to me." The rawness of his voice set off a quivering need in her. He grabbed her hand and started walking and she, who could have objected, did not, even though he wasn't heading back to the terrace.

Four.

A thousand times between then and now Philippa could have objected. She didn't. And the astonishing thing was that she wasn't the least bit conflicted, even though she'd let him make the decision for her. She'd done so even though, since William's death, she'd had to take control of her life and was now well used to dealing with her own affairs and making her own decisions.

She was perfectly capable of directing the course of her life.

Philippa followed him to the back of Frieth House and stayed silent when he fitted his key to the door. For now, she resisted the urge to lay her hand on Alec's back. Instead, she imagined the warmth, the play of muscle underneath his coat she would soon feel if she were to do something so bold.

Click.

Not a moment later, they were inside with the door closed behind them, away from the moonlight and enveloped in the darkness of the stairwell. He let out a breath, low and soft as silk. They stood there by the door. Alec didn't move. He didn't give her s.p.a.ce. She didn't make any.

"It's been too long for me," she said.

"I know."

Time stretched to eternity. She might die from the antic.i.p.ation of the next moments. Her stomach took flight when he leaned in. She did the same, leaned towards him. Alec took a step forwards, she took one backwards until there wasn't any farther she could go. He kissed her there, with her head and shoulders touching the wall behind her. His kiss was slow. Tender. Thorough. She melted against him. Surrendered to him.

Of course she had. She wanted this. This. So fiercely. The electricity in her belly, the warmth between her legs, the ache in her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the way her breath caught in her throat. His mouth on hers. The taste of him. The solidness. The maleness of him.

He planted his palms above her shoulders and pressed forwards. His torso touched hers, and she put her arms around his neck. While he kissed her and while she kissed him back, she slid the fingers of both her hands up into his hair and brought him closer.

The past with Alec was exploded and had been since the moment they'd stepped out on the terrace. Now, she thought, This is Alec, this man who is holding me with such conviction. She couldn't square this impossibility with her present condition, the heat that ran just beneath her skin, her desire to touch him, her desire to have him touch her. To do those hundred wicked things to him. And a few more besides.

They broke apart, not far, and he gripped her shoulders and rested his forehead against hers, waiting, she realized, for his breathing to settle. "I can't wait. I can't wait," he said in a low voice, "until I am inside you."

His bluntness shocked her. And aroused her. She wasn't a prude, not by any means, but William had never expressed his desire for her in such frank words. She didn't know if she ought to reply in kind and so said nothing.

Alec held her hand while he led her up the stairs. At the top, she could just make out the faint outline of the doorway. Which meant there was likely someone inside. A servant. His valet most probably. He straightened his coat and ran his fingers through his hair before he glanced at her to make sure she would be out of sight when he opened the door. She stayed to one side, out of the crescent of light that appeared on the floor and ceiling of the landing.

"Burns," he said. He walked inside. His voice receded with his advance into the room. "I won't need you tonight after all."

She listened to the murmur of a male voice and then to silence.

"Goodnight, then. I'll call you in the morning. When I'm ready."

There was another silence, and then Alec appeared in the arc of light and reached through the doorway to grab her hand and bring her inside. Into his room. "Stay here." His gaze held with hers until she nodded. As if she were capable of withdrawing now. She wasn't that strong. He reached behind her and shot the bolt home on the staircase door.

He secured the other doors, too. He'd grown up in Frieth House, and this room, the master suite, had been his father's a fact she knew because she'd practically grown up here as the Fall family's third daughter, even though she was no relation at all.

The room had changed very little from what she remembered. Alec's father had been a man of simple tastes. Spartan, even, but kind. He'd never forgotten her if he had gifts for his own children. She'd loved him as if he'd been her real father.

The desk against the far wall was oak with a fold-out leaf presently lowered to show the drawers and cubby holes that would otherwise be hidden. In front of the desk was a plain oak chair. In the corner, there was a washstand with a white and blue basin and ewer, a towel nearby. The red highboy and armoire with an uncarved door were familiar sights. A ta.s.sel hung from the key still in the armoire lock. The bed was plain: no high posts, no canopy or hangings.

Frieth House was Tudor and, like the previous Falls, Alec's father had modernized very little. The walls and ceiling were square panels of carved mahogany. The wide plank floor was covered with a carpet that had probably been in place for a hundred years.

Despite how little had changed since the last time Philippa had seen the room, there were signs everywhere of Alec's imprimatur. Books on the desk, for example, one of them still open. Alec had always been an avid reader. At the foot of the bed was a black trunk with the coronet of his earldom painted on it in gold and silver, red and blue, with an occasional splash of yellow. A decanter of brandy sat on a table, a crystal tumbler next to it.

She walked to the centre of the room just as Alec came back from locking the last door. He headed to where she stood and stopped too close to her for a man who was only a friend. Too close for safety. Not close enough for a lover.

Her stomach fluttered. Alec seemed at once ineffably familiar and a complete stranger to her. The boy she'd known her entire life, the young gentleman with whom she had exchanged frank and even intimate letters, and this handsome, unknowable man whose touch made her feel alive.

"You haven't changed your mind, have you?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Good."

In all the time she'd known him, not once had she seen him the way she did now. As a desirable man. A man of substance and weight, of a surprising gravitas considering his age. She studied him, trying to understand what had changed. However long she looked, she didn't think she'd ever know. Her eyes saw a man now. A man she desired.

His irises were nearly black and his lashes were a thick, dark sweep across his cheeks. His father lived on in the angles of his face, the length of his nose, the distance between his eyes. The shape of his mouth was his mother. Sensitive, his lower lip slightly fuller than the upper. There was a dimple in his chin. She very much wanted to make love to him. To Alec.

"Lovely Philippa." He pushed her shawl off her shoulders, catching it at the crooks of her elbows and pulling the cashmere away to drape over the desk chair. His touch, light as it was, sent a quiver through her body. "I can hardly believe you're here." He took her right hand and worked her glove off her fingers. "That it's you," he said as he did this. He drew her glove off her arm and glanced at her before he went to work on the other one. He took the fan dangling from her wrist and set that on the trunk. When he drew off her other glove, she pulled her hand back. His gaze met hers and desire roared through her.

He dropped her gloves on top of the trunk with her fan. A smile quirked his mouth, and she was reminded of the boy he'd been. His smile had always been infectious. The man before her had no hesitations about what he was doing. "You antic.i.p.ate me wonderfully well."

"I am relieved, My Lord."

He reached for her left hand. Their bare skin touched. Hand to hand. The tips of his fingers slid over hers, once, slowly, over the wedding ring she still wore. "Do you miss him?"

"Yes." She spoke over the lump in her throat.

"I miss him, too. His letters." He slipped his arms around her waist and, as he pulled her close, he made a low sound in the back of his throat. Because he was a young and healthy man. Because he desired her.

The tension in her eased. She put her hands on his chest and slid them down to the first b.u.t.ton of his coat. Her wedding band glittered on her finger. She unfastened the b.u.t.ton.

His eyelids closed part-way. "Mm. What wickedness is this?"

"Wickedness?" She darted a look at him before she started on the next b.u.t.ton. "You are in your private quarters, My Lord. Surely you can be comfortable here without thinking yourself wicked."

"Perhaps you're right." He shrugged off his coat when she was done, but her hands followed the collar until the fine wool was sliding past his shoulders and down his arms until she could reach no further. He leaned away to drop his coat on the chair.

"I think, Philippa, that I am still not as comfortable as I might be. Tell me, what ought we to do about that?"