It Takes a Scandal (22 page)

His kisses drifted along her collarbone as her bodice came loose. He darted a wary, yearning glance at her. Abigail could only nod and whisper, “Yes.” A shadow of a smile touched his lips before he tugged at her sleeves, pulling the bodice down to expose her shift and stays.

Her bosom felt shockingly bare and exposed, even before he untied the ribbon of her chemise. Her heart seemed to be beating a thousand times a minute as she waited, eager, anxious, desperate, for him to do . . . something. Another hard shudder racked her when the cool air hit her bared breasts; her nipples, already tight, seemed to draw up so hard they ached.

“Abigail,” Sebastian breathed. “My darling.” And then his mouth was on her skin, on the swell of her bosom. He kissed her, soft little kisses as though he was murmuring against her skin. She strained toward him, and his arm went around her waist, anchoring her to him. Abigail flung her head back, reveling in the sensuous caress. This only exposed her further, and she shamelessly thrust her chest forward, begging for more. Lower, lower his mouth moved until finally he kissed her where he had originally said.

She shuddered as his lips moved over her nipple, teasing and tormenting as his fingers had done. He flicked his tongue and she jerked. He darted a single gleaming glance at her before he parted her knees and moved between her legs, pressing forward until his hips met hers. For a moment he held her tight against him, his eyes closed, and Abigail realized with a shock that she could feel him, hard and erect.

She could hardly breathe.

He groaned and closed his lips around her aching flesh.

Her face burned. Her heart hammered. Sebastian Vane was on his knees before her, making love to her. She felt wild and wanton with her dress falling down and his mouth on her breast, her blood racing and coursing so hotly through her veins, she felt the reckless desire to tear off her clothes to cool her skin. It was shocking and scandalous, but when he lifted his mouth from her breast, giving one last teasing swirl of his tongue, she only turned so he could do the same to the other side. And all the while she was exquisitely conscious that he was aroused, too.

Abigail said a silent word of apology to Lady Constance. She’d suspected that
50 Ways to Sin
was unrealistic and exaggerated. She’d had no idea at all.

And then—then— She almost choked on her own breath. He was drawing up the hem of her skirt. His palm was smoothing up the side of her calf—now over her knee—now higher— “Sebastian,” she whispered uncertainly, still clinging to him.

“I know,” he murmured, his lips on her breast. “Trust me . . .” And then he parted the gap in her pantalets and touched her.

Abigail started so violently she almost fell over backward. Sebastian’s grip around her waist tightened as he stroked her again.

“Trust me,” he repeated in a ragged whisper. “I won’t make love to you, but let me give you this . . .”

He had touched her before, in the grotto. Abigail remembered it well. But this . . . This was more vivid, more intense, more personal. She could feel the warmth of his hand cupping her bare flesh, the shock of his fingers parting her, and then—she gasped so hard her head swam—the intrusion of his finger sliding inside her.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, as if he couldn’t let his breath out at once. “I want you.” His voice was a thread of sound. “So desperately . . .” His finger withdrew, only to return, this time with a soft touch on that knot of exquisite sensation. Abigail clutched at him, stripped of speech. His gentle but inexorable touch continued; he had angled himself so now his erection was against her inner thigh, and as she moved, her body reacting on instinct to his caresses, he rocked his hips.

Now she understood why Lady Constance called lovemaking an intimate dance. Their bodies moved together in concert, she straining and writhing against him, he holding her tight and driving her ever wilder. When the storm building inside her finally crested and broke, Abigail almost wept on his shoulder as it shuddered through her. Sebastian’s arm felt like iron around her, although his hand was still deft and gentle between her legs. When his fingers finally slipped out of her, Abigail quivered, feeling drained and bereft.

She held tight to his neck when he made a slight motion to withdraw. She thought she’d fall on the ground if he let go of her now. She didn’t want him to leave, not today, not ever; he’d woken some deep, restless urge inside her that wanted more. It was a little terrifying how eager she was to test the rest of Lady Constance’s descriptions. Just the hard, heavy shape of Sebastian’s erection, surging against her hip, made her want to see it and touch him and know what other mysterious pleasures he could show her. She hadn’t really thought she was
that
wanton, and it alarmed her that she’d almost forgotten why.

“Well,” she whispered, “I hope that brings you luck.”

His shoulders tensed, then eased as he gave a short laugh. “It most decidedly has. I feel quite the luckiest bloke alive right now.”

Abigail smiled, unconsciously arching her back. He pressed another kiss against her bosom. “I’m feeling quite lucky myself. I’ll miss you,” she added on impulse.

He tipped up his face to look at her, his expression open and almost vulnerable. “And I you.” He tugged her skirt back down and then took her hands in his. “You are . . .” He hesitated. “Very dear to me, Abigail.”

She blinked. It was a fine sentiment, but not quite as passionate as she had hoped for.

“I . . .” He seemed to be struggling for words. “I wish . . . You—you will still be at Hart House when I return, won’t you? Your family has no plans to return to London?”

“None I am aware of,” she said slowly. “How long will you be gone?”

“A fortnight.” His gaze dropped to her breasts, still bared. “Perhaps a little less.”

She wet her lips, beginning to feel awkward. “My mother has planned a musical evening in eight days’ time, so I expect we’ll be here.” She waited, but he didn’t say why he wanted to know so urgently. She pulled loose from his restraining hand and tugged her chemise back into place. “Would—would you—?” Blushing, she turned her back, trying not to flinch at the feel of his fingers smoothing her bodice back into place and drawing the lacing tight. It seemed a very mundane ending to such an encounter, and she didn’t face him as she got to her feet.

“Abigail.” He caught her hand as she reached for her basket. She looked up, uncertain. He brought her hand to his lips, then pressed it against his heart. “If I were to call on your father . . . would you be pleased?”

Her heart gave a leap, and a cautiously hopeful smile broke out on her face. “I suppose that would depend on what you said to him.”

“I hope to ask him a question of the utmost importance.”

Something fluttered in her stomach. “I’m sure he will give you a thoughtful and honest answer.”

Slowly he nodded, looking at her with . . . with . . . Abigail blushed at the word that was filling her mind. She thought it was love. She almost held her breath, waiting.

“And if I were to ask you a very important question, would you also answer me honestly and thoughtfully?”

Tense with anticipation, she managed to nod.

He pressed her hand. “That is all I can ask.” He cupped her cheek and kissed her. “Good-bye for now,” he murmured.

She made herself smile. “Good luck.”

“I will see you in a few days, my darling,” he promised, just a glimmer of a smile lighting his eyes. “Boris! Let’s go, boy.” And without another word, he turned and walked away, the black dog loping after him.

Abigail watched him go, reluctant to lose sight of him. When he had vanished down the path she exhaled, wilting a little. She’d been sure he was about to propose marriage, or tell her he loved her. But surely he wouldn’t have asked about Papa if he didn’t intend to do it when he returned. After all . . . he wanted her—probably as much as she wanted him. She laid one hand on her bosom, and her skin seemed to hum with the memory of his fingers and mouth doing such wicked, wonderful things to her. It might be possible to feel something similar with any attractive man, but Abigail was sure that what she felt for Sebastian wasn’t ordinary. What had happened between them just now had definitely been extraordinary.

She wondered what news was taking him away. It must be something good, it
must
be. She had never seen him so lighthearted and pleased. Her heart gave a great bound at the thought that he had learned something, received something, gained something that altered his feelings about marriage.

In a much brighter mood, she collected her book, which had fallen on the ground, and her basket, which Boris had stealthily emptied of both cheese and sausage while his master made love to her. As she was brushing the dirt off the cover of her book, she noticed Sebastian’s cane. It was still leaning against the tree trunk, right where he had left it when he sat down next to her . . . and asked her to kiss him for luck . . . and ended up lavishing kisses all over her. Where he had implied that he loved her and would propose when he returned. Abigail knew she ought to leave it, in case he returned for it, but then on impulse she snatched it up as she left. With an irrepressible grin stuck on her face, she headed for home.

S
ebastian was halfway home before he realized he’d left his cane behind. Somehow kissing Abigail Weston had driven his hurt knee right out of his mind, and the taste of her skin had dulled any pain from walking without the cane. He thought about going back to get it, then shrugged and continued on the path to Montrose Hill. He had another cane at home, and now he was more impatient than ever to go to Bristol.

He prayed to God there were some funds in his uncle’s estate. Ten thousand pounds would make him a gentleman of means again; not a wealthy man, but independent and secure. Eight thousand pounds would clear him of debt and restore him to financial security. Four or five thousand would enable him to support a wife, especially if that wife had money of her own. Even two thousand pounds would be enormously helpful, paying some of his debts and freeing him from the heaviest interest payments.

Of course, simply marrying Abigail would restore him to financial comfort. Rumor in town was that each Weston daughter had a dowry of forty thousand pounds or more. She was right: it
was
pride that held him back. He was not a fortune hunter and he refused to give people the opening to call him one. If only he could clear his debts. That would be enough to allow him to stand before Mr. Weston with a clear conscience and an untroubled spirit. He couldn’t change his crippled leg, and even with forty thousand pounds he could probably never regain his full estate, but he wouldn’t be a parasite.

With just a bit of good fortune, he could bring everything around. He never wanted her to look at him and wonder if her money had influenced him. He had lost every other bit of dignity. It was one thing if other people whispered that he’d married her because of her money—given the disparity in their fortunes, it was probably inevitable—but he couldn’t bear it if Abigail thought that. She, at least, should know without a doubt that he married her because he loved her.

For a moment his steps slowed. He could have told her that today. The news about his uncle could have waited until he returned from Bristol, when he would know exactly what the news was and what it meant for him. He’d almost said it, when she gazed at him with those starry eyes and waited. And yet somehow . . . he hadn’t said it.

He shook himself and quickened his pace again. It would be better to tell her he loved her when he could follow it up with a proper marriage proposal. There would be time for all that when he returned, with—God willing—his respectability and pride restored. And then he would have all the time in the world to make love to her.

Chapter 14

S
ebastian’s departure dimmed Abigail’s interest in walking. She still went out, but only met Boris once. Since the dog was pursuing something small and quick through the bracken, she didn’t even get a friendly lick on the hand. The grotto held no real allure anymore, either. Even though Sebastian had left the rug and cushions there and told her it was hers, she knew it wouldn’t be the same without him. And then the weather turned cloudy and cool, putting an end to her rambles entirely.

Confined to the house, she had plenty of time to relive every moment of their last encounter. She contemplated every word he spoke, searching for any definite sign of his intentions. It was impossible that he meant nothing, she decided. Sebastian was scrupulously honest. Any man who would tell her that he was likely to run mad was hardly the sort who would tease her and lead her to believe he intended to propose if he had no thought of doing so. She wished he had told her what took him to Bristol, but his manner made her think he wasn’t very sure of it. Perhaps one of his investments had become more profitable. Perhaps he’d been offered a promising opportunity. He might be reticent in either of those circumstances.

And yet, if he really had no idea how beneficial it might be—as when he said he had high hopes and asked for a kiss for luck—would he have mentioned speaking to her father? Abigail could think of only one reason he would want to speak to Papa. Surely if Sebastian really doubted the outcome of his trip, he wouldn’t have mentioned Papa. But if the trip wasn’t the deciding factor, why hadn’t he simply said he loved her then, when she was in his arms as willing as any wanton?

A fortnight seemed a very long time in the face of so many questions.