into a sculpted silhouette against the dying fire. He could see the rise and fall of her breath catch and release the light on the soft mounds of her breasts. His throat went dry. She stood thus for a long heartbeat before crossing the room to the sideboard and pouring a glass of sherry.
“Let me see if I can illustrate,” she said, starting towards him. Silently Thomas watched her.
“Let’s say you are a man who would like a drink of sherry.” She considered the wineglass in her hand. “And I have the only glass of sherry around.”
Cat drew a long, elegant forefinger in gentle circles around the rim of the crystal glass. “Let us say you have not had sherry in years. Madeira, ratafia, burgundy? Yes. But not sherry.”
Dipping her finger into the amber fluid, she raised it to her mouth. Her tongue peeked out and slowly licked the moisture from the tip of her finger. A smile of appreciation curved her lips. He watched her in wry admiration, feeling his pulse quicken.
“And now, the sherry is within reach,” she whispered. “But you don’t know its price.”
Rewetting her finger, she slowly took it into her mouth and sucked gently on its tip. He was riveted by her performance.
The silk of her gown rustled and settled over his boots as she leaned so close he could see the blue veins in her breasts, feel the warmth emanating from her, the silken brush of her hair on his face as it swung over him. For a third time her forefinger dipped into the sherry. This time she raised it slowly to his mouth, brushing his lower lip with butterfly lightness. He felt the muscles tighten in his jaw, his cheeks, his chest.
Teasing his lower lip, she stroked the slick inner flesh with languid care. “And now you are tasting that sherry. But is a taste enough? Won’t a sip be more satisfying? Isn’t that what you really want?” Her voice had become a husky caress.
Raising the delicate crystal glass, Cat slowly took a small sip. The liquid shimmered on her lips, the firelight outlining their budding fullness.
She lifted her hand toward him again and he knew with awful certainty that her revenge was complete. His restraint had been pushed to its limits, and while he was no randy young buck lusting after his first maid, the sensation was startling in its intensity. He wanted her. It had been years since he had wanted a woman like this. Simply. Elementally. Without hidden motives.
The little fool did not even know how far she tested him. Like a kitten first unsheathing its claws, she was delighted they had drawn blood, unaware her prey might be dangerous when provoked. He would allow this to go no further. He caught her slender wrist inches from his face. For a second their eyes locked, his in hotness, hers in open triumph. A second later her gaze fell, confused before that heat. He drew in a ragged breath, mastering the desire that had exploded within him.
“Touché,” he congratulated her.
“Truce?” she whispered.
“Truce.”
Chapter 6
Brighton
C at smiled fondly at her great-aunt, who was snoring softly away from her side of their coach. She looked like an untidy pile of clothes dumped into the corner. The trip to Brighton to procure suitable garb for Cat had been tiring for Hecuba, warranting, as it did, lengthy discourses on Sodom, Gomorrah, and Babylon. Conversely, her dire warnings about the road to perdition were littered with clumsily veiled, if pithy suggestions for Cat’s transformation into a temptress until her pose of vigilant suspicion had exhausted her.
“You two go on with your conversation,” she’d said, her eyes fluttering shut. “I shall just meditate a moment on the fate of fallen women. Women who pinch their cheeks to put color into them, moisten their lips with tallow, and don’t wear gloves when dancing.”
In the two weeks since their arrival at Thomas’s home, she’d revealed beneath the facade of religious zeal a still naughty wench with a weakness or two; she fell
“Let me see if I can illustrate,” she said, starting towards him. Silently Thomas watched her.
“Let’s say you are a man who would like a drink of sherry.” She considered the wineglass in her hand. “And I have the only glass of sherry around.”
Cat drew a long, elegant forefinger in gentle circles around the rim of the crystal glass. “Let us say you have not had sherry in years. Madeira, ratafia, burgundy? Yes. But not sherry.”
Dipping her finger into the amber fluid, she raised it to her mouth. Her tongue peeked out and slowly licked the moisture from the tip of her finger. A smile of appreciation curved her lips. He watched her in wry admiration, feeling his pulse quicken.
“And now, the sherry is within reach,” she whispered. “But you don’t know its price.”
Rewetting her finger, she slowly took it into her mouth and sucked gently on its tip. He was riveted by her performance.
The silk of her gown rustled and settled over his boots as she leaned so close he could see the blue veins in her breasts, feel the warmth emanating from her, the silken brush of her hair on his face as it swung over him. For a third time her forefinger dipped into the sherry. This time she raised it slowly to his mouth, brushing his lower lip with butterfly lightness. He felt the muscles tighten in his jaw, his cheeks, his chest.
Teasing his lower lip, she stroked the slick inner flesh with languid care. “And now you are tasting that sherry. But is a taste enough? Won’t a sip be more satisfying? Isn’t that what you really want?” Her voice had become a husky caress.
Raising the delicate crystal glass, Cat slowly took a small sip. The liquid shimmered on her lips, the firelight outlining their budding fullness.
She lifted her hand toward him again and he knew with awful certainty that her revenge was complete. His restraint had been pushed to its limits, and while he was no randy young buck lusting after his first maid, the sensation was startling in its intensity. He wanted her. It had been years since he had wanted a woman like this. Simply. Elementally. Without hidden motives.
The little fool did not even know how far she tested him. Like a kitten first unsheathing its claws, she was delighted they had drawn blood, unaware her prey might be dangerous when provoked. He would allow this to go no further. He caught her slender wrist inches from his face. For a second their eyes locked, his in hotness, hers in open triumph. A second later her gaze fell, confused before that heat. He drew in a ragged breath, mastering the desire that had exploded within him.
“Touché,” he congratulated her.
“Truce?” she whispered.
“Truce.”
Chapter 6
Brighton
C at smiled fondly at her great-aunt, who was snoring softly away from her side of their coach. She looked like an untidy pile of clothes dumped into the corner. The trip to Brighton to procure suitable garb for Cat had been tiring for Hecuba, warranting, as it did, lengthy discourses on Sodom, Gomorrah, and Babylon. Conversely, her dire warnings about the road to perdition were littered with clumsily veiled, if pithy suggestions for Cat’s transformation into a temptress until her pose of vigilant suspicion had exhausted her.
“You two go on with your conversation,” she’d said, her eyes fluttering shut. “I shall just meditate a moment on the fate of fallen women. Women who pinch their cheeks to put color into them, moisten their lips with tallow, and don’t wear gloves when dancing.”
In the two weeks since their arrival at Thomas’s home, she’d revealed beneath the facade of religious zeal a still naughty wench with a weakness or two; she fell
Similar Books
