“Wait!” He caught her shoulder as she turned. “I’ve a question I’ve not yet asked you.”
She lifted one hand, and for an instant he thought she meant to place it over his, strengthening his hold on her. Instead, she let it flutter back to her side. “One question, then.”
“Will you dance with me?”
Her eyes registered surprise. “Dance?”
“Here, now.” He gestured to the sky above them. “Accompanied by a symphony of stars, to the music of the wind’s rustle.”
“You want to dance with me here?” She repeated, her tone still incredulous.
“I didn’t dare ask you in the drawing room, fearing my proper Sparrow would probably refuse. But there are no prying eyes now to criticize or condemn. So, my lady beautiful, dance with me.” Beau held out a hand.
For a moment she simply stared at him. “This is madness,” she murmured at last. And slipped her fingers in his.
He eased her into waltz position, shocks jolting through him as they touched at shoulder, waist, hip. How well she fit against him, he thought; how absolutely right and natural it seemed to have her in his arms. Tucking the silk of her hair under his chin, he moved her into rhythm.
Under the spangle of stars they dipped and twirled while Beau hummed a tune in her ear. The racing of his heart owed little to the exertion of the dance, everything to the feel of Laura Martin’s hands clutching his shoulders as he swung her in ever-faster spirals, the press of her torso against his through the maddening thickness of his cloak, the warmth of her rapid breaths floating up to caress his face. Not until she gasped an inarticulate appeal did he slow, then halt, though he could not bring himself to let her go.
He didn’t want her to leave the dance or his side, he realized suddenly. No, he wanted her solemn eyes and incisive mind and wood sprite’s charm beside him for the rest of this night. Perhaps for always.
Still clasping her waist, he raised his other hand to trace her trembling lips. “I’ve been waiting all night to have you in my arms,” he murmured.
But he lied. He wanted much more than that. He hungered to arouse the vision he’d glimpsed in her cottage garden, the siren with tumbled hair and passion-languid eyes and soft mouth tilted temptingly to his own.
Beyond strategy and caution, he bent his head toward her lips. To his joy, with a murmur she clutched his shoulder and strained up to meet his kiss.
He retained enough sanity not to plunder her mouth with the urgent need that pulsed in him, luring her instead with quick, glancing touches meant to tantalize, entrance. Not until she twined fingers in his hair, tugged his head closer did he deepen the kiss, licking and sucking at the fullness of her lips until on a moan they parted.
A tremor shook her, shook him when their tongues met, before she darted hers away. An unexpected tenderness welled up—amazingly, his Sparrow did not even know how to kiss. Holding in ruthless check the desire to swiftly conquer and possess, he made himself slow, his tongue once more teasing within the softness of her mouth, letting her accustom herself to the feel of him. After a moment, she rewarded his patience as, tentative, uncertain, her tongue sought his.
He returned that guarded tap, the oblique contact like the sparing blades of cautious fencers. And when she met him again, lingering this time, he boldly stroked her tongue’s full length in a hot velvet slide that struck sparks to every atom of his body.
A strangled moan escaped her throat and he felt the bite of her fingers at his shoulder, her other hand delving into his coat, nails scratching at the buttons of his shirtfront as if seeking entry.
In some dim corner of his mind he knew control was eroding, that he was rapidly approaching the point where not even the October chill of the moonlit garden could rein in his desire. But before sense was lost in a mindless search for a bench, a terrace, even a softly yielding patch of grass, she abruptly wrenched her mouth from his.
In automatic response he tried to pull her back. She fended him off with one hand, her eyes focused on something behind him.
And then he heard it. A woman’s high-pitched, provocative laughter, emanating from the chamber just beyond the garden.
He turned. Through the mullioned window, he saw Lady Ardith standing with her bodice undone, candlelight and moonlight illuminating the bareness of her breasts. Mac leaned toward her, sliding up her skirts as he bent to capture one shadowed nipple in his teeth, while Lady Ardith fumbled with the straining buttons of his trouser flap.
The consternation he felt was reflected in Laura Martin’s horrified stare. Before he could utter a word, she shoved him away and fled down the path toward the library.
Chapter Eleven
Heart drumming against her ribs, gasping from her headlong flight across the garden and up the stairs, Laura closed the door to her room and sagged against it.
Moonsick madness. That’s all it had been, enchantment spun from her silly dreams and a touch of moonlight.
Sensible Laura Martin would never behave so again.
But even as she tried to excuse the episode, shame flooded her chest, thick and stifling.
She could not blame the magic of the garden, her foolish fancies or even Lord Beaulieu’s overpowering presence.
‘Twas her own folly alone that had brought her to this near catastrophe. Her weakness in accepting an escort she should have refused at the outset, her fault in underestimating the strength of her own greedy desire that had almost led her to commit the same wantonness she’d witnessed through the west wing windows.
How could she be disgusted by Lady Ardith’s lechery when she’d felt the same imperative pulsing in her blood?
Lord Beaulieu had enticed her, certainly, but ‘twas she who’d eagerly responded. Heat burned her face as she remembered the shivering shock of his lips against hers, the rasp of his tongue releasing a scalding flood of sensation that seemed to melt her bones, turning her fluid in his arms, starving for something she could not name but frantically sought. Craving the touch of his hands, his mouth, closer, deeper, as man desperate with thirst craves water.
And she craved it still. What she’d felt for her young suitor in her mother’s garden years ago was but a feeble precursor to the raging desire she’d discovered within herself tonight, like the tepid sunlight of an early spring morning that precedes a blazing July noon.
What she might have done, have allowed Lord Beaulieu to do, had that graphic vision of lust not shocked her into recognizing her own, she could only imagine.
And what must Lord Beaulieu think of her now? A woman who’d mouthed propriety, then shown herself as ready for a mindless tumble as the most amoral society matron. Regardless of the tangle of her own wildly contradictory feelings toward his lordship, in light of her behavior tonight his opinion of her must be humiliatingly clear.
A lonely woman, ready for the price of a few compliments to become his convenient during the short time he remained in the country.
Tears burned her eyes as she stumbled to the bed and struggled to strip off the beautiful, never-to-be-worn-again gown.
Cinderella, home at last among the shattered fragments of her dream.
Frustrated and furious, Beau paced the moonlit paths. Damn Mac and the randy Lady Ardith for choosing that particular chamber for their blatant display. He wanted to pursue his Sparrow, comfort her, recapture the magic shattered by that unintentional glimpse of mindless coupling, but some inner sense warned him she was too upset now for him to