Irresistible (9 page)

She could have cried and almost did. But if she did, she would wet his chest and then need a handkerchief in which to blow her nose. She would have to move and that would wake him and send him on his way. She bit her upper lip again and breathed deeply of the warmth and the smell of him.

She would not sleep.
She would not sleep.
There were more moments—more blessed moments to savor.

Perhaps he would stay all night.

Oh, she had so little experience, she thought, with what love and marriage might have been. With what tenderness might have accomplished. Almost everything about tonight had been a surprise—just as if she were a raw innocent. Would that she were!

Nathaniel awoke feeling warm and comfortable and rested, though it was still dark. He was not in his own bed. He was with a woman. For one disoriented moment he could not remember with whom.

But for one moment only.

She moved her head away from his chest and looked up at him. There was enough light in the room after all to see her face quite clearly enough.

Sophie.

With her always wild hair loose and in tangled disarray about her face and over her shoulders and down her back—his one arm that was beneath her head was entangled in it—she looked unfamiliar. She also felt womanly, enticing, beautiful. Not that he had ever thought of her as being
un
womanly. It was just that he had never particularly thought of her in sexual terms. She had been a married woman.

She was gazing silently at him—Sophie. By God, he had made love to
Sophie Armitage.
And felt stirred again by her unmistakable womanliness.

“Have I outstayed my welcome?” he asked her.

“No,” she said. That was all. For one moment, gazing back at her, he could almost imagine that she was not Sophie after all. He had never had this sort of fantasy about her. Never. He had always had very strict notions about married women. She had always been just a friend. Though a particularly dear one, he had to admit.

He moved his free hand over her body. Her skin was smooth and silky. She had small breasts. But not too small. Her nipples were rigid. He rubbed his thumb lightly over one before pinching it not ungently between the thumb and forefinger. Her eyes closed and her teeth clamped onto her lower lip. He lowered his head, took the nipple into his mouth, and suckled her, rubbing her with his tongue at the same time. She moaned and her fingers twined in his hair.

She had a shapely waist and hips and nicely rounded buttocks. He had never particularly noticed her shapeliness. Perhaps it was the dresses she always wore. They were almost invariably ill-fitting and in dark colors that did not suit her. Though he had never been critical of her appearance either. She had always looked rather dear to him—but as a friend.

She had slender thighs. He set his mouth to hers as he moved his hand between them and explored her lightly with his fingertips. She was invitingly hot and wet. He rubbed his thumb with featherlight strokes over a certain spot until she hissed an inward breath, drawing air from his own mouth. He slid two fingers up inside her. Her inner muscles clenched tightly and invitingly about him as he moved them slowly in and out.

“Invite me inside again, Sophie,” he whispered to her.

“Come inside.” She spoke out loud—unmistakably in Sophie’s voice. He felt as if he were in the middle of a disorienting dream. He felt a moment’s thankfulness that he had never been fully aware of her attractions while Walter was still alive.

He lifted her leg over his hip, positioned himself, and slid deep into her wetness as they lay on their sides pressed together.

“Oh,” she said—a sound of surprise and pleasure.

He worked her slowly again so that they could enjoy at their leisure the physical sensation of coupling as well as the rhythmic sounds of the most intimately physical act of all.

“Is there a lovelier feeling?” he asked her.

“No,” she said.

She was moving with him, he noticed, as she had the first time, enjoying as much as he did what they did together. Was she as amazed as he, he wondered, to find herself here—with him? He was reluctant to finish. He prolonged the exertion as long as he could before holding her motionless and ejaculating deep inside her.

He moved her leg away from his hip after he was fully finished and rubbed it lightly to work any cramps from it. But he did not uncouple them. It must be very late—or very early, depending upon one’s point of view. Once they were uncoupled he must make a move to leave. He was reluctant to do so. Not just because he was warm and comfortable where he was—and sleepy again too.

No, not just because of that.

He was awake, of course. He had been awake when he had come to bed with her and had her the first time. But he had the uncomfortable feeling that once he left her house, once he breathed in fresh air, he was going to
really
come awake. And he did not care to contemplate what his thoughts might be when that happened.

For as long as he was here he could perhaps convince himself that she was simply a woman and he was simply a man and they had simply enjoyed a night of good sex. They had coupled together—realty together—two separate times. They had both enjoyed the experience. Immensely. But the trouble was that she was not just any woman. She was Sophie.

He did not know quite how either of them was going to feel about all this tomorrow. But he suspected that life was going to appear far more complicated in the morning than it had before he asked Sophie to invite him in for tea. Had he been mad? Had he really expected that he could treat her like a comrade tonight as he had always used to do? And how was she going to feel? Betrayed? He winced inwardly.

He set a hand beneath her chin, lifted her face, and kissed her lingeringly and openmouthed. Her softly parted lips pressed warmly back against his.

“Sleepy?” he asked.

“Mm,” she said.

“I am going to draw out of you,” he said, doing so regretfully, “and get dressed. Stay there where it is warm until I am ready to leave. Then you can slip on a robe, let me out of the house, lock the door behind me, and be back here before the bed has cooled. You will be asleep before I have reached the end of the street.”

She watched silently as he dressed in the dark, and then she got out of bed and walked naked to a wardrobe to withdraw a woolen dressing gown. She had a pretty body, he thought, his eyes moving over her before she drew on the garment and belted it about her waist. Not voluptuous, just—pretty. Her hair billowed down her back almost to her bottom. She led the way downstairs, holding the single candle she had lit in the bedchamber, and slid the bolts back quietly on the outer door. She turned and looked up at him without saying anything.

“Good night, Sophie.” He touched his fingertips to one side of her jaw. “And thank you.”

“Good night, Nathaniel,” she said. She sounded like the Sophie of old, calm and cheerful and practical. “I hope all goes well with your sister and your cousin. Remember not to call Lavinia a girl.”

“Yes, ma‘am.” He smiled at her, but she did not smile back.

He did not kiss her again. He was already feeling awkward about the whole thing. He stepped out into the chill early-morning air and walked away briskly. He did not look back.

Chill indeed. What the devil had he got himself into?

 

Viscount Houghton and his wife and daughter had persuaded Sophia to go to the Shelby ball with them. Sarah had declared her intention of simply dying if Aunt Sophie refused.

And so she would go. She would wear her best dark blue silk—the Carlton House gown. It would have to do for another year—probably longer. She simply must have new evening gloves, though. The old ones, which had been threadbare at the fingers for some time, had finally sprung an undarnable hole in a place where it could not possibly be hidden from view.

And so she would go shopping during the morning. She would call to see if Gertrude wished to accompany her. Although part of her wished to remain alone at home, she knew that fresh air and exercise would feel good once she had forced herself out. And Gertie’s constant chatter—always witty and interesting—would be good for her in a different way.

But as she was on her way downstairs, her bonnet tied beneath her chin, one glove on, the other half on, her manservant was opening the door in answer to a knock. There was no time to retreat out of sight even if she had wished to do so.

She smiled—her usual cheerful smile. “Good morning, Nathaniel,” she said.

He was immaculately dressed in what was surely one of Weston’s creations, a blue formfitting coat. He wore even more formfitting pantaloons with shining, white-tasseled Hessians. He looked handsome and elegant. He was unmistakably one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, those almost godlike cavalry officers she, together with almost every other woman in Wellington’s armies, had secretly admired.

Last night seemed quite unreal. Especially now that she was seeing him again in the light of day.

She saw from his expression when he looked up and locked eyes with her that it seemed unreal to him too.

“Sophie.” He made her a bow. “You are going out?”

“It is nothing that cannot be postponed,” she said. “Will you come up? Samuel, will you have coffee sent to the sitting room, if you please?”

“No.” Nathaniel held up a hand. “No coffee, thank you. I have just come from breakfast. But I would appreciate a word with you if I might, Sophie.”

She was not sure if she had expected his call today or not. Perhaps she had been afraid to expect it. Perhaps an unconscious wish to avoid it had given her the energy to plan her shopping expedition. How aghast he must have been this morning to remember with whom he had lain last night. As aghast as she should have been. She should have remembered who she was—a respectable widow—and who he was. She should have remembered that they had always been friends, with no hint of anything else between them. She should have been embarrassed at the very least to remember what indiscretion being alone together late at night had led them to.

But she would not lie to herself. She was not sorry for last night. She did not even feel guilty. No one had been harmed—except perhaps her.

She turned and led the way upstairs, drawing off her gloves as she went and untying the ribbons of her bonnet. She set them on a small table just inside the sitting-room door.

“Do have a seat,” she said, and gestured toward the love seat before she could stop herself.

But he had not noticed. He had crossed the room and was standing at the window, looking out. His hands, clasped at his back, were not still. She wished she could have avoided this. If she had only been five minutes earlier...

“I have no excuse, Sophie,” he said after a short silence. “And an apology would not even begin to suffice.”

She wondered if he really regretted what had happened. Probably he did; but if he did, she hoped he would not say so. A woman needed some illusions. Perhaps just one in her life. Surely it was not too much to ask. One would suffice.

“Neither an excuse nor an apology is necessary,” she said, seating herself on the chair that had been too distant from the love seat last night for the focus of his eyes.

He lowered his head and she heard him draw an audible breath. “Will you do me the honor of marrying me?” he asked.

“Oh no!” She leaped to her feet and was across the room without giving her reaction a moment’s consideration. She set one hand on his shoulder. “No, Nathaniel. This is not necessary. Believe me, it is not.”

He did not turn. She removed her hand when she realized where it was and closed it into a fist, which she set against her mouth.

“I debauched you,” he said.

“What a perfectly horrid way to describe what happened,” she said, putting on her usual manner with an enormous effort of will. “You did no such thing. I actually found it rather pleasant.”
Rather pleasant!
Just the most gloriously wonderful experience of her life. “I thought you did too. I did not expect to find you so conscience-stricken today.”

He turned to look at her and she could see that his face was quite drained of color. She smiled cheerfully at him.

“You are my friend, Sophie,” he said. “You are Walter’s wife. I never dreamed I could be capable of treating you with such disrespect.”

“Friends cannot sometimes go to bed together?” she asked him, though she did not wait for an answer. “And I am not Walter’s wife, Nathaniel. I am his widow. I have been a widow for almost three years. It was not adultery. Or seduction, if that is what you fear. I asked you, if you will remember.”

“You are so cool and practical about it,” he said. “I might have guessed it, I suppose. I feared I would find you distraught this morning.”

She smiled. “How foolish,” she said. “I am not a woman of loose morals, you know. I have never done before what I did last night. But I cannot feel distraught about it or even mildly upset. Why should I? It was pleasant. Very pleasant indeed. But hardly a catastrophic event that necessitates a marriage proposal and a hasty wedding.”
Oh, Nathaniel, Nathaniel.