Page 34 of The Lord Next Door
She gasped at how sensuous that sounded.
“I find I’m not thinking of the daytime, of discussions and agreements and business. I’m only thinking of you and me alone together.”
He leaned forward again, and this time their knees touched. He didn’t move away, just put out his hand, palm up.
“Give me your hand, Victoria.”
His voice was deep and hoarse, and made her think of movement in the darkness, things better felt than said. She gave him her hand, and this time he cupped it in both of his.
“Kiss me, Victoria,” he whispered.
Her gaze flew to his in surprise. Still holding her hand, he leaned back in his chair. Her arm was forced to straighten between them. She understood that he was challenging her, and she realized that she wanted to meet that challenge. She pulled on his hands, but he remained where he was, a lazy smile tugging one corner of his lips. He looked so…intriguing.
Slowly, she rose and leaned over him, bracing her free hand on the arm of his chair. His head was tilted back, and they stared at each other as if they shared a silent contest of wills. And to her shock, she didn’t mind that he was winning this one.
There was something different about being above him, seeing him below her. It made her feel…powerful, in control, something she’d rarely felt in her day-to-day existence. But here, in the candlelit dark, he was letting her experience it in a very intimate way.
She lowered herself ever nearer to him, her gaze sliding to his mouth. Their lips touched and her uncertainty began. What was she supposed to do—remain still?
Then his fingers began to slowly caress her hand, his thumbs brushing the back of her palm. Her eyes slid closed. She never would have imagined that a man touching her hand could make her feel…fluttery, shaky, so very aware of their skin meeting.
Her attention was torn between the gentle pressure of his mouth and the movement of his hands. As she caught her breath at the sensation, her lips parted. His did the same, catching the fullness of her lower lip very gently between his. She shuddered at the exquisite rush of pleasure, so very new.
Her worries about her desirability faded. His questing fingers slid up her wrist, beneath the cuff of her nightdress. He rubbed her there, gently, and her soft gasp echoed in his mouth.
He broke the kiss. “Does that feel good?” he asked in a low, rumbling voice.
Straightening, she found her wits. “Yes.”
“Then I’ll leave you with that.”
He released her and rose to his feet, so tall and near her that she wanted to step back but wouldn’t. His clothing brushed her body, making her tremble with a feeling of want. She wanted him to touch her, wanted him to kiss her. As he looked down into her face, she could tell he knew it.
“Good night, Victoria.”
“Good night.”
And then he was gone, and she was left to slump bonelessly in her chair, disappointed in his absence, but relieved she would not have to discover tonight just how much he could control her with a touch. Was that his true purpose, to show her who was in charge in their relationship, after she had challenged him at dinner?
Chapter
Eight
The next morning, Victoria persuaded her mother to leave her room. They were to meet Mrs. Wayneflete in the kitchen, and then go next door together to say their farewells to Louisa and Meriel. As they circled the stairs above the entrance hall, Victoria looked down and noticed that there was a silver tray on a table bearing the day’s post.
“Just a moment,” she said, hurrying down the stairs in curiosity.
She lifted an envelope or two, all of which were of course addressed to the earl or his son. Many of them looked written in a woman’s flowing hand. Were these invitations? Several bore a wax seal with an insignia proclaiming them from society’s highest families.
Victoria felt her mouth go dry. These were vastly different parties from the ones Lord Thurlow had planned with the railway directors.
“Those aren’t for you,” said a cold voice.
Victoria gave a little start, sending the stack of invitations to the floor. She heard her mother gasp and come quickly down the stairs. From her knees, Victoria glanced up. The notorious Earl of Banstead sat in his wheelchair near the front windows in the library, which looked out over the street he seldom visited. His valet stood against the wall.
Lord Banstead watched her, and she recognized something of his son in those expressionless eyes. With Lord Thurlow, she sensed polite attention—at least when he chose to see her—but with Lord Banstead, there was a bitterness that colored the edges of what he’d just said.
Before she could respond, Lord Banstead glanced with disapproval at her mother, who now hovered protectively at her side. Victoria rose to her feet and took Mama’s arm.
