The blue rosette at her bosom rose and fell as she sang, and her elbow slid across his waistcoat as she reached up and down the keyboard. Light blue silk flowed across her lap—no more drab gray for Beth Ackerley. Isabella must have taken her in hand.
One curl fell across her cheek as she sang. He watched it bounce against her skin, watched her mouth pronouncing the lively words. He wanted to take the curl between his lips and pull it straight.
At last the tune lilted upward with her voice: “I am the very model of a modern major-general.” A few tinkling chords, and that was the end.
Beth smiled at him, out of breath. “I haven’t practiced in a while. I have no excuse now, since Isabella has this excellent piano.”
Ian laid his fingers on the keys where Beth’s had been.
“Is the song supposed to make sense?”
“Do you mean to say you’ve never seen The Pirates of Penzance? Mrs. Barrington dragged me to it four times. She’d sing along with the entire performance, to the dismay of the audience around us.”
Ian went to the theatre or opera when Mac or Hart or Cameron took him along, and he didn’t much care what he saw there. The thought of taking Beth to this show and having her explain it appealed to him.
He recalled the notes exactly as she’d played them, and they came tripping out of his fingers. He sang the words, not caring about meaning.
Beth smiled as he performed his trick, and then she joined in. “With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse . . .”
They ran through it, Beth singing in his ear. He wanted to turn and kiss her, but he couldn’t stop in the middle of a piece. He had to play it to the end.
He finished with a flourish.
“That was—“ Ian cut off her praise by cupping the nape of her neck and taking her mouth in a hard kiss. Beth tasted brandy, felt the burn of his whiskers. He laced his fingers through the hair at the base of her neck, fingertips finding sensitive skin.
He kissed her like a lover, as if she were his courtesan. She imagined glittering, overly sensual ladies melting like ice on a hot sidewalk when Ian touched them. He feathered kisses onto Beth’s cheekbones. His breath was hot, and she felt her body loosening, flowing like water.
“I shouldn’t let you do this,” she whispered.
“Why not?”
“Because I think you could break my heart.” He traced his ringer around her lips, outlining the cleft of the top lip and the roundness of the lower. His gaze remained on her lips as his large hand moved to her thigh. “Are you wet?” Ian whispered, teeth on her earlobe.
“Yes.” She tried to swallow. “If you must know, I am quite, quite damp.”
“Good.” His hot tongue circled the shell of her ear. “You understand such things. Why you need to be wet.” “My husband explained on our wedding night. He thought that ignorance on the woman’s part was the cause of much unnecessary pain.”
“An unusual vicar.”
“Oh, Thomas was quite the radical. A thorn in the side of his bishop, with all his modern views.”
“I would like to explain even more,” Ian whispered.
“Someplace more private than here.”
“That’s a mercy.” Beth laughed a little. “It is fortunate I am not a delicate, shielded lady. If I were, I’d be on the ground in a state of unconsciousness, with Isabella’s servants trying to fan me.”
His eyes flickered. “Does what I say anger you?” “No, but never speak like that in a drawing room full of ladies and fine china, I implore you. There would be quite a mess.”
He nuzzled her hair. “I’ve never been with a lady before. I don’t know the rules.”
“Fortunately, I’m an unusual sort of woman. Mrs. Barrington did her best to change that, but she never succeeded, bless her.”
“Why should she want to change you?”
Beth warmed. “My lord, I do believe you are the most flattering man of my acquaintance.”
Ian paused, his expression unreadable. “I state truths. You are perfect as you are. I want to see you bare, and I wish to kiss your cunny.”
The heat there flared. “And as always, I don’t know whether to run away from you or stay and bask in your attention.”
“I know how to answer that.” He snaked his strong fingers around her wrist. “Stay.” His hand was heavy and warm, and he traced a circle on the inside of her arm. “I must confess that your plain speaking is refreshing after the acrobatics I must perform to keep up with Isabella’s friends.”
“Tell Isabella’s gentlemen friends to keep far from you. I don’t want them touching you.”
His fingers clamped down, and she glanced pointedly at his large hand still wedged into her skirts. “Only you can touch me?”
He nodded, brows together. “Yes.”
“I don’t think I mind that,” she said softly.
“Good.”
He moved her deftly onto his lap, her bustle not letting her sit quite against him. Disappointing things, bustles. The blue rosette at her bosom crushed against Ian’s waistcoat, and he cupped his hand around her bottom. She didn’t argue, didn’t gasp at him for taking a liberty. She wanted to take even more of a liberty with him. She wanted to undo the buttons of his trousers and put her hand inside. She wanted to work through layers of cloth until she could stroke his swollen organ, to feel it against her hand. Never mind that they sat in Isabella’s front drawing room; never mind that the curtains were wide open to the busy Paris street.
“I am a wicked, wicked woman,” she murmured. “Kiss me again.”
Without a word he swiftly slanted his lips over hers. His tongue stabbed inside her mouth, and he pressed his fingers to the corners of her lips, opening her wider. These weren’t the kisses of a man flirting. They were the kisses of a man who wanted to lie with her, damn the timing and damn the circumstances. Every part of her that touched him throbbed.
“We should stop,” she whispered.
“Why?”
Beth couldn’t think of a reason. I am a widowed lady, well past the age of innocence. Why should I not kiss a handsome man in a drawing room? A little carnality won’t hurt me.
She snaked her wanton hand between his thighs, finding the hard ridge behind his trousers.
“Mmm.” One corner of his mouth turned up. “Do you want to touch it?”
Yes, please, said the wicked lady. “I can hear the china breaking now.”