Secrets of a Proper Countess (2 page)

P
hineas couldn't imagine who the lady might be, or why she was standing like a sentinel in the shadowed doorway of Philip Renshaw's study.

He knew every other female in the room. In fact, he could probably identify most of them in the dark if he had to, just by touch, or scent, or taste alone.

He'd spent an hour waiting for her to move away so he could do what he came for and search the study, but she had stayed put, watching him from her corner, her gaze like a caress.

She was not the kind of woman who usually captured his interest. He liked his bedmates as notorious as himself, married, preferably, so there was no risk of permanent entanglement. In this woman, he sensed a reticence that made her irresistible.

She was a distraction he didn't need tonight, but one he couldn't ignore, since she was in his way.

He let his gaze glide over her again. Her costume was a marvel, though it was not low cut or revealing. In fact, it had a high-necked collar and a forbidding row of tiny pearl buttons that locked the tunic tight as a strongbox over the tempting swell of her breasts. It was a garment meant to deter even the most stalwart attempts to reach the flesh beneath. It made him itch to try.

It was not just the uniqueness of the costume. It was the
way the lady wore it, the way she moved like flowing water, that gave the impression that somehow she was more feminine, more alluring, than any other woman in the room.

Behind her half mask, her eyes sparkled without coyness, and didn't give away so much as a clue about her identity. Even her hair was completely covered by an embroidered cap and a veil, and he could not guess the color of it. Her painted lips were mobile, expressive, and his mouth watered to taste her, though he couldn't tell if she was beautiful or not. No, he was very certain he did not know her, but he wanted to.

Badly, and for a variety of reasons.

They stood sipping champagne in fluted crystal glasses, flirting under the guise of idle banter. It was making Phineas sweat. Still, he was a man who knew how to bide his time, and use every tool—especially idle banter—to seduce a woman. He was confident that he'd have what he wanted before the evening was over—both the charms of the luscious lady and her identity, should she prove worthy of future attentions.

“Look—Caesar is Sir John Unwin, don't you agree?” he asked.

“Indeed, but the lady dancing with him is not his wife. I know Primrose Unwin quite well,” she replied tartly.

“So do I,” he drawled. She shot him a quick look, and blushed and lowered her eyes again when he grinned. So she wasn't an experienced flirt. It made the situation all the more interesting. “I believe Unwin's partner is Davina St. Claire, though she probably has no idea that her Caesar is Unwin,” he continued. He'd know the heart-shaped mole on Davina's lush breast anywhere, and her low-cut costume did very little to hide her charms. Unwin was drooling on the mole.

The lady by his side regarded him with delight. “Why, my lord, I do believe you know more gossip than even the best informed tea party of society tabbies!”

“Perhaps, but in my defense I also know how to keep a
secret, Lady…um, what should I call you, my dear?” he asked.

She tilted her head and considered, pursing her lips in a way that had him instantly aroused. “Yasmina will do, I think. It is in keeping with my disguise.” She drawled the exotic name, and regarded him with a playful little smirk that he read as a dare. “And what would you like to be called, my lord?”

Phineas grinned. “I can think of any number of things. But since my disguise is minimal, I suggest you call me by my name. I am—”

She put a finger to his lips before he could reveal himself. She had to step closer to do it. So close she almost leaned against him. He tensed. He could slip a hand around her waist, open the door and take them both inside Renshaw's office in the guise of seduction. It was a ploy he'd often used before. But he could smell her perfume, light, sweet, and exotic. It shot a bolt of pure lust straight to his groin and drove every sensible thought from his brain.

“Not your real name, sir! It would spoil the illusion,” she admonished. Her finger was soft, cool against his mouth, and he caught her wrist to keep it there. He flicked his tongue over the tip of the delicate digit, a light, moist, sensual caress, while his eyes held hers. He watched her mouth go slack, saw how she caught her bottom lip between white teeth. Her eyes drifted shut for a moment, and he noted the way her breasts rose and fell in heated agitation.

If one small touch could do that, one little lick—he felt his body harden in anticipation, and he swallowed a groan. He turned her hand over and touched his tongue to the pulse point at her wrist, reveling in her sharp intake of breath.

“Call me whatever you wish, my lady—Lancelot, or Tristan, or Romeo. Anything will do.” His eyes burned into
hers from behind his mask. “I am at your service, and I will be whatever and whomever you wish me to be tonight.”

Isobel stared at him, spellbound. The room wavered and spun, and all she could see was him, all she could feel was the heat from his eyes, his body. She was melting with desire. Surely she was dreaming. She would wake up in her widow's weeds at Maitland House and realize she'd imagined the whole encounter.

She couldn't bear to look away, afraid he'd dissolve into mist and leave her shivering in the cold disappointment of reality.

Someone jostled her as they passed and broke the spell. She lowered her gaze to their joined hands, and pulled away, clasping her tingling fingertips. She drew herself up and looked him straight in the chin.

“I know,” she said brightly, attempting to lighten the dangerous situation. “I shall call you Thomas. I once had a cat named Thomas. He would be quite companionable when prevailed upon, but diplomatically absented himself when he was not wanted.” It was certainly a description that fit Blackwood well.

He frowned. “You wish to name me for a cat? You should know that I dislike the beasts intensely, and my price is far higher than a tidbit of fish or fowl tossed from your plate, Lady Yasmina.”

Isobel picked up her champagne from the table and sipped it. Her hand shook, and the sparkling wine did little to soothe her nerves. Had she offended him? It didn't matter. This was an anonymous flirtation. She could say anything behind her mask.

She teased him with a saucy stare. “And what would your price be, my lord?”

He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Your all, my lady, and nothing less.”

Her body throbbed. She was out of her depth. She forced
a little laugh, and strove to return to lighter repartee, where she had some control. “If you ask me, most of the gentlemen of the
ton
live like tomcats. They sleep all day, prowl all night, and fight over mice and females. Their fine fur is of great importance to them, and they are indifferent fathers and inconsiderate lovers.”

He tipped his head to one side and grinned like a cat, wide and slow. She was his nervous prey, and that look offered her no quarter. “On the contrary, sweetheart. I am a very considerate lover,” he purred.

Heaven help her, she was lost. Perhaps it was the champagne. Perhaps it was the disguise. Perhaps it was his heart-stopping proximity, the heat that rose from him, or the faint scents of rich soap, fine wool, and male skin. Or maybe it was her desire to feel loved, if only for a moment. What if this was her only chance?

“Prove it,” she dared him.

The next moment his hand was under her elbow and he was leading her with desperate haste through the costumed throngs toward the open doors that led to the garden.

He didn't say a word, and neither did she, though she knew where he was taking her and what he intended to do when they got there. She should protest, or pull away, no,
run
away before she did something regrettable, but she went with him, down the torch-lit pathways of Lady Evelyn's elegant garden.

They reached a small Chinese pavilion by the fishpond. He let go of her only long enough to seize the nearest torches, pulling them out of the soft earth and casting them into the pond, where they expired with a hiss of protest, leaving the two of them in deep, velvety darkness.

He was beside her, unseen, his arms enfolding her, his mouth on hers, hungry and demanding. She met him kiss for kiss, sparring with his tongue as if she'd done this a thousand times, was an old hand at sexual adventures in dark gardens.

He lifted her off her feet, still kissing her, and carried her into the pavilion. It felt too good to stop, and she surrendered, pressing against the hard length of him, feeling his desire, letting it fuel her own.

A night bird gave a frightened cry as they entered, and flapped away into the night, and she gasped in surprise, sure she was caught, but he captured her indrawn breath in his mouth and laid her on the cushioned bench.

Heavens, she'd taken tea with Evelyn on this very bench only last week. Was it on Tuesday? She couldn't remember. Didn't care. He was working on the buttons of her caftan, exposing her flesh to the chill night air and the heavenly warmth of his hands on her bare skin.

He kissed her, devoured her, and her hands tangled in the fabric of his shirt, holding him to her, needing more. His mouth was so hot, so sweet, and she couldn't imagine anything more delicious than his kiss. She could not have stopped kissing him if she wanted to. She was drugged, intoxicated and bewitched.

He trailed his mouth down her throat while he opened more of the pearl buttons ahead of his questing tongue and teeth. Isobel was hard-pressed to keep up, her own fingers inexpert and shaking as she fumbled with his cravat, trying to undress him as he undressed her.

She gave up with a sigh as he opened the caftan, pushed away the filmy silk undertunic and drew her nipple into his hungry mouth. The sensation drove the last clear thoughts from Isobel's mind. She wanted him, all of him, all at once.

He might be a notorious rake who'd done this a thousand times with a thousand women, but at this moment he was her rake. All hers. She felt her power surge, heightening her desire, and she writhed beneath him, moaning and murmuring wicked things.

She let her hands roam over his back until they found the
place where his shirt met his breeches. She tugged, needing to feel his skin under her hands. She briefly wondered where his cloak and jacket had gone, but it didn't matter. It must be magic. She had never felt like this before, never been so wanton, so desperate. She wanted pleasure
now
, and she meant to have it.

Her hands found flesh, and she explored the damp silk of his skin, the fascinating flex and play of his muscles. His body was marvelous, male perfection. The scent of his skin poured over her, intoxicating her far beyond anything the champagne had done.

She pressed her mouth to his chest, trying to taste him, hampered by his shirt. It was tangled in his breeches, and the sword belt still fastened around his hips. The fabric was caught on one of the ancient jewels in the hilt, resisting her. She muttered in dismay. She felt his heart pounding under her lips, felt the breath singing through his body as his muscles tensed in pleasure at what she was doing. She found his nipple and bit gently, then sucked the hard pebble through the fine linen of his shirt, hearing him gasp for breath.

Boldly, she reached beneath the waistband of his breeches and caressed the hard muscles of his buttocks. His hips strained against hers, his hardness pressing against her body. It felt delicious, even through layers of clothing. She was soft where he wasn't, yielding where he advanced. She spread her thighs, cradling him between them, welcoming the pressure, the pulsations of pleasure. He fumbled with the sword, cursing it, trying to unbuckle it, failing. With a grunt he shoved it out of the way, still fastened to his hip. It banged against the bench, adding cadence to their rhythmic movements.

Isobel was wild with wanting.

She thrust her hand between their bodies, seeking the opening of his breeches, but the sword belt was once again in her way. Frustrated, she had no memory of how buttons
or buckles worked, only knew that she needed to touch him, to feel him without the barrier of his clothing.

She tugged, and the buttons from his breeches clattered on the wooden floor of the pavilion.

She shoved the fabric open, past the damnable sword belt, now clasped around his naked hips, found his erection and took it in her hand, feeling the hard, hot velvet throb of him. He groaned and thrust against her palm, drawing breath through his teeth. He was suckling her breast, murmuring incoherently, his hand exploring the curves of her body, finding places she hadn't even known existed before he touched them. She arched upward, reaching for the hard, hot shadow of him as he loomed above her.

“Inside,” she muttered. “Come inside me.”

He kissed her mouth, smiling against her lips, as breathless as she was.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he said. He laughed softly when she whimpered and squirmed restlessly beneath him. She was on fire, desperate for release.

He returned to suckling her nipple in the most annoyingly leisurely fashion. When she moaned, wishing he'd do that forever, he switched to the other side. The night breeze cooled her heated skin, and she gasped when he took the sensitive flesh back into the heat of his incredible mouth again.

She dug her nails into his shoulders, trying to draw him to her, too far gone for words. His hand slid over her body, slipping past the ribbon ties of her loose trousers with expert ease. She writhed as his palm descended over her belly and hips with infuriating slowness to caress the curls between her thighs. Maddeningly, he paused above the place she needed him most, teasing and tormenting her. Helpless, she arched her hips and drew his mouth down to hers, biting and sucking at his tongue and lips, hearing his breath turn to grunts of suppressed desire.

Her hand found his erection again, and she explored a male body with complete abandon for the first time in her life. Slick moisture oozed from the tip, and she rolled her thumb over the head, making him pant. His fingers still hovered, merely tickling the delicate lips of her sex, caressing her with the lightest possible strokes when she needed pressure and friction.