“Or this?” He trailed his knuckles slowly across her aching breasts and a hot shiver of anticipation thrilled through her.
“Or this?” He made a low sound deep in his throat, his arm tightened around her, and he licked at her lips like a big hot cat, teasing at the seam until she parted for him. He entered and tasted her slowly, deliberately, languorously but with a sharp intensity that thrilled her to the marrow.
“Delicious,” he murmured, and kissed her again, and she grasped his shoulders and kissed him back, tasting the sweetness of Madeira and the hot dark salt intensity of the man.
“Nash . . .”
He kissed her then with a delicate ferocity that thrilled her to the marrow, nipping, tasting, possessing. His mouth was his instrument and she unraveled beneath it, joyously.
She ran her palms along the harsh, pure line of his jaw, reveling in the abrasion of the masculine bristles; she speared her fingers through his thick, soft hair, and wriggled closer and closer, until she was plastered against his hard, masculine body, squirming against him; and all the time kissing, kissing, kissing him as he devoured her in return.
His big warm hands ran over her, feverishly, and she wished they weren’t on the stairs, were in her lovely bed back home, in her own red-curtained alcove, cut off from the world. But the guest room she’d been given had a large and comfortable bed . . .
“My bedchamber is just past the landing,” she murmured.
He hesitated, then kissed her with renewed passion, then gave a groan and lifted her from his lap back onto the stairs. “No,” he said in a harsh voice.
She blinked at him, dazed, dizzy with passion, barely able to sit straight. “But it’s just down there.” She pointed. Her hand was shaking.
He groaned again, groped for the glass of Madeira, and gulped it down in one mouthful. He was breathing heavily. She was panting, too, she realized, as if she’d run up all the stairs and down again. “No,” he repeated. “Not tonight.”
“Why not?” They were going to be married, after all. She wanted him, and now, suddenly, with no warning, he seemed to want her at last, and she wanted to seize the opportunity while it presented itself.
But Nash Renfrew, it slowly dawned on her, was not presenting himself. He drew back, and when his hand encountered her glass that he’d put down, he drained it, too, putting his mouth deliberately over the smudge left by her own mouth and putting it down again without looking, his eyes never leaving hers. He stood slowly and held his hand out to assist her to rise.
Her heart leapt with hope. Her body throbbed, tense with longing, aching with need. And he—she glanced at him with a knowing eye—his long, lean body was tense, hard, visibly aroused. There was no reason to wait.
Nash waited, his face in shadow, his hand outstretched. She allowed him to help her stand and was glad of the leashed strength in the light clasp, for her legs trembled beneath her, all their strength drained.
He led her to her bedchamber door, opened it, handed her the candle. “Come in with me,” she whispered.
He shook his head and kissed her lightly on the mouth, a firm, possessive promise of a kiss, tasting of Madeira and Nash, and tinged, she fancied, with regret.
“Sleep well, Maddy,” he said softly and strode away down the dark corridor, leaving her clutching the door, staring after him.
It was the very definition of control, Nash told himself. To send her to bed—alone—with nothing but a chaste—chaste-ish kiss and then walk away. To his own bed. His own, empty bed.
It was the civilized thing to do.
Nash let himself into his bedchamber. A cozy sight greeted him. His valet, Phelps, was waiting, a fire crackled merrily in the grate, a glass of brandy sat on the bedside table, and the bedclothes were turned down, ready for him to slide into bed. Perfect, Nash told himself. Everything he could possibly want. Except one.
Desire gnawed at his vitals.
Leaving her to sleep alone was the wise thing to do, he told himself. He wasn’t besotted by lust. He was not his father. He would not be ruled by passion.
He could wait for the wedding before bedding her again. He wasn’t an animal, governed by primitive instincts. He was a gentleman. A gentleman in complete control of himself.
“Evening, Phelps.”
“Good evening, sir.” Phelps helped Nash out of his coat and waistcoat and hung them up. “I trust Lord Ripton made his departure in good time.”
“He has, yes.” Nash didn’t bother to ask how Phelps knew Luke was taking his place. Phelps always knew everything. Nash yanked the arrangement of his neckcloth apart and tossed it on the bed, then dragged his shirt off over his head.
Phelps stood by with Nash’s dressing gown ready. “Shall you require this, sir?”
“Mmm, yes. I might read for a bit by the fire.” Nash shrugged on the dressing gown, then sat for Phelps to assist him in the removal of his boots. Nash pulled off his stockings, then dragged off his breeches and kicked them aside. “That’ll be all, Phelps.”
“Very good, sir,” Phelps brought the brandy glass and a bottle to the table beside the fireside chair. “The cognac you enjoyed so much last time we were here,” he murmured. “Mr. Bronson sent up a bottle.” He picked up Nash’s discarded clothing. “Good night, sir, sleep well.”
