Her pulse leapt. “I might say the same.”
“I am very, very gratified to hear that.” Without lifting his head he scanned the room. The waltz was winding down. Joan also glanced around; Evangeline and Sir Richard were on the other side of the dancing area, nearest the supper room. They seemed to be absorbed in each other, and she felt a moment’s hope that Sir Richard would persuade Evangeline to marry him. She was sure he wished it, just as she was sure Evangeline wanted it, too, if she could only allow herself to say yes...
“Do you trust me?” Tristan murmured, his gaze still flicking from side to side.
If he hadn’t been sweeping her about in the dance figure, Joan would have stopped dead. “Why?”
His lips quirked. “Is that no?”
“No,” she said slowly.
“Is that yes?”
She hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”
Chapter 23
Without another word he turned her around a pillar and through the servants’ doorway, almost colliding with a footman as he did so. With a quick excuse to the startled servant, Tristan pulled her down the plain corridor until they reached the back stairs. Heart thumping, Joan followed him up and up the winding stair and then down a long corridor. This floor was not open for guests, and it was quiet and deserted. Tristan tried a door, and swung it open to reveal a small library or study. The walls were lined with shelves of well-worn books, and a comfortable-looking sofa, positioned in front of the fireplace, had more books stacked on one end. A pair of French windows opened onto a tiny balcony at the other end of the room, with the rooftops of London visible in the moonlight.
“What is this?” Joan turned to Tristan. “Did you know this room was here?”
“Yes.” He closed the door softly behind him. “It’s Sir Paul’s private library. I was at school with his son Tom, and came to visit on holiday one term. We sat up here and drank his brandy one night until we were sick.”
Yet another lonely holiday for him, brazening his way into a friend’s home and trying to act like a man. She put her hand on his arm. “Such a bold boy you were.”
“Well.” He smirked. “We were nineteen, not quite babes in arms.”
Joan blinked, then laughed. She laughed and laughed, even as he gathered her into his arms and pressed his face against her neck.
“Christ above, you smell good,” he breathed, his lips whispering over her skin.
“Bergamot.” She let her head fall to the side to better revel in his attentions. “And orange.”
“I could devour you.” His teeth grazed her earlobe, and she had to cling to his jacket to remain on her feet, she felt so unsteady. “Would you let me?”
Her head was already spinning—cursed champagne—but his words conjured images straight out of50 Ways to Sin. “How?”
“One long, slow kiss at a time.” He pressed examples along her jaw. “From your head to your toe and back to your maddening, gorgeous mouth.”
She was leaning against him, her head thrown back in abandon. “Maddening?”
“In all senses of the word.” He brushed a light kiss on the corner of her lips. “Infuriating and beguiling enough to drive me out of my wits from desire.”
She shivered. “Desire ...”
His low laugh was harsh. “You know I want you—beyond all temperance or reason. Do you want me? Tell me, Joan, before I truly do run mad ...”
She opened her eyes, more than a little drunk on the fervor in his words and the burning passion in his kisses. And, perhaps, just a shade, on the champagne. His face was taut with hunger, his body rigid in her arms. “I do,” she said. “Now kiss me.”
He kissed her. Deeply, hungrily, possessively. Joan felt a flicker of surprise—was this the sort of unwise kiss Evangeline had warned her about?—before she succumbed to the carnal promise it offered. It seemed as though she had waited her entire life for a kiss such as this. He tasted of champagne, and every stroke of his tongue against hers seemed to reinvigorate the feeling of fizzing in her blood. She clung to him, laying herself open for his conquest. There was no more resistance in her; he had won—her heart, her mind, and most definitely her body.
“I want to taste your skin.” He whispered the words against her lips as his fingers played with the fastening of her gown.
“Yes,” she sighed, letting him urge her back until she leaned against the pilaster. Her bodice loosened and he skimmed his fingers along the neckline, teasing it down until her breasts were only covered by her shift. His mouth followed, blazing a hot, wet trail over the highly sensitized flesh of her bosom. By the time his thumb grazed her nipple, it was already standing firm and eager. With a faint growl he yanked her corset and shift down, and sucked the rigid nub into his mouth.
Her mouth fell open in a silent cry. He sank down on one knee, suckling her by turns roughly, and then delicately. She groped for support and ended with her hands threaded through his long hair, speechlessly urging him on as he moved to her other breast, leaving each stinging and full.
“Sweeter than strawberries,” he rasped. “Richer than cream.” His hands moved down, from her waist over her hips and down the backs of her legs until he reached her knee. “Spread your legs a little for me, darling. Yes, like that ...” he crooned, urging her feet apart. “I want to drive you mad.”
