A Dangerous Man (11 page)

But she could no longer think. Not of divorce or annulments or blame. He was standing altogether too close to her
person, holding on to her hands, his large, warm thumbs circling over her palms, the slight catch of his fingernails sending shivers up her arms. She swiped her tongue across her
lips, which felt as parched as if she were wandering lost in the
desert.

His gaze followed the course of her tongue.

"Do you grant me leave to kiss you?" His voice was a gruff
whisper ripped from his chest.

Her words in the carriage must have hurt him, she realized,
when she told him never to kiss her again. He would not
demand his husbandly rights. He would not take her if she
were not willing to give. He was making her choose.

Do you grant me leave to kiss you?

Her mind said no, but her heart said yes. He was her husband. For better, for worse. He was right. Despite the inauspicious beginning of their marriage, they had to build a future
together, and she loved him. She did not understand the how
or when or where or why of it. She only knew it was true.

Perhaps from the first moment she'd met him, or perhaps
from the moment of their first kiss, when she had felt all his
needs and his loneliness that matched her own desperate
yearnings.

Do you grant me leave to kiss you?

"Yes." Before the word even left her lips, his mouth covered hers, and all thoughts of divorce and annulments
dissolved, along with her fears. All that mattered was this
man and this moment, his lips moving fiercely over her
mouth.

She clung to his shoulders, breasts crushed to his chest, as
he dragged her against him, one large hand wrapped round
the back of her neck, the other pressing low on her spine. Her
thoughts swept away, lost in sensation, the heady heat of his
skin, the spicy scent of his hair, her pulse pounding madly.

This man, her husband, with his fathomless eyes and his
hungry kisses, his tongue teasing and tasting, his breath warm
on her skin. A moan slipped from her throat. The sound
seemed to inflame him, sent his hands around her back, his
fingers tugging loose the ribbons and buttons securing her
dress. As it slipped from her shoulders, soft silk pooling at her
feet, she shivered, not from cold, but unbearable need.

Her stays followed her dress, until only her thin shift remained. He swung her into his arms, mouth clinging to hers
as he brought her to bed. She should be afraid, but she felt
surprisingly safe, even as his long legs slid down her shins,
pressing her into the blankets. Firelight played over the harsh
lines of his face, the dark depths of his eyes.

Lifting her hand, she traced his cheeks, learning the shape
of his beard-roughened jaw. And then he was gone. Mesmerized, she watched as he drew off his coat, untangled his cravat
in slow, aching motions. By the time his waistcoat dropped to
the floor, she could not breathe, the air having disappeared
from the room, then his shirt came undone and he was lifting
it over his head. She closed her eyes.

Panic tried to claim her, urged her to leap from the bed, run
from the room, from the house, from this man, from the
danger beckoning her toward him. He does not love you, her
mind screamed. But he will, her heart told her.

He came down beside her, slid his hand along her jaw, his
thumb stroking and teasing, his skin rough and soft at the same time. He was not unaffected, his breath rushing in and
out of his chest, same as hers. "Leah," he said, her name
rolling from his tongue. Then, as if needing to say it again,
"Leah"

Good heavens, how she liked the sound of her name spoken
in his resonant voice, dark and seductive, that shook with the
same need burning within her. "I do not understand," she
whispered.

"You must trust me in this. This is as it should be between
us," he said, but there was a startled look in his eyes that confused her, a fierceness to his hands as he gripped her arms
before sliding his fingers into her hair, angling her head to
better fit his lips to her mouth.

Then he clasped her shift in his fists, drew it up past her
knees, and panic sent her hands to his wrists, gripping them.
He did not laugh at her maidenly fears. He withdrew his right
hand, stroked his fingers along her jaw until her eyes met his.

"Leah, you have no need to fear anything that will happen
between us, here in our bed. This I promise you, on my honor."

She wished she could speak, but her voice was trapped,
overcome with emotion. Covering his hand with hers, she
kissed his palm, telling him without words that she wanted
him, in her bed, in her body. This was right. This was love.

As he eased her shift past her shoulders, cold air shivered
over her skin, but the heat of his hands soon banished the chill.
His eyes darkened as his gaze roamed over her breasts, down
the length of her stomach to the curls between her thighs.

His breathing was ragged, and her skin was afire.

"You are perfect," he said, before lowering his mouth to her
throat, tracing a lazy path to her breasts. Licking, touching,
tasting his way from her belly to her hips. Everywhere his
tongue roamed he left shivering, burning flesh.

An uncomfortable yearning built in her belly, in her breasts,
in the damp skin between her thighs. She slid her fingers
though his hair, arched her back to better fit her breasts into his hands. Her breathing quickened until she was practically
panting, sending her breath over his skin.

She had not known, could never have imagined, where he
would touch her, the need he would arouse within her. His
finger slipping deep inside her, rubbing her most sensitive
flesh in slow, thrilling circles, stroking, teasing, seducing
shudders and moans from low in her throat.

As shyness fled, desire urged her to move her hands over
his shoulders, her mouth on his throat, learning the feel of
him, the taste of his skin, his muscles firm, hard, stretching
and straining beneath her palm. His dark gaze met hers, his
smile slow and seductive, and she knew she had pleased him.

She grew bolder still, sliding her hands down his arms,
spreading her fingers wide, running them over his chest, tracing the dark swirl of hair, lower and lower, but not so low as
to touch his sex boldly pressing into her thigh. She was not
quite brave enough yet.

When he finally moved over her, pushing his hips between
her thighs, she was not afraid. His eyes were intense, dark and
smoky, wanting her as much as she wanted him.

"Richard," she whispered. It was the first time she said his
name, and a powerful shudder ripped through him. His fingers twining with hers, he moaned her name as he took possession of her body in one rapid thrust.

She gasped, though the pain was not nearly as shocking as
she had expected, more of a searing ache, but he kissed her
and soothed her, and soon even that burning disappeared,
replaced by the most amazing sensations as he slowly withdrew, then slid deeper still. His mouth covered hers. His
hands gripped her hair. His scent filled her lungs. Her body
thrumming and aching, tension building, then she was shuddering, her mind floating away, as exquisite pleasure pulsed
through her body. She cried out his name, the muscles of her
passage convulsing.

He cradled her face between his palms, his eyes, dark and relentless as he hovered above her. "You are my wife," he
growled through clenched teeth. "There will be no more talk
of divorce or annulments. Do you understand?"

She tried to nod, but he seized her lips in a furious kiss, as
he thrust within her, as he shuddered above her, as he collapsed against her, as he gave her his seed.

His pulse racing swiftly, Richard rolled onto his side.
Hands wrapped firmly round her back, he pulled her to him
until they lay face to face, skin to skin, legs tangled beneath
the sheets. She felt so small, so fragile in his arms, her skin
still burning with the heat of their coupling, the sweet scent
of roses clinging to her hair, the more arousing fragrance of
their desire making him harden again, making him want her
again, though he had yet to catch his breath. His tongue still
held the taste of her mouth and her skin, but he wanted more.
So much more.

He had wanted to go slow, to make it last, make it good,
she was a virgin for pity's sake, but he had felt as if he were
the virgin, hands shaking, fingers fumbling, ready to spill his
seed just from kissing her. What was it about this woman that
made him lose his mind? His senses? His control?

His earlier words came back to haunt him.

This is as it should be between us, he had told her, but it
was not. He had lied. Sex was a bodily function. A meaningless joining of parts, a rush of release, then it was over.

It was not this perilous journey, fraught with emotion. Not
this heat of possessive longing. This dangerous bent of his
thoughts. His wife. His ... wife. His.

His last coherent thought before drifting off to sleep, arms
securely wrapped around Leah as she curled against his side,
was that he should have heeded logic and reason.

He should have sent her to Cornwall.

When Leah awoke the next morning, it was all she could
do not to pull the covers over her face and hide away in her
rooms.

She recognized her longing for exactly what it was: a cowardly reaction, a fluttering embarrassment at the thought of
seeing her husband again. Mumbling something about a
morning ride, he'd left over an hour ago, but not before he'd
pulled her close and kissed her to the point of breathless exhaustion.

Good heavens, what must he think of her?

She had certainly not followed her father's advice to lie still
and do her duty. No, she had behaved like a wanton, moaning
when his hands swept over her breasts, shivering as his fingers
slipped between her thighs. Just the memory of his mouth on
her throat, his tongue tasting and teasing, brought the heat of
longing to her belly, the burn of desire to her skin.

Still, she was not a coward. She would not hide.

Nor would she feel shame at having responded to her husband.

She loved him. She could admit it now, even if only to herself. She didn't understand it any better today than she had
yesterday, but she didn't care anymore. She loved him.

And he would come to love her, too. Perhaps not today
or tomorrow, but soon, he would love her as much as she
loved him.

But she would not win his love by cowering in her rooms.

She flung back her blankets, donned her wrapper, rang for
her maid. As she waited, she made a slow sweep of her rooms.

What had seemed hideous in the firelight was even more
so with the morning sun blazing on the yellow walls. The odd
assortment of tables and chairs brought to mind a Chinese
pagoda, Turkish temple and Egyptian tomb all at the same
time.

A young girl about the same age as Leah arrived, a bundle
of freshly ironed gowns draped over her arms. She bobbed a
curtsy. "Good morning, Your Grace. I'm Marielle. I've unpacked most of your trunks and had water brought up"

Your Grace. Leah shivered. She would never get used to it.
"Thank you, Marielle. A bath sounds heavenly."

She washed and dressed with excruciating care in a sprigged
muslin frock, the swirling gold woven within the fabric a perfect match to her hair. It was a foolish vanity, but she wanted
Richard to see her as an elegant lady and not the raggedly
dressed hoyden he'd seen on more than one occasion.

Thank goodness he hadn't listened to her gibberish about
a divorce. It was an ill-conceived plan, she realized that now,
but she had been so frightened, nearly desperate, until he had
shown her without words that she belonged to him.

A burning flush spread through her cheeks. She had to stop
thinking about him or she would never get anything done.

She scribbled a note to her aunt, and another to Mrs. Bristoll with her new direction, then handed the missives to the
maid.

"Marielle, please see that these are delivered."

A quick pat of her hair, a few deep breaths to steady her
swirling stomach, then she opened the door and proceeded
down the stairs. Once she reached the bottom, she froze.

One look around the massive hall with its gilding and
marble reminded her that she had no idea where she was or
where she was going. Richard had said he would introduce
her to the servants and give her a tour of the house when he
returned.

Perhaps she should have remained in her rooms after all.

Luckily, Geoffrey came down the steps behind her. He was
dressed for riding, his brown eyes gleaming at her as he
grinned. "Good morning, sister. You look confused. Could you,
perhaps, be searching for breakfast?"

Leah laughed. "You save me again, Geoffrey. I begin to
think you my knight-errant."

"At your service," he said with a regal bow and a flourishing sweep of his hands.

Chatting happily about the fine day and beautiful weather,
he linked his arm through hers and led her down the corridor.

As they strolled past the library that looked as if it housed
ten thousand books, Leah found herself gaping like a traveler
in a foreign land. Each room they passed was more elegant
and exquisitely furnished than the one before.

Her stomach grew queasy, her hands cold. While her childhood home was lovely enough as a tribute to her father's
wealth, it could not compare with this grand palace masquerading as a house. The frightened child inside Leah wanted
to run back to her rooms and hide, but she refused to give in
to her insecurities. She was mistress of this home now.

"And this is the dining room," he said, then turned to leave.

"Wait! Aren't you eating?"

"Can't. I am engaged to meet with friends, and I am late."

Leah squeezed her hands for a moment, her fingernails
digging into her palms. She breathed slowly and deeply, then
stepped inside the room. It was empty.