He sank his heart and soul into convincing her to accept. His lips supped at hers, then firmed and possessed, and she answered his call, meeting and matching him and, ultimately, making her own demands—embarking on her own forays within the seductive and enthralling engagement.
Somewhat to his surprise, it took effort on his part to maintain control of proceedings; she was neither meek nor mild nor, in this sphere, completely untried and naive.
Ellen couldn’t stop kissing Christopher. Their lips melded, their tongues tangled, and she couldn’t get enough of the fascinating, riveting exchanges. The kisses they’d shared previously had hinted that there was more to explore, that under his direction, the simple art of kissing would be elevated to an entirely new plane of sensation.
He and his kisses—these increasingly avid and hungry kisses they were so utterly engrossed in sharing—hadn’t disappointed.
In light of her less-than-enthralling London experiences, she’d long wondered at the whispers shared by other young ladies of the delights they had found… Now, she knew the fault for her earlier disappointments lay with those gentlemen with whom she’d engaged.
When it came to the art of kissing, compared to Christopher, they had had no clue.
Firm and tantalizing, his lips moved on hers with a subtle pressure that had effortlessly ensnared her wits; now, along with her senses, they followed every shifting sensation, cataloging the nuances and the resulting small pleasures.
With his clever lips and educated tongue, he orchestrated a symphony of those small pleasures, and her senses waltzed to his tune.
It was that straightforward—that clear-cut. For her, with respect to her appreciation and pleasure, Christopher’s kisses were the epitome of perfection.
He’d drawn her closer, the hand initially at her jaw lowering to span the back of her waist and urge her to him. All the way against him; her bodice was pressed to his chest, and most peculiarly, her breasts felt swollen and the peaks ached, oddly pleasurably.
The solid contact was another source of engrossing sensation.
He seemed intuitively to know what she wanted—for what she was seeking—and time and again, he redirected the engagement to deliver it. To let her see, know, and if she wished, explore.
Yet the most enthralling, fascinating, deeply satisfying feature of their exchanges was that he was every bit as engrossed as she. That he found her and her responses as utterly enthralling as she found him and his.
Tit for tat, perhaps; balance, most definitely.
The thought gave her the confidence to fully engage and press him to go further—to extend her horizons.
They were immersed in a scintillating duel of tongues when abruptly, the sounds of hooves and wheels on gravel and calls of farewell erupted beyond the conservatory windows.
They both started and drew apart—for one giddy instant, they stared into each other’s eyes, and both knew unquestioningly that neither had wanted the heady, all-consuming exchange to end. Then the unmistakable sounds of departures had them turning their heads to look out. Beyond one side of the moonlit lawn—which, thankfully, remained deserted—guests were climbing into their carriages while others took their leave of their host and hostess.
“Good Lord!” she exclaimed. “How long have we been…” Faint color rising to her cheeks, she looked at Christopher.
He continued to stare across the lawn. His lips—those tempting, tantalizing lips—firmed into a line. “Obviously, far longer than either of us realized.” He met her eyes. “Too long for safety.” He rose and, capturing her hands, drew her to her feet. The instant she was upright, he set one of her hands on his sleeve and urged her toward the door. “We need to rejoin the others before anyone truly misses us.”
She fervently hoped no one had. She hurried beside him into the corridor and on toward the parlor, surreptitiously tweaking her bodice straight.
Together, they slipped through the door into the rear of the parlor. She was relieved that he had taken charge; her wits were still reeling giddily, and she feared that, if left to herself, she would fail abysmally to adequately conceal their recent endeavors.
Luckily, it seemed that no one had noticed their joint departure, absence, or return; as Christopher insinuated them into the body of guests moving slowly toward the Grange’s front hall, she dragooned her wits into order, ready to deflect any arch or pointed questions, but none came.
Christopher clung to his relaxed, sophisticated persona, the one he habitually displayed to those gathered at the Grange, and smoothly guided Ellen to her aunt’s side, then, after they’d tendered their thanks and made their farewells to the Carstairses on the front porch, he walked beside Robbie as they escorted Ellen and Emma to the Martingale carriage.
When they reached the landau, Robbie gave his aunt his hand and assisted her up the steps, then followed.
Christopher offered Ellen his hand. She laid her fingers across his palm and raised her eyes to his face, waiting to see…
He smiled and, manfully resisting the urge to raise her fingers to his lips, instead helped her up the steps and to the seat beside Emma.
She watched him almost warily, waiting to draw back her hand.
He gripped her fingers and held her gaze for a heartbeat too long, then with his smile deepening, he lightly squeezed her fingers, released them, and stepped back.
Her eyes narrowed.
He grinned and saluted her. The carriage drew away, and he stood by the side of the drive and watched her golden curls, rendered silver by the moonlight, until the carriage had passed out of sight.
Christopher looked down, unseeing, at the ground while he examined his reaction to the evening. It seemed telling that he couldn’t seem to banish the smile interacting with Ellen had left on his face. He felt buoyant, uplifted. Certainly happier than he would have expected to feel after a summer party—even one with dancing.
Smiling still, he swung on his heel and made for where a groom stood holding the reins of the chestnuts harnessed to his curricle.
Christopher hadn’t expected to find Toby waiting for him in the manor’s library.
Alerted by Pendleby, Christopher strode into the room to see his younger cousin sprawled half asleep in an armchair.
At the sound of the door closing, Toby roused. He stared blearily at Christopher, then sat up and ran both hands over his face. From behind his palms, he mumbled, “What time is it?”
Christopher glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “After one o’clock.” He looked at Toby and arched a brow. “What brings you back so soon?”
Toby snorted. “Drake, of course, and this infernal mission.” Slumping in the chair, Toby waited until Christopher sank into his usual chair opposite, then explained, “Matters are proceeding at a faster pace than Drake or anyone else anticipated. Drake’s agents in Paris located and seized the counterfeiting plates, but unfortunately, they were too late to prevent a very large shipment of fake notes being dispatched for England’s shores.”
Toby paused, plainly ordering his thoughts. “Drake’s minions seized the counterfeiter—a Belgian, well known within the fraternity. His work is considered top-notch, meaning the notes he produces will fool most people unless they know what flaw to look for. There always is some tiny flaw, and with these notes, it’s the lower curve of the g in England. It’s not quite exactly right but close enough to pass a cursory inspection.”