Page 39 of The Traitor
She tasted him back, traced the contour of his elegant mouth with the tip of her tongue, and the soft, pleased sound he made—a chuckle, a groan, a sigh—reverberated through her.
“Again,petitetigresse.”
He thought her a tigress. Pleasure blossomed beyond the physical, giving Milly leave to consume the man she’d plastered herself against. He tasted of bergamot, which blended wonderfully with the sandalwood and spice scent of him, with the lace and silk of his attire.
Milly got an arm around his waist and cupped his cheek against her palm while St. Clair returned her explorations.
“You taste of lavender. Of course, you taste of lavender.”
He lapsed into French, telling her he’d like to lay her down in lavender fields and make endless love to her. For eternal summer nights under a soft full moon he wanted to—
Milly’s French was not quite up to the literal translation, not when St. Clair’s hand had traced down from her throat to her décolletage. He ran a slow, knowing finger over the tops of her breasts, along her sternum, and back up to her collarbone. She arched into that touch, needing his French extravagances, needing that full moon and those endless summer nights with a mindless determination that some distant part of her reasoning mind regarded fearfully.
“St. Clair,please.”
“You beg. I would never have you beg, not ever.”
His tone, the seriousness of it, the Englishness of it, penetrated the haze of wonder and lust clouding Milly’s brain. She pulled back, her hand still on his morning-smooth cheek.
“For God’s sake, Sebastian, stop mauling Miss Danforth this instant!”
Lady St. Clair’s voice cracked like musket fire through the room, but Milly perceived the words only dimly. When St. Clair’s arms loosened, she wanted to haul them back around her. Her hand did not want to leave his cheek, to the point that she traced a finger over his lower lip as she parted from the feel of him.
He’s not mauling me.
St. Clair’s back was to the door, so maybe Lady St. Clair didn’t see the kiss he brushed to Milly’s cheek when Milly’s reply was muttered aloud and not merely stated in the privacy of her mind.
St. Clair pivoted, so his back was to Milly, shielding her, though he remained beside her on the cushion.
“Aunt, you will excuse me if I remain seated. Was there something you required of me?”
How cool he sounded, how amused, while Milly’s mind was unable to form thoughts, and her body unable to comprehend that her interlude with St. Clair was over.
“Irequireyou to keep your randy hands to yourself. Honestly, Sebastian, it’s difficult enough for me to keep a companion about without you exerting your charms to scare them off. Milly, you must not allow Sebastian’s untoward advances to overset you. He’s half-French, and allowances must be made.”
Milly’s emotions resolved themselves into bewilderment.
“I am equally responsible for this…for this lapse, my lady. You should castigate me as well, and I do apologize.”
She would have scrambled off the piano bench, except St. Clair was as immovable as the piano itself.
“I did not intend to offend the lady,” St. Clair said—the lady beingMilly, “nor will I allow her to take responsibility for my trespasses. You have my apologies, Aunt, as do you, Miss Danforth.”
He sounded sincere—too sincere. Milly shoved at his back. “Excuse me, my lord. I’m sure your aunt has need of me.”
Now he rose and extended a hand to her, as if she couldn’t manage to get her backside off a piano bench unassisted. “You do accept my apology, Miss Danforth?”
Milly stood in the pretty little parlor, Lady St. Clair looking on, and wanted to kiss his lordship again. Wanted to climb into his embrace and taste his passion, because in those moments—those few, fleeting moments—she’d been with the real man. This Gallic fellow who looked both grave and mocking, this English lord of the manor with precisely appropriate words, she did not know him, and wasn’t sure she’d like him if she did.
“I accept your apology. I accept that,too.”
His brows rose, and something came cool into his eyes. Admiration, perhaps, but not pleasure. He bowed and dropped her hand.
“Then I am content that no significant harm has been done. Ladies, you will excuse me.”
He departed, a lingering whiff of sandalwood assuring Milly she hadn’t dreamed his presence or his kisses—if the frown on Lady St. Clair’s face weren’t proof enough.
“I don’t know whether to celebrate or mourn. You do not seem discommoded, Miss Danforth, but we ladies grow expert at masking our worst hurts. If Sebastian was doing more than stealing kisses, you must tell me, and I will deal with him severely.”
