Count Maxime's Virgin. Susan StephensЧитать онлайн книгу.
like a dangerous pirate. A pirate dressed by Savile Row, of course.
‘Are you all right?’ Lucien enquired, sensing her interest.
Better than all right. But as the keen black stare remained fixed on her face she went all wobbly inside and quickly folded her hands primly in her lap. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied politely.
Her simple remark prompted the wickedest look, as if Lucien knew her innocent pose covered some very naughty undercurrents and she gasped as his hand covered hers, though it was barely there for a moment. When he took his hand away she gazed down, certain his print would be branded there. She remained quite still after that, hardly able to believe the Count of Ferranbeaux had actually touched her. Then Freya said something and the spell was broken as Lucien turned away to take part in Guy and Freya’s far livelier conversation, leaving her to watch his sensual lips move as he spoke, and dream more dreams as she inhaled his fabulous cologne.
How was she to guess he would turn so quickly and catch her looking at him? It was a relief when he said nothing to embarrass her, but, as one of his ebony brows peaked, she guessed he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.
Turning away to hide her burning face, Tara retreated into her thoughts, where she could have the luxury of the most frenzied fantasies. The conversation buzzed around her, but she was oblivious to it. She was too busy revelling in a fantasy world where a much older man was about to introduce a young, untried girl to a range of forbidden pleasures.
Freya’s voice jerked her rudely out of this happy state. ‘Come on, Tara, drink up,’ she insisted impatiently.
Tara’s cheeks flamed red as everyone turned to look at her. She had been trying so hard to keep up with Freya’s drinking, for fear of being ridiculed, but had failed miserably. She had resorted to pouring her champagne into a conveniently placed plant pot when no one was looking, but now had no alternative other than to drain her glass.
Taking her by surprise, Lucien lifted it from her hand. ‘We shouldn’t kill too many plants,’ he murmured discreetly, drinking it down, ‘or they might not let us come here again—’
‘Would that upset you?’ Tara exclaimed, instantly concerned that she had offended him.
‘Not a bit,’ he confided, leaning close so that her face tingled with his warmth.
Of course he pulled away again, but not before she had felt a glow of happiness at sharing this private moment with him. She knew it was going nowhere, but made an extra effort to look good when he turned away. She smoothed her skirt and tried to tug it down to appear respectable, but it was Freya’s and Freya liked to wear her skirts short. Adjusting her position on the banquette, Tara tried again. It was suddenly very important to her that Lucien shouldn’t be ashamed of being seen with her. He was so elegant and she already liked him far too much to show him up.
She mustn’t let these daydreams get out of hand, Tara’s sensible inner voice warned. It was clear to everyone that Lucien Maxime was only trying to make her feel at ease and would barely register her existence by tomorrow.
Realising her restlessness had caused a pause in the conversation, Tara listened to her own good advice and remained very still. It would suit her best to be invisible for the rest of the evening, she decided.
They moved on to a restaurant, where Tara watched closely to make sure she was using the correct cutlery for each course. Lucien was kind again, arranging her napkin and spreading paté on her toast when she had been about to attack it with a knife and fork. She reached for some more bread, but quickly withdrew her hand when Freya gave her a warning look. They had agreed that Tara mustn’t put on any more weight.
‘You haven’t finished your meal, I hope?’ Lucien smiled at her as she scrunched her napkin anxiously. ‘Here, try this… No…? A spear of asparagus won’t hurt you.’
Asparagus with butter dripping from it? Tara shook her head a second time, but Lucien insisted on feeding the succulent spear to her himself, even mopping her chin with his own napkin when butter smeared her lips. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he blotted some of the juice with his thumb sucking it whilst holding her gaze. This had an alarming effect on her, coaxing endless little pleasure pulses out of those secret places she wanted him to touch. Deciding a man like Lucien would surely know that made her cheeks fire up again. If there was a more sensual message a man could deliver to a woman, Tara couldn’t imagine what it might be. But how she was supposed to respond to such advances remained a mystery to her.
She must be joined to Lucien by some invisible chain, Tara decided as her gaze kept wandering to him. Perhaps she was bewitched by him for, rather than wishing the evening could be over with, or that she could be invisible, she wanted the night to last for ever.
Freya soon put a stop to that, announcing that it was time to move on to an all night jazz club.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ Lucien reassured Tara, seeing how concerned she was. ‘You’re coming home with me…’
Tara’s face lit up. She was so grateful to Lucien. An early night, safe and alone with her dreams, was exactly what she wanted.
CHAPTER TWO
TARA was so relieved to hear that Lucien was taking her home she relaxed immediately and threw him a grateful glance. Then she saw how delighted Freya was and realised she’d missed the meaning behind Lucien’s message. Going home with him meant going back to his hotel room.
She felt such a fool when they arrived outside the grand entrance to Lucien’s magnificent penthouse suite, and only fear of upsetting Freya prompted her to follow him inside. Freya’s insistent whispering before they’d parted—that everything was going so well for her and Guy that Tara mustn’t screw things up now—was ringing in her head. Her fate was sealed, Tara realised the moment Lucien closed the door, for if there was an eighteen-year-old who could resist the Count of Ferranbeaux’s brutally masculine charm it wasn’t her.
She stepped cautiously across a cream-coloured carpet with pile so deep it felt like a mattress and gazed in awe at antique mirrors framed in gold, and at grand vases in matching pairs as tall as she was. The furniture was antique and both fabrics and walls were decorated in ivory and cream, as if dirt wouldn’t dare to intrude here. The ceilings were high and decorated with gilt and plasterwork, and there was a heady fragrance in the air which she couldn’t place at first, and then she realised it was wealth.
She was so entranced that Lucien had to take her by the elbow and lead her into the next room. This room was equally ornate, with arched windows dressed in heavy soft gold silk and a fire burning silently behind a glass screen.
‘It’s fake,’ Lucien murmured, seeing her staring at the fire.
Of course she knew that, Tara pretended, reddening as she gave a little self-conscious laugh. It was a gas flame fire; she could see that now. She turned away quickly, though how she was supposed to act nonchalant amidst all this luxury, she had had no idea. She was standing in the middle of an intimate sitting room of a type she had no idea existed in hotels. It was a home away from home for the super-rich, she surmised, with magazines on the table, books on the shelves and an assortment of fruit that looked as if it had been picked that very morning. There were pictures on the walls that might have been original works of art and, instead of wallpaper, fabric—silk—glowing softly in tones of rich bronze and…
‘Come over here and sit down before you fall over,’ Lucien prompted.
She turned to see him smiling at her. What a country bumpkin he must think her. She pulled herself together quickly and crossed the room, trying to look confident, but there were so many lamps and tables she hardly knew where to tread and, in her usual clumsy way, she managed to stumble over a chair leg. Gasping with alarm, she reached out, only to feel strong arms catching her.
‘Better now?’ Lucien commented good-naturedly, steadying her back on her feet.
She had felt so safe in his arms that perhaps she didn’t move as quickly as she ought to have done, and his next words proved it. ‘I was going to order