Forever Your Earl (25 page)

She didn't have to wait long to find out. He grasped the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. Muscles bunched and flexed with the movement. And then, ah sweet heaven, he was bare to the waist.

“You don't have a nobleman's softness,” she said huskily.

He arched a brow as he planted his hands on his hips. “Do you have much experience with shirtless aristocrats?” That might have been a hint of jealousy in his voice, much to her gratification.

“None, but I can guess. Drinking and feasting and making merry cannot promote a certain physical robustness.” It stunned her that she was capable of speech at this moment.

Pressing a hand to his flat abdomen—­and, yes, the hair on his chest trailed down into a line that dipped beneath the waistband of his breeches—­he said, “Gout plagued my ancestors, and I wanted to ensure it didn't bedevil me. I fence, box, ride, swim.” His gaze darkened slightly. “Anything to keep moving.”

As though he were outrunning something. Perhaps himself. Whatever the cause, his actions had worked their enchantment on his body. He was hewn and sculpted, finer than any statue she'd seen at the British Museum, and she was particularly beguiled by the lines of muscle running in lovely chevrons down his hips, also to vanish beneath his breeches. Pointing the way.

Without his shirt or waistcoat, the shape of his arousal formed a thick curve underneath his trousers. Her hands itched to touch him. But she willed herself patience.

“You may continue.” She waved her hand airily, as if she could somehow make light of her need for him. It was a false hope, however.

He gave her another courtly bow, and it was a far different beast when the action was performed without a shirt. She watched the play of his muscles, feeling like a pagan queen accepting a tribute.

He toed off his shoes and then removed his stockings. All that was left were his breeches and smallclothes.

Her pulse soared off like a kite slipping free as his hands went to the fastenings of his trousers. With an instinct for torment, he took his time, slipping each button free. He stepped from his breeches, revealing himself only in his thin drawers. He might as well have been nude. The fabric was nearly transparent, allowing her to see plainly the beautiful shape of his upright cock. Tugging the drawstring open, he peeled away his drawers.

And now he stood before her, truly naked.

Lord help her. He was beautiful. Lean and hard and carnal.

“If this is the result of a life of dissolution,” she managed, “then I commend your every effort.”

“Enough talking.” He knelt on the edge of the bed and began to prowl toward her, like a wolf stalking his prey. “It's your turn.”

But she could still play at seduction. She arched her back, rising up onto her elbows, her chest pressing upward so that the neckline of her gown dipped even lower. Then, slowly, she rolled onto her stomach, presenting him with her back. “This gown wants removing.”

He didn't play fair. Instead of going straight for the closures of her dress, he skimmed his hands up her legs, stroked along the curve of her bottom, and lingered at the small of her back.

Pleasure shivered up her spine. No man had ever taken this much time with her, shaping pleasure from the simplest acts. Silk rustled all around her—­her gown, the counterpane beneath her. She was awash in heat and sensation.

Finally, he began to undo the fastenings, one by one.

As he did, he eased open the back of her dress, revealing more of her skin. His breath caressed each inch of flesh, and she shivered when he pressed his lips down the length of her exposed spine.

“That should do it,” he murmured.

She should say so. They had only just begun, and already she was pliable as melted wax.

She rolled onto her back, easing away from him, then stood. With her gaze holding his, feeling like the incarnation of sensuality, she stripped away her gown.

She'd never done anything so bold. Yet it felt profoundly right with him. To liberate herself completely. Be the sensual creature that dwelt beneath the surface of her pragmatic, businesslike skin.

Kneeling at the side of the bed, Daniel helped with the removal of the gown, peeling it from her body. His hands lingered, stroking and caressing. Stoking her flame ever higher. And then the dress was off. He threw it aside without concern for the silk or pearls, as if it was just one bother­some obstacle between them, and not a phenomenally expensive work of art.

Now she was only in her undergarments.

She started to work at the lacings of her stays. He batted her hands away, and she held herself still as his long, dexterous fingers plucked at the laces.

In an astonishingly short amount of time, her stays were gone, flung aside like more detritus. She wore nothing but her chemise, drawers, stockings, and garters.

“I've never had stays removed so quickly,” she said wryly. “Some men practice playing an instrument, or work on their fencing. But you've spent your time perfecting another art.” She didn't quite keep the jealousy out of her tone, much to her irritation.

He only smiled enigmatically. “Consider it all rehearsal for this moment.”

“You're a glib scoundrel.”

“I don't know words half as well as you do,” he answered, trailing a finger along the neckline of her chemise, scattering embers of sensation. “I know pleasure. And bodies.”

“You possess far more knowledge than that,” she gasped.

He leaned closer. His mouth brushing against hers, he murmured, “I know
you
.”

Her eyes drifted shut as his finger went back and forth across the neck of her chemise. He did know her. More than anyone else. A thought both thrilling and a little frightening.

But then thoughts and fears scattered when his finger dipped lower, circling the tip of her breast.

Her breath caught at the pleasure and intimacy.

He kissed her, long and thorough. She leaned into him, reveling in the feel of their bodies pressed together with only the thin fabric of her undergarments between them.

Suddenly, cool air danced across her skin. Opening her eyes, she saw that her chemise was gone. Her drawers hastily followed suit. More of his rake's magic. She was clad in only her stockings and garters.

He stared at her for a long, anticipatory moment, taking in every part of her with his gaze. “Yes,” he said thickly.

She let him look his fill, strength and arousal pouring through her in bright waves. At that moment, as he gazed at her with naked hunger, she felt the most desired woman in the world. The most powerful.

“Take them off,” he growled, glancing at her stockings.

Feeling bold and free, she planted one foot on the mattress. Her gaze on his, she deliberately undid her garter and, little by little, peeled away her stocking. One leg bare. Then she did the same with her other leg. She was rewarded for her efforts with the twitch of his cock and the tightening of his jaw.

“You undo me,” he rasped.

Good to know she wasn't the only one lost in this sea of need.

She beckoned to him. “Show me,” she said.

 

Chapter 18

Poetry is no substitute for experience.

The Hawk's Eye
, May 15, 1816

E
leanor allowed him to draw her up onto the bed. They stretched out together atop the silk counterpane, naked limbs entwining, hands everywhere. Learning each other. Discovering. He was in all ways thorough as he touched her, neglecting no part of her body.

One by one, he pulled the pins from her hair, until the mass of it tumbled in curls and whorls around her shoulders. He rubbed a lock of her hair between his fingers, then against his lips.

She felt drugged, adrift, both cast to sea and anchored only by Daniel. In the rasp of his palms against her skin. The whispered praise and promises he trailed over her, mouth hot and demanding. On her neck. Her collarbone. The inside of her wrist. Everywhere she was responsive. His stubble deliciously abraded her flesh.

Gripping his forearms, she marveled again at the lean strength of him, reveling in the contrast of their bodies, yet united by one purpose—­to be as close to one another as possible. To shape pleasure together.

As they lay upon the bed, facing each other, his broad hand cupped her breast, once more stroking the tip. Lightly pinching it. She writhed. Then his touch moved down, between her breasts, along her midriff and abdomen. Until he found the place between her legs, where she was wet and aching for him.

His touch was light at first, tracing her, educating himself in what she liked best. His instinct was flawless. She almost believed him inside her mind, her body, for he stroked and caressed her to unbearable pleasure. He circled the sensitive nub with a light touch, then more strength as she responded to him. His fingers rubbed up and down her folds, tracing her opening. And when one of his fingers slid into her, she arched up from the bed with a gasp. All the while his mouth was on hers. He played her expertly, creating sensation everywhere. It built, in hot, bright waves.

And then the wave crashed over her. She bucked, crying out, as release clutched her. Yet he continued to stroke and touch her until another orgasm crested and broke. He pressed at the spot deep within her that was its own shining sun of pleasure.

At last, she fell back, limp and wrung out, sweat filming her.

“Oh,” she somehow found the strength to gasp, “you clever, clever man.”

He grinned wickedly. “Finally, you think I'm clever.”

“In some things,” she said with a teasing smile. “I'm still the better writer.”

“There's no challenge to your quill. Not from me. But,” he added with a sly, sensuous look, “I've got another challenge for you.”

“Oh?” She raised a brow.

“How much more pleasure can you withstand?” he dared her.

Pulling him close, she kissed him. He tasted rich and luscious, like aged whiskey, with an edge that whetted her appetite for more and more.

He shifted, his body slick and lean. She loved the feel of him in motion. Especially when he moved so that he stretched above her, covering her. He braced himself on his forearms, the muscles of his shoulders in hard relief, and his face tight with hunger.

He nestled between her legs. It was here, at last. This moment. That seemed so impossible, and yet all she ever wanted. There was a profound intimacy as they stared into each other's eyes. She felt herself tumbling, falling, with no hope of ever stopping her free fall. She wasn't sure she wanted to stop.

The head of his cock circled her entrance. She was shaken anew by their intimacy. This language of lovers, which had more meaning and depth than she'd ever known. And it drove her need for him higher. More slickness gathered, a combination of them together. He cupped her head between his hands and held her gaze as he slid into her. He filled her completely as she gripped him.

“God,” he growled.

She sank into sensation. “Yes.”

They took a moment to simply feel one another. Him deep inside her. Her surrounding him. Them, together.

A surprise. An inevitability.

They were meant for this. Not merely sex, but this joining. So complete. So absolute.

She lost all means of thought as he started to move his hips. He stroked within her in long, deep thrusts. Each one perfect. Again. Again.

Their breath mingled together, gasping, and his back grew damp. He knew her—­her body, her mind. There was no part of her that didn't feel him within her. She held on tightly, her legs wrapping around his waist, giving him as much of herself as she could.

“Daniel . . .” She moaned. “More. Everything.”

“All of it.” His thrusts grew stronger, more intense. He kept nothing back. And she took it all, spinning into a tempest of pleasure. Pleasure that she'd never known until then. Brighter and more potent than anything she had experienced.

What could make her feel this way? It had to be his skill as a lover. He was a man who knew the needs of women and how to satisfy those needs.

Yet it was more than his body and hers. It was
themselves
. Their connection.

Her heart ached as her body burned. She understood it then, through the glowing haze of ecstasy. This wasn't just about physical sensation.

Foolish. Believing I could make love with him without feeling anything more than affection.

She knew better now.

Was she anything more to him than another conquest? They'd made no promises to one another. No avowals had been exchanged. She couldn't hold him to something neither had agreed to.

She should have been more careful. Protected her heart.

Too late. Too damn late. She brimmed with an emotion she feared naming. Yet avoiding its name didn't give it any less power over her. Didn't give
him
more power.

She wanted to pull away, but the pleasure was too wondrous. She was awash in it. Hopeless to fight her body's needs. Needs that he knew how to fulfill.

He angled his hips so that he rubbed against her most sensitive place. And in an instant, another climax had her.

Seconds later, he pulled back, freeing himself. His own release came a moment after, spilling hotly onto her belly. He was tight everywhere as he threw his head back and groaned a primal sound of deep pleasure and satiety.

They panted and shuddered in the aftermath, him still stretched out above her. Almost protectively covering her body with his. Finally, he rolled onto his back. Her eyes drifted shut. She felt a corner of the sheets on her stomach as he cleaned her.

He gathered her close, tucking her head against his neck, holding her as if she were something quite valuable but easily lost. Without him holding her, she very well might drift away, caught on tides of sensation.

“You're so beautiful,” he rumbled. “So damn perfect.”

She would've given up an eternity if it meant having this with him. The pleasure continued even after the physical act was over. Yet she couldn't speak. She only sank deeper into herself and the glow of what they had created. Sleep threaded up her limbs, looming close. But while lassitude crept closer, weighing her down, other sensations hovered at the periphery. Fear. Sadness. As she began to drift away, she realized nothing she could write would alter that fact that everything had changed.

F
or the first time in his life, Daniel was eager to wake. His body, however, was having none of it, his limbs relaxed, his eyelids heavy. His whole body, in fact, felt very well used from the kind of exertion that could only come from making love all night.

Eyes still closed, he smiled to himself. He and Eleanor had enjoyed themselves thoroughly, bestowing on each other a kind of pleasure he'd never known in the whole of his dissipated life. It was all the better because it had been with
her.
It was more than just two bodies coming together, it had been two minds, two hearts.

They'd made love twice more after the first time, waking at different times to tease and rouse the other into full awareness. He wanted to seize every moment of this experience with her. Hold it closely, jealously, like a dragon guarding its treasure.

He'd known that taking Eleanor to bed would be extraordinary. What he hadn't counted on was that the pleasure of it had reached past the physical into something else. Something much deeper and more profound. Eleanor had wit, determination, bravery, and all he wanted to do was cherish them, cherish
her
.

This couldn't be . . . No. He refused to believe it. That was an emotion he wasn't capable of feeling. At least, he didn't believe so. He'd no experience with romantic feelings, and he regarded those sentiments with the kind of awed wariness an explorer might feel when observing a tiger for the first time.

His eyes flew open. Turning his head, he found the bed beside him cool and empty.

Eleanor was nowhere to be seen. Raising himself up on his elbows, he noted that her gown was missing. But a small scrap of paper lay upon the heap of his discarded clothing.

He sprang up from the bed and strode to the paper. A note, he discovered. In her handwriting.

Thank you for the use of the gown. I will clean and return it to you by end of day.

—­E.H.

Disappointment plunged through him like a landslide. Yes, of course he wanted to enjoy her body again, but he sought more than that. He'd been looking forward to waking beside her, hearing her jest with him, seeing the morning light upon her skin. He wanted to know her fully in the day—­the puffiness of her eyes upon waking, her tangled hair, the beautiful reality of her apart from their nighttime adventures. The truth away from the fantasy.

Usually, his bedpartners had been interchangeable. She was different. He'd thought . . . well, damn it, he'd thought what they'd shared last night had been special in some way. Yet her note was aloof, distant. As if last night hadn't happened, and she was still stuck on that dress.

He thought he heard a step on the stairs. It couldn't have been one of his servants. They were too well trained and moved as silently as shades. It had to be Eleanor. She wasn't gone yet.

Throwing on a robe, he stalked from his chambers. She wasn't in the hallway. Or on the landing.

There. He spotted her halfway down the stairs, heading toward the foyer. And the front door. Her gown was rumpled, her hair down. She'd dressed in a hurry—­and that fueled his ire even more.

Hearing his footsteps behind her, she whirled around on the step, her eyes wide. He stalked close to her, standing one step above her.

“The hell do you mean,” he demanded, taking hold of her arm, “creeping out like a damn thief?”

She seemed taken aback by his anger, as if she didn't expect him to be upset.

Tipping up her chin, she said, “I—­”

“Am I interrupting something?” said a young feminine voice below. Both Daniel and Eleanor whirled to look down into the foyer. Appearing in the Yellow Drawing Room's doorway stood Catherine.

H
e was caught upon the sharp blades of indecision. If he hastened upstairs and dressed, he risked having Eleanor slip away. But it was bloody scandalous, even for him, to talk with Catherine wearing nothing but a silk robe.

The hell with it. He'd rather risk the scandal than lose Eleanor.

Catherine glanced back and forth between Eleanor and Daniel with a look of shock, then growing understanding. She might just be a girl, but she was a girl who knew the ways of the world. Meanwhile, Eleanor was doing the same thing, looking back and forth between Catherine and Daniel, her own gaze incisive.

Damn and hell
. Everything was spinning out of his control. The thorn of a headache hooked itself behind his eye.

He forced himself to calm, releasing Eleanor's arm. “Please.” He waved her ahead of him, down the stairs and toward the Yellow Drawing Room.

She looked uncertainly at him, then down at the Yellow Drawing Room. Almost as though she expected him to drag her down there. But he remained all courtesy and waited. Finally, she headed down the stairs.

Once they were inside the chamber, he shut the door behind them. What was a little more scandal at this point?

He already knew the reason for Catherine's presence. Though he'd been spending his nights with Eleanor to draw attention away from his search for Jonathan, now there was no going back. Everything was out in the open. “It's a little early, I think. He won't be out until later.”

She cast a slightly embarrassed look toward the floor. “I've . . . been paying some street urchins to look for him.”

“I see.” Under different circumstances, at any other moment, his pride might have stung a little bit that she didn't fully rely upon him to find Jonathan. But with Eleanor here, clearly wearing last night's gown, watching him and Catherine—­everything was in the process of being shot to hell.

“Is this the writer?” Catherine asked.

Eleanor looked from him to Catherine, and back again. He watched the questions form in her eyes.

“I'm the writer,” she answered. “And who are you?”

Before Daniel could speak, Catherine gave a polite nod. “Miss Catherine Lawson.”

“The only daughter of the Duke of Holcombe,” Eleanor said immediately.

Damn. Of course Eleanor, with her encyclopedic knowledge of high Society, would know who Catherine was. And that she wasn't related to Daniel, except by the connection of his friendship with her brother.

More questions filled Eleanor's gaze. Still, she curtsied. “Unless my understanding of etiquette is sorely behind the times, this isn't precisely a fashionable hour for visiting.”

“Well . . . no,” Catherine admitted.

“Undoubtedly, I don't consider myself particularly smart when it comes to how I dress,” Eleanor continued. “Function, not style, is more important to me. Is that . . . gown . . . the latest innovation from Paris?” She eyed Catherine's decidedly threadbare ensemble.