Unlaced by Candlelight. Кэрол Мортимер
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‘my lady’ and ‘my lord’ are a more fitting address between two people of equal rank.” She had drawn herself up to her full height of just over five feet. “And I am here this evening because your grandmother invited me.”
Christian gave a derisive snort. “And are your invitations into Society so few and far between that you must needs accept this one?”
“On the contrary.” That golden gaze raked over him contemptuously. “Perhaps you have not heard, my lord, but I believe I am considered to be something of a matrimonial catch this Season, and as such in receipt of more invitations than I could ever hope to accept.”
His mouth twisted with disgust. “I had heard that your elderly husband left you a rich widow, yes. Which, no doubt, was your intention when you married a man so much older than yourself.”
Her eyes widened. “How dare you—”
“Oh, I believe, Sylvie, that you will find I dare much where you are concerned!” His eyes glittered dangerously. “A first lover’s privilege, shall we say?”
“No, we will not say!” All the color had now faded from her cheeks.
Christian gave a humorless smile. “What reason did you give your ancient husband when he discovered that there was no maidenhead for him to breach on your wedding night?”
It took every effort of will on Sylvie’s part not to flinch at the
unmistakable disdain in Christian Ambrose’s tone, and the hard censor of his moss-green gaze as it raked over her with slow contempt, from her blond curls down to her green-slippered feet, before shifting, deliberately lingering, on the firm swell of her breasts.
As if she were nothing more than a slab of meat on a butcher’s block that he was considering the merits of purchasing!
As if this man had no recollection of once upon a time slowly removing every article of clothing from her body—much more than once!—before making love to her as if she were the most delicate, precious thing upon this earth...
Once upon a time?
For Sylvie it was a different lifetime!
Certainly she was no longer that innocent young miss who had believed, in her naïveté, that Christian Ambrose, a gentleman six years her senior—in experience as well as years—returned the deep love she had felt for him. That trusting young girl had disappeared long, long ago, upon the realization that she had been nothing more than yet another female conquest to the rakish Christian Ambrose.
In her place was Sylviana Moorland, wealthy widow of Colonel Lord Gerald Moorland, a coolly composed woman of two and twenty, who felt as cynical toward love as the gentleman now standing before her gazing down at her so disdainfully.
Sylvie drew in a deep, controlling breath. “I—”
“I believe it would be best if we were to finish this conversation outside on the terrace,” Christian Ambrose grated harshly even as he grasped Sylvie’s arm and pulled her toward one of the sets of open French doors.
She resisted that painful hold upon her arm. “Unhand me at once, sir—” She broke off her protest abruptly as Christian turned to focus the full fierceness of his icy-cold moss-green eyes upon her, eyes that had once caused her to melt with passion but which she now knew only too well to be wary of. “People are staring at us...” she substituted lamely.
“Let them,” he grated unconcernedly as he continued to pull her effortlessly across the candlelit room, through the open doorway and out onto the dark seclusion of the terrace.
No sooner had they stepped outside into that shadowed darkness than Sylvie felt the steely strength of Christian’s arms as he pulled her hard against him, the lowering of his head blocking out the brightness of the moon overhead as his lips claimed hers.
Not a gentle or exploratory kiss, but that of an experienced lover, demanding she return that same heat of passion. An experienced lover who knew exactly how to kiss and caress the woman in his arms until she was weak with arousal...
Try as Sylvie might to resist that seduction, and her determination never to fall for this man’s rakish charms ever again, she found she had no defenses against the onslaught. Christian’s tongue parted her lips before plunging possessively inside, his hands moving in a restless caress down the length of her spine before cupping beneath her bottom to pull her in so tight against him Sylvie could feel the hard ridge of his arousal.
Betraying heat flooded between her thighs, her nipples aching beneath the bodice of her gown as Christian deliberately rubbed his chest rhythmically against them, eliciting a want, an unwanted hunger deep inside her—
Christian wrenched his mouth from hers to lower his lips to the swell of her breasts, his tongue rasping, lapping, across that sensitized flesh before he tugged down on the bodice of her gown. One of those swollen orbs spilled out of its confinement to allow him to place his lips about her nipple.
Arousing a heat that none of Sylvie’s late-night imaginings had even come close to replicating as she stroked the nubbin between her thighs, faster and harder until she reached a shuddering climax.
Sylvie felt that same climax rapidly building within her now as Christian continued to caress her nipple, harder, deeper, teeth biting, tongue laving as her back arched to press her breast deeper into that sensual delight.
She had no intention of ever falling in love with this man again, but that was no reason why she should not take the sexual gratification he now offered, in the same way he had once taken sexual gratification from her.
Sylvie parted her thighs and moved up on her toes so that she might rub herself against the hard ridge of Christian’s arousal, perfectly positioning that hardness against herself as she stroked herself against him in a rapidly increasing rhythm—
She gave a groan of protest as Christian wrenched his mouth away from her breast even as he grasped her shoulders to steady her before he stepped back and away from her, his eyes a hard and glittering green. “I do not in the least mind paying for a woman’s...services, but I prefer to know the price of those services before I bed her rather than be apprised of it afterward,” he drawled contemptuously as he straightened the lace at his cuffs.
“Price...?” she repeated sharply.
He gave a mocking inclination of his head. “I have no doubts that a man of Ampthill’s advanced years thought himself truly blessed when he took such a young beauty as his wife. I, however, am in no hurry to contemplate marriage,” Christian drawled contemptuously, at the same time feeling a moment’s regret as Sylvie set the front of her gown to rights. “Especially when I have already sampled your goods—”
He got no further in his insult as the palm of Sylvie’s left hand made loud and painful contact with his right cheek. “I will allow you that one small lapse,” he bit out harshly, a nerve now pulsing in that no doubt rapidly reddening cheek. “But be warned, Sylvie, that the next time I will retaliate in kind.”
“You are as much a bastard as you ever were, I see!” Her eyes flashed.
Christian raised mocking brows. “Because I gladly took what you offered four years ago?”
Her eyes glittered darkly. “Because you took what you wanted before departing to enjoy the licentiousness of London and then returning to your regiment with not a thought for what might become of me!”
Christian studied her flushed face between narrowed lids. “Unless I am mistaken, you became the Countess of Moorland.”
Her hands had clenched into fists at her sides, her breasts quickly rising and falling as she breathed deeply. “And you returned to your life of debauchery with not a thought to the fact that I was ruined. Used goods.”
“Not so ‘used’ you did not marry