Again the Magic (Wallflowers 0.5)(60)

His fingers touched the edge of her jaw, stroking delicately. The gentle caress made Livia’s heart throb violently. He held her gaze deliberately, his fingertips playing on her skin until he found the tender hollow behind her earlobe. “Anyone would love you.”

Livia could not seem to look away from him. He was a dangerous man, offering sensation in lieu of safety, passion instead of protection. Once she never would have believed that she would consider having an affair with a man whom she didn’t love. But there was something tantalizing about him, a promise of wicked enjoyment, of fun, that she found impossible to resist.

Impulsively she leaned forward and touched her mouth to his. The texture of his lips was smooth and silken, cool at first, then warming rapidly. As before, his kisses were playful, expressive, nipping with gentle curiosity, then pressing with more purposeful intent. After coaxing her lips apart, he settled in for a long, open kiss, his tongue delving in soft exploration.

As Livia squirmed closer to him, she felt the tension of his body, the taut muscle of his chest and abdomen…and lower down, a rising pressure that made her flush in sudden awareness. His hand moved over her back in a lazy circle, influencing her to lean harder against him, until one of her hands encountered the edge of the silver flask. The metal object interfered with her explorations, giving her an unwelcome jolt of reality.

Livia pulled back, smiling and trembling.

“Don’t go yet,” Shaw murmured, feeling the way she tensed in preparation to climb off his lap.

His hand was at her waist, and she reluctantly pushed it away. “I can’t do this with my entire family watching, Mr. Shaw.” She gestured at the rows of solemn-faced ancestors lining the walls.

Shaw responded with a slow smile. “Why not? Don’t they approve of me?”

Livia pretended to consider the question seriously, contemplating the countless austere Marsden faces. “They don’t seem to. Perhaps they should get to know you better.”

“No,” he replied without hesitation. “I don’t improve on closer acquaintance.”

She arched her brows, wondering if the statement had been made out of sincerity, or manipulation, or merely a dark sense of humor. Unable to decide, she shook her head with a reluctant smile. “Actually, the closer you are, the more I like you.”

Instead of replying, Shaw took her small head in both his hands and pulled her close, and crushed a kiss on her mouth. The smacking imprint of his lips was hardly romantic—it was too hard, too fast, though gratifyingly enthusiastic. Yet it affected Livia even more intensely than the languid, soft searching of a few minutes earlier.

Releasing her, Shaw watched as Livia slid from his lap. The floor seemed to slant beneath her feet before she finally regained her balance. Shaw settled back in the throne, staring at her in a way that drew a quiver from deep in her abdomen.

“What are you thinking?” Livia whispered, echoing his earlier question.

He answered with a startling lack of pretense. “I’m wondering how much I can take from you without hurting you.”

It was then that Livia was certain of something: before Gideon Shaw returned to America, she and he were going to be lovers. She saw from the expression in his eyes that he knew it too. The knowledge filled her with a shivery kind of anticipation. Blushing, she backed away from him a step or two, and murmured good night. Turning to walk away from him, she could not resist throwing a glance over her shoulder.

“I’m not afraid of being hurt,” she murmured.

He smiled faintly. “All the same…you’re the last person in the world I want to cause any harm.”

Aline discovered that the door to her room was half open, with golden lamplight spilling invitingly into the hallway. Desperately self-conscious, she went inside and hesitated as she saw Mrs. Faircloth waiting at a chair near the grate. Her usual bath had been placed in the center of the room, with a kettle of scalding water on the hearth.

Naturally Mrs. Faircloth understood everything in one incisive glance.

Aline closed the door, not looking at the housekeeper. “Good evening, Mrs. Faircloth. If you will unfasten the back of my gown, I will manage everything else by myself. I don’t need any help tonight.”

“Yes, you do,” Mrs. Faircloth said, coming to her.

Wry amusement broke through Aline’s misery. There was no possible chance that the housekeeper would ignore this turn of events without having her say. After helping Aline off with her gown, Mrs. Faircloth fetched the kettle from the hearth and warmed the bath with a new infusion of boiling water. “I expect you’re sore,” the housekeeper said. “The hot water will help.”

Turning crimson all over, Aline unhooked her corset and dropped it to the floor. The sudden inrush of oxygen made her dizzy, and she waited until she felt steadier before removing the rest of her clothes. The tight cinch of her garters had left dark red rings around her thighs, and she sighed in relief as she untied them and removed her stockings. Filled with the uncomfortable suspicion that the things that she had done with McKenna were probably visible on her body, Aline hurriedly entered the bath. She sank down into the water with a hiss of comfort.

Mrs. Faircloth went to straighten various articles around the room, while a pair of notches appeared in the space between her silvery brows. “Did he see the scars?” she asked quietly.

Aline let the top of her right knee break through the steaming surface of the water. “No. I managed things so that he didn’t notice them.” She narrowed her eyes against the sudden sting of tears, willing them not to fall. “Oh, Mrs. Faircloth, it was such a mistake. And so appallingly wonderful. Like finding a part of my soul that had been ripped away.” She grimaced in self-mockery at the melodrama of the words.