Читать книгу Black Silk - Sharon Page - Страница 10

Torches burned in a ring, flickering in the summer’s breeze, licking at the dark sky. At this time of night, Hyde Park was quiet, and, of course, at this time of year, many of the haute volée were not in town.

The flames crackled softly, sending a smoky, warm scent into the gently roiling air.

Maryanne gazed upward at the taut ropes illuminated by the soft light. The bottom of the enormous balloon could be seen, gaudily patterned, but the top disappeared into the star-flecked darkness. The woven basket beneath looked precarious and impossibly small.

She faltered. She couldn’t go up in the air in that!

Lord Swansborough’s fingers cupped her elbow. Sandalwood surrounded, tempted. “We appear to be the only couple here.” A soft rumble by her ear, his voice buoyed her courage. Yet they were not really a couple. Not really partners.

“You needn’t have come with me. I could have taken a hackney myself.”

His hand released, then slid around, and he held her the way a man held a dockside tart, with hand locked around her waist, and her body snuggled tight against him.

“You, at least, I can protect, love.” His voice was low yet intense. A deep, dangerous sound.

Did she want his protection? Did she want a partner? Georgiana, her partner in publishing, caused her nothing but trouble—had brought her into this dangerous game. And her mother had once believed Rodesson would stand at her side as the most intimate partner—husband. Her mother had been left to rely on herself.

The torchlight lit up the faces of the men attending the balloon. Red-gold light caught a beaked nose, a hollowed cheek, even the scarring of a man who’d lost an eye. They looked like demons in Hades, drinking and smoking, laughing raunchily in the quiet park.

Was Georgiana here in the park? Had these men seen her?

And below, serpent’s river and thundering horse will hear the roar, the riddle read.

Maryanne stopped, and Swansborough halted with her. His aristocratic face gazed down in concern. Painted by golden firelight, he was utterly breathtaking—his face a sculpture of sharp cheekbones and firm, sensuous lips. Darkly shadowed, his eyes reflected both silver moonlight and bright torchlight.

“Gentlemen usually ride in the early morning, don’t they?” she asked. “Doesn’t that mean we will have to wait? Aren’t there supposed to be thundering horses?”

“We will see. Your madam might already be there.”

“Georgiana is not my madam. She is my…” She could not say partner, not without piquing his interest, prompting questions she didn’t want to answer. “My friend.”

“Friend,” he repeated. His lips lifted in a smile. “And you hesitated a very long time.”

“Why are you not like other drunk gentlemen?” What foxed man would listen so intently to her conversation? What sober man, for that matter? “Any other man would have fallen asleep by now.”

“Well acquainted with drunk men, Verity?” He sounded amused, but with his face in shadow, she couldn’t be certain.

“As most women are.” Which was true. Any woman who spent time around men, even in a country setting, in the most innocent of contact, would become acquainted with foxed men.

“You are very intriguing, Verity. Most women would be wondering what they could obtain from me. We made love, after all. What did that mean to you?”

Everything. But she knew it meant nothing to him. It had been merely an amusement.

A rattle behind sent her heart hammering. She spun around as a curricle drew up and two grays tossed their heads. Long white plumes waved on a lady’s bonnet, and Maryanne felt both hope and fear. The lady was clad entirely in silver and white. Georgiana did that on occasion. Who was the gentleman driving the carriage—was he a threat?

But as the tall gentleman, attired in a heavy, three-tiered greatcoat, jumped down, Swansborough murmured, “Lady Yardley and the Duke of Ashton.”

Lady Yardley waved a greeting at Swansborough. “Dear Lancelot! Have you completed the task?”

Lancelot?

Maryanne gaped as he released her waist and swept a bow for the Countess of Yardley. “Not yet, my dear Sophia.”

The countess smiled wickedly and toyed with a silvery blond curl. Though she was not young, she was exquisitely lovely, and her lines gave fascinating character to a charming face. She was compelling, seductive, alluring.

Her soft, melodic laughter was enticingly feminine. “It looks treacherous.”

“Only for the intrepid,” Swansborough agreed, and Maryanne felt him direct her toward the balloon with a gentle push on her bottom. She swallowed shock—they’d made love. How could she be startled by a caress on her clothed derriere?

Maryanne’s chest tightened. She took a deep breath, remembering the feel of Swansborough’s hot, wide back as her hands had skimmed over it. Remembering the scent of his skin, the taste of his neck…

Her heart ached at the thought of other women touching him that way. It had been everything to her. It hadn’t mattered to him.

“Are you all right, love?” Deep and concerned, Swansborough’s voice cut through her horrified thoughts.

She fought for calm. “Lancelot?” she asked. A pet name from a lover, perhaps? How could she, untutored and country bred, compete with such a beautiful woman? Of course, she couldn’t—and she wouldn’t be. She was his partner for this night—this one night.

Swallowing hard, she realized the truth. That might have been her one chance to make love. She couldn’t marry now—which was what she’d wanted, of course—but now the realization stunned her. She couldn’t take lovers—that could cause scandal, and she didn’t dare hurt her mother, her sisters, and Venetia’s coming child with scandal.

Her heart was pounding into the silence. He didn’t answer, so she pressed. “Why Lancelot? Confide.”

“Verity wants truth, of course.” They’d reached the circle of torches, where the smoke was thick and sweet, and the light showed his wry grin.

What woman could resist that slightly self-mocking smile? It made Maryanne’s legs turn to treacle.

“It’s my name,” he admitted. “Dashiel Lancelot Blackmore. Dashiel was my father’s choice, a family name, to him a sign of longevity. Lancelot was my mother’s flighty wish.”

She nodded in understanding. Rodesson had bestowed Venetia’s name upon her, but her mother had named both her and Grace, determined not to give in to romantic fancy.

Though she couldn’t explain any of that, he smiled. “My father gritted his teeth every time he heard it,” his lordship continued. “It amuses Sophia—Lady Yardley—to use it. She pretends I am a noble knight, which, of course, I am not. My sister’s name is Anne Persephone—once again, my parents came to an odd compromise.”

“Aren’t you a noble knight?” she teased and marveled at her bravery. The few times she’d met Lord Swansborough, she’d managed an awkward curtsy but almost no conversation.

“No, sweetheart, don’t fancy me to be Lancelot, because I’m not. I wish I could charge in and rescue damsels.”

He moved away, and though the summer’s breeze was warm and humid, she shivered at the loss of contact. He hailed one of the men, who lurched forward. Aware of the leering gazes of the other men, Maryanne fiddled with her mask. Push it up a bit? Bother—now she couldn’t see. She slid it back down. Had she loosened the strings?

Groping behind her head, she stumbled into Lord Swansborough, who was now in low conversation with the man.

“Sorry, milord. I can’t tell you naught unless you go up and perform. It’s the rules, and they’d ’ave me hide if I cheat.”

“All I need is information. I’m looking for a courtesan.”

With a lecherous laugh, the man pointed to the basket. “Only enough room fer you and the one tart, milord. Along with our man Tanner who sees to the balloon. Threesome pleasures won’t do in the basket.”

“I’m seeking a blonde named Georgiana Watson. Brazen and voluptuous.”

The man inclined his head—his hair was as dark as his lordship’s beneath a brown cap, his skin swarthy, and he wore a red kerchief at his neck. “Ye’ll have to go up, milord.”

“And make love with my lady up there?”

A chortle was the answer, and Maryanne took a deep breath. The sky was a blend of deep cobalt blue and rich violet, and pink touched the edge of the trees. “The balloon goes up in the dark?”

“Aye, lass, it can.” The balloon tender’s baritone was gentle and respectful as he spoke to her, which surprised. But then Lady Yardley was taking part in this event. Perhaps, as Maryanne was masked, the balloon man thought she was a lady, like Lady Yardley. “You’ll be tethered. We let it rise, you complete yer task, and ye’re brought down.”

Swansborough drew something from his pocket—a pouch, and from that he drew notes. “For your information.”

But the balloon tender shook his head, with a look of pained regret.

A young man with bronzed skin and gleaming white teeth, doffed his cap, winked, and bowed. He must be the man who controlled the balloon. Maryanne swallowed hard. How could she make love in front of a stranger?

But what if Georgiana was in danger?

“Then we’ll go up now.”

“I can’t!” She backed away, staring at the bright balloon, trim fluttering in the breeze, and the flame beneath, stark and golden against the dark.

Swansborough swept his arm about her shoulders and turned her away from the sight. “Why not? Afraid of heights?”

“I can’t…Not in front of…” She faltered. A courtesan wouldn’t mind—in the stories she edited, courtesans delighted in having two men at once, for most men preferred a lady to make a threesome and not a competitive cock. Had she revealed herself?

Dark and searching, his eyes captured hers. “You truly are a novice, aren’t you?”

An escape! She nodded so hard her curls struck her cheeks.

“Then we go up alone.”

The man scratched his dark-stubbled cheek. “Tanner’s needed to fire the flame and to vent the balloon to bring it down—”

Lord Swansborough silenced him with a wave of his black-gloved hand. “I’ve seen balloon ascensions and have an idea how it works. Have Tanner explain it.”

“Aye, milord, but we have to witness that the couple carries out the act.”

Swansborough gave a jaded shrug. “You’ll know.”

As he strolled over to Tanner and then followed the young man’s directions, his lordship’s eyes gleamed with boyish enthusiasm. He tugged at ropes, fiddled with the fire, chatting amiably to Tanner all the while. Maryanne crossed her arms before her chest. He seemed more fascinated by the art of ballooning than with the thought of making love.

She strained to see into the dark—but saw no sign of Georgiana.

Suddenly his lordship was at her side. “All right, love. We’re ready.”

Maryanne watched her raven-haired Lancelot elegantly climb into the basket. Of course, he could do it easily—he had endless legs and wore trousers. Just as she stared helplessly at it, he scooped her effortlessly into his arms. In a froth of hems and petticoats, she was hoisted over the wicker wall and into the basket. As her feet touched the floor of the basket, it came up to meet her. “Ooh!”

The flame illuminated the sculpted planes of his face, his wicked grin as the balloon went up. The basket tilted to the right. She clutched the side. “Goodness.”

Swansborough laughed. “But as you each take on orgasmic flight, you must remember to hold on tight,” he quoted. He wrapped a hand around the stays that secured their small basket to the enormous balloon and kept the other near the fire box and the ropes that worked the vents. Below, illuminated by the torches, she saw the men gripping the tether ropes, feeding them through gloved hands.

A lurch to the left, and she tumbled back against his lordship. His large body pressed against her, his arm locked around her waist, and she felt safe—though if the basket tipped, they’d both fall. Why should the thought of falling to their deaths together, sharing disaster, make her feel better?

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

With her hands gripping the basket, she stared down.

Far below, the torches looked like tiny candle flames, and she could no longer see the men. Men who thought she was going to rut with a viscount here. Men who thought her a courtesan.

Don’t think of that.

The Serpentine caught the moonlight, water rippling in the sweet breeze. Dark trees bobbed and swayed, the leaves silver, and the park was a stretch of dark velvet.

She gazed up. Stars dotted the violet skies above the park. And London’s lights were spread out before her. “It’s beautiful.” The basket swayed. “And terrifying.”

His mouth touched her neck, a brush of heat, and she squealed in surprise. Her giggle made her blush—girlish and thoughtless. His hand skimmed up to her breasts as his lips skated over her nape. Delicious sensation rushed over her skin.

This was truly flying. She felt as though she floated on air—weightless. But she didn’t dare let go of the basket.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him tug a rope, and the basket dropped a startling few inches.

“The clue will be won if lovers find the position that lets them soar,” he whispered.

“I know.” She spoke to the whole of London, laid out before her, and to the stars that seemed so close she could gather them if she dared to reach. “I don’t dare move.”

He curled his long, elegant fingers around her left breast, lazily stroking the curve beneath, where her heart hammered.

“I won’t let you fall.”

“Lord Swansborough, that is a promise you cannot make.”

His thumb, gently stroking her nipple, stilled.

“We will hold on together,” she whispered, half turning. He stood so close her cheek brushed his, his stubble rasped lightly against her skin.

He let go long enough to sweep his arm across Hyde Park, and Mayfair, and London’s vistas. The balloon basket jerked, and she swallowed another squeal.

His voice growled beside her ear. “Verity, you are more magnificent than all of that.”

In an instant her skirts were up, her legs bared in front of London, but they were in their private world, far above Mayfair. She loved the thought of being in public yet being utterly private and free. Her skirts spilled down in the front, pooling on the rim of the basket. His hands caressed her thighs, her bottom, coaxed her to take tiny steps to part her legs. “We cannot.”

“But you want to, don’t you?”

How she did.

Magic coursed through her skin, a spell of desire cast by his powerful fingers crooking into her wet cunny, by his harsh, heated breath coasting over her neck.

“If you came here seeking Georgiana, you are a woman who doesn’t fear risk. Yet you are too shy to have a man watch us.”

She froze. Did her every action reveal her character? He was still trying to decipher her identity, she was certain of it. Why? Why couldn’t he just discount her as another lightskirt?

Because she wasn’t behaving like a lightskirt.

But even if Swansborough guessed she wasn’t a jade, he thought her a fearless rescuer—he’d never realize she was Maryanne Hamilton, shy and retiring bookworm.

“The only risk here,” he continued in a honeyed growl that spoke of sin and temptation, “is trust.”

Trust! She couldn’t trust him—he was a notorious rake, a man so thoroughly debauched it was rumored he had never spent a night alone. He couldn’t trust her, after all—he didn’t even know who she really was. And she’d already dropped him into trouble. Marcus would have Lord Swansborough’s ballocks if he learned she’d surrendered her virginity.

“You have the most luscious and tempting derriere.” Swansborough released her waist, grabbed the stays and dropped to his knees. The floor of the basket almost dropped out beneath her.

“What are you doing?”

Before her stomach stopped its flip-flops, she knew. A hot kiss teased the skin of her rump. Suspended in a balloon above Hyde Park, he kissed and licked the cheeks of her bottom.

“You must stop.” Though she wanted him to do this forever. “We’ll fall.”

The balloon dropped a little as if in answer.

He stopped his kiss long enough to promise, “We are perfectly balanced, love.”

She wished she could trust him on that. They rose again, and she went rigid. “How far will they let us go up?” With the startling view, she could see the threat of sunrise, the warm pink and gold of dawn just touching the horizon.

Dawn. She would have to get home. Someone might come into her bedchamber and discover she had disappeared for the night.

But she hadn’t found Georgiana. She couldn’t flee yet.

She was high in the air in a balloon with Lord Swansborough. She couldn’t flee at all.

She should stop him, but what did it matter now? Her barrier was broken and couldn’t be mended.

“I’ve no idea how far they will let us go.” Hot, solid, lean, and long limbed, his body pressed along hers as he stood again. He used the fire to heat the air again, and they rose. Just as her heart lurched up with the balloon, his hand slid between their bodies. Something hot and hard bumped her bottom. His cock. She arched back, stroking her warm, naked rump against his length.

His hand moved between her thighs, parting her hot nether lips. She was soaked still from their lovemaking, bubbling with her creamy juices and his.

“I’m going to slide my cock into your snug cunny.”

“But is this the correct…position?”

“Ah, love, would you be willing to move into another one?”

He was laughing at her, but she couldn’t resist joining him. “No.”

Thick, hot, his cock slid between her legs, and she choked on her laugh. Good lord, he was enormous. He sawed the massive thing between her thighs, the broad head nosing through the lips, the shaft rubbing her aroused clit.

“Go inside me,” she whispered. “I need you inside.”

“Yes,” he groaned.

In a burst of bravery, she let go of the basket and guided his cock into her. Her fingers barely closed around the full shaft, and with a whimper, she stirred her passage with the head. She took charge, tipped her hips, and took him in. How she loved this, the first slow thrusts. His body, controlled and graceful, arched forward. She moved back, seeking his rhythm, moving slowly and carefully. She was slick now, opening so easily for him, welcoming his cock inside.

She clutched the basket again and it jostled as he pumped into her. Fear lurched inside her, but she was hot and wet and loving this so.

Madness! Delirious madness.

His groin smacked against her bottom; the head of his cock bumped her womb. Her cheeks vibrated with each slam of his lean hips. Pleasure rippled through her from each thump, and she thrust back as hard as he pounded forward. The basket rocked precariously, and shouts below warned that the men had to strain to hold the ropes—he’d forgotten to control the balloon.

She didn’t care.

Never had she imagined anything like this.

This was soaring.

Powerful strokes lifted her onto her tiptoes as he thrust his cock deep inside her. Expertly he shifted his hips on each plunge, changing angle, making her gasp as fire-hot delight roared through her.

Her clit ached like a slippery trigger. Did she dare—?

It meant trusting him completely, for she wasn’t holding on, but she unfurled her fingers from the braided wicker rim. She touched her clit—just as his fingers slid there.

“Yes,” he groaned. “Let me hold you while you play with yourself.”

His hoarse command sent a spike of delicious agony through her legs as she stroked her own clit. Gently at first, to draw out the exquisite pleasure. Her hand between her thighs made him pant hard as he watched her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him open the vent, controlling the balloon while making love to her.

She arched her rear back, wild and wanton. She had to widen her legs to push back against his hard, incredible power.

Oh, heavens, it made him go so deep.

“Rub yourself now, sweetheart. I want to feel you come around my prick.”

Men were blunt and forthright while they fucked. It was just as her courtesan authors’ books described. Men didn’t waste time making pretty claims of love; they gave directions to their women on how to be erotic and enticing.

What would he think if she did such a thing? “Touch me, too,” she whispered. “I want you to touch my clit.”

“God—” He groaned sharply. His long fingers nudged hers aside, his touch so different than hers. The feel of his hands there was pleasure unsurpassed.

“Harder,” she directed. “I like that.”

“As do I.” His hips sped up again, and his fingers rasped her, igniting pleasure. Blending strokes—the wild thrusts of his big cock; the slow, sensuous touch of his fingers. Tension wound in her, and she sought it, grinding clit against fingers and derriere against hard, male abdomen.

“Come now,” he murmured in a hoarse baritone that excited as much as his touch. “Come for me.”

He was close—she knew that in the tightness of his voice. He wanted her to climax first; he was holding on to his control to please her. She was making it impossible for him to hold on.

The thought of that—

With him—

She rubbed hard against his hand, and pleasure burst inside. Her cunny clenched around him, pulsating. Her eyes closed as she tumbled into delight. He knew, of course, and let go of the ropes to caress her sensitive breasts. Her nipples…oh, yes. He plucked them, and she arched.

“Be merciless,” Maryanne hissed, for it was so good.

He laughed, drawing his cock back, and he pumped again.

Her cries spilled out into the night sky and flew out over London. Her screams shattered the quiet of the park—below came male laughter, and then cheers.

She should be shocked. Embarrassed. But she was still rocking with her climax.

Dash knew he couldn’t last longer, and the basket jerked as he grabbed the stays again and braced to fuck hard. Verity was tight and wet and still coming around him, and her screams were loud enough to wake slumbering London.

Raucous shouts of congratulations came from below, but he ignored them. He never let another man’s chants urge him, affect him. This wasn’t a competition or sport, this was blessed heaven—he focused solely on fucking, and his reward was escape from pain.

Her bottom was slick with their sweat and juices. It would be rubbed raw from the rough hair on his groin, but she was urging him. “Hard and deep. Yes!”

One more…just once more and he could surrender.

“Oh!”

The signal he could let go. His orgasm exploded inside, ripping through his brain, shooting down his back, roaring from his balls. God, it took him so ferociously he almost stumbled. His eyes shut, his face contorted in agony, and his body bucked as his seed shot out.

Deep into his luscious Verity.

He felt the jerk of the basket, the fight of the balloon—it tossed them about.

He wrapped one arm tight around Verity and moved his hips back. On a flood of hot juices, his cock slid out.

“What is happening?”

“They are lowering us, love. We’ve completed the task.”

Even after two passionate climaxes, her mask was in place, keeping her a secret. She possessed an air of innocence—she was most definitely an ingenue but not untutored. And even the most willing virgin knew to barter that precious barrier.

So why had he never encountered her before?

Dash opened the vent, leaned over the edge of the basket, and saw the torches come closer. The basket shuddered, swayed, and his gut jerked with the motion. Christ Jesus, his head swam and began to pound again.

He had to stay focused. He had to discover who had been here. And he had to control the blasted balloon as they descended.

Verity was a warm bundle in the crook of his arm, her heartbeat pounding deliciously against his palm. Alive. Still recovering from the little death. Her scent was rich with sex aroma now, but he still caught the trace of demure lavender. A simple perfume, when most courtesans used exotic brews to entice.

He wanted to push everything aside and delve into the mystery of Verity.

He wanted to forget about that night when he had let his cousin Simon die—when he had been blind and soulless with rage and had let an innocent man die.

Dash saw the ring of men in torchlight and realized Verity was trying to smooth down her skirts. Beneath his hand, he felt her heart speed up; it was now fluttering inside her chest. She was truly frightened. Perhaps she feared the other men would want her now? If it frightened her, he wouldn’t allow it.

“Easy,” he murmured by her delicate ear. “I won’t let harm come to you.”

They were close enough to see the men’s laughing, leering faces. The gypsy’s face was like reflective bronze, dark eyes alight with admiration. “Congratulations, my lord. Madam. In truth I didn’t think it could be done.”

“Blast, you mean we’re the first?” Dash asked as young Tanner swung into the basket to replace him at the flame.

“Aye, that you are,” the balloon tender answered. “You and her ladyship”—he jerked his head toward Sophia, who sat in her carriage giggling with Ashton—“are well ahead of the pack.”

Dash stared thoughtfully at Ashton. Did the duke still hold a grudge over the time he’d shot Ashton’s leg in a duel? The duke looked interested mainly in nuzzling the swells of Sophia’s breasts.

“The blond courtesan—was she here?” he asked.

“No, my lord.”

Dash drew a bundle of notes from his pocket and allowed only the gypsy to see them. He eased them back into place. “I believe I am to receive a clue?”

With his arm around Verity’s waist, he lifted her out of the basket. Poor sweet—she held tight to the basket and gave a sigh of relief as her slippers touched earth. He took her hand and led her back toward his carriage. The gypsy, as he’d hoped, followed.

The other men restrained the balloon as Sophia swept down from her lover’s carriage to experience what had been Dash’s most unusual setting for lovemaking.

“Who employs you?” he asked the gypsy. “I want the name of the man who pays you and where he can be found.”

“Mr. Phibbs.” The gypsy rattled off an address in the City.

“What is he like, this Phibbs?”

“Slight and pale. Wears spectacles. A rabbit, milord.”

“So I expected. And who employs him?”

“I don’t know, milord. Not my business to know. And here is your clue, milord.”

As the card was thrust at his hand, Dash slipped a few notes to the gypsy. Tipping his cap, the swarthy man turned and sauntered back to the scene at the basket. Sophia was laughing with delight, lifting her skirts to climb aboard.

Verity was nibbling her lower lip. “She must be in trouble. Why else would she not be here?”

“Because she’s on her back with a lover? I’ve never known Georgiana Watson to claim a friend amongst the female sex. I wonder what exactly she had planned for you.”

“What do you mean?” Fire flashed in her eyes, dark and mysterious behind the mask.

He leaned close, wrapping himself in her scent—simple and pretty and combined with the earthy smell of sex. A feminine allure that provoked his libido, even in his sated, exhausted state.

A wave of his hand brought his carriage forward, horses snorting, traces ringing melodically as hooves clattered on gravel. Impulsively he tipped up Verity’s chin, held the point of it between thumb and forefinger. “Come home with me—for an hour or two. I don’t want our night to be over yet. I’ll tell you then.”