found herself in his arms.
It felt good. So good that the fleeting urge to be free slipped away like late morning mist, forgotten in the rush of heat that suffused her at the sensation of skin against silk against warm male. It had been a long time since she’d reveled in the embrace of a man’s body.
Did he speak? Did he use a hand? Surely she would have felt the withdrawal of one of those encircling arms. However it was, he directed her to look up and she complied and raised her face for his kiss.
He’d learned a lot since he’d kissed her in the churchyard of São Francisco. At first his lips, cool and firm, seemed familiar, propelling her back to a magic moment in a Portuguese evening in 1807. Then he opened them to ravish her mouth with a heat and passion beyond the capacity of the younger man. But he tasted the same. He was still Max.
He was no innocent now, and neither was she; every thrust and nip she returned with interest. Weaving eager fingers into his hair she urged him on, drawing him closer as his mouth swept the line of her jaw with a hot caress and down the curve of her neck to the sweet spot where her pulse hammered.
She was incapable of coherent sound; the renowned throat of Europe’s most celebrated soprano emitted only low moans.
Nor was he any more articulate. Between kisses he made hoarse rasps that might have been words, but conveyed no meaning but that of want. His large hands, stroking her back and kneading her behind, pulling her against the evidence of his desire, carried the same message.
Something bumped the back of her thighs. The bed.
No! This isn’t wise .
Yes ! Her body, every nerve molten, urged her otherwise. Hands cradled his skull like a gypsy holding a crystal ball while their tongues tangled in a wild fandango.
No . She was still angry at this man.
Yes, yes, yes . Forget doubts, forget fear, forget the past, forget everything save this moment, this room, and this man. He reached for the closure of her robe and she leaned in, silently begging for his hands on her bare breasts.
But his assault on the garment was interrupted by a knock, eliciting a brief but violent oath from him. She broke free, breathing hard, uncertain whether to be glad or sorry.
“I’ve brought tea for the lady,” said the footman.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hail, sweet enchantress! Music’s Queen,
Whose matching tones in mingling measure,
Have raised my soul beyond the scene
Of worldly woes or common pleasures.
Flung on the stage as a tribute to Madame Foscari
C urled up on the Pulteney’s elegant chaise longue, a soft paisley shawl thrown over her knees, Tessa tried to concentrate on her novel. She’d been enjoying Emma , a tale of quiet English country life given her by Sofie, who’d pronounced the book boring. Sofie preferred tales of headless specters, evil noblemen, damp dungeons, and ravishment. Not Tessa. Her life had been exciting enough without turning to literature for thrills. A life of respectability with nothing to worry about save one’s neighbors’ marriages sounded wonderful. She even envied the heroine her invalid father, wished she had a parent, even a fussy and demanding one.
But today her mind was elsewhere and she couldn’t keep a foolish grin off her face.
“You look cheerful.” Sofie, still wearing her bonnet, walked into the sitting room. “Angela told me what happened this morning. How does your throat feel?”
“It seems to have survived the experience,” Tessa replied. “Sempronio ran through some exercises with me. There’s no reason I shouldn’t sing tonight. I am very well.”
Better than well, in fact. She felt marvelous, filled with a kind of excited anticipation. “But how about you, my dear? I trust you didn’t get wet. I forgot that you were going out this morning?” She’d never forgive herself if Sofie, who was prone to chills, put her health in danger running an errand for her.
“I took the carriage and was quite warm and dry. Lucky Lord
It felt good. So good that the fleeting urge to be free slipped away like late morning mist, forgotten in the rush of heat that suffused her at the sensation of skin against silk against warm male. It had been a long time since she’d reveled in the embrace of a man’s body.
Did he speak? Did he use a hand? Surely she would have felt the withdrawal of one of those encircling arms. However it was, he directed her to look up and she complied and raised her face for his kiss.
He’d learned a lot since he’d kissed her in the churchyard of São Francisco. At first his lips, cool and firm, seemed familiar, propelling her back to a magic moment in a Portuguese evening in 1807. Then he opened them to ravish her mouth with a heat and passion beyond the capacity of the younger man. But he tasted the same. He was still Max.
He was no innocent now, and neither was she; every thrust and nip she returned with interest. Weaving eager fingers into his hair she urged him on, drawing him closer as his mouth swept the line of her jaw with a hot caress and down the curve of her neck to the sweet spot where her pulse hammered.
She was incapable of coherent sound; the renowned throat of Europe’s most celebrated soprano emitted only low moans.
Nor was he any more articulate. Between kisses he made hoarse rasps that might have been words, but conveyed no meaning but that of want. His large hands, stroking her back and kneading her behind, pulling her against the evidence of his desire, carried the same message.
Something bumped the back of her thighs. The bed.
No! This isn’t wise .
Yes ! Her body, every nerve molten, urged her otherwise. Hands cradled his skull like a gypsy holding a crystal ball while their tongues tangled in a wild fandango.
No . She was still angry at this man.
Yes, yes, yes . Forget doubts, forget fear, forget the past, forget everything save this moment, this room, and this man. He reached for the closure of her robe and she leaned in, silently begging for his hands on her bare breasts.
But his assault on the garment was interrupted by a knock, eliciting a brief but violent oath from him. She broke free, breathing hard, uncertain whether to be glad or sorry.
“I’ve brought tea for the lady,” said the footman.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hail, sweet enchantress! Music’s Queen,
Whose matching tones in mingling measure,
Have raised my soul beyond the scene
Of worldly woes or common pleasures.
Flung on the stage as a tribute to Madame Foscari
C urled up on the Pulteney’s elegant chaise longue, a soft paisley shawl thrown over her knees, Tessa tried to concentrate on her novel. She’d been enjoying Emma , a tale of quiet English country life given her by Sofie, who’d pronounced the book boring. Sofie preferred tales of headless specters, evil noblemen, damp dungeons, and ravishment. Not Tessa. Her life had been exciting enough without turning to literature for thrills. A life of respectability with nothing to worry about save one’s neighbors’ marriages sounded wonderful. She even envied the heroine her invalid father, wished she had a parent, even a fussy and demanding one.
But today her mind was elsewhere and she couldn’t keep a foolish grin off her face.
“You look cheerful.” Sofie, still wearing her bonnet, walked into the sitting room. “Angela told me what happened this morning. How does your throat feel?”
“It seems to have survived the experience,” Tessa replied. “Sempronio ran through some exercises with me. There’s no reason I shouldn’t sing tonight. I am very well.”
Better than well, in fact. She felt marvelous, filled with a kind of excited anticipation. “But how about you, my dear? I trust you didn’t get wet. I forgot that you were going out this morning?” She’d never forgive herself if Sofie, who was prone to chills, put her health in danger running an errand for her.
“I took the carriage and was quite warm and dry. Lucky Lord
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