Deserted, he went searching for the refreshment room.
Geoffrey found him there. He eyed the glass in Tony’s hand. “Don’t tell me you’ve been given your congé, too?”
Tony humphed; through the arch, he was observing the dancers. “Just for this dance.” He sipped, then said, “Incidentally, I was informed you’re being tested.”
It was Geoffrey’s turn to humph. “So I’d supposed.”
Shoulder to shoulder, they watched the couples swirl about the floor.
Geoffrey shifted, lifted his glass, and sipped. He glanced at Tony. “I don’t suppose you’d consider staging a diversion?”
Tony’s gaze was on Alicia, twirling down the set. “Divert the lioness while you whisk away her cub?”
Geoffrey swallowed a laugh, nodded. “Precisely.”
Watching Alicia’s body sway as, hand high, she turned beneath Sir Freddie’s arm, Tony asked, “What’s your interest there?”
Geoffrey’s tone—insulted, a touch vulnerable—gave him his answer more than the words, “What do you think?”
Tony nodded. “Done.” He set down his glass. “But I’ll have to move first. If she gets any inkling of your intention, I’ll never get her away.”
“The field’s yours.” Setting down his glass, Geoffrey followed him into the ballroom. “Just make sure I get at least half an hour.”
Tony glanced at him, then looked back at his prey. And smiled. “Half an hour won’t be any problem.”
Getting Alicia out of the ballroom and into the tiny withdrawing room at the end of the east corridor—a room Tony remembered from that long-ago exploration—was the principal difficulty. He managed it by the simple expedient of talking fast.
His topic was guaranteed to fix her interest—the contrast between sophisticated gentlemen such as Sir Freddie Caudel and backbone-of-the-country types epitomized by Geoffrey Manningham.
“I didn’t know he’d been in the navy.” Alicia looked thoughtful. “I don’t think Adriana knows that.”
“Understandably he doesn’t speak much of it, but he served with distinction. And then, of course—”
He rattled on, borrowing from his knowledge of Geoffrey, inventing shamelessly with regard to Sir Freddie. Her eyes on his face, her mind on his words, Alicia barely registered entering the corridor running alongside the ballroom; when she went to look around, he mentioned Geoffrey’s mother—her gaze immediately swung back to his face. His fingers firmly over hers, resting on his sleeve, he steered her on.
When he opened the door to the withdrawing room, she swept over the threshold of her own volition, held by the vision he’d painted of Geoffrey’s manor house and the surrounding countryside, the rolling fields leading down to the river with the blue hills in the distance, the lowering plateau of Exmoor stretching to the horizon.
Gesturing, she turned to face him. “It sounds an almost idyllic place.”
Much of what he’d described was his own land, his boyhood memories of home; his smile was genuine. “It is.”
He closed the door; without taking his gaze from her face, he snibbed the lock. The sound broke the spell.
She blinked, glanced around. A three-armed candelabrum threw a warm glow through the small room. Aside from a chaise and a single armchair, the only furniture was a small table and a heavy sideboard. She looked at him. Directly. “Why are we here?”
He raised his brows, approached. “Guess.”
Suspicion burgeoned in her eyes; as usual, she made no effort to hide it. He watched her cast about in her mind for some deflecting comment, yet as he neared…her
eyes widened, darkened—he could almost see her senses awakening, stretching. Reaching for him. Could almost see her wits start to slow…
He reached for her, gently drew her to him.
She came without resistance, her hands rising to rest on his chest. Her gaze dropped to his lips. “I…ah…I thought we’d agreed to slow down.”
“We did.” He urged her closer, settled her against him, bent his head. “We are.” He kissed her, made her lips cling. “Progressing step by small step.”
He took her mouth again; she gave it freely, met him, parted her lips, welcomed him in. Her hands clenched, clutched as he captured her senses and drew her deeper into the exchange, into the sensual game they both so enjoyed.
Lips caressed, pressed, tongues tangled, stroked, probed, mouths melded. Both took, gave, delighted, then explored.
Sensation streaked through Alicia; warmth welled, pooled, and dragged her senses down to wallow, to luxuriate, to expand and experience a world of sensual delight, of wanton, illicit, addictive pleasure.
No matter how much a small part of her mind tried to warn her, tried to make her see how dangerous it could be, her body, her nerves, her skin and her senses, and the greater part of her whirling wits, were eager to go forward, to follow the path he opened before her, to seize the moment to learn and feel.
To learn of herself, of what could be, of all she could be. To feel the welling tide of compulsive emotions—the hunger, the need, the flagrant desire, and most especially the triumph.
A simple and pure triumph she hadn’t known existed, the confidence, delight, and sheer pleasure of knowing he found her desirable, that he wanted her in the most blatantly sexual way, and the satisfaction that flowed from knowing not only that she could evoke his hunger, but also from the innate womanly knowledge that she could, indeed, sate it.
He’d drawn her close, fitting her body against his, but once they reached that plateau of more urgent, definite need—one she now recognized—his arms eased, then his hands, hard and demanding, slid over her silk-encased form. Over her back, over her sides, around over her already aching breasts.
Through the fog of desire flooding her mind, she inwardly smiled. She eased back from the kiss enough to murmur against his lips, “I’m afraid this gown has no buttons down the front.” She’d worn her topaz silk for that very reason.
“I’d noticed,” he murmured back.
His lips brushed hers, then settled, drawing her into a long, increasingly intimate exchange… as it ended her awareness slowly returned. And she realized the pressure about her breasts had eased.
Her bodice was loose.
She drew back from the kiss as he did. Looked down as he raised his hands to her shoulders. Slowly, very slowly, he pushed her now gaping gown off her shoulders, sliding the small puff sleeves down her arms.
He’d undone the laces.
Her mind seized; she stopped breathing. She hadn’t thought…
The neckline caught across the peaks of her breasts. Leaving the sleeves at her elbows, he ran his fingers up, then slipped them beneath the neckline and eased it over and down.
She shuddered, told herself it was due to the cool caress of the air. Knew it wasn’t. Desperate, she hauled in a breath. Ignored the sudden lifting of her breasts. “Wait—”
“Lift your arms.” The words were half entreaty, half command. They were reinforced by his touch, fingertips running over her bared shoulders, down the sensitive skin of her arms to her elbows. He gripped lightly, urged.
She freed her arms from the clinging sleeves. “This—”
“Is the smallest step I could think of.” His black gaze touched hers; the emberlike glow in the dark depths only heated her more.
She sucked in a tight breath. “But—”
“Going slowly isn’t stopping.” He held her gaze, his fingers lightly caressing—so lightly they barely touched the heavy, swelling curves of her breasts. “You don’t want to stop.”
Not a question, a statement, one verified by the shiver that streaked through her, a silvery sensation that brought every nerve alive.