Seducing an Angel

That had been a little different, of course. She had not been his mistress then, employed to offer just this service. Paid in advance.

"Yes, thank you," he said. "I dined with Moreland and my sister and their other guests and then went to the theater with them."

And now to the house of his mistress. A complete gentleman's night out.

She was glad Alice's room was on the upper floor with Mary's and Belinda's. She had wanted Alice to take the room next to hers when they moved in, but there was too much noise from the street outside, Alice had protested, sensitive to it after ten years of living in the country.

The higher room was sure to be quieter.

Cassandra extinguished the candle outside her room and stepped inside.

He followed her in and shut the door. There was enough light. She had angled the side mirrors of the dressing table, as she had done last night, so that the light from the single candle was many times reflected.

"May I pour you some wine?" She crossed the room to the tray she had set on a table beside the bed. It had been an extravagance, the wine, but today she had been able to afford it.

"Thank you," he said.

She poured a glass for each of them and handed him one. He was standing not far inside the door. He had set his cloak over the back of a chair, his hat upon the seat. He was wearing black evening clothes with an ivory embroidered waistcoat, a white shirt with crisp collar points, and a neckcloth that had been knotted by an expert, though it was not ostentatious.

The Earl of Merton did not need ostentation. He had enough beauty and charisma of person to make further adornment quite u

She clinked her glass against his.

"To pleasure," she said, and smiled into his eyes.

"To /mutual/ pleasure," he agreed, and held her gaze as they both drank.

Even in the dim, flickering light of the candle his eyes were very blue.

He took her glass from her hand and carried it, with his own, to set back on the tray. Then he turned and opened his hands, palms out, toward her.

"Come," he said.

He was standing right beside the bed. She half expected that he would tumble her to it without further ado and proceed to business. Instead, he set both arms loosely about her waist.

"And how was /your/ evening?" he asked her.

"I sat in the drawing room watching Alice stitching at some mending," she said, "and did absolutely nothing myself. I was shamefully lazy."

She had been horribly agitated, actually, though she had tried not to show it – or even admit it to herself.

Until last night she had only ever lain with Nigel. And that, God help her, had had the sanctity of marriage. It had not felt sinful.

Did this, then? They were consenting adults. They were harming no one by being together.

"Sometimes," he said, "laziness is a thoroughly enjoyable luxury."

"Yes, it is." She set her hands on either side of his slim waist. They were instantly warmed by his body heat.

He closed his arms about her, bringing her against him from bosom to knees, and kissed her.

It was somehow unexpected. And it was strangely alarming. She had expected to control this encounter as she had last night's. She had pla

But he was kissing her.

The alarming, unexpected thing was that it was neither a passionate nor a lascivious kiss. It was warm and comfortable and… Tender?

It was a kiss that tore at her defenses.

He kissed her lightly with parted lips, moving them over hers in unhurried exploration before touching them with the tip of his tongue and then moving on to kiss her closed eyelids, her temples, the soft, sensitive flesh beneath one earlobe, her throat.

And that throat felt suddenly raw within, as though with unshed tears.

Why?

She had expected passion. She had /wanted/ passion. Passion could be held at a purely physical level. She had intended this to be only physical. She had wanted /sex/ and nothing else. And that word was becoming easier to verbalize in her mind.

She had wanted /raw sex/.

Something mindless and carnal.

She had wanted to feel herself earning every pe

Her hands, she realized, were spread over his upper back, un-moving. She was being kissed. She was not kissing. She was receiving, not giving.

She was earning nothing.

He lifted his head a few inches from her own. He was not smiling, and yet something lurked in his eyes that seemed like a smile. She was leaning into him, she realized, all warm and relaxed, almost languorous.

"Cass," he said softly.

No one had ever called her that before.

"Yes," she said, a mere breath of sound.

And she realized at the same moment that it was not languor she felt at all, but… desire.

How could it be /desire/? He had done nothing to arouse it in her.

Had he?

"I want you," he said. "Not just your woman's body but the person inside it as well. Tell me you want me too." … /but the person inside it/…

She almost hated him. How could she fight /this/?

She did her best. She half closed her eyes and lowered the tone of her voice.

"But of course I want you," she said. "What woman could resist someone in whom man and angel collide in such erotic splendor?"

She smiled carefully at him.

But just when he ought to have resumed the kisses, passionate or not, he chose to look at her, his eyes searching her face.

She ought to have extinguished the candle.

"I am not here to hurt you," he said softly. "I am here to – "

"Love me?" She cocked one eyebrow.

By what rules did this man play the game of dalliance and seduction?

"Yes," he said. "In a ma

He did not know the /first thing/ about love.

But did she? … /you, who are in some sort of relationship with me/…

She drooped her eyelids over her eyes again and smiled.

"Take it off," he said. "Please."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Your mask," he said. "You do not need it here with me. I promise you."

She had the sudden feeling, the sudden fear, that she needed it with him more than with anyone else. He was a relentless ripper of masks, of carefully woven defenses.

He kissed her again, more deeply this time. His tongue traced the outline of her lips and then pressed into her mouth as he untied her hair ribbon and dropped it to the floor. Then his arms held her close, and after a minute or so he turned her and lowered her to the bed after pulling loose the tie that held her robe closed at the neck, and letting the garment slither to the floor.

He did not follow her down. He undressed beside the bed, dropping first his coat and then his waistcoat and shirt to the floor to join her robe and ribbon. He reached for the buttons at his waist and stepped out of his breeches and stockings and drawers. He took his time about it and made no attempt to turn away from her steadily watching eyes.

Dear God, he was beautiful. With most people clothes were a blessing in that they hid a multitude of imperfections. His clothes hid only perfection – well-muscled arms and shoulders and chest, which was lightly dusted with golden hair; a slender waist and hips; tight buttocks; long, tautly muscled legs.

Ancient Greek sculptors had doubtless idealized their models when sculpting the gods. They could have used the Earl of Merton just as he was.

He was as much god as angel.

He was blue and golden, like a summer sky – blue eyes, golden hair. All light. Blinding light.