“You’ll see when we get there.”
Before he could pursue that, Maria, Lady Cranbrook, beckoned imperiously; perforce they had to stop and chat before moving on.
He realized that Phoebe was making for a door most of the way down the room. She was giving an excellent imitiation of Marshal Blucher, marching in a straight line directly toward her goal. Glancing swiftly around, he noted with some relief that, courtesy of Lady Gosforth’s being one of the principal hostesses and her ball therefore being a certifiable crush, the crowd in the room was so dense that their forced march wasn’t as noticeable, as revealing as it would otherwise have been.
Relieved on that score—he might whisk Phoebe away from under the matrons’ eyes, but he knew what the ton’s arbiters would turn a blind eye to, and what they wouldn’t, and Phoebe whisking him away fell in the latter category—he returned his attention to her, to what had driven her to seek his help. “What do you want to tell me?”
Reaching the door, she opened it, glanced at him. “I’ll tell you when we’re private.”
She was tense, on edge; he followed her through the door without further hesitation. Closing it behind them, he looked around. They were in a corridor; Phoebe led him on.
“It’s this way.”
“What’s this way?” He fell in beside her.
“A suitable place to have our discussion. Now be quiet in case someone hears.”
He obligingly kept silent and followed; he’d no doubt learn all soon enough. Somewhat to his mystification, she led him unerringly through a maze of corridors—Gosforth House was centuries old—and then started up a flight of stairs.
“Do you know where you’re going?” he whispered.
She glanced back at him, her gaze severe. “Yes.” She looked ahead. “I’ve visited here often.”
She volunteered nothing more; he climbed the stairs in her wake, noting the sweet curves of her lush derriere tonight outlined in old gold silk. His hand started to rise before he realized and forced it down again. She seemed troubled; whatever had prompted her to send for him at the club was presumably preying on her mind.
Recalling that something had occurred to trouble her instantly suppressed his libido.
On the upper floor, she skirted a gallery, then led him down another corridor into a distant wing. The sounds of the ball had long faded; the rooms they passed were eerily still.
Unused. He felt sure of it. He glanced around, noting the thin layer of dust on a side table.
Then Phoebe opened a door and went through. He followed; the room beyond lay in darkness.
“Close the door,” she instructed from somewhere in the gloom. “Then I’ll light a lamp.”
He did as she asked, then stood in the darkness before the door and waited.
A spark flared, then moved; a wick caught, flared, lighting Phoebe’s face, then settled to burn steadily. Phoebe adjusted the wick, and the circle of light, until then limited to her and the lamp, spread and illuminated the room.
Deverell blinked, then stared.
Phoebe replaced the lamp glass and turned to him.
He couldn’t drag his eyes from the room and its furnishings. “Good Lord.”
His voice was weak, an accurate indication of the depth of his amazement. It was the most extraordinary room he’d ever seen. Bizarre was the adjective that first leapt to mind, closely followed by astonishing, unexpected, and utterly fantastic.
His jaw had dropped; it took effort to close it. Stunned, he surveyed the chamber. The size of a small parlor, it had been decorated as a cross between a seraglio and some lustful sheik’s desert tent, all rendered by an imagination run amok.
The walls were hung with spangled gossamer silk, a divan angled between two walls strewn with brocades and piled with satin cushions. The colors were rich—crimsons, purples, blues, and golds. There were silk tassles everywhere, with brass lamps and candlestands and small exotic inlaid tables scattered here and there. More cushions were piled on jewel-hued rugs. Even the ceiling was ornamented with gilt stars.
“Who…what is this place?” Returning his gaze to Phoebe, he discovered she’d walked to him.
“It’s Catherine’s boudoir—she’s Lady Gosforth’s middle daughter. She and I were close friends. Although she’s married now, she insisted her boudoir be left as it was.”
He nearly asked why but decided he didn’t need to know; the thought that the room had been created from the fantasies of a young lady boggled his mind enough as it was. The fact that Phoebe patently found that perfectly reasonable boggled it even more. His gaze had wandered to the fantastical décor; he looked back at Phoebe—just as she clasped his face between her hands, stretched up, and kissed him.
Unprepared, his loins ungirded—he hadn’t expected matters to take such a turn—and perhaps mentally primed by the suggestive surroundings, he found himself lured into an exchange that too quickly progressed from the sweet to the sultry, and from there in double-time to the flagrantly ardent.
But…
It took more effort than he liked to break from the kiss, to wrench his lips from the wanton delights of hers and rasp, “What—”
“We can light more lamps if you like.”
He blinked down at her. Why…? “Lamps?”
Drawing back a fraction more, she leveled her gaze—on his cravat. “You insisted on a bed, and light enough to see.” She drew in a breath—and set her fingers to his cravat. “So we can light more lamps if one isn’t enough—”
“Phoebe.” He closed one hand over hers, stopping her from further disarranging his cravat. In retrospect, he’d been slow in picking up the signs, because he’d thought…He waited until she looked up at him, until he could see her darkened violet eyes, and the stubborn, indefatigably determined set of her chin. “What did you want to discuss with me?”
He felt obliged to confirm that matters were as he now thought.
“Not so much discuss as address. Us. This—my seduction.” Sliding one hand from beneath his, she waved over her shoulder at the red-silk-brocade-draped divan. “There’s the bed, we have light, so now it’s just—”
“No.” Gripping her hand, he lifted it away from his cravat. Retaining his hold, he resurveyed the room, but there really was no question in his mind. He met her gaze. “We are not staging the final act of your seduction here, tonight.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, her glance now more ireful than desireful. “Why not?”
He suddenly realized what the real source of the tension thrumming through her was. It was difficult not to smile with smug satisfaction; preserving an expression of impassivity, he racked his brains for an excuse she would understand, one that wouldn’t worry her—one she would accept.
“Because”—he kept his eyes locked with hers—“the final act in your seduction will run for considerably longer than half an hour.”
She blinked, then blinked again. “Oh.”
“In fact”—the more he thought of it, the more sure he was—“you should think more in terms of several hours.”
She started to mouth “several,” stopped, swallowed, then nodded. “I see. Very well.” She looked past his shoulder for a moment. “In that case—” She tried to step back, out of his encircling arm, but he held her securely.
He looked down at her. “Where are you going?”
She braced her hands against his chest. “If we’re not…then we should return to the ballroom.”
Her tone was determinedly prim. He chuckled, the sound as delightedly devilish as he felt. “You’ve just handed me yourself for half an hour, in a setting designed for titillation.” By a female mind, what was more. He caught her startled, widening gaze as it lifted to his eyes. “You can’t possibly imagine I’ll refuse.”
Phoebe read his intentions in his eyes, clearly writ in the devilish green, and inwardly groaned. This was not a good idea; this wasn’t what she’d planned. Then she remembered. “No.”
He looked at her; she smiled.
He frowned, clearly considering, then slowly shook his head. “Those words I gave you—they only apply when I’m kissing you, or at the very least have my hands on you. I gave them to you so you won’t feel threatened, but you’re not in such a position now, so they don’t function.”
She felt her jaw drop. His gaze had gone past her; keeping one of her hands locked in one of his, he moved her aside and walked toward the divan, towing her behind him.
He halted and studied the divan. “Especially not after bringing me here. That qualifies as incitement, and with incitement you can’t vacillate. Once you’ve incited, you have to cope with whatever response you get. That’s the way incitement works.”
She struggled to follow his reasoning, then realized he was talking purely to distract her while he planned…. She tugged on his hand. “We really should get back to the ballroom.”
“Not yet. We’ve plenty of time. More than half an hour, really, given the crowd down there.”
She was struggling to think of a useful response when he turned and her nerves leapt, but then he sat on the divan. He bounced lightly, testing, then he sighed and reclined back against the cushions, lifting both legs onto the bed so his feet hung off the end, lifting one arm over his head and settling his shoulders into the piled cushions. She stared down at him.
A slow, wolfish, thoroughly untrustworthy smile curved his lips and lit his green eyes. He changed his hold on her hand so his fingers now manacled her wrist. “You’re not really going to tell me that you’d rather be weathering the crush down there than attending to my needs?”
Her mouth dried. She considered him for a long moment, then asked, “Your needs?”
“Hmm. Isn’t this something like the fantasies you and Catherine dreamed of in creating this room? Having a sheik or sultan capture you and order you to pleasure him? Isn’t that how it goes?”
He’d guessed right, and he knew it, but not even in their wildest dreams had either she or, she’d wager, Catherine ever conjured a sheik or sultan who could hold a candle to him.
Aside from all else, he was real—real flesh, hot blood, and very hard muscle. Reclining before her in an unbelievably arrogant pose, one that was doing real violence to her already weakened resistance.
Then something in his eyes changed; she could have sworn his gaze grew hotter, but harder and more ruthless, too.
“Come.” He gave a light tug on her wrist. “Kiss me.”
It was an outright order in a tone that brooked no argument—one that warned that any resistance, any recalcitrance, would be dealt with in a way she wouldn’t want to learn about.
He exerted a steady, inexorable pull. She took a step forward, then another, then found herself sinking onto the divan beside him.
She waited, but he didn’t reach for her and pull her down to him; instead, he studied her for a moment, then he lifted his free hand and lightly—oh so lightly—caressed the delicate curls brushing her nape. The touch—so subtle, so unexpectedly evocative—made her shudder and close her eyes.
“Now you’re in my harem, you have to learn to be a houri.” He waited until she opened her eyes, until she fell into the green depths of his, then stroked her nape lightly again and murmured, “Come—kiss me, and give me your mouth.”
Her hands were rising to frame his face before she’d thought, then she tried to think and discovered she couldn’t. That somehow the draw, the hypnotic tug he exerted on her, was all consuming, making thinking redundant, at least for now.
She wanted to kiss him. Her lips throbbed as she leaned over him. As she paused with their lips less than an inch apart, letting her breath bathe his, feeling his exhalation brush hers.
Then she closed that last inch and kissed him. Let herself flow into the kiss, into her memories, into her long-ago fantasies.
He was the sultan, the sheik of her girlhood dreams, a figure larger than life, better than any mortal man could ever be. A better lover, a stronger warrior, a more powerful lord—a masterful seducer.
She opened her mouth over his, sent her tongue between his lips to mate with his, and did as he’d commanded—as she knew he wished—and fed him kisses, kisses more ardent than any she’d imagined gifting any man, more wanton, more abandoned, more urgent and arousing.
He responded, met her and matched her, demanded, but didn’t take the reins, refused to absolve her of her duty.
He hadn’t released her wrist; his fingers remained shackled about it as she leaned on his chest, her lips fused with his, and felt herself drowning, growing giddy, her wits and senses swirling in the sea of desire she’d evoked.
It was he who broke the kiss, drawing back just enough to meet her eyes. Then his hand rose, sliding across the back of her neck to cup her nape, holding her there, letting her feel the weight and strength of his hand.
Then he released her wrist, reached down, and, with a surprisingly quick few flicks, freed the back of her skirt and tossed it up to her waist.
She sucked in a breath at the cool touch of the air on her exposed skin, caught and held that breath, her lungs seizing as his hand closed possessively over one bared globe.
He caught her eyes, flexed his hand, flagrantly kneading, then, exerting pressure, he drew her lips closer. Just before he kissed her, he murmured, “Now those words apply.”
She understood, but as his lips closed over hers and heat arced, sparked, then raced between them, through them, over them, building into a now-familiar conflagration, she knew she wouldn’t need to remember his words.
This was her dream, not his, and it was even better than her girlish imagination had painted it. He was her sheik come to life, determined to ravish her, to demand her sexual surrender…. She wasn’t about to stop him.
This was what she wanted, what she’d brought them here to achieve. The last stage in her seduction…she suddenly discovered just how hungry she was, how desperate she could grow to feel his hands on her.
He shifted, then rolled her into the cushions, then rolled again, and she lay beneath him.
She arched and her senses exulted, glorying in the solid hardness of his body over hers, holding her trapped, pinned beneath him. Her naked bottom lay on the red silk brocade, a cool touch at first, but it quickly heated. One hard hand remained beneath her, idly sculpting, for the moment waiting.
His other hand had slid from her nape; palm and fingers now cruised the gold silk of her bodice, taut and straining to contain her already swollen breasts. She arched into his touch, eloquently if wordlessly inviting more. His fingers found the line of buttons closing her bodice, traced, fumbled.
He drew back from the kiss, looked down at the tiny buttons. “Open your bodice.”
Another order; there was something in his face, in the hard lines and planes, that sent a delicious thrill skittering through her as she drew her hands from his hair and obeyed.
Any doubt that what she’d glimpsed wasn’t real—that his desire for her didn’t burn with a raging flame, didn’t drive him—disappeared in the instant she slid the last button free. He pushed her hands aside, pressed the halves of her bodice wide, paused for a heartbeat to examine what he’d uncovered—then he bent his head and feasted.
As if he were starving—as if he and his senses could never, would never get enough of her, not enough to satisfy.
She writhed and burned beneath his hands, his lips, his too-knowing caresses. Her gasps and moans, orchestrated by a master, filled the room, each sound another note in a sensual sonata that hypnotized and lured. Each lick, each evocative suckling sent sensation spearing through her; she welcomed every streak of lancing passion, every lapping flame of desire—embraced them, offered herself up to them, and him.
Of course he knew.
Just as he knew that that wouldn’t be enough to satisfy either of them. She felt nothing but leaping expectation when he shifted back and between them drew up the front of her skirt. The back had already been trapped high under her back and shoulders when he’d rolled them
; with the front lifted, too, she lay all but naked beneath him, her hips and long legs exposed to his gaze, displayed against the red-silk brocade.
She realized, and with difficulty lifted her heavy lids—and saw him, braced above her and a little to the side, looking down. Studying, examining. In that instant he was every inch the sheik intent on claiming her for his own. Then one hand rose, touched, glided over her smooth skin, then the backs of his fingers brushed her curls and she shut her eyes on a sensual shiver.
One of longing, of yearning, of wanting. A hot shiver of desire—one he saw, understood, and set about fanning.
He mapped her terrain, then explored, explicit, suggestive, uninhibitedly bold. He rearranged her limbs as he wished, pressing her thighs wide, opening her to him, then stroking, probing, penetrating.
She arched, restless, wanton, desire all but choking her. Eyes closed, she writhed, threshed, gasped, and knew she was begging. But not just for release. She wanted more—she wanted him inside her.
Where the knowledge, the absolute certainty came from, she didn’t know; it was simply there, blazoned in her brain, something her heart, her body, every muscle and sinew and nerve knew as truth.
She wanted him, wanted to give herself to him, sensed that unless and until she did she wouldn’t be complete, wouldn’t be herself—the self she needed to be.
The first touch of his lips on her mons made her shriek. The first lick and she lost what little breath she still possessed. Then his tongue artfully caressed that tiny nub of sensitive flesh—and she was lost.
Lost in a world of heat and flame and fiery sensation. One he skillfully evoked, then with unwavering expertise guided her through, showing her, letting her feel, teaching her, letting her learn and know. Slowing here, racing ahead there, lingering when she needed it even though she was far past any hope of uttering any words.
At the last, he drew the glory to her, let it infuse her, fill her, shatter her.
Let it sweep her up and carry her beyond the stars for that perfect timeless moment, but then it faded, and as she drifted back to earth, she still felt empty. Incomplete.