Читать книгу Addicted - Charlotte Featherstone - Страница 6

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Bewdley, Worcestershire, England 1850

“Up and at ’em, milord.”

The valet’s gruff voice reached through the thick fog in his brain, disturbing the peaceful slumber and the lingering effects of the red smoke. “Sod off, Vallery,” Lindsay groaned.

His valet, ever the dutiful gentleman’s gentleman, groaned under Lindsay’s weight as he pulled him up from the brocade divan. “Any other time I would, milord, but Lord Darnby and his chits will be here within an hour and I’ve got a day’s debauchery to rid you of.”

Lindsay felt his arm being thrown around Vallery’s thick neck. His head lolled just a bit, forcing him to open his eyes. He was in his pleasure den, the remnants of last night’s bacchanal still surrounding him.

With his valet’s steadying hand and a few blinks of his burning eyes, Lindsay found himself slowly acclimating to the world around him. From the windows, he saw that the sky was not bright with the sun, but dark, the color of twilight. Bloody hell, what time was it?

“’Tis nearly seven, milord,” Vallery answered as he saw Lindsay’s confused gaze focus on the darkening skies. “You’ve been asleep all day. Now ’tis time to clean up.”

Yes. A bath and shave would set him to rights. It always did.

“Now then, will you bathe in the waters or do you wish me to take you to your apartments via the servants’ stairs?”

“My mother is around, then?”

The coarse visage of his valet came sharply into the line of his vision. Vallery was no effeminate Frenchman who clucked over him and his clothes. His unorthodox background and upbringing was what had made Lindsay desire him as his most trusted servant. It was Vallery’s steadfast loyalty that Lindsay appreciated most, not the intricate folds of a starched cravat.

“Would I be traipsing up those rickety old stairs carrying you if the marchioness was not about, flying high in the boughs?” Vallery grumbled.

Lindsay chuckled and removed his arm from his valet. He was sober as a monk now, although he could tell from the look in Vallery’s gaze that his appearance still lingered with a hint of debauchery.

“I think my mother is probably clucking about like a mother hen. She usually does when company is expected.”

“Thought you might like to know that the Duke of Torrington has already arrived.”

“And Wallingford?”

“Not yet, milord.”

Lindsay snorted as he pulled the already untied cravat from his neck. “I’m not surprised. Wallingford has made it his solemn vow to never be in his father’s company. Why would things change today?”

Vallery said nothing as Lindsay continued to strip out of his clothes. Like the dutiful servant he was, his valet reached out for the wrinkled garments, draping them carefully over his arm. “So, it’s the baths then, is it?”

With a nod, Lindsay draped his trousers over Vallery’s arms and headed for the mineral bath. He stepped into the hot water and allowed it to engulf his body and soak his muscles. With a sigh, he looked up at the arched ceiling above his head, then back down to the water that bubbled around him. A hot mineral spring ran beneath the house, allowing him this small luxury. Naturally, he had designed his pleasure den around the baths, which now resembled a Middle Eastern hammam. It was something straight out of the Arabian Nights. The only thing it lacked was a lovely odalisque.

Lindsay smiled to himself. He knew exactly who he would like to have in that particular role. She was going to be there in his home tonight. Already desire swirled in his veins. He had denied himself for too long. It was time, far past time in actuality, to see if the lady desired him in the same manner.

“You’ll need to be quick about it this evening,” Vallery called over his shoulder. “You will not want your Lady Anais to see you in such a state.”

Lindsay closed his eyes against the prick of pain in his chest. He did not want her name soiled with his other vice. How well Vallery knew him, for the last thing Lindsay wished was for Anais to know how he dabbled in opium. Anais would not understand.

“You place your arrows well, Vallery.”

“I intend for them to wound, milord. Never kill.”

“And wound they have.” Lindsay knew what Vallery thought, but his valet was wrong. He could stop. He was not a habitué. He could and would stop. Once he had Anais in his life and in his bed he would have no further use for the opium.

He dunked himself beneath the water, no longer desirous to see his valet looking at him with what Lindsay knew was concern. When he arose he wiped the water from his eyes, shook his curly mane free of wetness and pulled himself out of the bath. Vallery was there, holding out a black dressing gown.

“I wanted to tell you last night, before your…celebration,” Vallery said awkwardly as he glanced at the elaborate spread, “how thankful I am for you allowing me into that stock sale. I made a bundle, and I wouldn’t even have been allowed in the Exchange if you would not have placed my bid for me.”

Lindsay slapped his long-suffering valet on the shoulder. “We both made a packet, my friend. Besides, knowledge is to be shared amongst men—amongst all classes. You frown now, Vallery, but mark my words, you’ll see in another twenty-odd years how the middling classes will supersede the aristocracy. Like the dinosaurs on display at the British Museum, the aristocracy will one day weaken and become extinct.”

“If you say so, milord.”

“You doubt me, but I believe what I say.”

“Your thoughts will get you kicked out of parliament once you gain your seat.”

“There are others like me, Vallery. There is a whole class of men who think just as I think.”

“That was university, when you were young and idealistic. Every young man at that age wants to change the world. Everyone thinks they can. Then they get out into the real world, and they then decide that the privilege of their birth is more important to fight for than the miserable lives of those born below them.”

“Idleness and indolence. That is what you always say of my class.”

“I do not mean to insinuate that you are always indolent, milord.”

Lindsay reached for the towel Vallery held out to him and dried his hair. “But you do think my wealth could be better spent than on lavish opium dens.”

“You have been known to be gone for days, milord.”

“Let me worry about that. You worry about what I’ve said. The world is changing, Vallery. Slowly, but surely. I know it can change. I know it will change.”

“The haves will continue to have, and the have-nots will continue to go without. It is the way of things. The foundation of our empire.”

“I see the failures of our aristocratic forebears. No longer can our huge estates thrive and survive on the backs of the working man. In time, Vallery, we aristocrats will be working men, too.”

“You already do, milord. Making money is your full-time vocation.”

Lindsay grinned. “I do have a knack for it, I’ll admit. But what I find just as thrilling is teaching others how to double, triple their income.”

“You’ve the heart of a merchant, hoarding your treasures and counting your money, you’ve the mind of a mercenary who strategizes every move. You will forgive me for saying, my lord, but you are unlike any aristocrat I’ve ever met.”

“And that’s why you jumped at the chance to be my valet once your soldiering days were over.” Vallery, the taciturn man, rolled his eyes. Lindsay threw the wet towel at him. “You may accuse me of many things, but never of withholding knowledge from the everyday man. They, too, deserve a chance. I’m only seeing to it they get it. Why should it only be blue bloods who are given the chance to increase their fortunes? We’re born rich, the untitled man is not. He is the one who needs the chances in life.”

“You’re a good man, my lord. I wonder when you’ll see it? You are not your father, nor are you likely to become like him.”

Lindsay grimaced. “Good God, Vallery, don’t go all sentimental on me now. It gives me hives. I’d rather you call me a stupid ass for my behaviors than talk this melodrama. I’ve told you time and time again, I’m a dabbler. A dilettante, if you please. I am no rookery addict.”

“Of course, milord.”

Lindsay knew the man was lying. Knew his manservant was worried. But there was nothing to be worried about, because he could throw out his pipe whenever he damned well pleased. He did not have a habit.

“I am always available to you, Vallery. Lord knows you’ve put up with enough of my shenanigans since Cambridge. The least I can do is see to it that your retirement will be prosperous.”

“There is no denying your skill at the ’Change. You’ve certainly saved this place from demolition,” Vallery muttered as he looked around the lavish Moorish architecture that surrounded them.

“My father has wallowed in his cups for too many years. He hasn’t seen to the proper running of this place for decades.”

“I hope he knows to whom he is indebted.”

Lindsay laughed as he tied the sash around his middle. “My father is too busy drinking and whoring to notice what has gone on around him. Hell, the walls could crumble about our heads and he’d be too drunk to notice—or care. No, my father worries about his hounds and his drink, my mother and her comforts have been gone from his mind for many years.”

Running two fingers over his chin, Lindsay felt the growth that had erupted since last night. He bent and looked at the shadowed reflection in the mirror. “What do you think? Too much?”

“I think you will frighten off the ladies, milord.”

“Really?” He doubted Anais would be frightened of a little beard. Not her. She was not a silly chit. Perhaps she might even like it. He grinned, running his fingers over the stubble. Perhaps Anais would care to learn the benefits of a little facial hair. With the proper tutor, Anais might very well welcome such lessons. Certainly she would enjoy the scrape of his chin against her soft, fleshy thighs. He knew he certainly would.

“It is not my place to ask, milord—”

“When has that ever stopped you?” Lindsay interrupted as he took a chair and allowed his head to be tipped back in preparation for a shave.

“You do allow me unheard of freedoms, milord.”

“Yes, well, I’m a Renaissance man. I keep telling you that, Vallery.”

“And I keep telling you I don’t know what that means.”

Lindsay saw him reach for the silver blade and swirl it in the water of the blue ceramic basin. “It means I am rather liberal and my way of thinking is new and perhaps a bit nonconformist.”

Vallery grunted and brought the blade to Lindsay’s throat. “What I was going to ask, milord, is if you wanted the blue jacket and the ivory waistcoat this evening.”

Lindsay could almost hear his valet finish his question with “you know, the new ones you’ve been saving for just the right evening.”

“You must have found the box I hid in the waistcoat.”

Vallery flushed. “I did, indeed, milord.”

“What did you think of it?”

“I think you shall have to get the lady some sort of support for her hand. That gem is the largest I think I’ve ever seen.”

Lindsay smiled. “It came all the way from India. Cost me a packet, but what does that matter when I shall have the privilege of seeing it every day on her finger. I think of it as my brand, Vallery. I hope to claim her with that ring.”

“I think any woman would be claimed by such a bauble, my lord.”

Lindsay chuckled. The diamond was very big, but not garish. He hoped it said devotion and undying love, not greed. “Do you think tonight would be a good night to ask her, Vallery? Is that what you are suggesting?”

“It is not my place to suggest, milord.”

He laughed. Bloody hell, his bossy valet was always suggesting. Just last night he suggested that he’d had enough of the red smoke. Lindsay had spited him by blowing another cloud.

All finished with the shave, Lindsay stood and strolled over to the divan where Vallery had prepared his evening clothes. The new blue jacket and ivory brocade were there. Lindsay wondered if his valet had been kind enough to put the brown box containing the emerald and diamond ring in the pocket.

“You’ve the look of the cat that just ate the canary,” Vallery muttered as he cleaned up the shaving things.

“It’s obvious, is it? And how am I to help it?” he asked. “I’m going to ask the most beautiful woman in the world to be my wife.”

“What a relief,” his valet taunted. “Now I won’t have to listen to ye bellyache anymore over the girl.’ Tis unnatural how you’re lovesick for her.”

“No,” Lindsay whispered as the image of Anais came to mind. “It’s the most natural thing in the world to love her as much as I do.”

“Well, you had best get yerself out of this wicked pleasure den and make your way to your mother’s salon. You’re late.”

Lindsay dressed quickly and left the den, which had, at one time, been his mother’s sorely neglected and run-down conservatory. When he’d come into money from his business investments, he’d claimed the crumbling monstrosity for his own and made it into an escape. Designed like the Alhambra in Spain, it was the height of decadence. With its Moorish influence, and the hot spring bath, it was a world within a room. An escape he craved at the end of the day.

He thought of it as his harem. And he’d decorated it as such.

“Ah, here he is at last,” his father, the Marquis of Weatherby said in a voice that was already slurred by drink.

“Good evening, sir.” Lindsay nodded in the direction of his father, then reached for the gloved hand of his mother.

“Mama, you look lovely this evening.”

Her gaze drifted over his, as if taking stock of his appearance. There was nothing left in his eyes for her to catch on to. Nothing but the dutiful and loving son standing before her, kissing her hand. The stains of his mistress were washed away from his body. He was clean. For how long, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter, for tonight he was not thinking about her, and when he would next require her services.

He made quick work of the introductions, all the while resisting the urge to search out Anais. It was a game he liked to play, to see how long he could endure it, not seeing her.

His body was now as tense as a bow. His mouth dry from talking. His eyes hungry for a glance of her ripe body and lovely face. As if the dinner guests knew of his need, they parted, revealing Anais standing by the hearth, talking to her younger sister.

She must have felt his burning gaze, because she stopped talking and turned to look at him. Her smile went all the way to his core, hitting like a rush—like that first great inhalation of opium.

If a man’s future was truly preordained—his destiny written while still in the womb—then he was looking upon the woman who was his fate, the woman he knew had been created solely for him.

He had always known that someday Anais would belong to him. She would be more than his friend. He’d always believed it, but never more than this moment as their gazes collided together, and their bodies became aware of each other.

She always took his breath away. They’d been friends forever, since young childhood, but his feelings were no longer chaste or platonic. No, his feelings and desires were hot. Passionate. Erotic. And the perfumed dreams he had of Anais last night had been the most erotic yet. The things she had let him do to her…

One day, they wouldn’t be just dreams and fantasies.

“Good evening, Lindsay.”

Her soft voice washed over him like a caress, and he felt himself grow aroused. It was so hard to hide his feelings from her. He doubted he could for much longer.

Her gloved hand felt so right in his palm as he raised her fingers to his lips. Her eyes, those beautiful, mesmerizing pools, captured his attention, watching as his lips slowly descended to her fingertips. He lingered there, inhaling her perfume, watching the rise and fall of her breasts in the tight bodice. She moved in, just a hint, and the cloud of her rich perfume rose up to coil around him.

She had scented her breasts with the French perfume he had purchased for her.

Desire gripped him, and lost to everything but need, he closed his eyes and inhaled the heady scent. In his mind, he could see the golden liquid trickle between the cleft of her breasts. He saw the cut crystal bottle stopper in her hand as she trailed it along her cleavage. One day, he vowed, he would lay negligently in their bed, which would be rumpled from their lovemaking, and watch her at her toilette. One day, he would come and stand behind her and take the stopper from her hand and trace her breasts with it. One day, she would look into the mirror and see him standing there, desire in his eyes.

“Lindsay?”

Slowly, his eyelids opened and there she was. Her head was bent, her lips ripe for his mouth to plunder. It would be no trial—and highly arousing—to pull the little puffy sleeves of her gown down her arms and expose her. He knew she would be wearing a corset, but in his dreams, she would be naked beneath, bared to his eyes and hands.

His gaze swept over her face, which was so lovely to him, then down her throat, which he longed to brush his lips over, down to the pulse that fluttered like butterfly wings. Every inch of her was as luscious as a sweet from the candy shop. And God above, he was beyond wanting a taste of her.

“Good evening, my angel,” he said over her hand. “You look ravishing, as always.”

“You have been practicing your flattery, my lord,” she said with a little laugh that was too high. Nervous? Aroused? Her laugh seemed unnatural. “The ladies in London must swoon at your skill, sir.”

“I do not know. I do not share any compliments with ladies other than you, Anais.”

Her eyes told him she was dubious about his sincerity. “Truth,” he whispered in her ear.

She bristled at the sudden contact of their bodies. He was forgetting himself, forgetting where he was. Forgetting that in Anais’s mind they were friends, not lovers.

Yet, in his mind they’d been lovers for years. Carnally, he was very well acquainted with every inch of her enticing body. What man wouldn’t dream of a woman like Anais? Plump and womanly, she would feel so damn good beneath him with her hair, that was golden blond and long, draped over his chest. Her breasts, large and firm, would cushion him, would beckon him to taste and play—would amuse him for hours. Her décolletage, which was always so elegantly but tastefully displayed in her gowns, never ceased to capture his notice, nor his imagination. Hell, there wasn’t a part of her body that didn’t entice him. He wanted to span her hips with his hands and crush her to his pelvis, grinding into her. He wanted to feel her soft belly cushion his cock, he wanted to fill his hands with her firm bottom, and knead as he plunged his tongue between her soft lips. He wanted to strip her down and study the body that held him captive for so many years.

His hands, he knew, would worship her curves, and he would lose himself in those lovely blue eyes that reminded him of a clear sky. Her shy smile would be his undoing—it always had been.

Anais was built for loving, for the type of bed sport be enjoyed. With Anais he wouldn’t have to feel as though he were going to break her. He wouldn’t have to treat her like a fragile flower. He could indulge in that luscious body for hours.

But more than her body, Lindsay lusted for her heart, that piece of her she guarded so carefully. He wanted to mean something more to her than friend. Lover, confidant, he wanted Anais for her body, her sharp mind, and the friendship he had always relied upon.

Of course, seeing her tonight, friendship wasn’t on his mind. Her décolletage, and the elegant line of her throat covered with his lips had suddenly rushed to the forefront of his thoughts.

One day, he knew he was going to see her naked, and that visual would be a hundred times more arousing than it was in his dreams.

“I think that was the bell for dinner,” his mother announced over the drumming of voices that filled the salon.

“Allow me?” Lindsay held his arm out to Anais. She slipped her hand so easily around his forearm and pressed into his side. His body hardened as he felt her hips contour against his. He wished he could drag her off to his den and confess all to her. But first he had to do the pretty and be a gentleman.

“You look different somehow,” she said as she looked up at him.

“Oh?”

She nodded and a curling strand of golden-blond hair slipped from a pin, only to land on the crest of her breast that was exposed by her low-cut bodice. God help him if that strand was going to lie there all evening long. He couldn’t drag his gaze away from it, nor vanquish the image of his lips brushing it aside.

“I’m not sure what it is. You just seem…different. It’s in your eyes.”

Heat. Longing. Desire. He knew what was reflected there. He couldn’t hide it.

“Lindsay, are you all right? You’ve been acting strangely ever since you arrived back from London two weeks ago.”

Yes, he was perfectly sound. Just needy for her.

“Meet me tonight, Anais. At the stables.”

She cocked her head to the side, studied him, and he felt the compulsion to shrink back in horror and shame. Was it not his amorous feelings she saw reflected in his eyes, but something else? The other side of him he hid from the world.

“I’m worried about you.”

He smiled and clutched her fingers. “There’s no need. Now, after dessert, tell your mother you’re going for a ride. We’ll ride into the forest and I might even let you beat me.”

She laughed then, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, how you delude yourself. For I am going to trounce you. Just you wait and see.”

God willing he thought, as he led Anais into the dining room. Although he had the feeling that they were both thinking two different things when it came to trouncing.

Something was afoot. Anais stole another sidelong glance at Lindsay, who sat to the right of her. There was a feral intensity about him this evening, one she had never seen before from her longtime friend.

Whatever had brought on his bizarre behavior this evening had obviously been beleaguering him for the past fortnight. Lindsay had simply not been himself these past two weeks.

Perhaps it was the extraordinarily lovely Lady Mary Grantworth who had made his wits addled. Mary certainly stared enough at him from her spot across the table. She had also engaged him in conversation for the better part of the dinner.

What man wouldn’t become addled in the presence of Mary’s violet eyes and lithe figure? A figure that was trim, unlike her own dumpling body.

Did Lindsay prefer small, pert breasts and narrow hips? If so, Anais knew she hadn’t a hope, for her breasts were much too big, and her hips wide. Hers was a body that was soft and curvaceous. The type she had told herself that men desired in a woman whom they were about to make love to. But perhaps she had erred in thinking that a man would desire such things.

She couldn’t help the way she had been created. She had always been well endowed, even from a young age. She had accepted herself, and her body, and had even grown to admire her bosom in a low-cut bodice, and the flare of her hips from her waist that dipped in like an hourglass. It had been aeons since she had wished to change her body. Until tonight. Until she saw what she perceived as her rival sitting across the table from her, looking at her smugly. Mary was beautiful, thin, fashionable. Anais, while pretty enough, with her long, blond hair that was given to curl, was neither slim, nor fashionable, thanks to her mother’s belief that a body like hers was best left in plain clothes.

What did Lindsay think? Was it Mary’s little bosom, rising above her bodice like two firm apples, that enticed him? Or was it hers, soft, warm, inviting in its display of perfect peach skin, which she had so carefully scented.

Which woman would Lindsay want to feel beneath him? She had always dreamed it was her he desired. But now, sitting across from the perfect Mary, she wasn’t so certain.

“You scowl,” Lindsay suddenly whispered to her, startling her.

“Merely in thought,” she replied, refusing to look at him. His face was close to hers. She could feel his breath, the way it caressed her neck. She couldn’t look into that beautiful face and show every feeling she possessed.

“Are your thoughts so unsavory, then?”

Oh, they were! They were thoughts of the beautiful Mary and Lindsay together. There was no doubt about it, Mary Grantworth wanted Lindsay, and for more than just his title.

All Anais had ever wanted was him. His title be damned. It was the man she desired. The childhood friend who had grown into a strong man, a man of good standing and intellect. A man who was not an idle gadabout waiting to come into his title and inheritance.

Lindsay was so much more than a viscount and heir presumptive to a marquisate.

“When you pout, angel, every man looks at you, wishing he could kiss away the sadness from those lovely lips.”

Yet how could she or any other woman resist him? With his dark good looks, he was everything a young woman dreamed of in a man. He was tall, broad and well muscled, yet he walked with a predator-like grace that held a woman’s gaze and captured her imagination. His clothes were immaculate, well tailored to accentuate his shoulders and toned legs. His hair was onyx colored, and he wore it long to his shoulders, where it hung in loose waves she had longed to run her fingers through. His eyes, the color of Irish moss, were fringed with long, black lashes that were utterly wasted on a man. He was beautiful, the very epitome of a brooding poet, but with his hair worn long, and the sinful curve of his mouth, which was usually shadowed with a night beard, he reminded Anais not of a poet, but a fallen angel, the sort who would tempt any woman into an indiscretion with a smile and a flash of his eyes.

That was what made Lindsay so alluring. He was a mix of romantic sensitivity, with an underlying aura of sinful masculinity. There was a part of Lindsay that called to the romantic girl, and the other part that called to the womanly needs she kept so carefully hidden from him.

Her gaze strayed to his hands, long, elegant, artistic, she shivered as she imagined those beautiful hands traversing her body; and his lips, good God, she could not look at those strong lips and not shudder as she thought of him kissing every inch of her.

It was no wonder that Mary had set her sights on him. Anais herself could hardly bear to look away from his hansome profile, or stop herself from imagining what he must look like beneath his waistcoat and jacket. She had no doubt, though, that what lurked beneath his clothes would be every bit as perfect as his face.

She 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.