PortraitofPassion (12 page)

“I think we’re a bit beyond that,” he replied. He had
thought to join in with her teasing, but knew he hadn’t quite carried it off.
She was much better at teasing, flirting, than he was. He knew he looked and
sounded serious, staid.

Beatrice tilted her head slightly to study him. The play of
light and shade under the tree cast her eyes into shadow so he could not see
their expression, but her lips were tilted up and her dimple winked at him
briefly. He couldn’t help but smile back at her. She looked so lovely in her
soft lavender dress with her hair loose down her back. Simon was struck by how
innocent she looked, like a young girl in the garden. And he had roughly taken
her virginity last night.

Beatrice rejoined him, tucking her hand through his arm, and
Simon welcomed the shot of desire that raced through his body to tighten his
groin. He realized he had come to expect it, to anticipate it every time they
were together.

“Beatrice,” he said as she led him off the narrow path and
into the grass. “I must apologize for my behavior last night.”

“Oh Simon, you needn’t,” she said, giving his arm a gentle
squeeze. “I behaved terribly, like a spoiled child. It’s just that I was having
such trouble keeping up with your change from lover to gentleman with a
reputation to protect.”

“What?” Simon asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, I was quite angry with you, what with the rushing to
dress and ordering me about,” she explained. “But I have never been able to
hold a grudge. I forgave you before I had reached the retiring room.”

Simon shook his head in wonder. She was apologizing to
him
for her temper after they had made love.

“Beatrice, I am trying to apologize for taking your
virginity,” he said patiently.

“But you didn’t take it. I gave it to you.”

He thought that was an odd thing to say. Then thought that
maybe it was the nicest thing she could have said to him.

“Why?” he asked.

“It was mine to give and I wanted you to have it.”

“Why?” he persisted.

“I do not know that I can put my feelings into words,
Simon,” she answered after a pause. She stopped walking to look out over the
lawns, gifting him with her profile. He had never seen so tranquil an
expression. Beatrice’s face was normally alive with emotion, a mirror into her
heart, her mind, perhaps even her soul. “I knew from the moment I saw you that
you would be special to me. I felt…I don’t know…that our coming together was
somehow…inevitable.”

Simon was humbled by her soft words and when she finally
turned to look at him he felt as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs.
Her brown eyes were dark pools, so deep and fathomless that he could not see
his reflection in their depths. He saw only Beatrice, her eyes huge in her
face, a small smile hovering upon her lips. She looked lonely, he thought, and
was startled by the notion. The idea of Beatrice, always so cheerful and
outgoing, quick to laugh and quick to befriend strangers, lonely caused his
heart to skip.

“You are not sorry, are you?” she asked him.

“Sorry that you chose me to bestow such a gift upon?” he
asked in wonder. “Ah Beatrice, how could I be sorry? I am only sorry that I did
not know, that I did not realize sooner. I would have been gentle with you. I
would have made love to you slowly and carefully, as you deserved.”

“Had you known, you would not have made love to me at all,
so I regret none of it. I would not change a moment of our time together. It is
a memory I will cherish always.”

She resumed walking and Simon tucked her hand more firmly
into the crook of his elbow and followed at her side, her skirts softly blowing
in the increasing breeze, brushing against his leg, teasing his senses. He
inhaled and caught her scent carried on the wind. Jasmine with a hint of mint,
unique like the lady herself.

He had come to see her this morning to make her an offer of
marriage. He had decided as he lay awake last night that honor demanded he
marry her. He was a gentleman, he knew his duty. He thought that perhaps
Beatrice would expect him to marry her. He knew she had every right to expect
it. So he had knocked on Moorehead’s door with every intention of asking her to
be his wife. He could not say that he was happy about it. He knew that his
mother, his aunt, his entire family would object to the union. Hell, he knew
that everyone would object, that doors would be closed to him, that marriage to
Beatrice would irrevocably alter his standing in Society.

Now as he walked beside her, content in the silence that had
descended between them, he wondered if he had been wrong, that she did not
expect an offer at all. She had said she had known he would be special to her,
he thought in some confusion. Why then did she speak of their time together as
a cherished memory? Only one way to find out.

“It occurs to me that perhaps we should marry.” He knew his
words lacked romance, but he reasoned that they were two rational people who
understood that romance had little to do with marriage.

“Oh Simon,” she said, and he heard the laughter underlying
her words. “You are a dear to say so, but truly, it is not necessary.”

“I compromised you,” he pointed out.

“One might say that I compromised you,” she replied and he
thought how strange that they should be discussing who compromised whom and
marriage while they strolled in the garden. They might have been discussing an
upcoming ball or a bonnet she intended to purchase.

“No one would say that,” he argued. “A lady cannot
compromise a man. Everyone would say that it was I who compromised you.”

“No one will say anything one way or the other,” she replied,
“unless you intend to tell anyone?”

“Of course I will not tell anyone. How could you even think
it?”

“I didn’t think you would,” she assured him. “My point is
simply that there is no need for marriage as no one will ever know that you
made glorious love to me.”

“Glorious, was it?” he asked with a chuckle. It had been
glorious. So amazing, in fact, that he was eager to repeat the experience. It
was all he could do not to pull her into the gazebo and take her on the hard
floor. Or better yet, he pictured her straddling him on the circular bench,
lifting her skirts to take him into her body. Christ, he had to get a hold of
himself. It appeared he had escaped the parson’s mousetrap—there was no need to
endanger his freedom now.

“Oh yes, quite glorious,” she purred and Simon looked down
into her upturned face and saw that her eyes were heavy-lidded, her cheeks
flushed. Her tongue came out to wet her lips. He felt as if he had been kicked
in the gut. Could it be desire he saw in her eyes? Was she inviting him to
capture her moist lips?

“Beatrice?” he whispered, his breath suspended, his heart
beating a wild tattoo.

“When can we do it again?” she asked, her voice breathless
and soft.

Simon knew he should tell her that they could not do it
again. He knew that he could reason with his honor that once had been an
accident. But twice? He gave a small shake of his head in an attempt to clear
it of the voice that urged him to take what she offered and worry about the
consequences later.

She must have thought he was shaking his head in denial. She
gave a small shrug of her shoulders and turned to resume their walk. Let her
believe it, his rational mind screamed. His body chose not to heed the warning.

He gave a quick tug on the hand he held in the crook of his
arm. Beatrice spun back to face him, her eyes jumping up to meet his. She must
have seen his desire there, for her lips curved up into a wondrous smile, full
lipped and lush. Without a word she took a step toward him and he dropped her
hand to gather her into his arms.

“Are you sure?” she asked with a husky laugh. “I would not
want you to do anything you shall regret.”

“Hush,” he whispered as his lips captured hers. He would
only kiss her. They could not make love in the garden, he reminded himself as
her arms stole up to wrap around his neck, her hands diving into his hair. He
meant to worship her mouth, caress her back and enjoy her soft body pressed to
his. That was all, he told himself.

That was before Beatrice stood up on her toes, her lovely
bare toes, and pressed her soft breasts into the hard wall of his chest. That
was before she clasped his head in her hands to bring his mouth hard upon hers.
That was before he felt her tongue dance along his lower lip. That was before
he heard her moan, low and dark, and felt the sound vibrate on his lips,
through his chest.

He angled his head to the side and drove his tongue into her
waiting mouth. She welcomed the invasion with another deep moan and now her
tongue circled around and over his. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her
delectable mouth. He wanted to devour her, to suck her kiss right into his
soul. He took and took and she gave and gave. She denied him nothing. She
demanded all he could give her. Her hands were restless in his hair, her
fingernails gently scouring his scalp. He had never known how sensitive his
scalp could be, but he knew it now. He felt a shaft of lust shoot from his head
to his groin to lodge there, pulsing.

He dropped his hands from her supple back to her ripe ass
and pulled her firmly against his cock. Again she moaned, the sound driving him
half mad. He thrust against her stomach and she reached up onto her toes to
wedge her pelvis against him. He knew what she wanted, what was just above her
reach and he bent his knees and aligned his pulsing shaft against her warm
mound, slowly dragging his length along her flesh.

“Ahh,” she breathed as her head dropped back and she sucked
in a deep breath. Simon lowered his lips to her neck. His hungry mouth latched
on to her skin where the pulse beat. He sucked and laved the soft skin with his
tongue, let his teeth gently nip at her until she was writhing in his arms, her
breath hard and fast.

Through a haze of need, Simon felt a raindrop land on his
cheek. He easily ignored it. When he felt two more in rapid succession, he
eased his mouth from her neck. Her hands dropped from his head to his shoulders
just as thunder rumbled. He leaned back to find her looking up at him with
dazed eyes.

God, she was amazing. Amazing in her beauty, amazing in her
uninhibited passion. One fat raindrop and then another landed on her cheek,
waking her from her desire-induced trance. Damn.

Without a word Beatrice grabbed his hand and spun around to
run. Simon followed as best he could. He was finding it difficult to move with
need beating upon him and his flesh as hard as rock. He thought she would lead
him to the house but quickly saw that her destination was the gazebo.

The first gentle raindrops had turned into a deluge, the sky
was dark and gray and wind whipped through the trees when they reached the
small white structure with its tall conical roof and lattice sides. The
cushions were gone from the circular bench, but it was dry. The wind was
blowing from the east where the gazebo sat in the shadow of the tall stone
wall, sheltered from the worst of the storm.

Beatrice turned to Simon with a husky laugh as he raced in
behind her. Her hair was drenched, rivulets of water cascaded down her face.
Her thin muslin dress was plastered to her body, presenting him with a clear
view of her small, pert breasts with their nipples hard as pebbles, the gentle
curve of her hips and her long, trim legs. He thought of those legs wrapped
around his hips, remembered the feel of them locked behind his back. He brought
his gaze up to the juncture of her thighs and could see the shadow of her sex.

His arousal, barely tamped down by the run through the rain,
surged back to life. His earlier fantasy of Beatrice astride him upon the bench
came back to him. He wanted her on him, above him, surrounding him. His hunger
was a living, breathing being. He would have her that way, if she would allow
it.

Simon stalked toward her where she stood smiling at him
beside the bench. He grabbed her wet cheeks and leaned down for one hard, hot
kiss, his tongue thrusting into her mouth to parry with hers. He gripped her
hips, pulling her forward for one quick thrust of his erection against her
softness, then he released her to tear off his coat and spread it out on the
bench, never taking his eyes from her face. She looked back at him and he could
clearly see a hunger that matched his own.

He sat and held out his hand to her, watching intently as
she stepped forward until she was wedged between his knees, her small hand in
his larger one. She tilted her head in a motion he recognized as confusion. She
didn’t know what he wanted from her, but she would follow his lead. He knew
then with certainty that Beatrice would follow wherever he led. He was
determined to lead her to pleasure.

He leaned forward and lifted her skirts until they were at
her thighs. Her legs were bare to the lacy trim of her white cotton drawers. He
dragged his gaze back to her face to find her watching him in fascination.
Keeping his hungry eyes on hers, he reached beneath her skirts and gave a quick
tug to the ribbon that held her drawers. The garment fell to her feet with a
soft whoosh. She did not look down but kept her hungry eyes upon him.

With one hand he bunched up her skirt and raised it above
her waist and held it there. He skimmed his free hand lightly up from her knee
to her thigh, across her hips and down the other thigh to grasp the back of her
knee. He exerted just enough pressure that she understood he wanted her to bend
her knee.

“Put your hands on my shoulders,” he quietly commanded, his
voice raspy.

Beatrice did as he instructed, leaning forward so that her
hair fell over her shoulder to brush his arm. He guided her, one leg at a time,
until she sat straddling his lap, her knees snug against his hips. He drew her
gown back behind her and let it fall, placing his hands softly on her hips.
Simon closed his eyes and leaned his head back to rest against the lattice
behind him. He took a moment to catch his breath, to calm his heartbeat, to
bring his need under control.