“Drink your wine, Cassandra, it will take the taste from your mouth.”
When Marrina returned to clear the dishes from the table, Cassie was seated beside the earl on the settee, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. She was saying, laughter lurking in her voice, “Really, my lord, your reading of Shakespeare’s sonnets leaves much to be desired. You must be more dramatic in your rendering.”
“Be patient, madam, one must accustom oneself to the poet’s high-flown phrases. More wine?”
She giggled and thrust out her empty glass. “I discover that I am liking your Parese wine more with each glass.”
He allowed her one more glass before he laid down the red leather tooled volume and turned to her.
She saw a look in his dark eyes, one they had not held in a long time. When he lightly touched his fingers to her cheek, she realized vaguely that it was desire she saw.
“I think, my lord,” she said slowly, “that you are trying to make me drunk.”
“But you are already in your cups, Cassandra.” He took the glass from her fingers and gazed at her ruefully. “ Actually, cara, it was my intent to make you only sufficiently drunk so that I could s
educe you.”
She stared at him, her expression blank. “You want to make love to me?”
“Of course. Was not my selection of Shakespeare’s most moving sonnets enough of a clue to you?”
She looked away from him and whispered vaguely, the wine slurring her words. “It has been so long. And I am afraid.”
“Afraid of me?”
She shook her head slowly. “More afraid of myself, I think, and what I would feel toward you, if we—”
“If we began to make love again?”
“Yes.”
“What you want and what you feel toward me is not something to fear, cara. You do not still fear that you will see me again as Andrea, do you?”
“I do not believe so. But I am afraid that I will feel nothing, save disgust for myself.”
“You did not tell me this before, Cassandra.”
She shrugged helplessly, and gave him a crooked smile. “I was not drunk before.”
He pulled her gently into his arms and held her. He felt her head loll against his shoulder, and cupped her chin in his hand, lifting her face to his. She closed her fingers over his, and to his delight, pressed her mouth against his.
He unfastened the row of tiny buttons over her bodice, and lightly brushed his palm over her breasts. She stiffened at his touch.
“Look at your breasts, cara.”
Unwittingly, she lowered her head and stared dumbly at herself. Her breasts ached and felt swollen, as if he had been fondling them.
His voice continued caressing and soft, yet he remained motionless, his eyes holding hers. Her fingers clutched convulsively at her bodice, gathering it beneath her breasts.
“You want me, Cassandra. It is time you admitted that to yourself.”
“I do not know what I want anymore,” she said, and pressed her cheek against his chest.
He cupped her chin again and looked into her eyes, wide with uncertainty. “I will show you, cara.”
He kissed her deeply, savoring the warmth of her mouth. He kept kissing her as he pulled her to her feet, leaving her only to ease her from her gown and undergarments. She was staring up at him, her eyes wide and questioning, but her body arched against him, as if with a will of its own. He molded her against him and breathed in the sweet fragrance of her hair.
He released her a moment, silently cursing the time it took him to strip off his own clothing.