She
didn't want to die a maiden. She had to know what it was like to
experience and express passion. She must experience, once, what it
was to be made love to by the man one longed for.
He
started toward her. She backed away. "You must do up those
buttons," he said so very sternly, "or I shall do them up
for you." He advanced.
She
retreated.
The
room was a fraction of the size of his bedchamber at Oldridge Hall.
Its furnishings, combined with his belongings, created a course of
obstacles and left him little space to maneuver round them. She knew
he daren't chance overturning a chair or table or toppling any of the
breakables, which seemed to be everywhere. The noise would bring the
staff running.
He
limped cautiously after her, and she retreated, while her unsteady
fingers moved down the front of the pelisse.
"Miss
Oldridge, this is a very dangerous game," he said. "Someone
might hear us."
"Then
lower your voice," she said.
She
leapt up onto the bed, and standing a hairsbreadth out of his reach,
quickly shrugged out of the pelisse. She threw it at him, and it
caught him in the face. He held it there for a moment, then crushed
it against his chest.
"You
must not," he said hoarsely. "It is wicked to do this to
me. It holds…" He swallowed. "It holds your warmth,
your scent."
Her
heart thumped frantically.
"This
is most unwise," he said. "And unfair."
"You
leave me no choice," she said. "You and your dratted
honor."
"You
must not do this," he said. "You must not." . "We'll
never have another chance," she said.
WE
'LL never have another chance.
Alistair
tried to tell himself it didn't matter. He could no more dishonor her
here than under her father's roof.
She
was struggling with the fastenings of her dress.
They
were at the back. He might have undone them so easily.
He
clenched his hands and stood motionless.
Without
help, she couldn't get the dress off. He must not help her.
"I've
spent my life doing my duty," she went on while trying to twist
her dress about in order to get to the buttons and strings. "I
don't regret it. Not altogether. But I know I'll regret you."
"My
dear—"
"Don't
say that!"
"You
are dear. If you were not—But we cannot—We must talk. I
beg you to stop disrobing. It's impossible to talk rationally while
you're doing that."
"I'm
always so rational," she said. "Always doing the right
thing. Why may I not, once, do the wrong thing?"
"Yes,
you may, another time. But not now."
"You
said you missed me, you were wretched without me," she said.
"When you go back to London, you'll have other ladies to make
you forget me. I shan't have anyone like you. I don't want to wish
I'd taken a chance. I don't want to regret. Now is all I have. Do you
not see? Time is running out for me."
She
gave up fumbling with the dress fastenings and grabbed the bedpost
instead. She lifted her right foot, unfastened her half boot, and
after a short struggle and a few stumbles, pulled it off.
He
could not let her continue. He started toward the bed.
"Don't
think of it," she said. "I am very nervous and liable to
scream."
Alistair
took a step back. She was nervous already. Very likely her courage
would soon fail her altogether—before his resolve failed him,
he prayed. Before he forgot what honor was. He must pretend. He was
good at that. He must pretend he felt nothing.
He
moved away, brushed her ugly bonnet from the chair, sat down, and
folded his aims. "Very well," he said. "Take off all
your clothes. Writhe in the bed naked, if you wish. It is nothing I
haven't seen before and won't again. As you say, there have been and
will be other women in my life. Many other women. If I grow very
bored, perhaps I shall take another turn about the garden."
He
watched the other boot sail past him. Luckily it was soft, and the
carpet was thick. It landed with a faint thud.
Her
garters went next.
Alistair
stared at his boots.
Something
soft and slithery landed on his head. He snatched it off, opening his
eyes. It was a stocking, still holding the shape of her leg. He
swallowed a groan.
Another
stocking landed at his feet. He stared at it, dragging his fingers
through his hair.
He
heard a faint whoosh, and a pair of silk knit drawers swirled onto
his knee and slid to the floor.
He
told himself to pretend it was something else, but he couldn't. In
his mind's eye he saw feathery, pale copper curls in the most secret,
most feminine of places. Slowly he looked up toward the bed.
Her
fiery hair was tumbling about her shoulders, and her dress was
twisted sideways. She had her skirts hiked up to her thighs while she
worked at untying her petticoat. He had already seen her ankles and
calves, the first time he'd seen her. He knew they were shapely. But
he hadn't seen nearly so much of them, and he hadn't seen those
sweetly curving limbs bare.
She
had a beauty mark near the crook of her left knee.
"Miss
Oldridge," he said thickly. "Mirabel."
"I
have never had to do this from the inside out before," she said.
"It is no small challenge." She tugged the petticoat down
and stepped out of it. She stood for a moment, her skirts bunched in
her hands, and looked at him.
"Your
legs are very beautiful," he said. Please cover them up, he
should have added. He didn't. Not that it would have made a whit of
difference.
She
glanced down at her legs. "Yes, they are good, I think. But no
one ever sees them. The rest of me is good as well. And it is all
going to waste!"
Then
at last he saw the trouble.
She
lived in this out-of-the-way place with a father who was mainly
absent, in spirit if not in body. She worked day after day, and no
one took much notice of what she did. There was no one to applaud her
accomplishments, let alone to admire or flirt with her. There was no
one to tell her how pretty she was, no one to appreciate her wit, her
intelligence, her caring and affectionate heart.
Why
should she care how she dressed, or whether her hair was tidy or not,
when she was, to all intents and purposes, invisible?
"I
see you," he said. He got up and crossed to the bed. She stepped
back, out of reach.
"You
are beautiful," he said. "I would give anything in the
world to have you. But I cannot, because I am not in a position to
marry you."
"Of
course we cannot marry," she said. "It is very likely you
will build your horrid canal and destroy everything I hold dear, and
I shall hate you for it. If you fail, it will be my doing, and you'll
hate me for it. At this moment, we are in charity with each other,
but it cannot last. If we do not make love now, we never will. You
will have other opportunities with other women, I know. But I am not
likely to meet another man for whom I have feelings as strong as
those I have for you."
She
spoke quietly and composedly, but the color came and went in her
cheeks. She stood stiffly, her skirts still bunched in her tightly
clenched hands.
No
tears glistened in her eyes, and her lips didn't tremble, but her
chin jutted out, brave or defiant or merely obstinate, he couldn't
tell.
All
Alistair knew was that he wanted what she wanted, and he felt like a
beast, making her beg. He would feel like a beast afterward, too, no
matter what he did.
He
would do what she wanted and what he wanted, and work out the moral
difficulties later.
After
all, he told himself, he wasn't a schoolboy. He knew ways to make
love without ruining her.
He
and Judith Gilford had taken full advantage of the rare, brief
occasions they'd been alone together. He'd had time enough to relieve
his affianced bride of her virginity. She, certainly, hadn't tried to
protect it.
Yet
he'd controlled himself.
He
might be stupid, but he was not without scruples.
He
told himself this as he pulled off his coat.
He
tossed the coat aside, unbuttoned his waistcoat, swiftly removed it,
and threw it on top of the coat. He untied and unwound his neckcloth
and flung it aside. It landed on top of her drawers.
Alistair
heard her suck in her breath.
His
own breathing was shallow. He told himself to calm down and keep a
level head. He pulled off his boots.
Then
he looked at the woman standing on the bed, letting his gaze travel
slowly from her bare toes upward, over the graceful turn of her
ankles, the sweet curve of her calves, the teasing dot at the crook
of her knee… and up the gentle swell of her thighs.
He
climbed onto the bed and on hands and knees crept toward her, across
the counterpane marked with her boot prints.
She
didn't move a muscle, only stood holding her skirts as before.
Nearing, he saw the tiny beauty mark was a misshapen heart, upside
down. He kissed it. Her leg trembled.
He
hooked his arm round her knees and brought her down.
He
heard the soft, choked cry of surprise and the light thud as she
landed among the pillows. Then he was crawling over her, and she was
clutching fistfuls of his shirt and pulling him down to her.
He
meant to be gentle and careful, but it was nearly impossible. He was
like a man who'd wandered the desert for days, weeks, years. She was
the oasis, fresh and clean and sweet. Every other woman he'd ever
known seemed merely a mirage. Only she was real.
Her
scent was everywhere, dizzying. He'd held her pelisse to his face,
inhaling her helplessly, and the scent brought back everything he'd
tried to forget: the first taste of her, as fresh as morning, and the
artless ardor of her kiss… the warmth of her body on top of
his, her heart thumping against his chest, her hair tickling his
chin.
Now
she was here, in his arms.
We'll
never have another chance.
He
deepened the kiss, and the sweetness darkened. A lover's dusk settled
in, with darkness to come. All the world gone… only they two,
alone.
His
hands moved to her back, and he undid the fastenings he'd vowed not
to touch: first the dress's buttons and tapes, then the corset
strings. Then he was pushing the lot—bodice, corset,
chemise—down to her hips…
…
and
then he forgot how to breathe.
He'd
pictured in his mind the shape of her breasts, but he could never
have imagined how perfect they were, firm and velvety smooth, tipped
with delicate pink buds. He had not quite envisioned the flawless
curve of her stomach and the enticing dip of her navel. He had not
imagined he would stop suddenly, and look at her, and realize she was
everything in the world he'd ever wanted.
"Mirabel,"
he said softly. Wonderful. Miraculous. He drew his hand, so lightly,
over her breast.
She
rose to his touch, the delicate bud tightening and darkening. "Oh,"
she said. It was the softest of sighs, the gentlest exhalation, yet
it told him everything—of the pleasure she took, the trust she
gave, the wanting she felt, undisguised.
He
slid his hands over the silken curve of her belly. She moved under
his hand, her uninhibited response urging him on, and his touch grew
less delicate, more possessive. He stroked over the velvety skin, the
perfect curves, and she moved with every stroke, giving completely,
trustingly, without fear or shame. The more he tasted and touched,
the more she gave, and the more he wanted.
His
mind was a haze of wanting, and she was everything he'd ever wanted.
He
kissed her deeply, as though he must get to the heart of her, and she
caught her fingers in his hair and answered with the same urgency.
The taste of her was so clean and sweet, innocent but not shy. It was
like drinking the nectar of the wildflowers blooming defiantly in the
most forbidding moorland.