Something to ponder as she undressed without a maid and donned her nightdress, carefully folding her gown over the back of a chair. She went to the window and stared outside, physically tired from the journey, but with her mind restive, her hand lingering once again over the growing swell of their child. The fire had frightened her, but it had also been enlightening.
In the almost year they had now been married, she had seen her husband display only varying emotions, but the night before he had been furiously angry. Utterly, completely and beyond question jarred out of his usual formidable composure.
Did he love her?
She was starting to believe it. Maybe it was the child she carried that sparked such a primal response, but she didn’t think that was it entirely.
The moon was out, clouds drifting across the night sky, giving fitful bouts of light, and she wasn’t surprised when she saw two figures walking in the garden, hand in hand, the light lilt of a musical laugh ringing out, unmistakable and joyful.
Whatever happened next, she hoped Ben was true to his word and resolved their predicament quickly, but at least, she thought with an inner smile, they had this evening.
Chapter 19
I
t really was remarkably freeing to simply walk beneath a moon that lit gossamer clouds into ethereal shapes, the garden silent and dark except for the light spill of water from a distant fountain.
Rather like the night was created just for them. A hopelessly romantic thought, but then again, Angelina made him feel that way.
Christopher wasn’t a fanciful man. Far from it. His mind created functional shapes and straight lines and vaulted roofs that mathematically supported their immense weight, but tonight was the sort of evening that conjured sybaritic dreams.
Angelina glanced up and smiled. “What a beautiful sky, my lord.”
“I agree. And yet it pales in comparison to you.”
“Thank you.”
“The simple truth.”
“Is that why you fell in love with me?”
Had he not been waiting for the question to surface eventually, he might have been insulted. Was it a burden to be so extraordinarily blessed with such an ideal of womanly perfection in a physical sense? He’d wondered about that before, and since she had been married twice just for that reason, he couldn’t fault her wariness.
“No. You are more than just a lovely set of tits and thighs, though I admit I do appreciate both those things.”
His grin compensated for the crudity of what he had just said, or so he hoped. He touched her bare shoulder. “Let me rephrase; I was speaking lightly. If you didn’t have a remarkable intellect, a sense of humor that matches mine, and most important, a notion of honor that would put most men to shame, I would not be so enchanted. It is the sum of what you are as a person that appeals to me most about you. I admit I am very attracted in a physical sense—I am a man, but please credit me with more depth than to admire you solely for your beauty alone.”
She stared straight ahead as they walked, her downcast gaze suddenly on the glint of the stones in the path. He heard her inhale deeply. “I do . . . I
do
. But you must forgive me for being so distrustful of happiness.”
“It will be my pleasure to cure you of that particular malaise, my sweet.”
Her skirts brushed the path in a soft rustle. “If we do marry, I think I would very much like to spend my time in the country. My small home is comfortable, but I fear you’d find it much too modest. Tell me about your seat in Surrey.”
“
When
we marry,” he corrected with indulgent patience. “How often do I need remind you that event is going to happen?”
“At every turn,” she responded without apology. “The past few years have taught me a great deal about any assumptions that life will follow the course I anticipate. Christopher . . . tell me.”
The question didn’t precisely make him uncomfortable as much as reflective. “My great-grandfather designed the house. I suppose that is where I inherited my desire to create buildings. It isn’t massive either, but much like this one except somewhat whimsical, if you will. After all, it has turrets and battlements, though those were long out of fashion or necessity, but he still added them, and I must admit, it gives the building the effect of having grandiose presence on a miniature scale.” He paused, his boots crunching stone, the scent of smoke faint in the air like a lingering promise of the coming winter. “I think that house taught me that buildings could have character and personality, like a living thing. And when contemplated, it is true, is it not? They hold people, nurture and shelter them. We fill the walls and corridors with our most precious belongings, count on the protection against the elements of the various seasons, and pass these structures on to our children. We are birthed and die inside their safe harbor, and when all is said and done and we are dust, they still stand in silent testimony to our ingenuity and presence on this earth.”
There now, he hadn’t meant to get quite so carried away.
Angelina turned in the shimmer from the stars, her hair gleaming like ebony silk, her face a pale oval. “I rather think,” she said softly, “I fell in love with you for many reasons, one of which is because you have an artistic soul. I’ve never met anyone so willing to share it.”
“Architects have no choice.” He admired the ivory curve of her cheek and the graceful column of her neck, his hand tightening on hers, weaving their fingers together. “But whatever the reason, I am an extremely lucky man to have you in my life. Marry me, Angelina. Let us take this time away and make a commitment to each other. Lady Heathton can be your witness; I will find someone to attend the ceremony . . . A special license will take care of the haste . . . Marry me.”
“I . . .”
“Say yes. We love each other. Most of those in our class marry for social position or money. We have something special and we should celebrate it. Marry me.”
“I can’t risk you.”
“Damn all.” He almost turned away from her in frustration but kept himself from it because this was exactly the wrong time to do it. He took her hands. “My love, all of life is a risk. From the moment you rise in the morning, and for that matter even when you tuck yourself safely in bed and close your eyes. We never know what is going to happen and we never will have that sort of knowledge. Who would even want it? Please, agree to become my wife. We will work all of the rest of it out; I give you my word.”
She weakened. He saw it in the vulnerable set of her mouth. “Christopher . . .”
“All you need to do is say yes. One single word.”
And she finally did. Barely a whisper, but it was there.
“Yes.”
He’d never felt so triumphant in his life.
And he would remember it forever.
“Tell me, have you ever made love in a garden by moonlight, Lady DeBrooke?”
“I beg your pardon?” She looked up at him, her eyes such a perfect silver color, reflecting the light.
“I think you just gifted me with agreeing to become my wife. I can think of no better way to celebrate . . . A man and a woman do not always need a bed. Out of doors it can be . . . a unique experience.”
“Christopher!”
He’d learned quickly that despite two marriages, her limited knowledge in the bedroom was to passively accept his desire for her tempting body. First he’d had to coax her into the awakening of sexual enjoyment, and since then, it had been his delight to encourage a greater sense of adventure in his arms.
He wanted to give her so much more.
“Didn’t we both just agree it was a beautiful night? Not cool, not warm, and with just a whisper of a breeze.” He drew her toward where a stone bench was sheltered in a corner of yew and manicured rosebushes, most of which had blossoms losing the battle to the encroaching winter. “There’s no one around and I need you.”
“Upstairs I can come to your room or you to mine and—”
“But I want you now,” he said, registering her breathless tone with intense satisfaction. The idea clearly intrigued her. “And I think you also want me.” His tone deepened. “I like the moonlight on your hair and the way the shadows glide across your skin.”
Only two ivory combs secured her chignon and he pulled them free, the softness of her loosened long tresses flowing over his hands. He bent to kiss her, his tongue gliding deeply into her mouth, and her hands came up to rest on his shoulders as she leaned into the embrace, her utterly feminine sigh of enjoyment muted by his mouth covering hers.
She was his. Truly his.
Arousal flared through him and he hardened, cupping her bottom through her gown and pulling her tightly against him so she could feel how much he wanted her. Thigh to thigh, curve to plane, his mouth hungry and possessive . . .
Christopher broke the kiss and stepped back to shrug out of his jacket, tossing it carelessly so it landed on top of the bench. “Unfasten your bodice. I want to touch you.”
Fine brows rose a little at his autocratic tone and he couldn’t help but smile. “Let me rephrase lest I compromise your sense of independence. Lady DeBrooke, would you please allow me the privilege of fondling your very delectable bosom? Is that polite enough?”
She laughed spontaneously, which in his opinion didn’t happen often enough. “That is a very scandalous suggestion, my lord.” She theatrically lowered her long lashes and said teasingly, “A true lady would never allow a gentleman such liberties.”
“A true gentleman wouldn’t ask, now would he?” His smile turned positively wolfish. “Nor would he ravish her in the moonlight, but I intend to do just that.”
Slender fingers went to her bodice to slip one of the tiny pearl buttons there free. “And if I resisted?”
“I would convince you. I can be very importunate.”
Her gaze held his. “I know.”
When it came to her, that was true enough. He’d bedded her the second night after they met, waiting until her maid was dismissed for the evening, lurking like a brigand on the balcony outside her room until he knew she was alone, and then slipping into her room uninvited.
Well, not precisely uninvited, for they had both known from the instant their paths crossed that it—
this
, he thought as she opened her gown—was fated to be between them. He swiftly unbuttoned his shirt as she pulled loose the ribbon on her chemise.
Nothing had ever been so sure in his life.
The pale gleam of her glorious breasts sent any semblance of order from his thoughts, her nipples already slightly peaked, rosy in the filtered light, made for his hands and mouth. His shirt hanging open, half pulled from his breeches, he urged her to sit down on the bench and knelt before her, cupping the weight of her exposed flesh in his hands and bending his head to trace the mounded fullness with his tongue. Her skin was like warm satin and tasted faintly of violets, and when he suckled her nipple, she tightened her hands on his shoulders and arched her spine.
The hermitage of the secluded alcove in the deserted garden was perfect he decided when she gasped a moment later, his teeth lightly grazing the taut peak in his mouth. One hand steadied her on the bench at the small of her back, but the other brushed up her skirts to travel along the lissome length of first a shapely calf, the back of her bent knee, and then up a smooth thigh to his ultimate goal.
When his fingertips found the soft curls between her legs, he felt dampness and heat, and as he parted the folds of her sex and one finger slid into her, her eyes drifted shut.
“You’re ready for me,” he whispered, his voice deliberately wicked. “So wet and exquisitely hot, I can’t wait to be inside you, but I think I can postpone my need for a few moments to make sure this is perfect.”
He had made some progress in her sexual education, as she didn’t object when he lifted the froth of her skirts up around her waist, baring those long legs with their enticing garters and silk stockings, and lowered his head at the same time his hands pressed her thighs apart.
“Brace your hands behind you,” he advised, then licked a slow path to his destination, a spot that caused the first telltale quiver.
Angelina did as instructed, her throat arched back in the moonlight.
Maybe this exile was a gift after all, he decided, nibbling, tasting her femininity, taking his time as he brought her to the brink with his mouth and tongue, sensing every tremble, hearing the changes in her breathing.
Heathton might just be a genius.
* * *
It was impossible she was doing this.
Her body still pulsing, she was sprawled atop a garden bench, lax, Christopher’s arm the only barrier keeping her from sliding off completely. The tumultuous sensations elicited by the erotic foray of his tongue between her legs were exacerbated by the quiet garden, the filmy moonlight . . . and . . . it happened.
Ecstasy. It invaded her mind, her trembling body, the very edge of consciousness . . .
She cried out during her climax, which might summon a servant, and to her amazement she didn’t care.
It was beautiful, it was about more than the pleasure, and the cool air wafting over her damp, hot skin made it even more magical.
She’d finally agreed to be his wife.
With effortless ease Christopher readjusted her position so she didn’t fall in a limp puddle on the ground as he rose and unfastened his breeches, his handsome face holding indulgent amusement.
“I knew you would like this.” Freeing his erection, the stiff length of it stark in the uneven light, he sat down next to her and lifted her into his arms to face him. “I don’t want this hard surface at your back, so you will have to ride me.”
Not half a year ago, she would have been completely confused, but Angelina caught his general meaning well enough, and when he pulled her onto his lap, she lifted to her knees to accommodate him as he guided his cock to her entrance. Still, shockingly enough, she wore her unfastened gown and her stockings and even her slippers.
“Sink down,” he murmured in her ear, stirring her hair. “Take me all the way inside you.”
She wanted to, she wanted every bit of him, and not just in a physical way, but emotionally, spiritually, as if he were a religion she could follow. Until now, until this night, she hadn’t thought it possible. But Lord Heathton had sent his lady with them, so she was starting to wonder if his resolve wasn’t a daunting entity and he might just succeed in finding out who was behind the misery in her life.
When that happened, she could put it all behind her.
As a result, a certain freedom lent her less restraint, less shyness, and she boldly impaled her body on her lover’s rigid shaft, inch by delicious inch, not sure where this wanton woman came from who would dare make love in a shrouded garden, whispering in his ear, “Is this what you want?”
His hands cupped her hips as he stared at her. “Is there any question? Just move, love. I need you to move.”
She did, not smoothly at first, but aided by his grip, she rose up and then sank back down, the slick friction pleasurable enough for her to make a small involuntary sound each time, echoing the increased rasp of his respiration. Christopher buried his face against her breasts, the scorch of his breath a contrast to the cool breeze caressing her bare shoulders, and the rhythm intensified, whether because her need was rising, or his, she wasn’t sure.