Seducing an Angel

To his relief, they encountered no one inside her house. One candle had been left burning in a wall sconce in the downstairs hall, and one on the upstairs landing. In the dimness of the light they shed, he could see that the house was respectable, if somewhat shabby. He guessed that she was renting it, and that it had come furnished.

She led him inside a square bedchamber at the top of the stairs and lit a single candle on the heavy dressing table. She angled the side mirrors so that suddenly it seemed as though there were many lights.

He shut the door.

There was a large chest of drawers in the room beside a door leading, presumably, into a dressing room. There were small tables on either side of the bed, each with three drawers. The bed itself was large, with heavy spiraling bedposts and an ornate canopy covered with a faded dark blue fabric that matched the bedcover.

It was neither an elegant nor a pretty room.

But it smelled of her, of that subtle floral scent she wore. And the candlelight was soft and flickering. It was an /enticing/ room.

He wanted her.

Ah, yes, he wanted her very badly indeed. And he could find no rational fault with what was about to happen here. He was unmarried and unattached. She was a widow and was more than willing – indeed, she was the one who had initiated all of this. They would be harming no one by becoming lovers tonight – and perhaps remaining lovers through the rest of the Season. They would simply be giving pleasure to each other and to themselves.

There was nothing wrong with pleasure. There was everything /right/ with it.

And there were no expectations on either side, no sensibilities to be hurt. She had been quite firm about the fact that she was not in search of a husband and never would be. He believed her. He was not in search of a wife. Not yet, anyway, and probably not for another five or six years.

But he felt uneasy.

Was it because of the rumors circulating about her? /Had/ she killed her husband?

Was he about to sleep with a murderer?

Was he afraid of her? /Ought/ he to be?

He was not afraid.

Only uneasy.

He did not know her. But that was no cause for unease. He had not known any of the women with whom he had had sexual relations over the years.

He had always treated them with courtesy and consideration and generosity, but he had never known any of them or wanted to.

Did he want to know Lady Paget, then?

She was standing beside the dressing table, looking at him in the candlelight, that strange smile on her face that seemed both inviting and scornful. He had been standing overlong close to the door, he realized, probably looking like a frightened schoolboy about to bolt for freedom.

He moved toward her and did not stop until he had his hands on either side of her surprisingly small waist and lowered his head to set his lips against the pulse at the base of her throat.

She was warm and soft and fragrant. And her body molded itself to his, her generous breasts pressed to his chest, her hips moving slightly to fit more comfortably against him, her thighs warm against his own. He could feel the blood pounding through his body, hammering in his ears, tightening his groin, and pulsing through his stiffening erection.

He lifted his head and kissed her lips, his own parted, his tongue seeking the warm, moist cavity of her mouth. She sucked it deep and pressed it against the roof of her mouth with her own tongue. Her hands slid up his back, beneath his coat and his waistcoat, and then down to spread over his buttocks while her hips moved suggestively and he stiffened further into arousal.

His own hands began the laborious task of opening the small buttons down the back of her gown. He lifted his head and stepped back when the task was completed to nudge the gown off her shoulders and down her arms and then down her body, taking her shift with it, exposing first her magnificent bosom, then her small waist and the alluring curve of her hips, and then her legs, which were long and shapely.

Her garments slithered down to form an emerald green and white heap at her feet, leaving her standing in white gloves and silk stockings and silver dancing slippers.

He could not take his eyes from her. There was something, he realized, even more alluring than nakedness, and this was it. He drew a deep, slow, steadying breath.

She stood looking back at him, her eyelids half drooped over her eyes, her arms at her sides until she extended one toward him and he slowly peeled back the glove and dropped it to the pile. She reached out the other hand and smiled that siren's smile.

When he was finished with the gloves, he went down on one knee before her and slid her stockings down her legs one at a time after first removing the garters. She set each foot in turn on his bent leg as he maneuvered stocking and slipper off the foot and tossed them behind him.

He kissed each instep, each ankle, the inside of each knee, and each warm i

She was quite as lovely as he had anticipated. More so. She was not a small woman in any way, but she was perfectly proportioned, beautifully formed. She was magnificent.

What had ever made him believe that he found youthful slenderness desirable?

He expected that she would now proceed to undress him. Instead, she lifted both bare arms and kept her eyes on his as she drew the pins from her hair. She did it slowly, leisurely, as though there were no rush to get to the bed, as though she were unaware of the bulge of his erection or the barely suppressed quickening of his breathing.

Though her smile indicated that she was very aware indeed.

And her heavy eyelids suggested that she anticipated the main feast with as much desire as he.

He watched as her hair began to come down, and then swallowed as it all cascaded about her face, over her shoulders, and down her back. One heavy lock fell across a breast, and then settled in the valley between.

It was heavy, shining hair of a vibrant red. It was her crowning glory.

For once that tired old clichГ© had real meaning.

He swallowed again.

"Let us go to bed," she said.

He caught hold of the edges of his coat, just below the lapels, but her hands came up to cover his.

"No," she said. "Only your shoes, Lord Merton."

Her hands left his and moved to the waist of his breeches. Her fingers worked deftly at the buttons while they gazed into each other's eyes.

The flap dropped open.

"Now," she said, moving her head forward and setting her lips softly to his as she spoke, "you are ready. Now we are both ready. Let's go to bed."

He thought for a moment that it was because she could not wait for him to undress. But he knew that was not it. He knew she was cleverer than he. His blood pounded, his desire was almost pain. And it had something to do with the fact that he was fully clothed in his ball finery while she was naked.

She led him toward the bed and threw back the covers before lying down on her back and raising her arms to him as he came down on top of her.

She wrapped her arms about him and moved her breasts and hips against him, murmuring to him with soft, unintelligible words as he settled between her thighs. One of her feet caressed his leg through his breeches and his stocking. With his hands and his mouth he explored her, caressing, teasing, kneading.

He felt her fingers free him from the fabric of his breeches and drawers and feather lightly over his erection. He drew a sharp breath.

She laughed softly and drew him toward the wet heat between her thighs.

But no. This was /not/ seduction. He was /not/ a virgin schoolboy to be played with by a practiced courtesan. He slid his arm beneath hers so that she had to release him, and set his hand where his erection had been a moment ago. He explored her with light, teasing fingers, rubbing, scratching lightly, pressing a little way inside, describing small circles as he did so. With his thumb he found and lightly massaged that small spot that had her drawing a ragged, audible breath.