He shook his head to clear it. “I want you, and I think you want me as well. This . . . arrangement between us does not have to be unpleasant. Not if we make the best of it.”
“Are you implying—?”
“No,” he said quickly, having had experience with women and their use of the term implication. “I’m not implying anything, other than that I enjoy kissing you, touching you, and if you allow me, I’ll make sure you enjoy it, too.” Before she could argue, he bent once more to her full breasts, scraping his tongue down the valley between them. She gasped and tried to push him away.
“Sir, I don’t think—mmm, I—oh!”
Freddie knew a capitulation when he saw it, and he rode the momentum of his temporary victory, seeking to prolong it. Moving his hands from her waist to cup her breasts, he pushed her fullness into his mouth and allowed the heat to penetrate through the layers of silk. He ran a thumb over the hard peaks of her nipples, now detectable under her light stays.
She gasped again, arched, and in one movement and a few deft flicks of a hand, he had her bodice loosened and slipped down to reveal those stays hampering his progress. A moment later, he had those free, and he was cupping her soft flesh in his palms, taking her hard, rose-colored nipples in his mouth and rolling them over his tongue.
She moaned, a moan of pure pleasure, low and throaty like her voice, and unbelievably arousing. He took her other nipple in his mouth, using his hand to tease and tantalize the second. It grew rigid between his fingers, the hot flesh pebble-hard and, judging by her reaction, extremely sensitive. Freddie sensed victory and pushed her bodice lower, wanting to see more of her, wanting to bare more of her creamy flesh to his gaze. She whimpered, and he could almost hear the war raging between her body and her mind.
Her body won, and she arched her back, thrusting her breasts into his waiting hands—hands that were suddenly and as agreeably filled as his every sense was with her.
He bent to kiss her again, to take more of her into his mouth, and he heard, “Pish-posh, Dawson. I don’t need to be announced. His Lordship is always home to me.”
Freddie jerked away from Charlotte so quickly that she stumbled and pinwheeled her arms to steady herself. He caught her elbow, then, in once swift motion, righted her stays, pulled her bodice back in place, and put the space of a dozen men between them.
“And so the duke said, ‘If I’d wanted a biscuit, old boy, I could have fetched one myself!’ ” Freddie laughed uproariously as the library doors opened. He gave Charlotte a look full of meaning, and she managed a weak smile before Sebastian Middleton sauntered into the library.
“Felicitations, coz! I see you’ve been busy.”
Chapter Eleven
Charlotte’s cheeks fired so hot, she was afraid she might emit steam. George Washington! It was Middleton again—and this time she was rather glad to see him. And rather mortified at the thought that he knew what she and Dewhurst had just been doing.
She didn’t even want to know what she and Dewhurst had just been doing!
Freddie’s cousin strode toward the couch where they were standing, and Charlotte noticed that today he wore not only an Elizabethan doublet, but a ruff as well. “I hear you’ve gone and gotten leg-shackled, coz,” Middleton said with a wink. “Say it’s not true.”
Dewhurst glanced at the double doors where Dawson was still waiting. He dismissed the man with a nod. “ ’Fraid you are going to have to congratulate me, Middleton. Charlotte, may I introduce my cousin, Sir Sebastian Middleton. Middleton, Lady Dewhurst,” he said with a last glance at Dawson.
Middleton stepped forward, playing his part admirably, and took her hand in his, kissing her knuckles. “‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine—’ ”
Dewhurst stepped between them and took her hand in his own. His touch still burned her, and his husky voice made her shiver. “ ‘My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.’ ” Their gazes met and held, and Middleton finally broke the silence.
“Is it warm in here?” He pulled at his ruff. “I find I need a drink.”
Charlotte took a deep breath, flutters still dancing in her belly. She glanced at Middleton. “Thank you, Sir . . .” She paused and glanced at Dewhurst for guidance. Was it Sir Sebastian or Sir Middleton? Oh, she’d never get all these titles right.
Dewhurst mouthed Sebastian, and she knew she should finish her greeting before the pause dragged on too long, but the way Dewhurst’s lips moved sent a shiver of pleasure through her. Not a moment ago, those lips had been on her mouth, her neck, her breasts. She shivered again, and the spell was broken only when Dewhurst finally spoke for her.
“Sir Sebastian,” he interjected into the silence. “I’m afraid my wife hasn’t quite mastered all of the differences between our two cultures.”
Charlotte gave Sebastian a tight smile, and he smiled back, his eyes soft with understanding. Oh, why couldn’t she have had to pose as Middleton’s wife? He seemed eminently more reasonable than her current spouse. Even if he did take the role of the lovelorn Romeo a bit too far.
“No worries, my lady. You’ll catch on in no time. And you shall have the opportunity to practice sooner than you think. I have a box at the opera tomorrow night.”
“No,” Dewhurst said. “Absolutely not. She’s not ready.”
Middleton helped himself to a large glass of brandy. “She’ll have to be ready. We can’t afford to wait any longer.”
“We can’t afford not to wait. I’ll be laughed out of Town when she calls some cake of an earl or duke mister or stumbles over her feet when she curtsies. And the gowns I’ve ordered for her won’t arrive until next week at the earliest. She’s not ready.”
“Well, Pettigru is.”
Dewhurst stilled, and in the sudden silence, Charlotte was certain the sound of her heart pounding was audible throughout the house. Cade had been spotted? He’d been seen again? Perhaps somewhere close. But Charlotte bit her cheek to keep the questions from spewing forth.
