CHAPTER SIXTEEN

MORDECAI FOUND HIMSELF caught between relief and dismay. His stomach made an odd seesawing motion, as if it lifted and fell at the same time. He opened his mouth—and closed it again as the door swung open.

Two serving-men entered the room and began clearing away the meal. Miss Wrotham’s utterance seemed to hang in the air. Let. Us. Have. An. Affair. Mordecai wondered that the servants didn’t feel the weight and magnitude of those words in the room, didn’t sense the consequences gathering like thunderclouds over the table.

He sat in silence while the serving-men removed the plates and cutlery, removed the dishes, removed the tablecloth, refilled their wineglasses. He was acutely aware of Miss Wrotham seated across from him—and he knew she was equally aware of him. Let us have an affair. His stomach seesawed again.

The servants finally left the room.

“We’ll be very careful,” Mordecai told her, once the door had closed. “No one will find out.”

Miss Wrotham lifted her chin in what he recognized as bravado. “I don’t care if anyone finds out.”

“I do,” Mordecai said.

Her chin lowered.

“My father ruined my mother—and I promise I will not do that to you.”

Her gaze was fixed on his face. “You said there are ways to avoid pregnancy.”

An image flashed into his mind: he and Eleanor Wrotham making love, her pale legs wrapped around his hips. The image was so vivid that for a split second Mordecai actually felt his cock sinking into her smooth, soft, wet heat. The muscles in his groin tightened painfully. So did the muscles in his throat. Mordecai shoved the image aside. “You won’t become pregnant.” His voice came out slightly rough.

“Will you use a . . . a sheath?”

“No.” He’d used one with Cécile until he’d learned to control his ejaculation, but not since. They were damned uncomfortable.

Miss Wrotham swallowed, and nodded, and glanced at the sofa, and Mordecai had a sudden flash of insight: it wasn’t pregnancy Miss Wrotham was afraid of at this moment; it was physical intimacy between them—specifically, him tumbling her on the sofa and hastily relieving her of her virginity.

Mordecai leaned back in his chair, settling into it, slouching. He reached for his wineglass and sipped. See? We’re in no hurry.

He thought Miss Wrotham’s shoulders relaxed fractionally.

Mordecai didn’t relax. Underneath the slouch, he was ridiculously tense. This wasn’t how he usually embarked on an affair. He eased into his liaisons. There’d be days of circling each other, days of flirtation and laughter and growing attraction, so that when the moment came, when they found themselves alone in a dark alcove or secluded bower, the first kiss was spontaneous and natural and something they both wanted.

But he knew that when he kissed Miss Wrotham tonight, it wouldn’t be spontaneous. It would be deliberate. Because while he most certainly wasn’t going to deflower her on the sofa, he was going to kiss her on it. He wanted her to leave this parlor hungry for more—specifically, hungry for him. His kisses. His body in her bed. And given time, his ring on her finger.

Mordecai sipped his wine and wondered how to progress from sitting across the table from each other to kissing on the sofa.

The answer was: Carefully.

“I’d like it if you would call me Mordecai,” he said.

Miss Wrotham moistened her lips, and nodded. She looked very like a duchess at this moment—and he had another flash of insight: when she was nervous, she retreated into haughtiness. “You may call me Nell.”

Nell. The name her sister called her. A name that wasn’t haughty at all. Giving him permission to use it seemed somehow terribly significant. An intimacy. Mordecai felt himself grow tenser. Don’t make a mull of this. He searched for a light, smooth, reassuring comment—something amusing perhaps—and came up blank. He, whose skill with women was legendary, could literally think of nothing to say.

For a moment he debated telling her that, saying I’m almost as nervous about this as you are—and then he decided it wouldn’t help matters. He and Miss Wrotham needed to get past this first kiss, and the best way to do that was to behave as if it was nothing to be nervous about. Just get it over with, he told himself. Everything will be easier afterwards.

“Why don’t we sit on the sofa?” he suggested.

Miss Wrotham stiffened slightly.

“Just sit,” Mordecai said, and then honesty compelled him to add: “And maybe kiss. But nothing more.”

“Kiss?”

“Lovers generally kiss,” Mordecai said mildly.

Miss Wrotham swallowed again, and cast a jerky glance at the sofa, and nodded.

Mordecai pushed back his chair and walked around the table to her, moving leisurely, trying to tell her with his movements that she had nothing to be afraid of.

Miss Wrotham became even more haughty. Her chin lifted slightly.

Mordecai tried not to loom over her, but was impossible not to loom when one was six foot five inches tall. He held out his hand and gave her a smile that he hoped was both friendly and reassuring.

Miss Wrotham stood.

Mordecai led her across the parlor to the sofa. It felt . . . weirdly familiar, as if he was escorting her out onto a dance floor, not towards a settee to be kissed—and then he remembered: he had held her hand like this once before.

“Remember the Moorecombs’ ball?” he said.

“Yes.”

It had been the only time he’d ever asked Eleanor Wrotham to dance.

“I called on your father the next day, asked his permission to address you.”

Her gaze flicked to him, and stayed there for a moment before lowering. She colored faintly. “He didn’t tell me.”

“No.” But Mordecai didn’t have it in himself be angry at Mr. Wrotham anymore, not when he and Eleanor Wrotham were standing in front of the sofa they were about to kiss on.

He was no longer nervous, not now that he was doing rather than thinking. It was easy to tie oneself in knots if one thought too much. Eleanor Wrotham was still nervous, though. Her face looked very pale and haughty beneath the chestnut wig.

“Relax,” Mordecai said. “I’m not going to do anything you won’t like.” And then he drew her down to sit on the sofa alongside him.

The sofa was a solid piece of furniture with sturdy lion-paw legs and a well-padded seat upholstered in green twill. It was wide enough for them both to sit on without touching.

“Let’s get rid of these,” Mordecai said, and reached out and gently removed the gold-rimmed spectacles that were perched on her nose. He folded them and tucked them in his breast pocket, alongside the marriage license.

Color rose in Miss Wrotham’s cheeks. She didn’t look haughty any longer; she looked like a woman about to be kissed for the first time, blushing, faintly flustered, too shy to look him in the eye.

“Did Roger never kiss you?”

Eleanor Wrotham’s blush deepened. “He kissed me on the cheek once.”

Mordecai repressed a snort. Lord, what a fool Roger is. He touched her cheek with a fingertip. “Here?”

“Yes,” she said, and blushed even more deeply.

Mordecai trailed his fingers lightly over her skin—smooth, warm, soft—along her cheekbone and down the line of her jaw. He rested his fingertips under her chin, ready to tilt her face to him. “But never here?” He brushed his thumb lightly over her lower lip, and felt her quiver.

“No,” she whispered.

“Has anyone else?”

Eleanor Wrotham stiffened. Her eyes lifted to meet his—navy blue and offended. “Of course not!”

Mordecai smiled at her. “I wouldn’t have minded.” But even though that was the truth, an atavistic part of him was rejoicing. He was the first. The first, last, and only man to kiss Eleanor Wrotham.

“Relax,” he told her again, and then he tilted her chin up and laid his lips on hers, softly, lightly, fleetingly.

Eleanor Wrotham became very still. He thought she might have stopped breathing for a moment.

Mordecai kissed her lightly again—and a third time—and then he licked her lower lip, the barest touch of his tongue, teasing her, tempting her.

She shivered.

Mordecai bit her lower lip very gently with his teeth.

Eleanor Wrotham shivered again, almost convulsively.

Mordecai whispered, “Open your mouth.”

Eleanor Wrotham hesitated, and then did as he bade, parting her lips slightly.

Mordecai nipped her lower lip again, licked where he’d bitten—and then let his tongue steal inside her mouth, not an invasion but a brief exploration, tasting her inner lip, feeling the smoothness of her teeth. He did it a second time, then drew back and looked at her.

Definitely not a duchess.

Eleanor Wrotham’s cheeks were flushed, her lower lip sweetly red where he’d nipped it.

“Kiss me back,” Mordecai said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Kiss me back.”

Shyness bloomed on her face. Her gaze dropped to the buttons on his waistcoat.

Mordecai laughed softly, and drew her closer, and whispered in her ear, “No one’s watching.”

For a moment she was stiff and shy in his arms, and he kissed her cheek—where Roger had once kissed her—and let his lips rest lightly alongside her mouth, and she turned her head and tried to kiss him. The kiss was clumsy and lopsided, mouths bumping awkwardly, and she drew back, flustered, blushing hotly, not meeting his eyes.

Mordecai gathered her closer. “Do it again,” he whispered.

“I didn’t do it right.”

“Of course not. You’ve never done it before.” He kissed her earlobe. “Did you dance the minuet correctly the first time you tried?”

She hesitated. “No. I had lessons.”

“Consider this the first of your lessons. Don’t worry if it starts out clumsy; we’ll find our own rhythm.” He pressed another kiss to her earlobe, took it in his teeth, bit lightly, and then kissed his way down her jaw to her mouth. “Try again,” he whispered against her lips.

She tried again, and there were a few clumsy seconds when their mouths didn’t fit, and then they did fit, as Mordecai had known they would. Because he and Eleanor Wrotham were meant for each other.

They kissed, their lips clinging together—and kissed—and kissed. His hand was on the nape of her neck, and she was leaning into him, no longer tense, but warm and pliant, and when her tongue fluttered shyly against his it felt right, as if every other kiss in his life had been a prelude to this one.

Slowly they learned each other’s mouths, slowly they found the perfect rhythm, and he’d never experienced a kiss like this before, so virginal, so sweetly eager, and he never would again, because the next time Eleanor Wrotham kissed him she wouldn’t be this shy. Mordecai wanted to hold on to this moment forever, wanted the kiss never to end . . .

They paused, catching their breaths. Eleanor Wrotham was blushing, trembling. I love you, Mordecai almost blurted. Instead, he gathered her in his arms and whispered, “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

She shook her head, not completely relaxed, but not tense either, not trying to free herself. Still a little shy, a little self-conscious.

“It gets easier each time. Just like dancing. The more one practices, the better one becomes.” He stroked the nape of her neck, and felt her shiver. “Shall we try again?”

Eleanor Wrotham hesitated, and nodded.

And so they did, and it was a little easier, the moment of awkwardness passing quickly, their mouths fitting together almost effortlessly. Eleanor Wrotham was less hesitant this time, more confident, daring to venture into his mouth, and Mordecai held her close, and simply existed in the moment, in the play of their tongues, the sweetness of her lips, the rising heat, the rhythm.

They kissed . . . and kissed . . . and kissed . . . and when Mordecai finally dragged his mouth from hers he was hot and panting and almost dizzy with arousal. He rested his cheek against her forehead and dragged air into his lungs. He wanted to go further, wanted to slide his hand beneath the hem of Eleanor Wrotham’s gown and find her centre de délices and show her what he could do with his fingers.

For a moment, Mordecai allowed himself to imagine what she’d feel like—hot and damp and eager. He imagined sinking a finger into her tight, yielding heat, imagined her smooth muscles clenching around him.

His cock gave a sudden lurch inside his drawers and his balls tightened painfully.

Mordecai drew back and examined Eleanor Wrotham’s face. Her eyelids were still haughty, but nothing else about her was. She looked as aroused as he was, and while it was possible that she might let him finger her to a climax—it was also possible that she would regret it afterwards. Too great an intimacy too soon.

Mordecai abandoned his fantasy. He wanted her to leave the parlor wanting more, not regretting what she’d done. “Let’s catch our breath,” he said. “Cool down a bit.”

They did just that, sitting on the sofa, his arm around her shoulders, the heat fading from their faces—and then Mordecai realized that he hadn’t locked the door.

His contentment evaporated abruptly. A servant could walk in at any moment.

Mordecai hurriedly stood, putting distance between them. “Time for bed.”

Eleanor Wrotham stiffened. A flicker of panic crossed her face.

“Not together,” Mordecai said hastily. “Absolutely not. Not yet.”

The panic faded. He saw her relief—and her embarrassment that she’d misinterpreted his words.

“Come along,” Mordecai said, holding out his hand to her. “Bessie will be wondering where you are.”

Eleanor Wrotham let him draw her to her feet.

“Here.” He fished the spectacles from his pocket and handed them to her.

She put them on, her fingers fumbling slightly.

Mordecai smiled down at her. “Goodnight, Nell.” He bent his head and lightly kissed her cheek.

“Goodnight, Mordecai,” she whispered, and fled the parlor, blushing.