Kasey Michaels (38 page)

Oh, yes. There would be tears. Perhaps even moments of anger. Ha! With Sophie’s temper, how could there not be? But, beneath it all, the love would be there. The memories of laughter, the hope that the sun would shine again, the willingness to be with that one special woman, in the good times, through the sad times—for all time.

And if that one special, perfect woman came to him with a too-talkative parrot, a larcenous monkey, and a conniving maid—well, what of it? He’d take Sophie Winstead rich, poor, sick, well, dressed in diamonds or lying on damp cobblestones, pulling on his ears.

“So, the reason you’re standing here, outside her bedchamber instead of being inside it with her, would be...” he asked himself out loud.

He depressed the latch and stepped inside, his nostrils quickly picking up the scent of flowers as well as the special light, lemon scent that he’d grown to associate with Sophie. His gut tightened. As his eyes grew accustomed to the faint light of several candles, he cast his gaze toward the windows, seeing the shafts of moonlight streaming across the carpet, the empty, turned-down bed.

Desiree, it would appear, knew her job well, as well as she knew him. She’d known he’d come to Sophie tonight, in the ways only women probably would ever know such things. Because this was a scene purposely set for love.

And then he saw Sophie, all tucked up into herself in the deep window embrasure, her cheek resting on her knees as she looked at him. Smiled at him. Sweetly. And with a hint of mischief shining in her eyes. A world of welcome. An unabashed eagerness that slammed into his most willingly dazzled brain with the force of a cannonball.

I’m the luckiest man in the universe
, Bramwell thought, moving across the room toward her as she gracefully uncoiled her body, stood in front of the window embrasure, the moonlight highlighting the curves of her body through the nearly transparent material of her wonder of a dressing gown.
So lucky to love her, to have her love me in return
.

He took her hands as she offered them to him, offered herself to him, this slight touch of skin against skin having more power to hold him than being lashed to the mast in the midst of a summer storm. She smiled again, and any fears he might have had that this was wrong, too soon, too impulsive, fled his mind in that instant, blown away on the wind of that storm that now raged inside of him.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said to her, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. “You’re a dream, a wish, a prayer. You’re everything I didn’t know I needed, yet everything I’ll ever want. Every time I look at you I’m caught unawares, shaken out of what I believed to be my well-ordered life as I see the promise in your eyes. You’re a dozen different women, Sophie Winstead, and I can’t live without a single one of you. This is surrender, Sophie. Complete and unconditional.”

“Yours, Bram?” she asked, stepping closer. “Or mine?”

“Ours,” he said, lifting her hands along with his as he reached for the satin bow that held her gown in place just above the rise of her breasts. “Tell me, Sophie. Tell me we’re not dreaming.”

She helped him with the ribbons that seemed to have turned to knots beneath his suddenly trembling fingers, then shrugged the gown from her shoulders to stand before him, naked and glowing in the moonlight. Her tumbling curls lit with a golden glow from the streetlamp outside, her skin turned to silver as it was kissed by moonlight. “But we are dreaming, Bram, yes? A dream that will last a lifetime, beginning tonight.”

Bram’s gaze swept Sophie, from her soft, living curls to her small, bare feet. He took in the physical beauty of her, the stunning perfection he’d dreamed of, glimpsed before only briefly, guiltily, had been longing to possess ever since he’d first wondered how her kiss would feel.

“I love your body, Sophie,” he told her, skimming his fingers across her shoulders, closing his eyes as he moved them to her breasts, felt them come alive for him, tauten, respond. “I love your hair, your face, your smile. But only because they are all a part of you. I want to make love to your body because I want, need, to make love to
you
. To make you mine. Now, forever. Do you understand, Sophie? Do you understand that this is the fullness of love? The desire, the love, they’re intertwined, making a beautiful whole.”

She raised her hands to the buttons of his shirt, loosing them one by one. “You talk too much,” she said, smiling up at him. “You worry too much more. I understand, Bram, I promise you. I understand. And I’m not afraid, I promise. Don’t you be afraid, either. I’m a virgin, yes, but not in my mind. I read
Maman
’s journals as a child, without understanding, but now they are all clear to me. In my mind, Bram, I have made love to you so many times, and you have made sweet love to me.”

She pressed a kiss against his bared chest, nipped at his skin with her teeth. “Take me to bed now, Bram. Because the time has passed for these nebulous things called dreams, yes? Dreams we cannot touch, cannot really feel? Now it is time to live them.”

The candles had all guttered in their holders, but that didn’t matter. The moon still shone softly into the room, spilling over the rumpled covers, the two bodies lying close together on the bed, locked in each other’s arms.

“You were so brave,” Bramwell said, kissing the top of her head, burying his mouth against her soft curls.

“I was so
eager
,” Sophie responded with delightful honesty. “Very possibly shameless, yes?”

His low, easy chuckle rumbled deep inside his bare chest. Had he ever felt this free, this willingly chained? Had he ever been so happy? “And all without a word of Love,” he then said, suddenly sober once more.

“You spoke your love eloquently, Bram, without having to say a word.” She pushed against his chest, raising her head to look into his face. “But you could say a few now, yes?”

“God, I love you, Sophie Winstead!” he declared, taking her cheeks in his hands and pressing his forehead against hers. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ll tell you so every day, every hour, every minute, for the rest of our lives.”

She wrinkled up her nose, as if considering his words. “So often? That should most probably be sufficient. And I’ll tell you, too. I love you, Bramwell Seaton, Ninth Duke of Selbourne. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“And you’ll marry me?”

Sophie smiled. “So gallant, Bram. But I think perhaps you’re forgetting Miss Waverley, yes?”

Bramwell grinned wickedly, remembering Desiree’s words. “Isadora? That problem is no more than a mere
bagatelle
, my darling, thanks to you and your burning desire to make all of those around you happy. Although I believe you may have had some help this time. Isadora was beginning to have second thoughts about bracketing herself to a notorious, indiscreet Seaton even before she saw us tonight. I plan to go to her first thing tomorrow morning—unless we decide to stay here in bed until noon—and graciously allow her to break my heart so that she can pursue her own happiness.”

“I’m in love with such a good, kind man,” Sophie said most facetiously, playfully nipping at his earlobe with her perfect white teeth.

“Yes, I am, aren’t I?” he teased, running his hand along her rib cage, heading slowly, determinedly toward her perfect breasts even as she boldly, marvelously, drew her fingertips down his chest and his muscles began to ripple beneath her touch. “Sophie? Tonight was your first time. Are you sure you really want to be doing that? That we should be doing this again so soon?”

“Doing what? This?” she asked, sliding down his body so that her head was against his chest again and she could press kisses on his rapidly heating skin, skate the tip of her tongue over his nipple. She ran her tongue down the center of his chest, dipped it into his navel, traced a small hot, moist circle on his lower belly—then suddenly withdrew, collapsing on her back beside him on the bed. “But, if you don’t think we should...” she said sadly before shrieking in delight as he growled, then turned to cover her with his own body.

They had come together so quickly the first time, their first touch feeding fires already burning. He had kissed her, kissed her deeply, passionately, hungrily, and then lifted her high in his arms and carried her to the bed. The two of them had tumbled down onto the covers in a tangle of arms and legs and a combined, firm determination to rid Bram of his restrictive clothing as quickly as possible.

His hands had skimmed her, learned her quickly, as her perfection had already been indelibly branded into his brain. He had felt her tremble under his touch even as she had touched him in return, holding him to her almost feverishly, telling him with her hands, her mouth, that this was no time for long seductions. They had been seducing each other since that first day, that first mind-shattering meeting of their eyes.

Only as he had moved to enter her, easing her legs open so that he could bury himself in her, fill her, had he been at all gentle. And even then the gentleness had not lasted for a moment longer than it had taken for his mind to understand that she was ready for him. She had been wonderfully moist and gloriously hot; magnificently tight, and yet pushing herself against him, lifting herself to him, silently urging him on to what had been a shattering explosion of passion that had left them both shaking, silent, amazed.

But now, ah, but now there was time for more. Time for long, leisurely lovemaking. Time to begin teaching her more of what she’d thought she’d known, what she’d read about in her mother’s amazingly frank journals, but had never experienced. Time to savor, to enjoy, to worship this woman he loved with his body, his mind, his entire being.

He moved his mouth against hers, teaching her the many mysteries of the kiss. She was an avid pupil. “This is love,” he told her between long, drugging kisses. “This is desire so intense it shatters me, humbles me. This is all I am, all I can give to you, want from you. Your closeness, your kiss, your love.”

“This is love,” she whispered, holding him tightly, as if she would never let him go. “This is desire born of love. There’s nothing else I’ll ever want, ever need.”

He smiled against her mouth, all at once rather happily evil. Oh, how much she supposed, his darling Sophie. How little she still knew.

He wanted to kiss her, kiss her everywhere. He didn’t know where to start. At the top of her warm, living mass of curls, or at the soles of her small feet. He wanted to say what could never be said in words, not even by the most eloquent man ever born. He wanted to love her, cherish her, adore her, drive her wild with the ultimate carnal splendor that, he now knew, could only be reached in the arms of true love.

Because this was not lust. This was not a temporary indulgence of need, a selfish taking. This was giving, as he’d never before known he could want to give. He would worship her with his body, even as he loved her with his heart, his mind.

He began moving down the length of her. Leisurely—each move excruciatingly slow, intense, adoring. He savored her sweet perfection. So deceivingly slim, so small. And yet so voluptuous. The fullness of her breasts. The soft mound of her belly. The luxuriant sweep of her hips. Everything about her was soft, womanly. Lush. She was a woman born to love, born to be loved.

He could have wept, so intense was his love, his need to show that love. He would go anywhere, dare anything, just to be near her, just to hear the sound of his name on her lips. To see her smile. To watch as she teased, as she played, as she opened her heart to the world and spread her unique joy, wove her special magic. Dazzled.

She was silk. She was fire. She was his everything.

He found the heart of her sexuality. Claimed it. Worshiped her with his fingers, his tongue, his teeth, his mouth. So sweet. So sweet.

Her voice came to him through the swirling mist of his intense desire. “Bram?” she whispered softly. “Before... I thought that before... that at last I knew. Understood. But
this
... this is so different. I feel so... so—oh, Bram!”

He knew what she meant. Before... the first time... she had been pleasured. But now she was at last beginning to feel the full measure of desire. Her hips rose from the bed as he ministered to her, educated her, brought her to the brink, took her over, held her as she shattered. She flowed into him, moved against him, free and uninhibited, her trust in him so complete he was awed by it. Humbled.

And when she reached for him, her beautiful face glowing with love, with new understanding, with a desire that matched his own, he went to her willingly, eagerly, and marveled as she shyly, then boldly, demonstrated all that she had just learned.