Forever Your Earl (29 page)

 

Chapter 21

The sweetest gifts are the most ephemeral. An orange at Christmas. The first hawthorn flower of spring. A beloved's kiss. They all pass in hardly the time it takes to draw breath. Thus we must grab hold of these prizes and cling to them tightly, before they slip from our grasp and into the realm of memory.

The Hawk's Eye
, May 18, 1816

D
aniel would not sacrifice this moment for the promise of immortality or the gift of flight. As Eleanor perched at the edge of her desk, heavy-­lidded with satisfaction, the taste of her on his lips, he realized such gifts would be utterly redundant and unnecessary. He knew them both with her.

He bent forward and kissed her. She returned the kiss with equal potency.

All her tastes were delicious. He could subsist on her alone. And the way she kissed him, ravenous and urgent, he thought she felt the same.

He continued to grip her thighs, sensing the flesh and muscles beneath his palms tense and release. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer. She held nothing back of herself. She was in all ways bold and open.

“Want to be inside you so damn much,” he rumbled against her mouth.

“I want you there.”

Ah, God, how she changed the shape of the world with only a few words.

He undid the ribbon of her drawers and slid the thin garment to the floor. Daniel allowed himself the privilege of stepping back just far enough to look at her. Eleanor's patchwork skirts were pushed to her waist, revealing her legs, the bare curve of her belly, and her beautiful quim, softly golden and pink in the afternoon light. Eager for him.

“You are making me wait,” she murmured in half protest.

“I want to see you.”

“Then see me.” She leaned back onto her elbows, shameless and delectable. As she gazed at him with ageless power, her knees fell apart, baring her even more. His mouth watered at the delicacy revealed to him.

He sank to his knees.

Her small gasp filled him with gratification. Good to know that he could surprise her, as well as she knew him. There was still much to learn, to explore. Hands on her thighs, he felt anticipatory trembling traveling through her in soft pulses. A shaking that was echoed in his own body.

He bent down, bringing his mouth closer to that secret, special place. She tensed. His whole body was tight and hard, his cock aching. But it could wait a little longer while he gave her this, this intimate, profound kiss.

The first touch of his tongue to her flesh sent a wave of drunken pleasure roaring through him. While she'd tasted wonderful on his fingers, she was even more delicious here. Her breath caught as he stroked her once more with his tongue, tracing her folds. As much as he wanted to bury himself in her, he forced himself to go slowly.

He learned her innermost geography. This beautiful place where he worshipped. Her very essence.

He stroked and caressed her with his lips, his tongue. Feeling her alive and responsive. She writhed beneath him, bringing her hands up to press him closer. The signal he was waiting for.

His caresses grew deeper, bolder. He circled her pearl, took it between his lips and sucked. She moaned and tugged him even tighter against her.

“Yes,” she breathed.

Yes,
he thought, unable to speak.

He dipped his tongue inside her, in and out. His finger continued to circle her bud, rubbing at it as he made love to her with his tongue, feeling her passage against his own sensitive flesh. God, how shallow everything else had been before this. Now he felt a rare alchemy of physical pleasure and deepest feeling. And the sounds she made were so much sweeter because it was
her
making them, crying out her pleasure, tightening around him as she bowed up. Called his name as the climax clutched her.

His name had never sounded finer.

He would have gone on like this, wanted to, for hours, weeks. Years. Except she tugged at his shoulders, pulling him up to standing.

His legs actually shook beneath him as he stared down at her, splayed beautifully on his desk, all his papers and quills and books awry from her thrashing. Order be damned. She was all that mattered.

“Now,” she commanded, breathless.

His fingers scrabbled at the fastening of his breeches. Reaching in, groaning, he freed his cock. The liberation felt wondrous after being so tightly constricted. Aroused as he was, even his own touch was nearly too much, but he had to keep control. Each moment was infinitely valuable.

“Fierce lady,” he growled as her heels hooked once more behind his calves, drawing him closer.

He positioned himself with shaking fingers. Groaned again when he felt the touch of her flesh to his. He paused, savoring the pleasure of this anticipatory moment, savoring her as she looked up at him through lowered lids, eyes gemlike and gleaming.

He sank into her. They both sighed. Damn and hell and everything wonderful in the world, but she felt good. Tight. Silken. Fevered.

Pausing again, he delighted in this first moment, when he was fully within her, gripped by her. But instinct won over. He had to move. He pulled back, feeling the slick drag, the shock of pleasure shooting from his cock up his spine, pushing into every part of him.

He slid back into her. Then out. Again. Each slow glide and thrust white hot behind his eyes. He panted like an animal, bending over her.

“More,” she demanded. “More and more and . . .”

Her words trailed off into a moan when he did just that. His pace increased. His hips moved with growing speed. He lost himself in the joining. The desk began to shake with the force of his thrusts. He barely noticed when papers slipped to the floor and a bottle of ink rolled away. All that counted now was her, them. Where their bodies and hearts connected.

She cried his name, arching up, her fingers digging into his buttocks. As they tightened around him, he felt her release in waves through his own body. And it set off his own. He'd just enough presence of mind to pull out, spilling upon her stomach.

The climax harrowed him. He felt drained by it, yet stronger than a titan.

He used a corner of his shirt to clean her. Then carefully, tenderly rearranged her clothing. Once she was covered, he straightened his garments as well. Overpowering tiredness crept through his limbs, yet he managed to keep himself upright enough to gather her up in his arms. He carried her to one of the chairs by the fire. Sat himself down, then arranged her across his lap.

They sat like that for a long while, watching the fire. Lazily, he toyed with the damp strands of hair that clung to her nape and forehead. She rested her head against his shoulder and traced the folds of his disordered neckcloth.

So this is love.

It was strange and terrifying. Astonishing. Wondrous.

He closed his eyes, holding her closer. Amazed that he should be given such a gift.

“W
hat, exactly, did you plan on doing in St. Giles?” Daniel asked as they shared an early supper in his study. She still wore her shabby dress, even more wrinkled than before. A table had been set up, and two dining chairs brought in, and they sat opposite each other as they dined on simple roast chicken and asparagus. Oranges glowed in a cut-­glass bowl in the center of the table, each a miniature sun.

A lavish feast wouldn't be appropriate, not with her. She deserved the best, but indulgence and extravagance were not Eleanor. She would want simple, good food, well prepared, essential. So that's what he'd ordered for her.

He poured Eleanor another glass of wine, the sound domestic and warm against the crackle of the fire. “You wouldn't know Jonathan Lawson. Hell, even
I
don't know him anymore.”

Eleanor took a sip, then set her glass down. Her hair was a tangle, slight bruises of sleeplessness shaded beneath her eyes. Yet in the fading light of day, in the firelight, she was as beautiful as redemption.

“I saw a print of him once. And I assumed there was a family resemblance between him and his sister. Besides, I had an excellent plan for learning whether or not he'd been in the area.”

He shook his head. “It'd do you little good. He's become a wary creature, Jonathan. Suspicious. The only person he's likely to trust is his sister.”

“Thus your need of me—­to throw off the scent of your search with her.”

He couldn't deny it, but they'd come to an accord on this subject.

“How are we to proceed?” she asked. “In our quest?”

Warmth unfolded in his chest. “I never much cared for the word
we
until now.”

“I never had cause to use it.” She smiled quietly, softly. “But it does form a pleasing shape and make a good sound.”

Damn hard to be seated so far from her. Now that he knew the feel of her, he couldn't stand not touching her, as if to assure himself that she was as real as he hoped her to be. So he edged his chair around the table and took her hand in his. Ran her fingertips over his lips.

“
We,
” he repeated against her fingers.

Her mouth opened slightly, and her breathing hitched.

“Yes,” he said, rubbing his thumb along her wrist, across her palm. “It's not the biggest word in the dictionary. Just two letters. But they change everything.”

A lovely, carnal pink crept into her cheeks. Worldly she might be, yet it seemed she could still be moved with a few honest words. How strange all this was—­speaking truthfully, with no objective other than to say exactly what he thought, and felt. Because he could be completely himself with her, no jaded façade to shelter him, no cynical disguises to hide behind.

“And we will find Jonathan,” she pressed. “Thinking on it,” she continued, “the best thing I can do for you is to keep writing the articles. So no one pays attention to your search. Though,” she added, her voice grudging, “I'm rather disinclined to continue to trumpet your rakishness to my readers.”

He grinned. “You'll know the truth. All my rakish behavior will be saved for you.”

“I'm fortunate, indeed.” But she said this with a wide smile, her eyes sparkling. “Where shall we venture next? What adventures await us?”

He stroked his chin. “It's likely known by many that I'm Lord Rakewell. They'll be suspect of any woman in my company.” It pained him to say this. His greatest pleasure had become the hours he was with her. Yet now, for the sake of the articles, and Jonathan, their time together—­in public, at least—­had to be curtailed.

Disappointment creased her brow. “I can't write the pieces unless I'm present,” she protested, but he sensed the other argument beneath her words.

“How's this: I'll report back to you at the end of every night.”

“But you haven't the eye for detail that I have.”

He liked that she affected no false modesty and took proud possession of her abilities. “I'll do my damnedest to be observant, as if you're perched on my shoulder.”

“Like a little angel,” she mused.

“Devil,” he corrected.

“Don't give in to temptation if I'm not there.” She pointed a warning finger at him.

He lifted his brows. “Are those the acid tones of jealousy I hear in your voice?”

“You're delusional,” she insisted, but then looked thoughtful. Perhaps she was as new to the experience of jealousy as he was. A somewhat cheering thought. He'd always extracted himself from a lover's embrace before the woman could form enough of an attachment to warrant covetousness. The very thought had been an iron cage. Yet it didn't feel that way with Eleanor. He didn't want to rebel from her possession of him. He wanted to revel in it.

Damn, I've changed.

Even that didn't alarm him the way it might have a month ago.

“I'm sure your journalistic powers are great enough to derive an excellent story from my meager offerings,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “Save your flattery for publicans and old women. I know what I'm capable of.”

“It won't be the same,” he said softly. “Going out without you.”

She blushed again, then cursed quietly. “It's unfair of you to be so bloody marvelous.”

“I do live to spite you,” he said.

“Then you'll live a good, long time.”

“Let me taste that viper's tongue of yours.” He leaned close and kissed her. She had the flavor of wine and herbs, and her own sweetness and spice beneath. They sank into the kiss, savoring each other. How had he gone so many years without knowing this, knowing her? It had been a shadow life, mired in the colors of ash and dust. Now the world revealed itself to him in a riot of color. It was almost too much. Almost, but not enough. Never enough. He'd live in their stolen hours and try to learn to be grateful for that. Though he knew his hunger for her could not be easily sated. If ever.

F
inally. The last writer and printer had gone home. Eleanor was alone in the office, having stayed late. Like she always did this past week. Bundling up whatever articles she hadn't edited into a leather portfolio—­the second gift she'd accepted from Daniel, with her initials discreetly embossed on one side—­she locked up.

Outside, her breath chuffed in the cool air, and she began the now familiar walk to Portland Square. She always refused Daniel's offer of sending his carriage for her—­they had to maintain some semblance of propriety, nor would she allow him to pay for a cab. On foot it was, then. Until a familiar enormous house rose up before her. Such a contrast from her own small rooms.

Was it better to enter from the side entrance or the front door? The question always came as a challenge. One spoke of too much secrecy and clandestineness, as though there was something shameful about what she was doing. Yet a single woman couldn't very well approach a notorious bachelor's home via the front entrance. There were too many pedestrians out at that hour. Anyone might see her and draw the wrong—­in truth, the right—­conclusions.