Page 31 of Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman

She stilled as he caressed her, mesmerised, then with an articulate murmur, leaned towards him. They both froze, held motionless a mere breath apart by the power of the attraction arcing between them.

The new Greville said to ignore it, to help her up, to send her home.

The old Greville whispered it was just a kiss, one she wanted as much as he did, and he’d been wanting to kiss her with every breath he took since their interlude in the library. Just one more sweet brush of the lips, then he’d put her firmly at arm’s length and escort her home.

The long lashes shadowing her cheeks fluttered closed and she angled her face up, her lips offered in invitation. Even as his brain issued one last warning ‘no’, he felt himself lean down and kiss them.

He half-expected, after the fright she’d just had, that she’d push him away and slap his face. He even had a quip of an apology for his effrontery half-formed in his brain.

Instead, she did something much more dangerous. Murmuring a breathy little sigh, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

Sweetness and lust and pleasure and anticipation flooded him. It had been so long, so very long since he’d felt the exquisite joy of a woman’s embrace. But this was more than just a woman, any woman.

This was Amanda, a lady for whom he not only lusted, but whose kindness and generosity touched him, whose intelligence and competence he found admirable, whose independent, egalitarian views sparked in him a fascination as strong as his desire.

Then he felt the tentative, exploring touch of her tongue and all his good intentions of ending the kiss scorched into ash and crumbled. On a wave of remembered delight, the old Greville took command, his one driving impulse to take and give pleasure.

He opened his mouth to her, teased and encouraged her tongue to enter, exulted when she accepted that invitation, her lack of experience evident in its uncertain slide. Meeting it with his own, he licked playfully, lured her deeper, revelling in her gasp of pleasure as he stroked her tongue with his own and sucked gently.

His hands went under her cape, insinuating themselves upwards, his thumbs seeking her breasts. To his absolute delight, still she did not repulse him, instead gasping anew when his questing hands found the nipples as tight and hard-peaked as he knew they’d be, palpable despite the barrier of her stays.

Oh, if only he could dispense with that garment, feel the silk of her skin beneath his fingertips, trace the pebbled tips, draw their budded beauty into his mouth and show her what delight he could give her with lips and teeth and tongue!

Ah, delight she would find indeed, for already she was gasping, her tongue now actively seeking his while she thrust her breasts into his hands.

He plumbed her mouth for maximum delight, using all his years of expertise, tucking his tongue into the crevice beneath hers, sucking the tip, drawing it into his mouth, then withdrawing to trace her swollen lips, to bite and tease and nibble. All the while, his fingers kept circling, pinching, caressing the taut nipples.

She gave a murmur of protest when his lips abandoned hers, only to arch her neck back with a gasp as he moved his mouth down her throat, tasting the hollow where the pulse beat wildly, nibbling and sucking at the tender skin at her jaw, nipping his way to her ear, dipping his tongue into its fragile shell.

His hands craved bare flesh. Enflamed by her ardent response, he wanted her pleasure to be complete, wanted to feel her shuddering with release in his arms. Leaning her back against the rock wall, he lowered one hand from her breast and dipped it beneath her skirts.

For an instant she stilled, but only for an instant. Then she was urging his hand up her leg as he revelled in the velvet softness. He toyed with her calf, the back of her knee, until her legs fell apart limply, allowing his hand to continue its upward quest.

He felt his own member, painfully hard in the confines of his breeches, leap when at last his seeking fingers reached the object of their desire, the tickle of moist curls at her centre. Her body tensed, then trembled as he gently parted her and found the plump little nub rigid and already wet with the urgency of her desire.

Clutching him with desperate fingers, her head writhing against the wall, she widened her stance, offering him full access. Taking her mouth again tenderly, he licked her lips in rhythm to the slow stroke of his finger across that supremely sensitive spot.

Then, when the sobbing of her breath and pounding of her heart told him she had nearly reached her peak, he slid a finger into her tight wet passage as he continued to stroke the nub above. Seconds later, with a sharp cry, she came apart in his arms, thrusting her torso into his caressing hand as her pleasure crested.

For long sweet moments, rejoicing, exultant, he held her while she gasped as fulfilment rippled through her.

She was as beautifully passionate as he’d imagined. Only burying himself deep within her could have made the moment more exhilarating, and even the old Greville had retained sanity enough to refrain from attempting that.

Finally the shuddering ceased and she collapsed limply in his arms. As he cradled her on his chest, her eyes fluttered closed.

Though his needy member pulsed with regret that he’d not followed her on the path to ecstasy, he knew as sense returned to her, he’d likely pay a heavy enough penance for the liberties he’d just taken. But with old Greville insouciance, he refused to worry about the consequences.

Instead, a heady sense of exultant euphoria filled him. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, ride back with her to Ashton, shouting his joy to the countryside all the way. Take her to her chamber when they arrived and show her the even more remarkable ways he could make her body respond. Sleep with her in his arms, see how many times he could wake her to even greater heights of joy. Teach her to pleasure him along the same path.

Take her to church.

Shock rolled through him at the implications of that thought. But though it surprised him, he didn’t retreat in panic. Cradling her closer, grimly Greville admitted what he’d been avoiding this last week and more.

He, Greville Anders, former rake and gadabout, had tumbled mast-over-keel, complete and for all, into love with a women whose lifelong dream was to occupy a world which no longer had any appeal for him. Who aspired to a status and a role he could never provide for her, even if he wanted to. A woman with whom he would never share any more joy than he’d tasted in this stolen interlude.

The truth of that stark prediction settled in his bones and made them ache. For a long moment he went perfectly still, savouring her nearness and soft slumberous breaths, until he could bear to face the truth.

If this were all he’d ever have of her, he’d best make it memorable. Gently he traced her lovely face with a fingertip as, eyes closed, she murmured and nestled into his caressing touch. Settling her against his chest, he buried his face in her scented golden hair, every pad of his fingers memorising the contour of her ribs and back as he held her tight, tight enough to sear into him the feel of her body against his. Using hands and arms and body to express all the cherishing he wished he could voice, and wouldn’t.

He refused to tempt her with the power of their attraction, an attraction she obviously felt as strongly as he did. To lure her to stay with him, persuade her to cast aside her dreams because she was what he wanted, would be to act against every tenant of honour bred into him, an honour that was perhaps even stronger for having been only lately discovered.

He could hardly expect her to suddenly decide she wished to throw away her brilliant prospects and cast her lot with a man she’d known barely half a month. Nor, greatly as it would pain him to let her go, would he want her to choose him, unless and until she’d had the opportunity to experience all that London offered and decide if the reality of the dream she’d cherished so long was what she truly desired.

He recalled how she’d tried to smooth the tension between himself and Trowbridge at that dinner. How she soothed and cajoled her angry cousin. With her entrée among those of high estate and her empathy for the powerless, she was uniquely suited to claim the political role for which she longed.

If he must give her up, he hoped the leaders whose decisions would be discussed around her dining table and in her salon would be grateful; that the important legislation she helped move forwards by promoting compromise between opposing parties with a witty word or insightful remark would properly appreciate her intervention.

While careening along his previous indolent, sometimes angry, self-destructive course, he’d never sought or desired to find love. How ironic to unexpectedly encounter it now, when he’d matured enough to appreciate its worth, and to have to let it go.

He’d allow himself a final few minutes to indulge in bitterness over the fact that he’d been born a mere ‘mister’ instead of a marquess, who might with untarnished honour offer his hand to the woman in his arms. The old Greville would have decried the unfairness of it, cloaked himself in anger and determined to debauch his way through the pain.

But he’d spent too many months among those who’d faced even taller odds and meaner futures. They toiled on, meagrely provisioned with hardtack and grog, daily facing dangers and privations. His position now was far more privileged and comfortable.

So the new Greville steeled himself to a hurt that stabbed bone-deep. Fiercely glad, even if he could not hold her for ever, to have had this one afternoon stolen from time and fate and circumstance when she had been his alone.

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