Cal smiled against her lips as she made a little purring sound and wriggled closer. I’m doing this to your satisfaction am I, Madam? Yes, she had been kissed before, but there was still an innocence, a freshness, about this caress. She was tasting him, just as he was tasting her. She was exploring the man, he sensed, not simply wanting sensual satisfaction. And when he slid his hands up until his thumbs brushed against the underside of her breasts, she pulled back a little. No wanton, Sophie.
He took the hint, slid his hands down again, focussed on making love to her mouth and enjoying her increasingly bold responses. His body nagged at him for more, but he ignored the pulsing, building pressure, the insistent thrust of his erection beneath the thin knitted silk of his breeches.
A kiss, one kiss, could last all evening. The resulting arousal could last a week at this rate, but he would worry about that, take care of that, later. Cal sucked on her lower lip, nipped, laved the tiny bite with his tongue, and was not surprised when she nipped in return, then slid her lips across his cheek to nibble his earlobe.
Perhaps this couldn’t last all evening after all. Much more of this and he would either spend like a randy youth or have to go and throw himself into whatever water feature was tinkling on the far side of the garden. A wicked, pointed tongue ran around the curve of his ear, then her teeth found the lobe again.
And the world exploded.
For a second Cal thought it was the most violent orgasm he had ever experienced. Then Sophie’s teeth closed painfully on the tender flesh of his ear and she jerked free with a startled yelp.
Cal found himself on his feet, Sophie pressed to him protectively, his hand reaching for where his sword would have been if he had been wearing one, and the sky above crackled and banged and trails of stars cascaded across the darkness.
‘Oh, fireworks!’ She was laughing in his arms, the minx, shaking with amusement.
‘It is all right for you,’ Cal grumbled in to her hair, taking the opportunity to lash his arms even more tightly about her. ‘I may never recover from the shock. I will probably become impotent and end my days in a monastery.’
Sophie gave a little wriggle, sending fireworks of their own through the relevant organs. ‘I do not think that is going to be a problem, Your Grace.’ She came up on tiptoe, pressed a fleeting kiss to his lips and stepped back. ‘Don’t forget your neckcloth. And your wig is crooked. I must go back to Mama.’ Then she was gone into the shadows.
‘Baggage.’ Cal collapsed onto the bench and made a business of retying his neckcloth, straightening his wig and retying his mask in the hope that the vi
sible effects of that little interlude would subside before he went back into the light.
That had been a revelation, he thought as he took his time strolling back along the winding paths to the terrace to join the crowd still exclaiming over the fireworks. Not that he hadn’t expected to enjoy kissing Sophie Wilmott, or that he hadn’t expected that she might be willing to kiss him. No, it was the effect it had on him, the wanting to do it again, as soon as possible, for as long as possible and the almost contrary realisation that there was no impatience to move things on faster than Sophie was willing to be wooed.
Wooed? Hell’s teeth, had he actually decided to woo the woman for herself and not simply to provoke Ralph? He supposed he must have. That was an interesting revelation. Cal strode through the ballroom, now far less crowded with the pyrotechnics still in progress, and took a glass of arrack punch from the buffet, knocked it back in one and almost choked. Lord, but Lady Pettigrew’s butler did not stint on the alcohol. At this rate he was going to be hung-over, blue-balled and a suitor come the morning.
He picked up another glass and sipped with more caution. Sophie certainly met his requirements for a wife and, having heard her give a very full explanation of her desiderata for a husband, he was confident he matched them all. After this evening she was even in a very good position to judge whether he might be considered well-endowed. Now all he had to do was to consider tactics, although he could not imagine her mother and stepfather turning down a duke for their daughter.
As he strolled back out to the terrace it occurred to him that Isobel might have a view on acquiring a stepmother, but she had seemed to like Sophie. And then there was the question of Sophie’s safety. Surely she would not be a target until she became pregnant? He took off his mask and scrubbed one hand over his face, actually thinking, it seemed, for the first time since his mouth had met Sophie’s.
‘Evening, Duke.’ Lord Wortham, similarly unmasked, strolled past. ‘All right? You look as though you’ve just been jabbed with a pin!’ He went on his way, roaring with laughter.
Jabbed with a pin? Knocked on the head, was more like it. When Madeleine had announced that she was expecting his child he had still been too angry at having been trapped into marriage to care – until the baby was born. At which point it was love at first sight. But Sophie… his children… This was different and he was not at all sure he liked the way it made him feel. Terrified.
Chapter Eight - Where Sophie Confesses
It was difficult, not thinking about the Duke of Calderbrook. In fact it was impossible. And that sinister Jared Hunt hadn’t helped matters. Sophie threaded some green silk floss onto her needle and tried to feel some enthusiasm for the bell pull she was embroidering.
Last night had been magical and exiting and decidedly agitating, but not as agitating as walking slap into Mr Hunt, unmasked and looking exceptionally dangerous in plain black. He wore his hair unfashionably long, tightly braided and tied back with a strip of leather, usually. Now it was loose, flowing around his shoulders, and he looked like some Renaissance Italian searching for an arras to hide behind before stabbing someone with a stiletto.
She had curtseyed, one hand to her mask to be certain it was securely back in place and he, bother him, had bowed and said, ‘Good evening, Miss Wilmott.’
Then, when she would have passed him by without any further conversation, he had put out one hand to detain her. ‘Miss Wilmott, a word of warning.’ She had been so taken aback that she had simply stared at him as he added smoothly, ‘I suggest that toying with the Duke’s affections might not be a good idea, not if there is another man in the equation.’
‘I… There is… Have you been spying on us?’
‘I watch his back, not what he does. His Grace takes his honour very seriously, and, of course, that of the women in his life. He has killed his man before now in a duel and I really would recommend that you take care.’
‘Killed?’
‘In America. Someone who tried to lure his wife into an entanglement. He was a dangerous opponent, a man with a reputation, but the Duke did not hesitate to challenge him.’ He bowed once more and strolled off leaving her shaken and apprehensive, staring after him.
Sophie came back to the present with a start and found herself back in the drawing room. ‘The Duke of Calderbrook, Miss Wilmott.’ Parrott was managing to look both smug – which went with being a superior butler – and indulgent, a fairly nauseating combination.
Sophie jabbed her needle into her thumb, said something regrettable under her breath and tossed aside the embroidery frame with its new blood spot to add to the misshapen flowers. Sewing was one of her skills, but her concentration had been completely absent these past few days. ‘Thank you, Parrott. Please send Mary down.’
‘I could just leave the door open, Miss Wilmott.’ She could have sworn the butler’s left eyelid drooped into something perilously close to a wink. ‘I will be right outside.’