"Not even to painted tarts?"
She sucked in her breath and he could have sworn that she actually reeled back in shock. She raised an unconscious hand to her cheek, and began to rub at the powder.
She stopped suddenly. She dropped her hand to her side. She smiled now, and the utter control of it made his eyes gleam. "No," she said calmly, "not even to painted tarts. I had been told you had some wit. I had thought to hear it, but evidently gossip was mistaken. You are rude and a boor."
He rose to stand over her, very close, but she didn't move away from him. "Now you draw blood," he said, "and you don't do it too badly. But not all that well either." He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and swiftly wiped it over her red mouth. She tried to jerk away, but he grabbed her about her throat and wiped her mouth yet again. He threw the handkerchief to the ground. "Now," he said, leaned down and kissed her hard on her mouth. He kissed her for a very long time. After but a moment, he gentled, and she knew his expertise was great, greater than any she'd known before. His mouth was caressing hers, his tongue seeking entrance, but not demanding. She allowed him to continue, not moving, not reacting.
Suddenly his hands were cupping her breasts and she jumped, she couldn't help it. "Shush," he said, his breath warm and tart with the rum punch he'd drunk. "Let me feel you. Is your skin as soft and warm as I believe it to be?" Just as suddenly, as he spoke, his hands were down the front of her bodice and cupping her bare breasts. He paused a moment, lifting his head, and staring down at her. "Your heart was pounding, but not fast enough, I don't think. Your breasts are nice, Miss Stanton-Greville. Is this why you came out here in search of me? You wanted me to fondle you? Perhaps you even wanted me to take you here in the garden? Perhaps right here beneath this beautiful cassia tree? The scent is strong; perhaps strong enough to cover the smell of sex."
She said nothing, merely stood very quietly, allowing him to caress her breasts. He kissed her again, deepening the kiss this time, his open palm against her heart. The heartbeat quickened just a bit and he smiled into her mouth.
"Is that it? Do you think to compare me to your other men? You won't, you know."
His breath was very warm, his tongue gentle and easy against hers. But she wasn't kissing him back. She was passive. He didn't understand her. He wanted a response from her and by God he was going to have it. He pulled his hands out of the bodice of her gown, grabbed the shoulders of the gown, and jerked it to her waist. In the pale moonlight her breasts showed soft and white. Not large breasts, but very nicely shaped, full and high, the nipples a pale pink. He leaned down and began kissing the warm flesh.
It was then that she laughed, a teasing, wicked laugh. He straightened from the sheer surprise of it and looked down at her. Graceful as a dancer, she spun away from him. However, she did nothing to cover herself.
"You are not bad, in the way of men," she said, her voice light and caressing, her breasts pale in the moonlight, her shoulders back, thrusting them outward. "No, not bad at all. You are bold, arrogant, a man who doesn't wait for a lady to issue an invitation. You should show more restraint, sir. Or perhaps it is an invitation you want, and you haven't the patience to wait for it?"
"Perhaps," he said, "perhaps. But I don't share, Miss Stanton-Greville. When I take a woman I am the only man whose rod comes inside her. There will be no comparisons, at least no immediate ones."
"I see," she said, that damned voice of hers now lilting and more seductive than any woman's voice he'd ever heard in his life. "For the moment then, you may admire me, sir," she said, and he stared at her breasts as she slowly and with infinite fascination pulled the gown back to her shoulders, gently easing it into place. When her gown was straight and she looked as if she'd done nothing whatsoever out of the ordinary, she said, "No, Mr. Sherbrooke, you have moved too quickly. You have displeased me with your excesses. You demand, not ask. On the other hand, I do not dislike your arrogance. It is refreshing. You do not mince matters. You speak what you think. I will think about you, Mr. Sherbrooke. I have decided that I will ride with you in the morning. You will meet me here at eight o'clock. Do not be late. I dislike waiting for men."
He wanted to tell her to take her riding habit and her horse and her damned orders and go to hell, but he didn't. He was looking at her mouth, clean now of the damned red paint. A beautiful mouth, truly. And she was still a mystery. Ryder couldn't resist a mystery.
He smiled at her as he reached out and lightly stroked his fingertips over her jaw. "An order for you. Do not paint your face. I don't like it. You will excuse me now, Miss Stanton-Greville."
He left her without a backward glance. He was whistling.
Sophie stared after him, unmoving, until he disappeared into the darkness. Her heart was pounding and she felt light-headed. She was terrified of him. She hadn't lied, he was like no man she'd ever known. She sank down on the bench and put her face in her hands. What was she going to do?
CHAPTER
3
RYDER SMILED AS he looked at the ormolu clock in the main salon of Kimberly Hall. It was now fully eight o'clock in the morning. She would be looking for him to arrive momentarily, yes, any minute now, and she would expect to see him riding up to the front of Camille Hall, just as Her Highness had bade him do.
Only he wouldn't be there.
When it was eight-thirty, he rose and stretched and went into the small breakfast room that opened onto a side garden. Both Emile and his father were there. Two house slaves were serving them, one of them Samuel's housekeeper, Mary, and she smiled at Ryder merrily, waving him to his seat as if he were her guest.
Ryder asked for fresh fruit and bread from the tall black man, James, who, like every black man, woman, and child on Jamaica, wore no shoes. It still disconcerted Ryder a bit. He downed the hot black coffee that tasted so rich here on Jamaica, saying nothing, for he was thinking about Sophia Stanton-Greville and trying to picture the look on her face now that she must realize he wasn't coming. He smiled as he chewed on the bread.
"I heard it said last night that you were riding this morning with Miss Stanton-Greville."
Ryder didn't look up at Samuel Grayson. He was afraid that if he did, he'd grin like a sinner, for Samuel sounded jealous. How many men were besotted with the damned girl
? And, how the devil did anyone know about the plans he and Miss Stanton-Greville had made? Rather, the supremely confident order she'd given him.
"I would say that the persons reporting the phenomenon were wrong, wouldn't you? I'm here, eating my breakfast. James, please tell Cora the fresh bread is quite good."
"It was her uncle who told me," Samuel said. "He asked me if you could be trusted. He loves his niece very much and he is very anxious that no man take advantage of her."
Emile choked on his coffee.
Ryder leaned over and smacked him on his back. "Are you all right?"
"I won't stand for this, Emile," his father said harshly. "You will not speak badly of her, do you understand me? You will not act the leering young man."