Sylvia Day - Perfect Kisses

Susannah had not empowered him to answer for her, of course, but he might as well. Mr. Tagore was right enough in saying that none of the gems belonged to her. The maharajah could have his gigantic diamonds back-if the old fellow wanted to give them the lesser stones for old times’ sake, who was Carlyle to say no?

“Mr. Tagore,” he said at last. “Tell me what you think the rubies and sapphires are worth. We may not need so many.”

The Indian man calculated the sum in his head, then named it.

“That will do very well,” Carlyle said with a smile. “On behalf of Miss Fowler, I accept the maharajah’s gift.”

They had moved from Albion Square to the Surrey countryside and set up housekeeping in a manor that was nearly new, although it had changed hands several times. There was no changing the climate, however, but the extent of their land enabled Carlyle to create a remarkable garden. For the first time since her return to England, Susannah felt that she could breathe.

He had hired the local stonemason to build her an open-air pavilion that overlooked a reflecting pool. At the moment the pool reflected nothing, being no more than a large, rectangular area of mud. But when it was fully dredged, filled and banked with stone, it would be very like the idyllic place where they had once played chess.

A pastime which they once again enjoyed, now that Carlyle could live as a gentleman. His brother, the earl, did not enjoy so grand a vista or so great a house. Carlyle’s proliferating nephews had taken over every room they could, and the unfortunate earl hid from them in his library, where he was writing a scholarly book about newts and salamanders, his new passion. He had given up on his wife and women in general.

A peacock strolled by, dragging its spectacular tail over the grass. It peered at Susannah as if she did not belong in its domain, and stalked away. She adjusted the bag slung over her shoulder and looked inside to be sure that her paints and paper were inside.

She had vowed to chronicle the construction of their love nest inside and out. The interior decoration had been completed first, in light and airy colors that reminded her of India. She had insisted on avoiding bric-a-brac, heavy curtains, and excess furniture-not that Carlyle cared about such things. He gave her a free hand where the house was concerned, preferring to concentrate his efforts on the garden, drawing up ambitious plans that required an army of men, supervising the removal and replanting of trees to create the vista he desired, and bargaining at the local fair for a flock of decorative sheep to keep the lawn short.

The velvety, close-cropped grass prickled under her bare feet. There was no one to see, no Mrs. Posey to scold her for going about barefoot. She had retired with a pension they provided, and seemed quite happy to do so. But some of the other servants had come along-Mr. Patchen and Molly being two.

Susannah had even sketched their portraits as they went about their daily routines, as she wished to remember it all. Molly in the kitchen, stirring an earthenware bowl at a stout pine table. Mr. Patchen on his knees transplanting crocus bulbs, a concerned look on his face as he patted down the covering earth. And Carlyle himself, riding about his little Eden on a big bay horse he had named Tagore, for some reason. She supposed he wanted to remember India too. Perhaps he’d had a friend by that name.

She found her favorite rock to sit upon-it was very large and quite flat, rising from the ground as if it sought the sun that warmed it. Susannah settled her bottom upon it and took her painting things out of the bag. She pulled out another book that Carlyle had given to her before they moved away from London. Her father had made it for her.

But he had instructed Carlyle not to give it to her right away. She was glad enough of that, because it meant much more to her now. He had told her that the heavy envelope in his hand was from her father and nothing more, and when he’d left her alone with it she’d opened it to find a scrapbook, an unexpected gift that had let her cry at last. Without her ever knowing of its existence, the book had been created over the course of her twenty-three years by her father, with a few early entries from the mother she had never known.

On its pages, he had jotted down his fond recollections of her as a very young child. Her refusal at the age of three to yield the right of way to a big white cow in a Jaipur street. The cow had prevailed, but she had called it a very naughty cow and its owner had requested baksheesh to salve his pride. Then there was the gaily decorated little wagon in which she took her dolls, Indian and European, out for an airing-he had done a wonderful sketch of it and many other drawings of Susannah.

His swift pen had captured her sturdy body and cropped hair, and a characteristic look of mischief in her eyes, as well as a definite and stubborn pout. But her father wrote that her pout that would turn quickly to a smile at the sight of an animal or bird, which he deftly sketched as well.

Once she had reached the awkward age, he hadn’t stopped adding to the book. That was a time she scarcely wanted to remember-the swinging between extremes of emotion, gloom one day, glee the next-and the way she had felt suddenly and dreadfully far too tall and too, well, womanly.

The final pages were begun when her father knew he was gravely ill, and they constituted his last words to her: So loving and so warm and so encouraging that she could not read them without dissolving in tears at first.

By now she had memorized most of it, especially the final page: I have lived my life and, and save for the loss of your mother, it was a happy one, because of you. And now, my Susannah, dear and only child born of our love-youmust begin your life without me. I have only a few words of advice: Think for yourself and follow your own star, as I have done. Joy is elusive, but it is worth looking for. And know that somewhere, somehow, I shall watch over you…

In his way, he had. And now, of course, she had Carlyle. Wherever her father was-not in heaven, not in hell, but perhaps in an afterlife that allowed for a few pleasurable sins-he would have approved of that.

As unconventional as their love was, it was exactly what she wanted, sustaining her heart and soul. She had meant the vows she’d spoken and so had he.

Much later that night, she lay under him after their lovemaking, giggling drowsily as he lavished caresses on her breasts, kissing them noisily and moving up her neck to growl in her ear and make her laugh some more.

Susannah had never regretted choosing him. No one else could make her feel this way and she wanted no other man. Of late she had been considering having his child. Considering his skill at the ultimate kiss-and the similar skills she had learned to satisfy him-she had not yet conceived, but that was all to the good.

They had spent many months exploring the techniques in the old book he had taken from Dr. Josephus’s library. She had even managed to decipher some of the ancient script and set it down in erotic poems, creating a pillow book for the two of them to read together. There was nothing he was not eager to try, but it had been some while before he permitted himself to penetrate her, waiting until he thought she was ready, and pleasuring her in myriad other ways.

He really did spoil her, no matter how much he complained about her imperial tendencies in and out of bed, simply because it amused him to do so. Susannah sighed with happiness when he lifted himself off and curled around her, one hand between her legs. She was slick and he-she felt the nudge from an eager shaft-he was hard again.

“Ahh. May I, my love?”

She decided to deny him. “I am not ready.”

His gentle fingers probed and teased. “I beg to differ. Mmm. Swollen and soft. Made for me.” He swept her tangled hair off her neck and bit her nape very nicely.

Susannah wriggled, pushing her bottom back against the curve made by his thighs and lower belly.

He groaned. “You are a tease.”

“Far from it. I have not recovered from our first time.” She pushed his exploring hand away. “Your lovemaking was so splendid and you-you are so virile that I have folded my petals, so to speak.”

He snorted and put his hand back where it had been. “And I shall open them.”

Susannah clamped her thighs around his hand.

“My heavens, what a powerful grip you have.” He pretended to be unable to yank his hand out, twiddling his fingers between her legs in a way she found irresistibly exciting. It was not easy to hold off, but it was amusing.

Carlyle forced his thigh between hers to open them. At last, laughing, she rolled on her back and let him top her again. But he did not enter her body at once, just looked down at her with love in his eyes.

Susannah looked at him quizzically. “Why are you waiting? What do you want?”

“Oh…just give me a kiss, Mrs. Jameson.”

She did.

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