Authors: Stephanie Laurens
What did she think of this body, so battered by violence? Did she believe any of his tales? Did she care? Was she using him for just this one night and imagining she would move on without regrets or anguish …and why did the mere idea fill him with rage?
He was such a fool. He wanted her to love him. He was going to do everything in his power to make her love him—before she found out his true identity.
Her gaze warmed his back. The bullet had exited above his shoulder blade, and she found that place and kissed it. Her fingers traced his spine. She cupped the roundness of his buttocks. “You’re the finest man I’ve ever had the pleasure of viewing.” She praised him with a wanton’s enthusiasm—and a virgin’s ineptitude. “Of course, you’re the only man I’ve had the pleasure of viewing naked.”
He wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t. He didn’t dare move, could scarcely draw breath.
If she had experience, she would know enough to be frightened, for he was a man balanced on the sharp edge of control. The urge to take her
now
burned in him.
But he had so carefully cultivated her trust. If he scared her, if he hurt her, she would shy from him…and he couldn’t bear that. She’d suffered bad experiences with the men in her life. By God, she would never compare him to her other suitors. She would always trust him. He was going to marry her.
And so he trembled in the novelty of having a woman view him from every angle, and stroke him as if touching his skin gave her delight. “Come here,” he commanded.
He used his most coaxing tone, but something of his desperation must have sounded in his voice, for she skittered around and viewed him with some suspicion. “Why?”
He spread his hands wide at his side and injected innocence into his tone. “I want to help you discard your clothes.”
She relaxed. “I’ll wager you do. I’ll wager I know why, too.”
Now he circled her. The row of tiny pink buttons down her back challenged him as no fight ever had. He wanted to rip them open, tear her clothes away, get to the passion this instant. Instead he freed her one button at a time, and for each button he dropped a tiny kiss on herback. He kept his gaze fixed on the golden skin of her shoulders and spine, for he dared not lean over and watch as her breasts were freed from the constraint of her gown. That would strain his precarious control to the limit. It was difficult enough uncovering her and knowing soon he would have her.
Her head was bent, wisps of her blond hair brushed the tender skin of her neck. He pushed the cap sleeves down her arms, and for a moment, she caught the material and held it before her.
Charmed by her modesty, he murmured in her ear, “Please. Let me see.”
She released her grip, and the gown slithered to the floor in a rich pool of velvet. He turned her to face him and saw the plain white chemise, free of all decoration yet made feminine by her form. He saw the color of her flesh beneath the material, the outline of her nipples, the faint mound of the curls between her legs. She was beautiful, a feast for his starving senses, and until he saw her, he hadn’t even realized the truth—that he had been wasting away.
She was staring at him, too, staring at his erection as if the reality of her venture had finally hit her.
He bent down until his face was level with her gaze. Her eyes jerked to meet his, and he said, “I’m up here.”
Her jaw dropped as she registered the quip that she had so recently used on him, then a lovely smile bloomed on her face, and she answered in his words. “I will endeavor to remember the position of your face in reference to your body.”
Wrapping his arm around her waist, he kissed her lips softly, trying to beguile her into believing that he was poised and in control. He must have succeeded, for she sighed and relaxed into him, resting those magnificent breasts against his chest. Her nipples might as well have been redhot pokers, branding his bare skin. And his erection hardened yet more, prodding at her belly in an inelegant declaration of lust. His patience, such as it was, was unraveling, and he led her toward the bed. “Your slippers are charming, but we can dispense with them.”
“I did.”
He glanced back to see she’d walked out of them. He took a breath. She was bold. She was shy. She was the epitome of woman to him, and he had her here, now, in his grasp. Lifting her by the waist, he placed her on the high mattress. She sat facing him, her feet dangling over the side. Her legs were long, the chemise rode up to the tops of her thighs. He couldn’t resist touching the creamy skin on the inside of her knee and noting the sleek texture of her muscles. She was a strong woman, one who cared for her father’s lands and duped unwanted suitors. He had no use for invalids or silly girls, so Jessie was perfect for him.
Perfect for too many men. All her suitors wanted her and not, as she imagined, just for her fortune. They wanted her for this. But she was his.
“Harry?” She sounded cautious. “You look so fierce.”
He slid to his knees before her. “I’m feeling fierce.” But he kept his voice mild and hoped that she didn’t see the primitive force that clawed within him, demanding to be released. Fixing his gaze on her garters, he loosened first one, and then the other. Carefully he rolled the silk stockings down her legs and off the ends of her toes.
Her toes were pointed, and she moved restively. In an abashed voice, she said, “I don’t think you ought to be down there because you might—”
He looked up at her. “See?” He
could
see. He could see the froth of her golden curls, and beneath them a hint, an actual hint, of the pink flesh he craved. He wanted to taste her, to see if she melted on his tongue like vanilla ice on a hot day.
“You look like a cannibal.” Her heart thudded so hard she thought her chest would burst, but how could she help it? He wore his desire like a savage, with color painted high in his cheeks and muscles knotted across his broad chest.
“What a wonderful idea.” He slid his palms up her legs, spreading them as he went.
She whimpered and tried to close them. She didn’t understand him. What was he saying? The things she knew about mating did not include a man kissing her inner thigh and working his way up as if he wanted to…he desired to…be a cannibal. Pulling her bottom to the edge of the bed, he placed his mouth there, at the heart of her dampness.
“Stop!” She tried to push his head away. Then his tongue thrust inside her, and sensation sizzled along her nerve endings and straight to the center of her being. Flinging back her head, she gasped, and gasped again as his tongue lavished sensation inside her. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on each thrust as if only by concentration could she control this turmoil roiling inside her. Yet just when she thought she had achieved control, he withdrew. She still ached with need, but he was done. Thank heavens. Her heart fluttered, and she couldn’t believe she had allowed such a thing—or rather, that he had dared to do such a thing.
Was this the way it was between a man and a woman? This wrenching madness that both enticed and demanded? This immodest intimacy, this glorious darkness?
Leaning back on her hands, she looked down at the intent expression on his face, one that pondered and planned—and realized he was
not
done. As he wrapped his arm around one of her legs and lifted it to allow him greater intimacy, she said, without a hope he would listen, “Harry, no.”
He didn’t listen. Instead he leaned into her and, using his teeth and lips and tongue, found her small, sensitive nub. Tenderly he eased his mouth around it and sucked on it, using his tongue to prod and stroke—and she lost control. She struggled to forbid him, and instead moaned aloud. No longer aware of modesty or propriety, she trembled and moaned. Yet she couldn’t let go; it was too odd, too discomforting. Everything was too new. At last he gave a growl. Using the edge of his teeth, he scraped her lightly. So lightly.
As the world shook beneath her, her body took control. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think, she could only accept the climax that overwhelmed her. Each spasm was mightier than the last, pulling her farther along the path of experience, until when Harry had stopped she was ready…for anything.
Dazed and enraptured, she looked at him as he stood between her legs, brown and muscled, magnificent in his nudity. She could scarcely speak, but she managed to say the words that popped into her mind. “I wish you would
hurry
.”
His eyes blazed as he gazed down on her, gasping, satisfied, and yet still needy, and still clad in her chemise. “Wrap your legs around me.”
She did.
He adjusted her so that their bodies matched. His penis pressed where his tongue had pressed before. He looked into her eyes. “Now. Watch while I make you mine.”
She expected great pain. Instead, he moved inside eased by the moisture of her body. She found discomfort, heat, and a return of that odd, distracting, wonderful fullness that led, she now knew, to a grand and glorious release. “Harry,” she breathed.
He observed her, as intent on her pleasure as on his own. Or was it possession that made him watch her so? She didn’t know. No matter. It was too late. She loved this, the sweat, the effort, the pain, the pleasure. She loved
him
.
Her arms shook as she leaned on them, as she tilted her hips to accept him more easily. He moved forward until…he had to pause. To struggle. A sharper pain that made her clutch the sheets in clawed fists. Then he broke through and went on, and when he had sheathed himself to the hilt, she managed to smile up at him and pant, “Very…good.”
His eyelids drooped, and he almost smiled back. Almost. But it appeared he couldn’t quite move his lips in that manner. It appeared he clung to the last shreds of his restraint. “Are you ready?”
Ready for what?
She didn’t dare ask. She nodded.
Slowly he drew out, the long length of him slipping away. Then he pushed back inside her, filling her again. As he moved, the discomfort of his intrusion faded, to be replaced by another, more urgent discomfort. Her body was making demands.
“Can you feel it?” he whispered. “The pleasure’s coming again. But this time it will be more.”
“How much more?” Surely she’d experienced everything before. Surely…Her legs clutched him as he moved more quickly. Sensation built, filling her, stretching her capacity for control. She whimpered, and moaned, and finally, when she thought she couldn’t bear the buffeting of pleasure anymore, another climax swept her away. And as he promised, this time it was more. Reaching up, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She muffled her screams in his chest. Her body demanded from him …and his body responded. He bent over her, his gaze fixed to hers as he thrust into her, burning her with his heat and his urgency. Lowering her onto the bed, he poured himself into her, and his shout of triumph told her everything she needed to know.
Although he might not realize it, she had given him love, and in that love he had found respite.
When they came to rest, she found she had to try and tell him a little of how she felt. She couldn’t declare her love; he wouldn’t want that. But she could slide her hands into his hair, bring his mouth to hers, and kiss him deeply, and say, “That was the most glorious moment of my life, from the past or in the future.”
A slow smile quirked his lips. “From the past,yes, but if I were you, I wouldn’t be so confident about the future.”
Her eyes widened.
He untied the bow at the neck of her chemise. “After all, I haven’t yet seen your breasts.”
A
t dawn, as Jessie slid out of the bed, Harry woke. He watched through half-closed eyes as she landed with a thump, and staggered as if her legs weren’t functioning correctly. A satisfying notion for a man who had worked most of the midnight hours making sure she was dazed with love and overwhelmed with delight.
Pushing a lush blond curl off her forehead, she looked about. She gathered her gown and chemise off the floor. She found one stocking on the footboard, and after much searching found the other entwined with the bedclothes—and close by his side. Eyes wide, she reached for it. Drew back. Reached for it again. Gathered it in her hand and gradually, gently, drew it toward her.
So she wanted to leave before he could stop her. A notion he found he could not bear. Grasping her wrist, he asked, “Where are you going, love?”
She jumped violently and scattered clothes everywhere. Trying to hold her gown over her nakedness, she stooped to pick up her chemise again. “I…um…I need to go back to the inn before someone…um…sees me.”
Releasing her, he stood.
She glanced at his nakedness. At his erection. And dropped the chemise again. “Oh, heavens.” She carefully didn’t look at him again, but he could see the fiery blush that lit her cheeks. “Oh…heavens.”
Gathering the quilt, he wrapped it around her shoulders and trapped her in his embrace, holding her arms at her sides, cherishing the scent of her hair. “I don’t want you to go.”
She bent her head and whispered, “It would be best if I did.”
“Best for whom?” He nuzzled the sweet, warm nape of her neck.
“I have a suitor arriving today, and my reputation is already well on its way to being destroyed by Mr. Murray.” She struggled to sound stoutly brave. “So I should go back.”
Harry hated this. To see all the warmth and openness of last night demolished by the advent of daylight. By the twin reminders of duty and fear. He ought to tell her the truth about himself now, but the sun was lightening the sky. Explanations would take time, and might include shouting—hers—when she discovered his identity. Besides, he rather cherished the notion of dressing in his best coat, gathering a bouquet of wildflowers, and coming to court her as the dreaded Edmund Kennard Henry Chamberlain, Earl of Granville.
She would either embrace him or plant him a facer.
He would take care to protect the nose she had already once broken.
So she was right. She needed to get back. Turning her to face him, he leaned down. At first she tried to avoid him, but when he caught her lips with his, she wavered, then answered him with a kiss both gratifying and passionate. Dropping her clothes on their feet, she slid her arms around his bare waist and caressed his backside with fingertips skilled for one so newly initiated. She stood on her tiptoes and pressed her breasts against his chest until all he could feel was the two points of her hard nipples, the soft touch of her lips, and the firm undulation of her hips.
Lifting his head, he gasped for air and grasped for wisdom. This wasn’t a seduction. No. She stole his common sense without even trying.
“Harry.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “Harry, if you would like—”
A mutual seduction, then. He pleased her as much as she pleased him. Before she could conclude her offer, he said, “You’re correct.”
She straightened. “I… am?”
“Yes.” Picking up her chemise, he pulled it over her head. “It would be churlish to treat you with so little respect after you’ve allowed me to teach you the beginnings of passion.”
When her face came through, her eyes were narrowed. “The beginnings of passion? You mean…there’s more?”
He shook the worst of the wrinkles out of her gown, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “So much more, my darling.”
“Oh. My.” Her eyes grew wide again, and she considered him in a manner that both flattered and aroused. “When could we …?”
As soon as we wed
. But first he had to find that letter from his mother and read it. He expected that would explain everything. “Come on.” He helped her into her gown and buttoned the back, then left her to put on her stockings and shoes as he threw on trousers, a shirt, and his boots. By habit, he slipped a knife into his sleeve, but nothing had aroused any suspicion here at tranquil Wildbriar Inn.
Such peace was enough to make a man of his calling very apprehensive, for in his experience that preceded chilling jeopardy.
He held her close to his side as they made their way across the lawn. The birds stirred, making sleepy chirps. From over the hill they could hear the occasional baa of a sheep, but nothing else was awake. Not even the insects buzzed. From habit, Harry scrutinized the windows at the inn. He saw nothing, yet …yet the hair lifted on the back of his head. Someone
was
watching them. Probably the chaperone, or a malicious gossipmonger, or even a romantic scullery maid. He could, and would, deal with any of them.
Yet in his experience, the explanation was usually more complex—and more deadly. He touched the knife in his sleeve.
When they arrived at the outer door, Jessie turned to him with a wobbly smile and prepared to dismiss him.
Reaching around her, he turned the knob. “I’ll see you inside.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Yes, it is.”
“If someone catches us—”
“They’ll keep their mouths shut if they know what’s good for them.” He entered the inn ahead of her and looked up and down the length of the empty dining hall.
His vehemence seemed to startle her, and she followed him, plucking at his sleeve. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I am not a man to be trifled with.” He heard her tiny gasp, swiftly swallowed, and turned on her. “Did you think I was?”
She held her hand over her heart, and she wore a solemn expression, one at odds with her usual merry demeanor. “No, I… no, I did suspect you could be a dangerous man.”
“But not with you, love.” Drawing her close, he tapped her nose. “I would never be a danger to you.”
“Of course not.” But she still looked troubled. “Are you really…” She swallowed. “Are you really a gentleman farmer from Derbyshire?”
“Well…” He did have a small estate in Derbyshire, and he could in all honesty assure her that was who he was. But he owed her at least part of the truth. “Let’s just say that’s not all that I am.”
Harry’s reassurance hadn’t comforted Jessie, but she’d clung to him like a woman in love and fervently kissed him good-bye, and within a few hours she would know all the truth.
In the meantime… “Dehaan,” he hollered as he entered the cottage overlooking the ocean. “Dehaan, come here!”
Dehaan bustled out of the small serving room at the back. He wasn’t grinning; he was too urbane for such a jubilant exhibition, but his eyes gleamed. “Ah, master, after so many years! At last! You’re looking happy this morning!”
“Yes, aren’t I?” Harry replied dryly. “Where’s my mother’s letter?”
“Your mother’s letter?” Dehaan pulled a long face. “The letter you told me you wished not to read?”
“That’s the one. Where is it?”
“You told me not to give it to you. You told me to burn it.”
Harry took a menacing step forward. “
Where
is it?”
Dehaan wisely scuttled away. “I will get it for you.” He plunged into the dressing room, then plunged out again. “Here.” He extended the folded, cream-colored sheets, sealed with wax and marked with the Countess of Granville’s ring.
Harry took them with a sigh, and weighed them in his hand.
“Will you dress now, my lord?” Dehaan asked eagerly.
“Yes.” Harry broke the seal.
“In your best.” Dehaan raced around like a small black beetle on a mission. “Black suit, maroon-striped waistcoat, black boots, sparkling white shirt!”
“Yes, fine.” Harry’s gaze fell on the first line of the letter.
Dearest, most beloved of sons
… Closing his eyes, he groaned. He knew from experience that the more effusive the greeting, the more he was going to hate the contents.
“Let me help you remove your boots,” Dehaan instructed, and pulled the scuffed boots from Harry’s feet. “Now step out of your trousers.”
Harry obeyed without paying a bit of attention.
I have done the thing I should have bestirred myself to do many years ago. I have betrothed you to a lovely young lady.
“I’ll just bet you have,” he muttered.
“My lord?” Dehaan hesitated in the act of handing him the crisply pressed black pants.
“Give those to me.” Harry impatiently snatched them and donned them without ever releasing his grip on the letter.
You met her once, she’s lovely, she’s demure and biddable
—so his mother didn’t know Jessie at all—
and she has a fortune, all the necessary components of a good wife. She is Lady Jessica Macmillian.
“Your shirt, my lord, if you please.” Dehaan helped Harry ease the rumpled shirt over his injured shoulder and off.
Now you may ask, why did your mother do such a thing without your consent?
Because, my dearest lad, you’re showing no signs of settling into the matrimonial harness
.
“As if I were a horse to be bred,” Harry complained.
This time, Dehaan ignored him and tossed the shirt over Harry’s head.
I’m not getting any younger. I’m lonely, living without seeing my only close relative for years at a time
—an exaggeration, he’d never been gone above eight months—
and I want grandchildren before I’m too old to dandle them on my knee
. His mother wasn’t above playing the guilt card.
Harry allowed Dehaan to button his waistcoat, pin on his collar, and tie his cravat.
“Very elegant, my lord,” Dehaan praised. “The young lady will look upon you most favorably.”
Harry cast a cold gaze on his valet and wondered if Dehaan had been part of his mother’s scheme. Better not to know. Harry was already torn between rage and, unfortunately, amusement. His mother had the gall of a street urchin picking pockets!
So I’ve sent you to Wildbriar Inn where you’ll meet Lady Jessica and court her.
“Inadvertently,” Harry declared.
As he helped Harry into his boots, Dehaan looked worried, quite as if Harry had lost his mind.
Harry read the last, outrageous line of the letter.
So, darling boy, do make up your mind to like the match, for I’ve already ordered the vicar to call the banns and sent the announcement to the
Times.
You cannot, in all honor, do anything but wed Lady Jessica, on November 8, a mere six weeks from now
.
Resign yourself
.
Harry stiffened. Resign himself? He would do no such thing.
Dehaan brushed at the stark, elegant, black jacket. “Let me help you with—”
Harry snatched his coat out of Dehaan’s hands and stormed out of the door.
Dehaan hurried after him. “My lord! Don’t forget your knife!”
Harry stopped on the top step of the porch. Quivering with impatience, he pointed at the post beside him. The blade whistled through the air and sank into the painted wood not two inches from his finger.
No one was better with a knife than Dehaan.
“Thank you.” Freeing the knife, Harry stuck it up his sleeve and resumed his march toward the inn.
The morning light struck him full in the face, but off on the horizon he saw a bank of fog waiting to envelop the landscape. The weather had been almost too perfect for their idyll, but the good weather was over, and with it, any chance of romance.
For no matter what his mother demanded, he was not resigned. He was… oh, damn, admit it. He was eager. The night in Jessie’s arms had whetted his appetite for a lifetime of passion and laughter and joy. It had been so long since he’d noted the pleasures of life. The sunlight, the flowers, the birds had all been hidden from him, masked by the grim duties of his trade. Jessie showed him a world he had thought he’d left behind, and her uninhibited joyfulness lit the dark corners of his soul.
Feeling like a fool, feeling like a lover, he gathered a single, late, wild rose, the exact color of her nipples, and entered the inn. Outside the dining room, he straightened his cuffs, touched the pin in the center of his cravat, prepared to propose— and confess the truth about who he was.
But when he stepped in the door, he stopped short.
Jessie sat at the same, two-person table she’d occupied the morning before. Just as before, she had her breakfast in front of her, and just as before, a gentleman sat with her. But today…today she observed the fellow with a bemused, amazed expression.
With no thought but to renew his claim on her, Harry strode forward and towered over the table. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Oh! Mr. Windberry.” Jessie rose to meet him, a delightful young woman clad in the kind of frivolous gown she would wear to gratify her lover.
Him.
“I’m so pleased to see you. You’ll never guess who this is.”
He certainly wouldn’t. The blackguard was a few years younger than Harry; handsome in an open, hale-fellow-well-met manner; well-dressed; and sporting a dark mustache that drooped over a repulsively smiling mouth. He came to his feet eagerly, with every appearance of respect and pleasure at Harry’s appearance.
“I haven’t the foggiest idea who he could be,” Harry said with chilly precision.
As she dropped her linen napkin on the chair, Jessie smiled with blinding delight. “This is my third suitor.” She reached a hand across the table to the obnoxiously open-faced knave. “This is Lord Granville.”