He was breathing in unsteady surges. “Phoebe—No, I’m so close, I can’t—”

She interrupted him, her mouth locking onto his in a demanding kiss. With a smothered laugh, he relented and pressed her back down into the chaotic ruffles of her dress. The loosened bodice pulled tight over her arms, making it difficult to move. He kissed her exposed breasts and licked the undersides, nuzzling the plush curves. Reaching beneath her skirts, he found the open split of her drawers. His palm skimmed the tops of soft, dry curls in repeated passes, the sensation working down to the follicles and sending a quiver of awareness through her. Very gently he parted the curls and ran a fingertip along the private furrow.

Craving more pressure, more explicit contact, she pushed up against his hand, but his touch remained light and unhurried as he explored the intricate crevice. Oh, God, he knew what he was doing, coaxing her response by gradual degrees, making her wait in helpless anticipation. Softly, almost as if by accident, he teased deeper until his fingertip grazed the bud of her clitoris. Her entire body jerked.

A hungry shudder wracked her as his touch withdrew. “Oh, please . . .” she whispered through dry lips.

West looked down at her with a faint smile, his eyes smoldering-blue. His head lowered to her breast, his lips closing over the tip. For long minutes he suckled and licked, while his hand traversed her body in leisurely paths. She simmered and ached and moaned, forgetting everything but the pleasure of what he was doing to her. After torturous delays and detours, he finally reached between her thighs and touched the wet, vulnerable entrance of her body. Her hands gripped his shoulders, and she panted into the open neck of his shirt, her legs tensing. The blunt tip of a finger worked its way inward, the thickness of a knuckle stretching tender flesh. There was movement deep inside her . . . teasing strokes . . . a peculiar pressure that sent a shot of heat to the quick of her body.

Slowly he eased his finger out and toyed with the silky flanges of her inner lips as if they were petals before circling the taut peak of her sex. One wet fingertip moved easily over her swollen flesh, the slight abrasion of a callous rasping delicately, causing her toes to curl. Tension coiled inside her, so erotic and unbearable she would have done anything to relieve it.

“How sensitive you are,” he whispered against her burning cheek. “It might be better for you . . . gentler . . . if I used my tongue. Would you like that?”

A breath stuck in her throat.

Amusement danced in the hot blue depths of his eyes as he saw her reaction.

“Oh . . . I don’t think . . .” was all she could manage to say.

His lips brushed lightly over hers. “My motto is, ‘You’ll never know unless you try it.’”

“That’s the worst motto I’ve ever heard,” she said faintly, and he grinned.

“Well, it makes life interesting.” Those clever, wicked fingers tickled between her thighs as he whispered, “Let me kiss you here.” At her hesitation, he urged, “Yes. Say yes.”

“No, thank you,” she said in rising worry, and he laughed softly. She felt pressure, and the helpless feeling of being invaded, and realized he was trying to slide two fingers inside her.

“Relax . . . You’re so sweet, so soft . . . Phoebe . . . for the next ten thousand nights, I’m going to dream about your beautiful mouth, and the miraculous shape of you, and all these freckles that turn you into a work of art—”

“Don’t tease,” she said breathlessly, and bit her lip as her body yielded to the gentle intrusion, his fingers wriggling slightly as they filled her.

“You want proof of my sincerity?” Deliberately he pressed his aroused flesh against her thigh. “Feel that. Just the thought of you does this to me.”

The man was shameless. Boasting about his male part as if it were something to be proud of! Although . . . one had to admit . . . it was impressively substantial. Phoebe struggled with nearly irresistible curiosity before letting her hand steal down to investigate. As her palm slid along the incredibly hard, heavy length of him, she blinked and said faintly, “Good heavens.” She drew her hand back quickly, and he smiled down at her flushed face.

“Kiss me,” he whispered. “As if we were in bed with the whole night ahead of us.” His fingers eased deeper. “Kiss me as if I were inside you.”

Phoebe obeyed blindly, butterflies swirling. He caressed and played with her, sometimes entering her with his fingers, sometimes withdrawing completely and toying with the damp curls between her thighs or gliding up to stroke her breasts. It was astonishing, how much he seemed to know about her body, the places that were too sensitive to be touched directly, the steady rhythms that aroused her most.

She had never been filled with such acute sensation, every nerve lit and glowing. Whenever her excitement built to the point of release, he stopped and made her wait until the heat receded, and then he started again. She was trembling with the need to climax, but he ignored her pleas and protests, taking his time. His fingers filled her gently, and his other hand came to her mound, massaging on either side of her clitoris. Her intimate muscles clenched and released, over and over, in deep pulsations beyond her control.

Pleasure resonated through her at a clarion pitch, and this time he didn’t stop, guiding her right into the feeling and through it. Her vision was flooded with brilliance, her muscles spasming, jerking. He took her low cry into his mouth and kissed her as hard and long as she wanted, and he didn’t stop stroking and teasing until the shudders had eased to shivers, and the shivers had faded to quiet trembling. Very gradually, the long, flexing fingers eased out of her body. He held her, cradling her against him, while she gasped for air and slowly returned to herself.

Sorting through the exhausted muddle of her thoughts, Phoebe wondered what would happen next. From the way they were entangled, she could feel that he was still aroused—would he want satisfaction? What should she do for him, and how? Oh, God, her mind was all blurred and comfortable, and her body was as limp as a sack of crushed salt. She felt excruciatingly shy about what they’d just done, but also grateful and close to tears. Nothing had ever felt as good as this, being gathered in by his arms, every part of her safe and warm and replete.

Carefully West reached into the wild disorder of her clothes and began to pull garments into place, tying and fastening her clothes expertly. All she could seem to do was lie there like a discarded doll, dreading the return to reality.

He eased her up to a sitting position. When he spoke, his tone was dry and amused. “About those feelings you no longer have. You were saying . . . ?”

Phoebe glanced at him in surprise and stiffened as if he’d just thrown cold water in her face.

It wasn’t what West said that shocked her, it was his detached expression, and the way one corner of his mouth curled upward in an arrogant smile. The tender lover had vanished, leaving her with a sardonic stranger.

All the feelings of warmth and connection had been an illusion. He hadn’t meant anything he’d said. All he had wanted was to prove that she still had physical needs, and he’d succeeded spectacularly, humiliating her in the process.

Her first intimacy with a man other than her husband . . . and it had been a game to him.

Oh, she felt so foolish.

“I hope we’ve learned our lesson,” he mocked lightly, making it even worse.

Somehow Phoebe managed to cover her hurt and fury with a stony façade. “Indeed,” she replied curtly, unable to look at him as she rose to her feet. “Although perhaps not the lesson you thought you were teaching.” She yanked her bodice into place and straightened her skirts, and nearly leaped away like a startled doe as he moved to help her. “I require no more assistance.”

West stepped back at once. He waited silently as she finished putting herself in order. “Phoebe—” he began, his voice softer than before.

“Thank you, Mr. Ravenel,” she said, ignoring the weakness of her legs as she strode to the door. They were no longer on a first-name basis. As far as she was concerned, they never would be again. “The afternoon was most instructive.” She let herself out of the study and closed the door with great care, even though she longed to slam it.

Chapter 19

On the surface, dinner that night—the last gathering before the Challons departed in the morning—was a sparkling and lighthearted affair. The wedding and subsequent visit had been a great success, deepening the acquaintance between the two families and paving the way for more interactions in the future.

For all the enjoyment West derived from the evening, he might as well have spent it in a medieval dungeon. The effort to appear normal was almost face-cracking. He couldn’t help but marvel inwardly at Phoebe, who was perfectly composed and smiling. Her self-control was formidable. She was careful not to ignore him entirely, but she gave him no more than the minimum of attention necessary to keep from causing comment. Every now and then she glanced at him with a bland smile, or laughed politely at some quip he’d made, her gaze never quite meeting his.

It’s for the best, West had told himself a thousand times since the torrid scene in the study. It had been the right decision to make her hate him. In the moments after her climax, as he’d cradled her in his arms and felt her beautiful body nestle trustingly against his, he’d been on the verge of pouring out everything he thought and felt for her. Even now, it terrified him to think of what he might have said. Instead he’d deliberately embarrassed her, and pretended he’d only been amusing himself with her.

Now there would be no expectations, no longing, no hope on either side. Now he didn’t have to fear that he might go to her in a moment of weakness. She would leave tomorrow, and everything would go back to the way it was. He would find a way to forget her. The world was full of women.

Years would pass, while he and Phoebe led separate lives. She would marry and have more children. She would have the life she deserved.

Unfortunately, so would he.

After an abysmal night of broken sleep, West awakened with a lump of ice in his stomach. He felt as if someone had parked a traction engine on his chest. Slowly he went through the rituals that began every morning. He was too numb to feel the heat of the towel he used to soften his beard before shaving. As he passed the unmade bed, he was tempted to climb back into it, fully clothed.

Enough of this, he told himself grimly. It was unmanly, this moping and languishing. He would go about his day as usual, starting with breakfast. The sideboard would be laden with broiled chops, eggs, rashers of bacon and ham, potatoes hashed with herbs and fried in butter, bread puddings each in its own puddle of sauce, a platter of crisp radishes and pickles on ice, dishes of stewed fruit from the orchard topped with fresh cream—

The thought of food was making him nauseous.

West paced, sat, stood and paced some more, and finally stopped at the window with his forehead pressed against a cool pane of glass. His room afforded a view of the stables and carriage house, where vehicles and horses were being readied to take the Challons to the estate’s private railway halt.