St Alban had his own box where they overlooked the audience with Ilya and company in a larger box across the way.
“He’s seething,” St Alban murmured.
She turned to whisper in his ear. “And I am feeling better than I have in months.” She laughed and he laughed with her, lifting his hand to stroke across her cheek with his fingers. They continued with small whispered exchanges through the first act. When she eventually looked up Ilya was no longer in his box and her heart suddenly raced.
The interval bell chimed.
“Would you mind if I did the usual?”
“No, no of course not. Please go ahead.” St Alban did the round of ministers and lords of parliament at these events. His work in politics and reform was what he lived for, social events were the informal meeting places for change. He gave her a small smile and left.
Seph slowly stood scanning the boxes finding no sign of Ilya.
“No need. I have brought you a glass.”
Pleasure flushed through her at the sound of his voice. Seph schooled her features as she turned.
“Ilya. What a pleasant surprise.” She reached out to take the glass and he didn’t immediately release it.
“You are in a lot of trouble, little bird.”
The smile she had been pressing down slipped out.
“Am I now?” She looked at him over the rim of her glass as she took a sip. “Do you like my dress?”
He murmured things in Russian that made her nipples harden and her sex throb.
Perhaps she had forgiven him.
He took her glass and set it down on the small shelf attached to the seats exactly designed for wine and opera glasses to rest.
“Follow me,” he growled.
Seph followed him through the curtain at the back of the box and came to a sudden stop. He’d closed the door, so they were in a dark space between the door and curtain out of sight.
He used his body to step her back against the wall sending shards of need along her skin. Pressed himself against her bringing her hand down to feel the long thick hardness of him.
Her sex clenched; she knew exactly what that length felt like as it pumped into her.
“This is the rod I will punish you with, little bird. It will make you cry out and beg before I am done.”
Then at long, long last his lips came down on hers and she tasted him. The taste of pure pleasure. The swirl of his tongue over hers full of hungry need. The faint taste of whiskey, the scent of his cologne wrapping her up like the fragrance of home. Every stroke, every swirl of his tongue telling her she was in trouble and would pay in the most delicious of ways. Her body undulated against his, her hands clutched at him, oh so ravenous after so long apart.
He kissed her, touched and tantalized her until the bell chimed and even then, she had to press his chest to have him lift off her. She was breathless, her body humming, aching for his more intimate touch. Heart soaring as she again floated in a sky that was made of pure bliss.
Ilya guided her back into the box and helped her sit. Handed her her glass.
“You look breathtaking,” he said eyes smoldering. “We are not done yet Seraphina.” And then he departed leaving her in a delicious daze.
St Alban didn’t return until close to the end of the act. He often stayed in the foyer with his colleagues as they discussed matters of state. By that time, her heart had settled if not the redness of her lips and chin.
When the play ended, and the lights came up. His gaze took in the small tell-tale signs, a softness in his eyes.
“Things worked out well then?”
She smiled suddenly shy. “We’ll see.”
St Alban dropped her home.
“I can’t thank you enough for troubling with me,” and Seph meant it. He would make some woman very happy and very proud.
“The pleasure was all mine.” He kissed her gloved hand. “I hope tonight had the effect you were after, he’s a lucky man.”
Chapter 26
Ilya stood in Seraphina’s back garden. Around him the moon washed over the trees, shrubs, and bushes in grey white tones. He watched the second story window, a few well spent pounds, confirmed the left far corner next to the old oak was Seraphina’s bedroom. He imagined her closing her eyes after the soft glow went out at the curtain cracks. In Bath he’d watched her while she slept. Loved those moments when she tried to stay awake and her eyelids just refused to lift, and she slipped off to sleep.
He’d been wound tight tonight, that she wore the dress, the signal he hoped she’d give him but only to turn up with another man had driven him wild. Watching as St Alban escorted Seraphina from the theatre tonight, wondering if he would kiss her when he got her home. If the man would touch her.
The images had twisted his gut so tight he had walked all the way back to the Mayfair house to try and work off the anger, the dark possessive need to go and claim her. It was by chance that he picked up the evening paper in his restlessness and read the gossip column.
‘The elusive widow is cutting her ties with the ice Baron, is it because the Russian has come back to town?’
He’d written a missive of his own and come straight over, she was free, and she was his. No point in wasting time. They’d both suffered enough. And there was the matter of a little punishment for the night’s theatrics.
Scanning his options, there were two ways he could get in, the tree or the trellis. Ilya looked up at the trellis, a clear and direct path requiring the least dexterity. The ivy was a deep covering but underneath would be hand and foot holds.
The first step and the wood snapped under his weight. He slipped, regained his footing. He tried again and got three rungs up before the trellis broke under him. This was all rather dramatic; he hadn’t had to climb the outside of a house since he was nineteen. Doors were left open or women met him where he had comfortable rooms organized. But then again this was the woman he would marry.
Ilya glanced back at the oak tree, his boots would have to come off or they’d slip on the bark. The trellis was not going to be sturdy enough.
He walked over to the oak, tracked a path that would take him to her window with not too much challenge. Removed his shoes and coat setting them down on a small white garden bench. A misspent youth stood itself in good stead as he shortly found himself on the branch less than an arm’s length from her window.
Some of the dramatic impact of sneaking in was greatly hampered as he was left with no other option than to knock on the glass or break it. Ilya reached over and gave the glass three solid taps.
The curtains opened. Her face showed delicious shock at him perched barefoot on the branch leaning over to the window.
‘Open up,’ he mouthed.
Seraphina folded her arms.
Oh, she was going to be in trouble.
“Open the window,” he growled knowing she would hear him.
His little bird smirked and pulled the sash window up.
“Why should I let you in?” She hushed at him.
“Seraphina, you are in big trouble.” He warned as he reached out, held the window above and stepped onto the sill and then eased himself in the room to the delicious sound of female giggles.
“Really Ilya. You know you can’t stay.”
That’s as far as she got before he dragged her against him and pressed his lips to hers. She folded into him, arms wrapping around him making the tightness in his chest lift.