And then, quite plainly, it was already too late.
“Oh, hell,” he gasped.
She startled but did not pull away.
His whole body seized, a strangled groan tearing from him as he spilled over her hand, hot and vivid and so startlingly visible that Lottie could only stare, breathless and wide-eyed, as he shuddered through it. She had never seen anything so indecent or satisfying in her life.
When it was over, Jasper remained braced before her, his hair fallen over his brow and his whole person marked by the shock of what she had done to him. He was gorgeous, standing there with his cock still bare and his breath unsteady.
“That was…” she began, then trailed off. What was it?
“Fun,” he offered, still a little breathless.
She lifted her gaze to his. “Yes. It was.”
He reached for a cloth to clean himself, then gestured vaguely to her discarded cloak. “Do you need assistance sneaking out again, or shall I bribe Gibbons?”
Her heart dropped for a moment, because, of course, he did not wish her to stay. Whyever would he? And besides, she could not stay even if he had offered. “I shall manage.”
She rose, though her knees were still somewhat unreliable, and straightened her skirts with hands that trembled only once. Her hair was escaping its pins. Her cheeks were hot. Her body felt loose and strange and newly inhabited, as though she had not returned quite the same woman who had entered this room.
“Lottie,” he said suddenly.
She paused, but he only smiled, gentle and maddening and impossible.
“I meant it. That was fun.”
She nodded, and before either of them could say anything honest, she left.
Chapter 28
Dear reader, you may breathe again, for I regret to tell you that the present chapter contains no dubious medical apparatus or gentlemen of questionable morals demonstrating an alarming commitment to female pleasure—not yet, at any rate.
For now, we must return to polite society: that great theatre of manners, malice, matrimonial ambition, and outdoor refreshments. We arrive, therefore, at Lady Malverne’s garden party, where Miss Charlotte Tolliver was expected to secure a husband and refrain from doing anything that might cause her mother to press a vinaigrette to her nose before luncheon.
Lottie had slept very little.
This was not, as her sisters had repeatedly implied, because she was heartbroken or lovesick, or any other condition that might be remedied by a proposal and a great deal of lace. It was because every time she closed her eyes, she remembered Jasper Deverell’s hands, the heat of him in her palm, the rough break in his voice, and the expression on his face when she had saidMarchmont’s name. Worse, she could not forget that he had let her leave.
Lady Tolliver surveyed the lawns with a sigh so theatrical it might have hushed an opera house. “I declare,” she murmured, in a tone designed to reach every titled person within hearing, “that this weekend will most certainly end in a Tolliver engagement. It is a good thing our third daughter has a sizeable dowry, is it not, Lord Tolliver?”
“Mm,” said Lord Tolliver, adjusting his spectacles with a vague smile, though he had heard not a word.
The Duke of Morleigh, who had been assigned by general family consent to the role of chaperone, gaoler, and moral barricade, merely arched one brow. Whether in censure or secret amusement, none could tell.
Lady Malverne’s gardens were arranged for maximum display, as always. The lawns swept down towards a lake that glittered prettily in the afternoon sun. White marquees fluttered, and footmen moved through the guests with lemonade, ratafia, and little cakes no one could eat without looking foolish. Ladies drifted beneath parasols while gentlemen lounged and boasted.
At the far end of the lawn, however, all prettiness gave way to danger, for Lady Malverne had arranged a pistol-shooting contest. It was just as well, really, for the next contest in Lottie and Jasper’s most scandalous wager was pistol shooting.
“My dear duke,” Lady Malverne cried, approaching Morleigh with a magnanimous smile, “you must preside over the matter. A soldier’s eye, you know. We cannot have half the gentlemen of England disputing over whether they have struck the centre or not.”
Morleigh’s expression suggested he would rather inspect a battlefield wound. “With pleasure,” he said.
The gentlemen assembled upon the lawn were in high spirits. Pistols gleamed in their cases, the targets—round white boardsset at a respectable distance—stood waiting, and a small crowd of ladies clustered behind the line of fire, their fans fluttering with as much excitement as anxiety.
“Do you hear that dreadful crack, Bernard?” Lady Tolliver murmured, one hand pressed dramatically to her bosom. “I am sure it will quite ruin my hearing.”
One young baronet fired first, managing to strike a respectable outer ring. A colonel of dragoons followed, his shot nearer the centre, though not so near as his swagger suggested it would be. Another gentleman, red-faced with effort, discharged his pistol only to pepper the turf three feet short of the mark.
