Читать книгу Being Wicked - Lacy Danes - Страница 9

Grace walked into the ballroom with her new friend, Veronica. Entirely transformed into a virginal tease, Veronica cautiously turned and headed in the opposite direction as Grace had instructed her. She was unrecognizable from the woman that Grace had found earlier. Her raven hair was pulled back from her face and half her face was partially hidden beneath her mask, which accentuated the innocence she possessed in abundance. The red-and-black bloomers, borrowed from Emma, were a perfect complement to the mask, as well as her white corset.

All the men in attendance were about to see a real treat—a virgin who would act as such. Grace hoped Veronica would listen to her guidance and watch some of what happened here this night.

Grace grasped a glass of claret off a tray as a man passed, standing back to take in the sights she had missed for the past two years.

Her lips curved up into a smile as her eyes settled on a group of women. All of them were masked and wore little clothing. The woman in the center had golden curls that bobbed and sprang as she twirled with a tall, brown-haired girl, her short shift lifting from her body teasing a group of admiring men. Emma. Grace always enjoyed watching her. Her vibrancy for life and pleasure was evident in everything she did.

You are not here for the women, Grace, even if you do enjoy watching them. Not masked, she turned her clear gaze to the men in the room. She needed this to put her marriage behind her and soothe her powerful yearnings, but did she have the courage to do simply that? To simply feel and remember the sensations of being touched, of being desired? Could she do so and not have her emotions get involved? Oscar had always been there, watching from that damn chair….

She closed her eyes and saw his brown hair and deep sable eyes filled with desire lock on hers as Markus slid his cock into her from behind. She trembled. She never removed her gaze from his during any of the acts he requested she do for him. She had loved him completely. She opened her eyes again and sighed.

What she craved could not be found here. Markus stood across the room, staring at her. He would watch her until she found a suitable man to tease—then he would find a plaything for himself. Maybe Veronica? No. Veronica was not for him. Markus would never approach, and Veronica would need to be taken, but with a gentle hand.

Time to tease, dear Grace. From afar, she could and would titillate Markus. That was safe. That she had been taught to do well. She smiled and tilted her head to the side. Her tongue slid out and traced her upper lip. The tingling of her moisture on the plump surface made her tongue retrace its path. She winked at him.

He inclined his head to her, then tilted it toward the two women teasing the men in the center of the room.

He wished her to tantalize him with Emma. Of course he did. She turned her attention back to them; there was a part of her that yearned for what he asked her to do. But only Oscar had ever asked her to do anything with a woman to titillate his senses.

Grace bit her lip at the echo of Oscar’s voice. “Flirt with them for me, Grace. I want to watch you,” rang in her head. She swallowed hard. She couldn’t bring herself to take that step forward and flirt with these women, to flirt with these men. Or could she? A shiver racked her body at the same time heat swelled in her womb.

In her soul, she wanted something different this time, and her heart battled for that one-on-one encounter she so craved. Everyone in this room futtered with their mistresses and protectors at some point. She wanted to do the act and not have someone watching her from the chair. She closed her eyes and the carved cherrywood object sat before her. “Leave me alone,” she whispered beneath her breath, and the chair vanished.

She wanted to futter with the man she loved. Not simply have him watch her. Tears pushed to her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

Come on, Grace. You can have fun and flirt and then settle in for the night with one, not two or three. You know it. You simply have never done this without Oscar. Without direction.

She inhaled a deep breath and pried her eyes open. That’s it. Look around the room, pick a protector you wish to entertain, and then flirt with Emma to win his favors for the night.

She turned her head to the right, slowly taking in the crowded ballroom. Several groups of men and women stood laughing and drinking, but none of them gave her the prickles on the nape of her neck. Oh, indeed. She needed that reaction—that primal physical indication that simply by sighting someone, they would weave together well on the physical plane.

She turned her head back to the left and lightning struck down her spine and her bum clenched. She shook her head to clear her vision. Winston? Was that him?

With the wide shoulders and curl of blond hair over the collar of his fitted evening coat, it very well could be. But why would Winston Greydon be at one of Emma’s events? He had never attended one in the past, and he certainly had always appeared a one-woman kind of man. Besides, last she heard of him, he was in India. It couldn’t be him.

You still think of him after all these years as your perfect man. No man is how you thought them back then.

She sighed. It wouldn’t hurt to see if she could attract the attention of this man—whoever he was. Even without seeing his face, he seemed someone she would be physically a good match for this night.

She stepped forward, in the direction of both him and Emma.

Men and women laughed, joked, and drank. They didn’t notice her slipping through. The closer she got to him the bodies grew thicker, crowding her. She couldn’t do this. Her lungs constricted and her heart sped as her feet slowed. No…no, she needed to do this.

Do this without Oscar.

She glanced across the room once more to where Markus stood. His blue eyes watched her. His face wore an expression she had not seen before. He worried about her.

As she neared the man who resembled Winston, Oscar’s words “Act like a cat playing with its food. Tease him, my dear” assaulted her. A smile curved her lips. Indeed, he was her prey for the night and she would play with him as a cat did before she devoured him.

She purposefully brushed into Lord Kipberval—he was known for getting easily flustered—and tilted her glass, spilling some of her wine on him.

“Watch where you tread!” The stocky, black-haired man turned toward her.

“Pardon me, sir.” Grace placed her hand on his forearm.

His gaze slid down her body, inspecting her in a glance. “My! You are a pretty thing. Sorry to have shouted, lovely.”

“No worries, sir. I was simply heading out to the floor and slipped.” Grace glanced sideways at the fair-haired man standing not two feet from her. He had turned at the yell from Kipberval and now faced her fully.

Eyes, so blue and intense, stared at her. The same blue that had sparked with laughter as they had discussed their plights in life and made up stories to run off and become gypsies together. She sucked in a startled breath as her heart hammered in her chest. Winston.

She beamed up at him. Her lips parted to speak his name with excitement.

His jaw angrily set and his eyes narrowed.

Anger? Chills raced her arms and she stepped backward, cowering away from his expression. His eyes hardened. She couldn’t bear to look.

She tore her gaze from him and glanced around the room. Emma laughed out and her gaze jumped to Emma. Indeed, Emma. Go to her…. Be the woman Oscar taught you to be. Winston is your past, and remember he, too, is not what you remember. He is a man, a man with as intense, carnal appetites as every man you have known.

She stepped forward and onto the dance floor, mind spinning as her heart hammered in her chest. What was Winston doing here? And why was he angry with her?

The same arched nose and smile from childhood repeated in her mind and slowly faded to the wrinkles that now resided about his eyes and his mouth. Happy lines, which showed his age and indicated a happy life, most likely full of joy.

Though he was not smiling at her now. Anger and disappointment shone back at her. Her heart sank. Yes, it was disappointment. How dare he be disappointed in her? He was here, too. He stood in the middle of one of Emma’s events. What does he seek here? Why is he here? her mind swung around, Why is he here?

Grace stepped closer to Emma as Emma swayed, shaking her hips sensuously in what appeared to be an exotic dance the likes Grace had never seen before. Emma was about to help her find out why Winston was here.

Emma lifted her head. Her gaze settled on Grace and she squealed, “Grace!” Then she walked toward her.

Grace’s lips curved up into a smile. “Dear Emma, how are you?”

“I am delighted to see you. We have all missed you.” She threw her arms about Grace’s shoulders and pressed her lips to Grace’s.

The gentle pinch of her soft lips against Grace’s mouth slid through her veins. Grace relaxed and heard Oscar’s words: “That is it, Grace. Tease her. Show me how sensual two women can be, Grace. Show me how much you love me by doing this for me.” The proper Grace trickled from her body as if water poured from her hair, placing sexual Grace firmly into her role.

Grace’s hand rose and grasped the nape of Emma’s neck, pulling her more closely to her. Indeed, she needed to feel the soft curve of breasts against hers to know she did well. Heat spread through her limbs and Grace’s nipples pebbled into puckered peaks. Oh, she forgot how good this felt.

She slid her tongue out and pushed it into Emma’s mouth. Yes, this was what she needed to feel…desire…. to be the sensual woman once again.

She opened her eyes and glanced in Winston’s direction. He stood no more than two feet from her, glaring down at her and Emma. Her body tensed and her gaze darted to Markus.

His smile reassured her, all was well, that she needed this. Just because Oscar was gone, the woman she had become had not died with him. Tonight would prove that.

Winston didn’t say a word but towered over them, his heat mixing with theirs. His smell, the same crisp smell of the sea she always associated with him. Grace sighed deep in her heart. She had not realized how much she had missed him. Winston was home.

What the devil was Lady Wentland doing here? Grace! Every fiber of his being screamed for him to grab her by the arm, drag her from this ballroom, and spank her bottom for the scandalous behavior she exhibited. Indeed, yes, a spank to her bottom. Several quick, sharp slaps with his hand so her bottom was red and his hand stung. Or with a birch—even better. He smiled, then frowned.

No, Winston, don’t even think it!

She was a true English lady, yet her actions screamed this act had happened for years. He swallowed the lump lodged in his throat and glared at them. Her lips pressed and nipped at Emma’s.

Emma!

Lady Grace stood in the middle of the ballroom, kissing the most expensive courtesan in London!

Blood rushed through his ears, blocking all rational thought, and his fingers fisted. Grace’s hands slid down Emma’s back to her waist and fluttered there.

He held in a moan at the way she moved. So sensual, so graceful, so feminine. His Grace had grown into a sensual woman. No! What the hell was he thinking? Images of her as the innocent Grace, her brother, and Winston talking about every subject they could think of, including the act, came to him. Her brother, his best friend, would lock Grace in the attic if he knew she was here. Winston cringed—if her brother knew he was here watching her, Winston would be challenged to a duel at dawn. Blast and damn. This was not what he had expected when he agreed to stay in this house.

Grace’s fingers pinched Emma’s nipple.

His cock grew noticeably heavy. With teeth clenched tight, he glanced around the room. Damn it. Not the reaction he was hoping for as he watched her flirt and tease.

His gaze continued to assess the room. He needed to focus on anything but watching her tease. How many of the men in this room watched her? How many knew who she was? Most—if not all—of the men in the room watched them. Ice slid through his veins and his short nails dug into his palms as a wave of possession captured his mind and body.

He needed to get her from here, and then erase this image of her from his mind forever. Quite so…she was Lady Wentland. His Grace! The pure lady she was raised to be, and as soon as he removed her from this—this event—he would recapture that image of her. Her innocent ladylike teasing as a fresh debut—that was the image he wanted to retain in his mind.

He stepped forward and reached out toward her left hand, which gripped Emma’s hip. What the hell are you doing? His hand shook, but he couldn’t stop it. His finger traced the line of Grace’s middle and index finger. Bubbles of sensation tingled up the tip of his finger and constricted his lungs.

Grace moaned and her passion-filled eyes slit slightly open, catching him standing only inches from Emma’s back. Her hand slid away from his touch and down to the top of Emma’s thigh. Emma rocked her body toward Grace, pinning her hand between their bodies.

A lump lodged in Winston’s throat and he clenched his teeth tighter. His finger traced Grace’s other hand and pulled her finger from Emma’s body. The heat of them wet the tips of his fingers as the soft and slender length of Grace’s finger rubbed, circling his knuckles, then retreated to grip Emma once again.

He slowly lowered his hand. She kissed this woman and teased him. He should walk away. He should drag her from this room and out into the hallway and talk some sense into her. She…she should not be here. His brow knit tight. She was utterly captivating. If he had not known her from childhood, Grace’s actions this night fit precisely what he looked for in this house.

Damn it all!

He wanted her in his bed. In all his years in India, he never dreamed about the act of sin with Grace. Long talks with Grace, yes. Teasing her…taunting her…futtering her until she was spent and lifeless—that was a thought he had restricted to the parlors of the Indian dens, where they knew his tastes, because he had discovered them there. He never considered a blooded high-born English lady would possess the skills he wished to nurture. It was Grace.

He should turn right now and walk away. He could not touch her. India represented a lifetime of experience for him. Maybe all this time had also ripened his friends, who had developed a taste for the act that was different as well.

Emma slid her hands up to Grace’s face. Her fingers slid into her hair, and in one move, her other hand slid back and lightly slapped her.

Winston’s eyes widened. What was going on here?

Grace moaned, leaned in, and kissed Emma’s cheek. Her tongue slid out and she licked a trail to Emma’s ear.

Winston’s feet would not move. He shook his head and tried to clear the image from his mind. Emma slapped Grace, and Grace moaned. Grace likes to be slapped. Grace liked this kind of teasing and was doing it for him. The blood in his veins rushed south. No, no, no. This is Grace.

Winston closed the distance between them, wrapped his hand around Grace’s bicep, and pulled her from Emma.

“What are you doing, Grace? You do not belong here.” His voice came out harsh.

Grace stared up at him; anger, arousal, and tears shone back. She pulled and yanked on her arm as she tried to dislodge Winston’s grip.

“Grace, dear, are you well with him?” Emma’s firm tone slid through his fog.

“Let go of me, Winston.” Grace twisted her arm in his grip, trying to dislodge his fingers.

“She is fine, Emma.” Winston held his grip on Grace’s arm and turned from Emma. Grace didn’t resist as he pushed through the crowd, dragging her with him. Her slippered feet scuffed along the wood floor. They reached the edge of the ballroom.

“Winston, let go of me.” Her voice was a meager whisper.

“Not until we talk, Grace.” His mind spun. He wanted her to leave this place, and at the same time, he wanted to bed her.

“Let go of me.”

He reached the hallway and spun her about. Her slippered feet scuffed on the floor as he pressed her firmly up against the wood-paneled wall in the entrance.

“What in the devil’s sake were you doing in there, Grace?” His voice shook as he stared down into her upturned face. “Have you no idea who these people are?” He pushed a palm against the wood wall above her shoulder, and with the other, he continued to hold her arm.

“Do you, Winston? Do you? These people have been my friends for the past eight years. You have no idea how much time changes a person, Winston.” She turned and tried to pull from his grasp.

There was pain in her voice. She was widowed. She’s been a part of this set for the past eight years? Her words pierced his gut, and the urge to protect her bubbled through his veins. No matter how precisely she might fit his description of what he searched for in his personal temple goddess, he needed her to leave here.

She didn’t belong in a place like this. Not his Grace. Yet, this is where she had survived the last eight years. He closed his eyes. “These people have been my friends.” How? Why had she come to know this set of people? Damnation, he had no idea.

“Grace.” He slid his knee between her thighs and up against the wall behind. His hand on the paneled wall reached up and grabbed her chin. He turned her head to the side and forced her gaze to the door. “You see that door, Grace? You need to walk out it. You have never belonged with this set.” The heat of her pussy seeped through his silk pantaloons and dampened his thigh. God, if she didn’t leave, he would end up carrying her up the stairs and into his bed.

He held her face pinned to the wall as his eyes slid down the column of her neck and the ridge of extended flesh that the position accentuated. He leaned in, and inhaled. Sweet, creamy arousal filled his nose. Arousal from her kissing Emma? Or was her wetness desire from his touch?

His tongue slid out and glided along his lips, then touched her skin. Salt and lavender coated his taste buds. He held back a groan as he pressed more firmly to the smooth skin of her neck and slowly trailed up to her earlobe, savoring the feast of her. Curling his tongue about the drop of flesh, he sucked the small piece of her into his mouth and pressed his teeth into a button.

Grace moaned. Fisting her hands into his coat, she sagged against the wall.

“Are you staying, Grace, or walking out the door?” His words, soft, as he traced the cup of her ear with the tip of his tongue. She tasted so…erotic…so sinfully tempting.

She said not a word.

And his will for sending her home faded with each sense that she titillated. He wanted her…here now, against the wall as everyone passed by, but he couldn’t do the act with her here. His Grace. “If you are staying, Grace, you will not be going back into the ball. You will be joining me in my room for this night, and everything I ask of you will be taken without hesitation or question.”

Her arms and legs trembled against him and she moaned.

Her reaction to his words was what he craved. He never would have considered she could be the one. The tremble at his words, and the moan that spontaneously erupted from her—when Emma’s hand slapped her in the ballroom—indicated she enjoyed pleasing and firmness.

He swallowed hard. This situation was unfurling as if someone had searched his deepest fears and his wildest fantasies and meshed them into one. No matter, he always faced his fears, but only did so with control and determination. This called for nothing less.

“Well, Grace? The door or my room? Which shall it be?”