The Magic of His Touch (May Day Mischief) Page 4

  She wanted to touch him. His large masculine presence in such close proximity made her fingers tingle and itch. His warm, resonant voice sent tremors through her, and somehow those tremors slithered hotly downward to settle in her private parts. She ached and throbbed and squirmed on her chair. It was all she could do to maintain the pretense of being a proper, well-bred woman. When he reached for the mustard at the same time as Peony picked up the salt cellar, she dropped it with a horrified hiss. What if his sleeve had brushed her bare arm? She would have died of heat on the spot.

  Something had gone terribly wrong with the morning’s ritual. This sort of reaction might be appropriate with a man one loved and who loved one in return—not that she’d ever imagined such a feverish sort of attraction.

  On the other hand, apart from the fact that Sir Alexis was the wrong man, it did feel rather good. No, extremely good.

  She set that unacceptable truth aside. At first, she’d thought the magic had failed her, but the explanation wasn’t that simple. It had certainly affected her. She was in danger of tumbling into love with Sir Alexis, which was not only traitorous but absurd. He was far too attractive to want a beanpole for a wife.

  Perhaps not, she thought wistfully. Perhaps some gentlemen liked tall women with flat figures. Couldn’t Sir Alexis be one of them?

  Dinner came to an end, and the ladies left the men to their port. Lucasta excused herself briefly, leaving Peony to suffer Aunt Edna’s raptures over Lord Elderwood’s looks and charm. She berated Peony for not trying harder to attract him but concluded bitterly, “Your case is clearly hopeless. You’d never attract a pimply nobody like the curate’s son, much less a catch like Lord Elderwood.”

  Nor a wonderful man like Sir Alexis. She’d been a fool to even think it possible. In numb silence, she sorted embroidery silks and made her plans. In her ignorance, she must have performed the ritual the wrong way. It was too late to try it again. Instead, she must undo what she’d done.

  Rather like walking around a church widdershins, she would simply do things in an opposite sort of way. Instead of dawn, she should have performed her counter-ritual at dusk, but it was too late for that. Instead, she would choose darkness as the opposite of light. Instead of rolling naked, she would remain clothed—what a relief.

  Some tiny, disappointed part of her whispered that nakedness was much more exciting. She shook the whisper away. She wasn’t doing this for excitement. She was trying to correct an error. When at last they’d had tea and gone to bed and the house was quiet, she dressed in the same old gown and crept out the side door once again.

  Nighttime was unexpectedly noisy and much more unpleasant than morning. She far preferred friendly birds and imminent light to this dense darkness filled with skittering feet and unseen wings. She set her nervousness aside and thought of additional ways of counteracting the magic. Instead of lying with her head facing the center of the meadow and her feet toward the perimeter, she would turn the other way. Instead of hoping with her heart, she would resolve with her mind.

  Something erupted from a thicket with a screech. Peony clapped her hands over her mouth, muffling a whimper. Twigs crackled beside her, behind her, everywhere. She whirled, stumbling, and caught herself with a gasp.

  No one was there. How could she resolve anything with her mind if she let it play tricks on her? She had fallen asleep once in the Haunted Bedchamber and woken after dark—something grown men were afraid to do. There was nothing to fear out here, either. She strode fiercely forward until she reached the meadow.

  It stretched ahead of her, encircled by ancient trees and blossoming may, bathed in moonlight and alive with magic. She gathered her thoughts and concentrated on what she must do. Banish hope and longing; replace them with reason and self-control. Banish unacceptable desire and replace it with—

  From somewhere nearby came a soft laugh.

  She squeaked. A hand clapped over her mouth and a strong arm pulled her backward. She thrashed.

  “Stop struggling, Miss Whistleby,” said a sharp male voice in her ear. “It’s I, Alexis Court.”

  She slumped in his arms, her heart threatening to burst from her chest. Slowly, he released her, setting her gently on her feet.

  She whirled and punched him soundly on the shoulder.

  He caught her hand before she could do it again. “Shh,” he whispered. “We’re not alone.”

  “I know that. I’m not deaf,” she hissed, trying to free her hand, to no avail. “Let me go!”

  “Not on your life.” He pulled her close and clamped his arms around her. “Hush.”

  That laugh drifted up again, a man’s laugh, not far away. Peony remained absolutely still, staring over Sir Alexis’s shoulder, only her splayed hands separating her from his chest.

  Who would be out here at this time of night? Everyone should be in bed by now.

  Meanwhile, Sir Alexis was ruining everything again. She wriggled in his grip, trying to push away, and he loosened slightly, only to tighten his arms again, one hand firm on her waist, the other around her back. Her nipples sprang to aching attention as they brushed his chest.

  Desire crashed over her. A shudder coursed from her breasts to her belly to her privates, and now her heart’s pounding had nothing to do with fear. Her fingers crept up his chest of their own accord. It was all she could do to stop them from making their way up his shoulders and around his neck.

  His heart beat powerfully beneath her fingers. His hot hands shifted on her back, one squeezing her waist, the other moving downward. His breathing quickened.

  So did hers, and she found herself moving against him, the tingling in her breasts becoming an ache, golden fingers of desire moving and spreading and shimmering...

  A muffled curse brought her to her senses. She froze. Whispers, faint and unintelligible, floated through the darkness. That curse had surely been feminine. The whispers slowly faded away.

  She turned her head slightly. “Do you hear them anymore?” Their lips were mere inches apart.

  “No,” he said, so close his hot breath made her tremble.

  “Thank heavens.” Her heart beat wildly. Her lips yearned for his.

  “Oh, God,” he said, and kissed her.

  * * *

  She gave a little moan and let him, opening her mouth shyly beneath his, leaning into him. She put her arms around his neck and clung.

  And then broke the kiss and shoved away, kicking and clawing like a barnyard cat. He let her go.

  “You mustn’t!” she said, her voice catching on a sob.

  “I beg your pardon. You’re a lovely, tempting lady. I couldn’t resist.”

  “What complete nonsense.” She dashed her hands at her eyes. Dear God, he’d made her cry. Then he remembered something Lucasta had said—everyone thought Peony unattractive.

  “It’s not nonsense,” he said. “I find you very beautiful.”

  For a long moment, there was silence but for the sounds of the night. “That’s most kind of you,” she said in a tight, unhappy voice, “but will you please go away and leave me alone?”

  Not again. “No, I will not leave you. Your lover, if he has the courage, will have to deal with me.”

  * * *

  “I have no lover!” Peony moaned. Why wouldn’t he believe her?

  “Miss Whistleby, you deserve better,” he said for the third time since they’d met. “I cannot leave you alone out here.” His voice, so protective and kin
d, made her want to cast herself into his arms again.

  No, that wasn’t the effect of his voice. It was the result of faulty magic, just as the kiss had been. Oh, no, he’d been affected by the spell, too! There was no other explanation. Once she reversed it, she wouldn’t like him more than any other man, and he wouldn’t think her beautiful anymore.

  That made her want to weep, but she firmed her resolve. “You must leave me.”

  He crossed his arms and didn’t budge. “That would be monstrous of me and utterly unbefitting the conduct of a gentleman.”

  “Kissing me when you are betrothed to another is conduct unbefitting a gentleman,” she said hotly, and immediately regretted her outburst. She at least knew she was under the effect of magic, but he didn’t. “I’m not blaming you. You couldn’t help yourself, but—”

  “Of course I could have, and I apologize.”

  There was no point arguing; he wouldn’t understand. “There is something I must do out here, right now, and I—and I would rather you weren’t present.”

  “Why? Does it involve disrobing?”

  A blush soared up her cheeks. Thankful for the darkness, she said, “No,” but she couldn’t keep the regret from her voice or the images from her mind...of taking off her clothing in front of Sir Alexis, and...of him removing his clothes, as well.

  His voice was a caress. “Then why does it matter whether I’m here?”

  She recalled herself to sanity with a huge shudder. She took a deep breath and let it out. And another. She didn’t want him there, and yet when she imagined him leaving, imagined being all alone again in the night, she couldn’t help but be glad of his presence.

  Maybe it was all for the best. She would be safe, and he would forget the nonsense about her being beautiful and think of her as nothing but a superstitious fool.

  “I’m here to undo some magic,” she said.

  * * *

  He couldn’t bring himself to be unkind about it. Whether or not magic was real didn’t matter as much as how it affected Peony. “What sort of magic?”

  “To counteract what you saw me doing this morning,” she said, a tiny tremor in her voice. She was embarrassed, he thought, and more than a little aroused at the memory. As was he.

  “You were practicing magic this morning?” Naked magic, he was tempted to add, but he stopped himself.

  “I don’t practice magic,” she said. “I wouldn’t know how. Often, I don’t even know what’s real and what isn’t. I was just trying out a—a custom, and I’ve realized that I did something terribly wrong, so now I’m going to try to undo it.”

  “What sort of custom?” Damn, did that sound a little derisive?

  “A folk custom, like wishing upon a star or keeping a rabbit’s foot for luck.”

  “And this custom involves nakedness?” he asked before he could stop himself.

  “Yes,” she retorted, “which means undoing it involves being clothed. If you will simply stay here and keep watch, I shall go into the meadow and take care of it.”

  “Take care of what? What are you undoing?”

  “Does it matter? You wouldn’t believe in it anyway.” She marched away into the meadow.

  He kept watch with a tenderness of a sort he’d never felt before, never would have believed himself capable of feeling. What determination in her slender figure! Such passion in every roll! Such indefatigable insistence...on a mission which made no sense at all.

  After a while she stopped rolling and lay still. Her chest rose and fell in the moonlight. God, how he wanted this woman.

  She turned onto her side, curled up and... Dear God, she was shaking. Was she weeping?

  He strode into the meadow and knelt beside her, laying a gentle hand on her arm. “My dear Miss Whistleby—”

  She shook her head, shivering, then hiccupped on a sob. “It didn’t work, and now I don’t know what to do.”

  He sighed long and slowly. He removed his coat, spread it on the ground and stretched himself beside her. He lifted her off the cold, damp meadow and into his arms. “Don’t cry. Everything will be all right, I promise you.”

  She shuddered and shook her head. “I’m not crying.”

  He kissed her hair. “I don’t know what you were trying to undo, but from my point of view, everything is perfect. I’m lying in a moonlit meadow with the most beautiful girl in the world.”

  * * *

  She couldn’t bear it. “Please don’t say such things. Please don’t. It’s not right. It’s not real.”

  “Of course it is.” He dropped a soft kiss on her brow. It felt so kind and sweet and wonderful, and anguish roiled through her, because this love didn’t belong to her.

  The next kiss, at the corner of her eye, took her by surprise. A long quiver echoed down her spine. “Blue eyes, cornflower blue,” he said. “Since I can’t see their color in the dark, it proves I noticed them earlier. And fine long flaxen hair.”

  He slipped the ribbon off the tangled mess of her hair and ran one large warm hand into it. Meanwhile his lips meandered to her ear, her jaw, her throat. She’d failed miserably at reversing the magic, but it didn’t seem to matter so much when his lips pleasured her this way. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, swept away by the joy of his kisses. Her mouth fell open of its own accord, wanting his...

  “And soft pink lips, begging to be kissed.” His lips wandered slowly upward, then lingered at the corner of her mouth, so hot and enticing, so close and yet so far.

  Kiss me, then! She couldn’t wait. She turned her head and took his mouth.

  He chuckled low in his throat, and then they were wrapped in one another’s arms, kissing and kissing. She stretched against him, every inch of her pressed to his long, hard chest and thighs. They fit together perfectly.

  Her breasts tingled with awareness, demanding his attention. He seemed to know, for one hand moved to cup her breast through the fabric of her gown. Gently, his thumb rubbed her nipple, and it responded eagerly, hardening under his touch. He eased the fabric down, and cool night air swirled over her bare skin.

  “Such sweet, perfect breasts,” he said, taking her into the heat of his mouth, teasing with his tongue, suckling gently, moving to lave the other breast, as well.

  She knew they weren’t perfect—nothing about her was perfect—but in the face of such adoration she shut away the truth and arched toward him, bathed in the pleasure wrought by his hands and his tongue.

  Oh, his hands. They slipped under her skirt, sliding between her thighs, and an urge she’d never imagined told her to spread her legs, to open to him, to wrap herself around him, to become his entirely and...

  No! She jerked away, closing her legs tight together, ashamed and horrified at the wild throbbing. “Why am I doing this? Why are you? You’re Lucasta’s betrothed.” She rose to her knees, aghast at herself and at him.

  He lay back on his coat and smiled up at her. “No, I’m not.”

  Halfway to her feet, she stopped. “What do you mean, you’re not?”

  “It’s not a real engagement,” he said. “Just an arrangement between us until she’s twenty-five and comes into her inheritance. After that, we’ll go our separate ways.”

  “Oh.” Suddenly, much of what had bothered her about Lucasta made sense—the lengthy engagement and postponements, the lack of interest in spending time with her fiancé when in London, the un-lover-like air about them when he’d arrived and at dinner. “Why
?”

  “We both wanted to escape the pressure to marry,” he said, taking hold of one of Peony’s hands and then the other. He caressed the delicate area between fingers and thumb, sending tiny tremors to her core. “My mother was determined that I should wed and kept parading the latest eligible women in front of me. Lucasta wished to remain single and pursue her scholarly interests, but her uncle wanted her married and off his hands.”

  Peony understood only too well, except she was one of the women being paraded and constantly told what to do. Often she’d wished for even a little independence, a little right to order her own life. “Once Lucasta has control of her money, she’ll have the freedom to do as she pleases.”

  “That’s right.” He pulled her down to him again. “Feel how much I want you.” He didn’t wait for her to scramble awkwardly atop him, but lifted her by the buttocks and lowered her.

  Peony gasped, surprised by the firm length of his member beneath her. She’d seen dogs, of course, and horses, but she’d never really thought about the size of a man... He took her by the hips and ground himself against her, and she moaned, a drawn-out, wanton sound.

  He chuckled again, the low sensuality of his laugh resonating within her, playing her. He kissed her again, longer, deeper, while his member pressed hard against her, and want and need and desire built and built within her. He cupped her buttocks and squeezed them, then slipped between her thighs to the hot wetness of her core. “My beautiful Peony,” he breathed, “my lovely flower,” and his fingers made her whimper and squirm, helpless against the onslaught of pleasure.

  He rolled her over beneath him, moving lower to nuzzle and lick her breasts. She writhed under him, wanting more and more...and got it, for he had freed his member from his breeches, and its firm heat pressed against her, pushed gently, insistently at her core, played up and down her privates and pushed again, and then he was inside her.