Powder of Love (I) Page 10

  She narrowed her eyes. “The powder’s effect doesn’t last for more than a few hours. Furthermore, I was kissing you, and I haven’t been near that box.” She shifted away from him, and he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “Has anyone ever described you as priggish?”

  Clermont, certainly. Reed considered being insulted by her question but realized she had a point. “I don’t think I was anything of the sort in the past, and I don’t wish to seem overscrupulous now, but I am afraid I have rather been pushed in that direction. Not by you,” he added hastily.

  She was silent a moment. “I beg your pardon for the rude question. I can see that your exposure to the powder would not have helped. You do not seem the sort of man who appreciates being out of control.”

  He hadn’t understood that simple truth until she said the words. He wasn’t sure he liked the way she saw him too clearly, though her words did nothing to quell his desire.

  She gave him a small smile. “I expect if you’d known the attraction between us was mutual, you would have run away to retain the upper hand over yourself.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” He swallowed. It was perhaps a good thing he hadn’t known how much she wanted him that day, because his control was on the edge now, with no aphrodisiac in his system.

  He’d take a page from her plain-speaking book. “I think I insulted you just now by telling you the only reason I wanted to kiss you was because of the powder.”

  Her eyes widened, and she licked her lips. “Perhaps,” she said faintly.

  “I should tell you the truth,” he went on. “It was because of you. Your smiles and laughter and the way your hair gathers just here.” He brushed fingers at her nape, then remembered Clermont had done almost the same motion a few days earlier.

  Here he stood, near a woman, seeking pleasure like Clermont. The thought should have been enough to stop him. It wasn’t. He leaned in again to the sweet taste of her mouth, and now her hand was on his shoulder, squeezing him spasmodically. Miss Ambermere. Her first name was…damn. He wasn’t certain he could recall it, but that wasn’t enough to prevent him from another full-mouth kiss, ravenous now. Nothing delicate or polite.

  She pulled at the cloth of his jacket; he could feel her against him. For a brief moment, she allowed him to kiss her in the fully obscene, delicious manner—their tongues greedy and deep, as if drawing more than taste from each other, attempting to arouse every part of their bodies with their mouths.

  Then she moved away and rested her forehead on his chest so he could only see the top of her head, the pale skin of her part, and feel the soft curls tickling his chin. Her breath came fast and rough, but she relaxed against him, so much of her form pressed to him from chest to knees. The weight of her was as heady as the kisses.

  He ran his hands down her back, searching for her yielding body trapped under the stiff corset and layers of cloth. She let him touch her, so he grew bolder. Frustrated by the blasted fashionable contraptions she wore below her waist, he moved to her shoulder again. At least she was woman there, warm and round. He buried his nose in her curls while he ran his hands over the interesting shape of her waist and hips, and then she stirred against him, increasing his arousal to the point of dizziness.

  She didn’t tilt her head, and he badly needed to kiss her.

  But if he spoke, she’d realize how wrong this was, to allow a near stranger to molest her. So he kissed what he could—the top of her ear, her hair. Yes, there, at last, she looked up at him, and dear Lord, her heavy eyes and half smile made his heart thump hard.

  His lips were against her again before she had a chance to look away or wake from whatever stupor she was in. Kisses he’d dreamed about—literally and during the day as he’d stumbled around the city in a fog. Better than he’d imagined. She let him into her mouth again, and he cupped her head and went deeper.

  Worries dissolved with those kisses, and she was the only thing that mattered.

  Her hands, which had been on his shoulders, moved between them and rested against his chest, and he rejoiced she would touch him and give him permission to touch her there. Her breasts.

  But then she was pushing.

  Oh damn. Reality slammed into him, almost as hard as her shove. He stepped back, panting as if he’d run a race.

  “My cousin was right,” she said with a breathless laugh. “It is hard to stop a man.”

  “I apologize.” He began the dreary atonement for his sinful actions, when all he really wanted to do was keep kissing and touching her.

  She shook her head slowly. “Wait, no. I said that the wrong way. My cousin had led me to believe it was all an attack, but no, you stopped almost as soon as I pushed away. What I didn’t understand is that it is the pushing away that’s difficult. Heavens.” She was pale except for bright spots on her upper cheeks. Her hands twisted. “I thought a single kiss would take care of this…this”—she shrugged—“this problem. But it is rather like salted cashews when one is hungry. A single taste only leaves the flavor and promise of more. It makes one greedy.”

  Something deep in his throat made a small noise. A moan. “I should go,” he said. “I didn’t mean to stay or trespass. Or…” He stared blankly at her face, trying to come up with words that would bring them both back to normal, civil conversation. He realized that was impossible. What he meant to do didn’t matter, after all.

  As they stood silent and almost too close to each other, Beels entered with a tea tray. And Murphy came behind him. Miss Ambermere cleared her throat. “Surely you have time for a cup of tea?”

  He nodded, then remembered that was impolite. His mind still reeled with the arousal that stirred every part of him. “Tea. Thank you, yes. Tea.”

  What had those kisses portended beyond his bottomless hunger and her curiosity? She certainly couldn’t think of him as a suitor. His prospects didn’t exist beyond what he could accomplish with his own hands. Not what a wealthy young woman would look for.

  Could they manage an affair? Reed wasn’t sure he could manage to bed a woman casually. Not after witnessing the carelessness of a Clermont. It wouldn’t be casual, he argued with himself—God and heavens, no. Except, what would happen once they’d finally sated their need? They’d take off their clothes and lie down together, and then…

  He couldn’t imagine what would happen next other than Clermont’s system: they would go their separate ways and pretend nothing had occurred. She deserved better. He did too, though he didn’t think he gave a jot about that at the moment. Not when his body was clamoring for release.

  A footman was handing him a teacup and saucer, and he was again murmuring thanks, feeling more shaken than he had during that damnable incident with the powder. This had involved her too. Wide awake and fully aware of the consequences, they’d kissed and touched each other like lovers.

  When he looked up from the tea, she was staring at him round-eyed as if he were some sort of frightening creature in the zoo. Or perhaps as if he were one of the monkeys who’d been flinging excrement around.

  With Murphy in the room, he had to be careful. So he only smiled and said, “Thank you for your time this morning. I appreciate it.”

  Without turning away, Miss Ambermere said, “Oh, Murphy, would you fetch my larger knitting needles? They’re on my dresser. I forgot to bring them down. And the extra wool. I’m not sure where that is. I am sorry.”

  Murphy left.

  As soon as her footsteps faded, Miss Ambermere spoke in a low voice. “Were you thanking me for the kisses? I can’t tell if you are angry about them.”

  “Angry? Of course not.” He frowned, wondering why she’d imagine something that wonderful would make a man angry.

  “Good, because you are scowling, and I can’t tell what you’re thinking. And it matters for some reason.”

  “What does?”

  “What you think of me. I don’t want it to matter.” He was startled to see that her eyes were bright with tears. She quickly erased all traces and managed
a light tone. “I am not prone to caring for the good opinion of others. It’s such a restful thing to go along with one’s own judgment and not seek the approval of others.”

  “I don’t know why my opinion matters, but since it does, I should say—I mean, I ought to tell you that I think very highly of you.”

  She fiercely dabbed at her eyes. “But then there is the problem of what I believe about myself. When I met you in the hotel, you believed I was a loose woman, and perhaps you aren’t so far off.”

  “No, no. It’s not that simple.” He smiled. “A few days ago it would have been, of course. It’s always much simpler to view that sort of thing as an outsider, isn’t it? I don’t think anything you’ve done is…wrong.”

  One side of her mouth curved up, showing that delicate near-dimple. “Then perhaps you didn’t notice that I’d wrapped myself around you like a morning glory vine.”

  “I hardly think you did that. I wouldn’t have minded, though.”

  “Your philosophy has changed, then.”

  She’d noticed that too. He sipped tea to give himself time to come up with a justification. It didn’t work. “Hardly a philosophy. I don’t think I can explain.”

  “Why not?”

  How could one talk of attraction making all the difference in the world? “Our kisses have hurt no one.”

  “No, I suppose not,” she said, but she sounded entirely dubious.

  He sighed and gave up trying to convince her or himself that what they had done together wasn’t sordid. Those kisses were valuable, sweet.

  The door, which had been partially shut, opened, but it wasn’t Murphy in the doorway. A tall, magnificent woman dressed in deep blue strolled into the room.

  “How very interesting. I let myself into the house and discover my daughter closeted with a young man. Who is this, dear?”

  Mr. Reed had jumped to his feet. Rosalie’s mother, Deirdre, looked him up and down, and the gleam in her eyes was approval. “You do look like you’ve been running, sir. Or performing some other vigorous exercise.”

  She turned and clasped her daughter’s hands.

  “Mother.” Rosalie had trouble getting the word out. She said it mostly to make the relationship clear to Mr. Reed. For most of her life, she had addressed her mother by her first name. She wasn’t certain why but suspected it had been a request from Deirdre.

  “Yes, dear, a whole week early, but spring came early this year. Have you felt it in the air, even here in the city? And I would enjoy a saunter.”

  “May I present Mr. Reed?”

  “How do you do, Lady Williamsford.” He bowed.

  “English. Well, I suppose I should ask you if you’re from the Wiltshire or the East Witcherty-tonk branch of your family, but I don’t give a darn. Poor darling girl, you have no father to say tut-tut and act like a proper guardian. Sit, sit, Mr. Reed. And tell me all about what you and my daughter were up to before I opened the door.”

  Before he could answer, Rosalie chimed in. “Philosophy. We were discussing Aristotle’s treatises.” That wasn’t really a lie, though it was several days after that discussion.

  Lady Williamsford sniffed. “Oh, dear me. I can tell you need me here. I’ll just go to my room to freshen up, and then I can act as chaperone. My usual room, yes, dear?”

  Rosalie nodded.

  Mr. Reed bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I must go meet my friend.”

  “Go on, then. You walk him to the door, Rosalie, and then come right back. I’ll wait to freshen up.”

  They were silent as they walked down the hall. He paused by the palm at the front entrance. “Your mother is—” He faltered, and she knew what he was thinking. When he ended with “charming,” she wasn’t convinced.

  And as if he’d asked, the words were wrenched out of her. “You see why I am wary of my own behavior with men?”

  “No.” He raised his eyebrows. “Wary?”

  “She is rather like my late cousin, Lord Williamsford.”

  He scratched his cheek. “Oh.”

  “I might have inherited a most unnatural appetite. My father called it vulgar.”

  “He spoke this way to his daughter? About his own wife?” He sounded angry.

  She wanted to defend her father, explain that he had been warning her to watch for such tendencies in her own character. But it suddenly occurred to her that Mr. Reed was right to sound astounded. She was grateful to him for that revelation. They stood silent, not looking at each other.

  “Thank you,” she said at last and held out her hand. They were close enough that the servants waiting in the hall wouldn’t hear. “I won’t allow myself to regret those kisses. And, well, I…I thank you for your help with Dr. Leonard too.”

  “You seem to be bidding me adieu.”

  Her heart seemed to shrink, because he was right, and she couldn’t think of a proper reply. What else could she want from him besides more kisses, and she had already ruled them out. She enjoyed her calm life and should continue to enjoy it with a man such as Mr. Wentworth. The passion aroused by Mr. Reed was intoxicating, but she also avoided strong drink. With hot blood running in one’s veins, one did best to stay with cooler situations. Too much passion was a recipe for misery. She’d tasted so much craving in just those few kisses, they would cause her to lie awake tonight, restless and near out of control with longing for danger.

  He grasped her hand and squeezed it for a moment before letting go and putting on his hat. Mr. Reed walked to the door, where Beels stood.

  In a normal, cheerful voice, he said, “I will call again, if you don’t object.”

  “I should be glad to see you,” she said automatically and wondered if she would be glad. Those kisses had stirred the placid surface of her life, a calm steadiness she required. And now her mind was a muddy mess and her senses far too awake and yearning. She watched him walk away, a man at ease with his body and who knew how to use it. Even the way he shoved his hands into his pockets as he strode away from her house made her want to go after him and beg for another kiss. A small brush of the lips would be enough.

  No, it wouldn’t.

  When she’d leaned against him, she’d felt the strength and appetite in his body and wanted more.

  Wanting didn’t mean taking. She could long for something and survive its absence.

  Rosalie heaved a sigh.

  Her mother would soon put a stop to any chances for introspection.

  Deirdre had already settled herself by the tea tray and helped herself to a piece of cake. As always, she started her annual visit with a mixed pronouncement about the city. “I do not like the traffic and dirt, but New York does invigorate the blood. How do you thrive in such a world?”

  Rosalie wasn’t certain “thrive” was the word she’d use. But the only use for self-pity was to make changes, and she had no notion of what she’d change. A smile, a man’s hand, even kisses weren’t enough to throw away her quiet, content life.

  “Mother, you are looking well.”

  “As are you. I must say, your father’s features are delectable on your face. Speaking of your father, I am considering a change. Perhaps I will visit England.”

  “No. Why would you?”

  “I didn’t give it a fair shake. I think as a widow I’ll fare better. Want to come along?”

  She ate a forkful of cake and behaved as if she hadn’t just lobbed an incendiary device at her daughter.

  Rosalie decided to play along. “I have occasionally thought about returning. I’d like to see my aunt again.”

  “Your father’s sister is a silly woman with no interest in anything but gravestones.” Lady Williamsford waved a dismissive fork.

  Rosalie watched a crumb fly, then asked, “Never mind England for the moment. What treats do you have in mind for this visit to New York?”

  “To tell the truth, I haven’t planned anything. Wandering off without a plan. That might be a treat even better than those electrical massages I discovered last year.” Her
mother swallowed the last bite of cake and reached for another slice.

  Deirdre could probably consume a whole cream-filled pastry, and it wouldn’t add an ounce to her body. “I liked the looks of that Mr. Reed. Well-built young man. Rougher than usual. He wasn’t well-enough dressed to be one of your usual suitors.”

  “You haven’t met many of my suitors.” There weren’t many to meet.

  “Certainly. That Wentworth is always around, taking tea, acting nearly English. I always thought you’d be going after the artistic type, but you prefer the polished dandy. The dude, they call them here.”

  “Mr. Wentworth is certainly not a dandy. I prefer no such—Oh, you are teasing me. Less than ten minutes, and you manage to set traps for me. Mr. Reed had been helping me with…a problem.”

  “Interesting.”

  Her mother’s vague blue-eyed gaze didn’t fool her for a minute. “And this problem would be?” Deirdre prompted.

  “Did you ever meet Father’s heir?”

  “Your cousin, you mean? Once. He was perhaps thirteen at the time and tried to put his hand down the front of my dress.”

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  Deidre popped some apple cake into her mouth and chewed. She swallowed and said, “Johnny, that poor thing. He died recently.”

  “Yes, and he left his possessions to me.”

  Her mother put down the plate and began to laugh. She laughed so hard, a tear trickled down from the corner of an eye.

  “It’s not that funny, Mother.”

  “Yes, it is. And I can tell you’re annoyed—you always call me Mother when you are. But ah, that is funny. You of all people. I know all about Johnny Ambermere, Lord Williamsford, and he was a thorough reprobate. Your father wrote me a long diatribe about how you went to visit Johnny. I never thought the rascal and you had become such fast friends despite your father’s rants. You poor thing.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Go on. Where does your Mr. Reed fit in?”

  “He’s helping me dispose of those possessions. That’s all.”

  “Ah. And that dark hair that looked as if he’d been out in a wind? He ran here?”