It Takes Two to Tangle

Ten

Good God, she is lovely.

Frances’s face was but a few inches from his, her fingers cradling the bones of his jaw. The room was all her bright hazel eyes, the gentle arch of her brow, her warm dark hair, her creamy skin.

He’d seen Frances, talked to her many times in the past few weeks. He’d even been alone with her, touched her, a not-quite-proper clasp of fingers. But now… he’d really talked to her. They were truly alone. And he was finally seeing her, clever and desirable—and oh God, did he want to touch her some more.

She held his face in light fingertips, waiting for him to say or do something. Her breathing was shallow and quick.

Henry was not sure he was breathing at all.

Before his brain could voice a contrary opinion, he leaned forward and brushed her lips with his. Ah.

Soft as the feather of a quill, faint as the line drawing that guided the form of a painting. It was an art, the touch of mouth on mouth, and he was out of practice, but it did not matter. Her lips parted for his, and her hands pulled his face closer with the desperate truth of her own desire.

He slid his hand up her side, finding her shoulder, tickling her neck with the lightest brush of his thumb. Up it whisked, then down, and she shivered and made a little sound in the back of her throat. Mmmm. Her fingers slid over his face, sweet and tender, then ruffled through his hair, her nails lightly raking his scalp.

All sense vanished beneath the primal triumph of pleasing a woman. Somehow he would persuade her to want him, this clever and mysterious woman who sat aside, who noticed everything, who let him kiss her when he’d feared no one would want him again.

He should not use her—not to fill his roiling emptiness. But it was Frances, and she always knew what to do. Her mouth felt so good against his; the taste of her lips almost unbearably sweet and intoxicating. Not since he was a youth had he grown so drunk on kisses. He could have kissed her for hours, exploring her mouth, winning precious little moans from her.

The hands fisted in his hair let go suddenly, and she pulled away, breathing quickly, and stood. In the shaded light of the eagle chandelier, he could see the darkening of her cheeks, the flush on the exposed portion of her bosom. He wanted to follow that color beneath her clothing, see where it ended, trace her nipples with his tongue.

But no—she’d ended the kiss.

Thump. He let his head fall back against the wall. “I’m sorry. Just… give me a moment to compose myself.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Still standing, she began to wrestle with the heavy mass of her skirts. She gathered and bunched them until her legs were bare to the knee, then plumped down again on the sofa next to Henry. “When I’m working so hard to discompose myself?”

With her legs freed from the long, elegant prison of her skirt, she turned her body to face his, hooking her knee up onto the sofa and bumping his hip again. And as she watched him with those bright eyes, shadowed under the candlelight from that mocking bronze eagle, she slid her hands onto his legs.

Henry held himself perfectly still, certain he was forgetting something important.

Oh, right. Breathing. Blinking. And probably eventually he should say something.

His throat felt rusty and dry. He could feel every one of her fingertips on his skin, as though they had burned through his trousers. Combustible as he felt, he might have burned through them himself.

“I can see the edge of your garter,” he rasped. He couldn’t look away from the loop of ivory ribbon peeking beneath her ruched skirts.

“An incidental bonus,” Frances said. “The cursed skirts were in my way.” Her fingers began to wander, stroke, dance up his thighs. If Henry had not been sitting down, his knees would surely have unhinged.

“Well. Shall we continue?” he finally managed to say.

Frances clapped her hands over her mouth, but not soon enough to stifle a snort of laughter. “Indeed, yes, Mr. Middlebrook. That would please me above all things.”

Now it was his turn to groan. “Me as well.”

Grinning, she found his thigh again, slid her hands up a bit more.

He flinched. He couldn’t help it. He felt stung with disbelief, but this time… this time it was good. Amazing.

She froze when he flinched, and she started to lift her hands.

“Don’t,” he said. His voice sounded harsh. “Please,” he said more softly. “Please.” He sounded as if he was begging. He had no pride now, none at all.

She listened to him. She always listened. She leaned closer, just as he hoped, and she kissed him again as her fingertips clenched halfway up his thighs, clawing ten holes in his reserve.

She nipped at his lip, and he moaned. Her skin was as warm and soft as a peach under the summer sun, and he tasted her, sipping at her mouth, nibbling at her jawline until she sighed and pressed closer, her chest brushing his.

He wrapped an arm around her—his only arm, all he had—and tugged her closer, until she was almost sitting on his lap. He could not draw her any closer lest she notice his arousal. Kisses at a ball were nothing more than many people shared. They were a simple pleasure, as ephemeral as a breeze, soon forgotten.

But not to Henry. Not after three years gone and long years alone. If she knew how hungry he was, and how parched, she would be terrified by the force of his need. He was starving; he was dying of thirst, and she was a feast, and as crisp as cool water.

She had let him draw her close. She thought him strong. Oh, but she did not know how very weak he was now. He was so weak he could hardly keep his hand from stroking the length of her back, freeing her breasts from her stays. He wanted to taste them and touch them. He wanted to touch all of her.

He tightened his grip around her, crushing the fabric of her gown in his fist—wishing it gone and himself just a bit more controlled, or just a bit less.

Right now, less would be better.

“Henry,” she whispered, and her breath heated his mouth. Her tongue tapped his, a teasing dance.

They were entwined, her legs over his, his arm around her. Such closeness was a strange sensation, as fizzing and frantic as the first time he’d kissed a woman. Every movement was a question, every feeling a revelation: the delicate spring of her ribs, the slickness of silk over the yielding curve of her breasts. She gasped and worked herself closer to him when his hand grazed her tight nipple through her clothing. When his fingers brushed it again, she caught his eye and gave her own naughty smile.

“Don’t start what you don’t want to finish,” she murmured, and her hands found the fall of his snug trousers.

“Believe me, I want—” He choked as she slid her hand across his erection. Some sensible part of his mind said, Stop, anyone could come in.

Don’t stop, said his body. Never stop.

“—this,” he finished, hooking his forefinger under the edge of her bodice. Knuckle by knuckle, he worked it under the snug fabric, relishing the way her shoulders shuddered and the movements of her hands grew spasmodic. His questing fingertip stroked the velvety top of her breast and grazed the edge of her nipple.

She sucked in her breath, hard. “My damned stays are in the way.”

Henry laughed. “You like this?” He knew the answer, but he wanted her to say it.

“Of course I do, you tease. Shall I tease you in return?” She wriggled against his fingers. Her own hands spanned the bones of his narrow hips, again a flicker away from the fall of his trousers.

“If you wish.” His smile felt crooked, self-conscious; oh, how he hoped she would.

Her wicked hands danced upward, teasing him just as she’d promised. She stroked his chest, grazed his neck with her nails. Only his arms remained tactfully untouched.

Part of his mind was still drumbeating, This can’t be real, not now, not after Quatre Bras, as a more hopeful part gulped in the evidence of his eyes, the sweet citrusy scent of her, the electrical vibrancy of his skin, every fiber awake and alive. Popping like fireworks of Paris Green in this blue room.

Paris Green. Treacherous and bright, the shade of Caro’s eyes.

Thoughts flickered: the influential countess, the secret letters. The deliberate courtship that, right now, seemed to be nothing but a chore.

Quickly as that, the spell was broken. Henry’s fingers pulled free from Frances’s bodice with a faint shup against the rich fabric—a sound almost like the defeated pop of a cork being forced back into a wine bottle.

Swiftly, her hands lifted and wove together demurely in her lap. “What happened? Did you hear something?” she whispered.

“No.” Henry raked his hand through his hair, taming and flattening the wild peaks she’d made with her eager fingers. “No. I shouldn’t have done this.”

Frances’s proud posture sagged. “You shouldn’t have… what? Met me alone?”

“Yes, and—and touched you.” He stammered, hating his own uncertainty. None of the social rules he remembered had prepared him for this: seeking advice about courtship, then mauling the advisor.

Carefully, she pushed away to a respectable distance. Her face fell into shadow against the deep blue of the wall. “I touched you too,” she said in a bland voice. “Do you want me to apologize? Should I be ashamed of having kissed you?”

“I hope not,” Henry blurted. He pressed his hand to his temple. It was far too hot in here suddenly; he wished he could lie down on the plush-carpeted floor and wait for his shuddering limbs to return to normal.

“You hope I won’t apologize.”

“No,” he barked. “I hope you won’t feel ashamed. That’s not why I stopped.” He drew in a hesitant breath, focusing on the minute physical sensations of his body: the soft abrasion of starched linen around his neck, the tight embrace of snug-buttoned waistcoat around his torso. His clothing kept him from pulling in a deep, down-to-the-toes breath. It also reminded him where he was.

“I… liked… kissing you.” The words fell from his lips haltingly, as though it was the first time he’d translated such sensations into speech. “Very much.”

“Oh.” She bent forward, her long body folded up. Those tip-tilted hazel eyes wouldn’t meet his, but at least he could see her face again. “I suppose that’s something to be glad for.”

“Is it?” He let out a harsh laugh. “Where can it lead us? Nowhere. You deserve better than…” He gestured wildly with his left arm, not knowing if he meant himself or something clandestine or something that wasn’t completely wholehearted. Though it had felt awfully wholehearted for a few free, unfettered minutes, until he remembered the world outside.

“You have no idea what I deserve,” Frances said with a wry smile. “None at all.”

“We should go back,” he said in a voice thick with thwarted arousal, sorrow, pain. He swallowed it all, and it stayed within him, deep and hidden. Deep enough that he could muster a smile, a courteous bow, and a graceful offer of a hand.

She took his fingers in hers, and he ignored the quick squeeze of longing. The light of the chandelier glossed her eyes with gold, and he could not see their true color.

So. That was that. He tugged her to her feet and escorted her to the door.

When they opened it, they were hit by a tidal wave of sound and heat. Stomping feet and shrill laughter and sawing strings and the light of a thousand candles.

This was reality. The blue room was nothing but an illusion of peace.

He could hide from the world for a few minutes, but eventually he had to live in it, to conquer it. And so he would have to keep his guard always up, more than ever before—because now he knew he could not ask Frances to help him. He could not be trusted to take from her only what he ought to take.

And he still didn’t know what to do about Caro’s letters, which might never come again.

Damn and double damn. He was more alone now than ever.

So it had come to this: he would have to ask Jem for advice.