The Slightest Provocation Page 4

  But she wasn’t really obliged to do anything, was she? Even with the laces undone, she could keep her hands at her waistline and hold the garment’s stiff canvas in front of her, as a sort of shield.

  Hands firmly planted, she turned to face him. Her voice (she hoped) would issue light and abstracted, as if attentive to other concerns.

  “Yes, well, my thanks for your assistance, Lord Christopher. Couldn’t have managed without it, but as I’m sure must be shockingly evident, I’ve had a most tiring day…”

  His face darkening, jaw tensing, eyes slowly comprehending.

  “… And so,” she continued, patiently now, as though to Mr. Frayne at his most irritatingly voluble, “as I won’t be needing you for anything else tonight…”

  He snarled. “That was…”

  You’ve got the advantage, she told herself. Have the courage to use it.

  She dropped her hands and let the length of boned canvas tumble to her feet.

  “… low!”

  “No, they’re not,” she informed him (and rather coolly too, she thought). “They-and I as well-have weathered the years quite admirably, thank you.”

  The hell of it, he thought, was that she was right. Her breasts bobbled high as ever on her torso. Admirably (yes, he rather thought so) and insolently too, the nipples still dark and erect, the firm roundness of her flesh entirely discernable through that utterly disreputable shift.

  Less girlish, a bit fuller than when he’d seen them last (hell, have I remembered her body so precisely, over the span of nine years, a large number of battles, and a larger number of women? Distressingly, it seemed that he had). But a little additional fullness was certainly nothing he’d take exception to.

  “That was mean, rotten, and unworthy of us both,” he said.

  At least, he thought, she had the decency to look a bit shamefaced. Still, “You were entirely too self-confident,” she said. “Cocky, one might even say.”

  “Yes,” he replied, “I expect I was. Whereas you weren’t quite so confident of yourself as you pretended to be.”

  For if she had been, she wouldn’t have been so quick with those last comments. Nor would she have hesitated-even for an almost indiscernible instant-to show herself.

  Elegantly proved, Kit. As well it might be, for he suspected (or hoped, at least) that he was still the British nation’s leading authority on Lady Christopher Stansell, née Mary Artemis Elizabeth Penley, at her willful, furious best.

  “You shouldn’t have doubted yourself,” he added. Because it was true. And because it seemed rather to confuse her to hear him say it. Well, then, he’d take his pleasure from her discomfiture-and simply from gazing at her.

  The years had added an inch or so of flesh to her waist. The corset had left some angry marks for him to kiss away… Or so he’d imagined himself doing, perhaps just about now, after reaching around her to get the petticoat off and lifting the shift above her head directly afterward. Finally able to bury his face in her belly, the additional inch of flesh entirely welcome under his mouth… unless, of course…

  “What are you smiling at?” she asked.

  “I wasn’t aware of smiling-a grimace, more like, produced by the ragin’ discomfort, don’t you know, that you’ve effected upon me. But I was wondering whether you wear those indecent, mannish new undergarments some ladies have taken up nowadays.”

  “Drawers?”

  “Please tell me you don’t.”

  The idea of having to worry about an additional cumbersome item of intimate linen struck her as surprisingly funny, while his relative good humor over her bad behavior struck her as simply surprising. Perhaps not so flattering as she would have liked. But likeable for all that, and a reminder that beneath all the anger and pride he’d once been a rather genial, and quite amusing, young man. She’d forgotten those aspects of his temperament. By the end of their time together his geniality hadn’t been much in evidence, his jokes long gone. The good humor and silly, outré quizzing he’d loved to do (drawers? for it seemed he could still catch her unawares)-all that, she’d believed, were gone forever.

  Drawers? She shook her head and gave him a level stare. “No, I don’t.”

  She supposed (later, upon reflection) that she’d put out a hand then, as a gesture of conciliation or even apology. From which it reasonably followed that he’d taken it in his own, their fingers interlacing.

  But as for how she had found herself so tightly and precipitously clasped against his front-in truth, she wouldn’t be able to render a complete account of it. Though she was pretty sure it wasn’t entirely his doing, now that his coat, waistcoat, shirt, and cravat were all pressed so importunately against her flesh, not to speak of his doeskin pantaloons, with all their buttons below.

  Disagreeable, him being so covered up: she should do something about it.

  In a moment. After she managed to gain control of the trembling that had started up somewhere between her belly and her knees, causing her to grasp and cling, not merely from the violence of her desire but from a commonsensical fear that her legs would give way. That she’d lose her balance if his mouth continued so warm, so eager and inquisitive, so apple-and-raisin sweet and so… well, so all over her lips and jaw and chin, leaving her no choice but to trust to the impressive new musculature in his limbs and shoulders.

  So be it. Let him hold her upright, even while he continued to kiss her so roughly and juicily and altogether adorably. His lips had slid down her neck. Leaning back into his arms, she arched her spine, loosed her hands from around his shoulders, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and unknotted his cravat. The happy result being that only his linen shirt and her threadbare shift lay between them now.

  A bit of a chafing sensation, actually. But she rather liked it. And more than liked the effect of his fingers touching and molding her nipples through it.

  He pinched her. She squeaked rather gracelessly, and he laughed and gave her a great, smacking kiss-and a smack on the rump for good measure.

  There’d been a time, years ago, when his hands had been too big for the rest of him. Tonight they were exactly the right size, and the one that wasn’t playing with her breast had curved itself around her bottom now, pressing her so firmly against his belly and thighs that she could have no doubt (even if she hadn’t caught a delicious glimpse) of how extravagantly eager he was for her. And even if their intertwined bodies’ lurching progress toward the bed was proceeding far, far too slowly.

  Not that she had any right to criticize, since the fact that they were moving at all was mostly his doing.

  Yes, darling, she told him silently, yes, I’ll help. In just a moment. As soon as I pull your shirt from where it’s tucked into the waistband-ah yes, lovely…

  Wait, she’d found a button, which by dint of much tugging, she’d succeeded in getting open… Oh, dear, actually she’d ripped it from the fabric and sent it skittering across the floor… At exactly the instant her calves collided smartly with the bed frame (which should have been painful but wasn’t), and just a second before she felt herself lifted up and bounced onto her back and bum and…

  How long had it been since she’d seen that particular smile of his? Amused and aroused, egotistical and overbearing…

  Delightful, the simple pleasures of a good firm bed beneath her and his warm breathing weight on top.

  And the satisfying certainty that all she really needed to do was lie still and smile back at him.

  “Oh yes, much better,” he told her. “Much better indeed.”

  He raised his weight onto his arms and dipped his head, licking her neck and throat and then nibbling her breast through the thin silk. Nettle cloth, the fabric was called-odd how certain words came unbidden at the most inopportune of moments. Was it actually made of nettle? It didn’t feel like it-it felt smooth and sweet. Everything was sweet; he was feasting on her as though she were apples and cream.

  She shouldn’t have been so surprised by the quick updraft of sensation that had grabb
ed hold of her…

  … swept her into a vortex…

  … and caused her to scream like that.

  Though she might have expected that, before she’d quite recovered her senses, he’d have contrived to lift her petticoat (all the while keeping his eyes upon her face) to enable her to rub her quim (no, no drawers, absolutely not!) against the bottom of his belly, to open herself and receive the quick entry of his cock, to moan and gasp, grasp and tighten her very wet and slippery self around him, and then (for he’d pushed her a few inches backward on the bed) to dig her heels into the mattress, so she could move in rapid, rough arcs, in rhythm with his thrusts.

  His thrusts or (one might say) his pummeling. If one were able to say anything at all, if one could stop howling and mewling, groaning and giggling-and acting so utterly delighted with this abrupt and utterly undignified…

  She hadn’t expected to lose herself again so soon.

  Expectations be damned. Pleasure was what mattered, losing and then finding herself once more, just in time for him to give way to his own excitement. He spilled himself outside of her (which was generous-not to say skillful) before collapsing so heavily that for a moment she thought he’d gone right to sleep.

  She rather wished he had.

  For now they finally would have to attempt a conversation.

  Chapter Four

  He was quite certainly awake; she could tell from how he was breathing. And how he was moving too-inch by sweet inch, just as she was, their intertwined bodies striving for a more harmonious alignment of limb and torso. She always loved this moment, the humor of it, the graceless intimate shifting about to make provision for the awkward extra arm that inevitably gets in the way of postcoital bliss. Until at last he’d gotten his body curved around hers, her head fitting (perfectly as ever) into the space below his clavicle.

  Her thoughts drifted back to Curzon Street.

  “ ’Ere you are, gov’nor,” the hackney driver would sing out, “and my compliments to your lady too.” She and Kit had been favorites among the town cabbies: running, laughing and half-unbuttoned, up their front steps, they’d fling large coins behind them, all breathless eagerness to finish what they’d started on the way home. Though they might have to wake the servants to let them in, for they frequented such raffish parts of town that they’d sometimes lose their keys and purses to pickpockets.

  Astonishing that the house had never been robbed. And that all they’d lost was each other.

  Perhaps if they hadn’t behaved so badly… she should be regretting it. But instead she felt herself almost drunk on unbearably sweet nostalgia. A sigh escaped her lips before she could bite it back. He dropped a kiss on her forehead.

  Had he guessed her thoughts? And could he also remember how much fun they’d had?

  “I want you again,” she said. “Soon. Before we begin remembering…”

  He stopped her lip with a fingertip, laughed, and took her hand. “No chance that I could forget how demanding you are.”

  Just as well to turn it into a joke. There’d be no suppressing the memories, but she supposed there was no reason to speak about the horrible parts.

  “Soon,” he agreed. “Give me just a few more minutes.”

  A few more minutes would be quite acceptable, even nicer, perhaps, than the times when he’d been ready for another go-round before she’d entirely caught her breath. And maybe by the time they’d quite finished with each other, they would be too tired for conversation.

  She snuggled against him while he kissed the inside of her wrist. And then her palm. Very softly, and oh, very nicely indeed, his lips and tongue insinuating themselves into hidden places where one wouldn’t have thought there were any.

  “And I’m not so demanding as all that,” she protested happily. “I’m perfectly content… Well, it’s perfectly nice…”

  She wasn’t quite sure what he’d contrived to do with his tongue just then. No, not his tongue-it was his teeth, and whatever he’d done had caused her to gasp and forget to finish her sentence.

  She only knew that she wanted to do something equally nice for him. To trace the sinews of his neck with her lips; sniff, snuffle, and lick at him; nibble at his ear.

  Of course, things would be nicer still if there were no obtruding buttons or wet and sticky layers of clothing interposed between their bodies. But on the whole, these were very minor inconveniences.

  She wriggled a bit and settled her other hand into the little arch at the small of his back. Good. Excellent, in truth. He breathed deeply and let out a ragged chuckle.

  “This wasn’t at all how I planned it, though,” he said. “I’d imagined us sipping our Calvados and exchanging compliments…”

  The bottle on the dressing table, next to her journal and portable writing desk. She’d utterly forgotten.

  As she slipped away to get it, she could hear him rearranging himself in bed. Backing up against the head-board, he’d propped his head against the bolster to watch her.

  “Well, I do have some news,” he said.

  “Hell.” She was fiddling with the cork.

  He laughed. “Bring it here. I’ll do it.”

  “It’s coming, just give me a moment.”

  He sighed comfortably. “I was going to tell you later, but maybe we could drink a toast to… to a possible new career for me. You see, I’ve got a letter recommending me…”

  Perhaps if she used the tail of her comb to wedge it out, or the little knife she used to trim her pens…

  But she’d missed a bit of what he was saying.

  “… a talent for organization and intelligence. You’d laugh to see how neatly I file my papers nowadays and how many details I have at my fingertips. An army needs to communicate-about supply routes, enemy movements, all of that-and it seems that I enjoy that sort of thing. And since I’m going to need something to do, now that there’s peace, and Wellington will be ending the occupation soon enough anyway…”

  He spoke quickly now, a little too carelessly. “Of course, there are still a great many details to attend to. I can’t leave immediately. And I’m a bit nervous about it, if truth be told… Letter of introduction to Lord Sidmouth.”

  She raised her eyes from the bottle.

  “Oh, I know,” he continued, “the Home Office doesn’t seem like much, shockingly small staff and what all. But there are important things to attend to. I don’t wish to alarm you, but there’s been rioting in England this last year. Anarchy. Insubordination. And now that there’s peace on the continent, order and, um, legitimacy restored, it seems to me that one ought to be bringing all that home, where it’s needed as well. For there’s been a serious report to Parliament, about certain dangers.”

  She’d put down the brandy bottle somewhere after Home Office, and had completely forgotten about prising out the cork when he’d gotten to order and legitimacy.

  For if he’d practiced for days-and perhaps he had, she thought sadly-he couldn’t have found a worse way of putting it to her.

  He didn’t wish to alarm her. Yes, she expected that’s what one would say to a lady who didn’t read the newspapers. An understandable error: she’d been a very giddy young thing during their time in London. How could he know that she’d had a few thoughts, developed a few opinions since last they’d seen each other?

  Perhaps if she spoke carefully, if she reasoned deliberately, if she simply tried hard enough, she could explain that it was hardly anarchy for a propertyless man to petition to vote. Or to claim the right to distribute literature, assemble with his fellows to discuss it.

  In any case, she had to say something. He was already manifestly disappointed by her silence.

  Slowly, reluctantly, she began, “But you must know that there’s been a terrible harvest. Famine in some places, unemployment, soldiers returning home without pay. Men are angry, even in the… in our village.

  “They believe themselves misgoverned,” she continued. “They want to remedy it, by helping elect the Parliame
nt. They petitioned all over England. They collected a million signatures, and their shameful government refused to look at it.”

  Perhaps the words our village had come out too sentimental. She didn’t care. She’d first laid eyes on him there; it was their village. Unfortunately, he’d probably paid more attention to shameful and misgoverned.

  Had she really needed to plunge them into argumentation?

  She watched his mouth harden while he fiddled with his clothes and then swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  Couldn’t she, perhaps, have waited?

  He’d been away for so long, fought bravely, risked his life for his country. It would be stupid to expect him to understand all at once.

  But now that she’d begun… well, in truth he ought to know that the government he’d fought for had claimed the right to lock people up indefinitely without bringing charges against them-since last February, after the petition had been delivered.

  She wasn’t good at political discussion-a woman didn’t get much practice. She could write things down clearly enough, but in the heat of disputation she tended to become overexcited, forget to watch her language.

  She tried to calm her voice, which seemed to be shaking.

  “Jessica’s been writing me about the people in the village. They need so much; it’s been so difficult. And of course Richard says…”

  “Of course. Richard.” He was staring down at her from where he stood, speaking stiffly through pinched, whitish lips.

  So much for that, he thought.

  So much for telling his exciting news to the person he most wanted to tell it to.

  How many times had he imagined… you see, I’m not such a scapegrace anymore, Mary.

  Spoken modestly, of course, with an ironic twinkle… quite the responsible officer, don’t you know… even Wellington agrees, in fact he…