Sins and Scandals Collection: Whisper of Scandal / One Wicked Sin / Mistress by Midnight / Notorious / Desired / Forbidden. Nicola Cornick
leaning past him and brushing her breasts firmly against his arm in the process. It was a gesture that could have been entirely accidental-or not. She felt him stiffen, more so in some places than others, and smiled.
“Darling,” she said, straightening up and standing close enough so that their bodies were just touching, “is there anything that I can do to help you feel better?”
He was, she was delighted to discover, of extremely quick intellect. She really did not have to make her meaning any plainer.
His hands came up to grasp her upper arms and draw her in for a kiss that was not the hesitant, inexperienced embrace she might have expected but something altogether more knowing. She kissed him back eagerly, almost greedily, running her hands over his back and down over his buttocks, too, in those deliciously fitted pantaloons, pressing herself against his aroused cock, urging him closer. He met her demands with amusement and skill and she was just beginning to think she had fundamentally underestimated him, when he lifted her up and placed her on the table, tumbling her backward amidst the half-finished meringues and leftover fruit and moving their game into another league entirely. She felt strawberries squash against the back of her bodice and their rich, sweet scent stung the air.
“My gown!” She liked this dress too much to let some impetuous lover spoil it. But it was too late.
“You’re rich enough to buy another.” His voice was lazy. He completed the ruin of her clothes by tugging the bodice down to her waist so that her breasts were exposed. The material of the gown ripped, but before she could complain, she felt the cold, slippery caress of strawberries rubbing against her naked skin and then his mouth, licking, sucking, tasting her. She squirmed breathless and unbelieving beneath his ministrations, feeling the lust spiral tighter and tighter within her belly, trying not to cry out in disbelief and pleasure at the expert touch of his lips and hands. The door was open, she recalled hazily. Anyone might come in. The servants. They were always listening at keyholes, bearing tales. She had taken some risks in her time-indeed, to her it was part of the fun of the game-but this man was reckless to the point of madness. She had had no idea, no suspicion. Gregory knew of her little indiscretions, but he would divorce her if the scandal were too great. His pride would demand it. She simply had to put a stop to this. But oh, it was too sweet, too pleasurable to end.
His hand was beneath her skirts, on her thigh, and she ached to feel him within her. But then something touched her slick heat, something hard, smooth and broad, sliding inside her, icy cold encased in her warmth, the hilt of the frozen sword from the ice sculpture. The shock, the sheer illicit, erotic thrill of it made her half rise from the table with a gasp that was a mixture of astonishment, disbelief and wild excitement.
“You cannot do that—”
“I can.” He was easing her back down amongst the smashed meringues and scattered strawberries, leaning over to kiss her even as he threw up her petticoats, spread her wider and worked that wicked sword hilt inside her. He tasted of champagne and strawberries. She could feel the ice melting against her inner thighs, running in rivulets down her skin even as the heat inside her blazed to impossible levels. She arched upward and came in one huge, overwhelming roll of sensation, biting down on one of her embroidered napkins to prevent herself from screaming loud enough to wake the whole house.
When she came to her senses she realized that there was fruit in her hair and she was lying half-naked in a pool of melted ice. Dev was laughing down at her. In the half light he looked young and vital and very, very wicked. Lottie’s heart skipped a beat.
“You enjoyed that?”
“Oh, you.” Lottie was disconcerted to realize that she felt rather more for him than simple gratitude. She struggled to push aside some unfamiliar emotions and achieve her customary languor.
“Well, darling,” she murmured, “what a find you have proved to be!” She reached for him and was gratified to discover that he was very hard for her.
“Not here,” he said, scooping her up into his arms with an ease that was very seductive. “What do you say to a tryst in the gardens?”
“The summerhouse is nice at this time of year,” Lottie murmured as he strode toward the door leading out to the terrace. “Actually, I find that the summerhouse is nice at any time of year.”
ALEX GRANT SAT IN THE OFFICES of Churchward and Churchward, lawyers to the aristocratic and discerning, in High Holborn, and tried not to feel too impatient. This had most decidedly not been part of his plan. Since he was still kicking his heels in London waiting for his next commission from the Admiralty, he had decided to ignore all the tempting offers from the ton to grace their social events and to spend the day visiting a former colleague at the naval hospital at Greenwich. But when he had arisen that morning, his steward, Frazer, had told him glumly that not only were there no orders but there was an urgent letter from the lawyers-and true enough, when he opened Mr. Churchward’s missive that gentleman’s agitation had leaped from the page, summoning him immediately to a meeting in his chambers.
Now he was here, though, Mr. Churchward was remaining obstinately silent, for Lady Joanna Ware had not yet arrived and it would be quite improper, so Mr. Churchward said, for him to acquaint Lord Grant with the nature of the problem until her ladyship was present.
Alex drummed his fingers impatiently on the table beside him. His leg was aching today, the result no doubt of his exertions in Mrs. Cummings’s ballroom the previous night. It put him in an intolerant mood. There was no sound in Mr. Churchward’s office but for the rustle of papers, the muted rumble of traffic in the street below and the tick of the clock as it marked just how long Lady Joanna was keeping them waiting.
Alex had not intended to see Lady Joanna Ware again before he left London and the fact that he was now obliged to do so-or would be if she ever arrived-was sufficient to annoy him intensely. It was not, he assured himself, that he could not accept his congé. It was true that Lady Joanna had dismissed him the previous night in a manner that was fully as public and embarrassing as she had promised, but he was man enough to take that. She had given him fair warning, he had underestimated her and he had been bested. No, what troubled him was the matter of David Ware’s last words.
Alex had never questioned his late colleague’s integrity before and it disturbed him to find himself doing so now, particularly as he had no reason to doubt Ware’s embittered words about his wife. And yet. And yet Joanna Ware’s pale stricken face was before his eyes and remembering her expression made him feel as though he had been kicked squarely in the gut.
“You assume that I am the one who was in the wrong … I am sorry you believe that.”
He had felt her pain then. He had not wanted to; he had no desire to be moved by this woman or to feel any affinity for her and yet he had not been able to help himself.
It was easy to canonize a man after his death, especially a man like David Ware, who had already been hailed as a hero. Joanna must have been a very pretty adornment to Ware’s fame, burnishing his glory with her elegance and style. But then something must have happened; everything had gone wrong between them.
“You assume that I am the one who was in the wrong …”
Somewhere in the recesses of Alex’s body he felt a wayward pang of sympathy for Joanna Ware. And yet his doubts lingered. On his deathbed Ware had called his wife a deceitful, manipulative bitch, harsh words, bitterly spoken. There had to be a reason.
Impatiently Alex dismissed his thoughts. He was not at all sure why he was expending so much time in thinking about Joanna Ware. It was infuriating and completely unacceptable that he felt drawn to her in some odd way in direct contradiction to what they both wanted. Yet he could not shift the feeling. It persisted. It made him angry and uncomfortable. He also profoundly disliked being dragged into David Ware’s personal affairs. When he had delivered his late colleague’s letter to the lawyers, he had thought that was an end to the matter and yet here he was; against his will he had been drawn further into Ware’s business.
He itched to be gone.
There