Ravishing the Heiress (25 page)

She wanted. She wanted. She wanted.

She gripped him by the lapel and yanked him to her.

But he kissed her before she could kiss him—hard, the way he’d kissed her in his long-ago hallucination, when he’d thought her his Isabelle. She whimpered with pleasure and gratification. She wanted this ferocity, this vehemence.

His hands cupped either side of her head, holding her in place for the onslaught of his lips and tongue. She thrilled to it: It was exactly how she wanted to be secured. And the kiss, God, wild, unrefined, full of raw, barely leashed needs.

She did not know until she heard the pinging of buttons flying everywhere that she was ripping off his waistcoat, tearing apart everything that separated them. He pulled away from the kiss to help her. She slapped his hands away:
She
would do it.

He tumbled them both into bed.

His rasping breaths aroused her. His ungoverned hands aroused her. And his erection, pressing insistently into her thigh—
oh, yes
. She’d thought she’d be afraid of it. Or at least wary. But she only gloried in its dimensions and its hammer-hard rigidity. This was how it ought to be. He
ought to want her this much. He ought to swell and extend to the limits of his endurance.

She pushed off his braces and yanked his shirt overhead. And then she went for his trousers.

“My God, Millie.”

Yes, every utterance of her name should be preceded with such an imprecation, an uttering of the Lord’s name in vain.

He certainly did not slap her hands away, but helped her to release the fastenings and get rid of both his trousers and his linens. Immediately she set her hand on his cock. It pulsed in her grip. He sucked in a breath.

“Take me,” she ordered, impatient, imperious.

He touched his hand to the seam between her legs. She was utterly sleek.

“Take me now.”

“Shut up, Millie.”

“But I want—”

He silenced her with a harsh kiss. “Shut up or I’ll make you wait longer.”

She shut up.

He stroked, teased, and plucked her. Every touch was unbearable pleasure. She wanted more. She wanted him. She wanted this emptiness inside her pounded to oblivion.

She kissed every part of him she could reach. She bit his shoulders and his neck. She plunged her hands down the length of his back and grabbed his firm buttocks.

He retaliated by licking her nipple. She moaned, a long, keening admission of enjoyment. He rolled her nipple around his tongue, grazed his teeth across it, and pulled it deep into his mouth. Her cries of pleasure ricocheted about the room.

His fingers, which had not been idle a moment since they descended between her legs, chose this moment to flick a most gloriously sensitive spot. Her breath hitched, snagged, and disappeared altogether. He flicked the spot again and she convulsed involuntarily, a fast, juddering slide of pleasure.

On the heel of that, he centered himself between her knees and pushed into her.

It was the most incredible sensation, a splitting open of her person, widening, deepening. But he was so frustratingly
slow
, as if advancing against an opposing army. At least he sounded as impatient as she felt, his breath catching with each minute movement forward.

The thrust came all of a sudden. One moment he was on the cusp, the next moment he was deeply embedded in her, the two of them locked together by the force of it. He gasped. She gasped, too.

It hurt. But she welcomed the pain—good riddance to her virginity. And the pain was nothing compared to the
rightness
of it. This was what they should be doing, nightly, daily, hourly.

She raised her hips, wanting more. He held her still with his hand on her abdomen. “Are you not hurt?”

“Not enough to stop,” she answered in complete honesty. “Not even enough to want a reprieve.”

Still he withdrew. Just as she was about to cry out at the unfairness of it, he drove back into her.

How did one describe a sunrise to the blind? Or the sound of rain to the deaf? How could words ever adequately express the pleasure of lovemaking? Each thrust was a voluptuous surge of sensations. Each plunge both compacted her and expanded her.

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

She didn’t know whether she was issuing a command or a prayer. But he must not stop, not yet. Not when the pleasure was so new and acute, and she so ravenous.

Six months.

Suddenly she was convulsing, her back arched, her person shaking, her heart in pieces.

T
hey’d barely started. And yet here he was, on the verge.

Don’t stop
, she begged.

Everything about her was such pure decadence. Tight, sleek, hungry—an overload of sensations. Her skin was too soft. Her legs, clamped about him, too smooth. Her mouth, which he couldn’t stop kissing, too delicious.

Don’t stop
, she begged again.

All those rampant urges threatened to crash upon him. He held back. Slow. Slower. But though he moderated his pace, he couldn’t help taking each stroke to the hilt.

His climax began gathering again, rising toward a point of no return. He didn’t know if he could restrain himself this time: He was too close, too near to being overwhelmed.

She cried out, trembling exclamations.

He lost all control, his release hot, violent, and endless.

M
illie touched her husband’s hair—a first time for her, after all these years. It was thick, a little wavy, and just slightly damp at the roots with perspiration. His heart beat fast and hard against hers. His breathing, like her own, remained tattered.

So…this was how one made babies.

No wonder the population was ever increasing.

Her fingers continued their exploration: his ear, his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose. He nuzzled her on her shoulder, her throat, her cheek—and claimed her mouth once more.

The kiss was slow and leisurely. He’d never left her, now he hardened again inside her.

Yes,
she thought,
more.
As much as possible.

He located innumerable obscure nooks and crannies of her body that needed only a caress to reveal themselves superlatively sensitive and starved for attention. Each touch was luxuriant, every nibble unhurried.

But this was lovemaking for people who had years—decades—ahead of them. They did not have that luxury. Each slow brush of his hand reminded her of the ticking clock. Every measured path he kissed only made her that much more aware of the end drawing nigh.

She did not want to remember; she only wanted to forget.

She bit into his shoulder. She touched him most indecently. She writhed against him, pagan, shameless, driving him—and herself—into a renewed frenzy, a dizzying peak of obscene delights.

And then, at last, the next all-obliterating paroxysm.

C
onsciousness returned with a vengeance. Millie’s eyes flew open. The room was still somber, but it was definitely morning.

She’d best hurry. There were all her amethyst pins to be collected from the carpet, not to mention the buttons she’d ripped off his clothes. And of course the sheets must somehow be made pristine again—baby-making was a messy business.

“Good morning.”

Her head jerked toward the foot of the bed. Fitz, in his riding jacket and breeches, gloriously stylish in the dusky light.

“Morning.” She yanked the blanket higher over her person and thanked God that he could not see her flush. “What time is it?”

She’d given instructions to her maid to wake her at
eight—an hour and half later than usual. Fitz typically left for his ride as she was drinking her cocoa in bed. But since they were up quite late, engaged in rather exhausting activities—her face heated again—perhaps it was half past seven rather than half past six.

“Half past nine.”

She bolted straight, barely remembering to hang on to her blanket. “What? But Bridget was supposed to wake me up at eight.”

“She came by at eight. But you were still fast asleep so I dismissed her.”

She blinked. “You still were
here
at eight?”

“Yes, sleeping.”

“Bridget saw the two of us
together
?”

He tapped his riding crop against the top of the footboard, his tone mock patient. “It’s quite forgivable these days, you know, to be found in bed with one’s spouse. I’m sure Bridget would find the strength to accept it.”

She only heated more, feeling flustered and gauche.

At least she didn’t need to hide the hairpins or the buttons from Bridget anymore, as the latter had already seen what all that pin-tossing and button-ripping had led to.

“Well,” she said—and didn’t know what else to say.

Tongue-tied, too.

Fitz tilted his head. “Are you quite all right?”

Would he be, if he knew he had only six months with Mrs. Englewood?

And what did she have to say for herself, going after him like a pack of wolves?

“I—” She looked down to see strands of her hair tumbling over her shoulders. Such a strange sight: She never
had her hair loose except for drying it after a bath. “You were right all those years ago, when you suggested that I was curious about the act itself. I guess it was past time for me to have a go at it.”

“Sore?”

“Negligibly so. You?”

She realized the stupidity of the last word the moment it was uttered, but it was too late.

He tried not to smile and didn’t quite succeed. “Not at all. I’m perfectly well.”

The playful curve of his lips, the teasing light in his eyes—she’d always wanted him to look at her like that. She didn’t know whether the pain in her chest was the anticipation of losing him or the expansion of new hope cracking through the barricades.

She cleared her throat. “I was just asking since you didn’t seem to have left for your ride yet.”

“I was waiting for you to wake up. Didn’t seem right to go anywhere before I’d spoken to you.”

He rounded the corner post of the bed and came toward her. She hiked the blanket up to her nose. He pushed it down, but only so that he could take her chin between his fingers and turn her face.

“Best choose something with a high collar today,” he said.

She did not understand him until she was alone again, sitting before her vanity. She examined her reflection in the mirror for any outward differences, something that might cause pedestrians to stop on the sidewalk and whisper to each other,
Look, there goes a woman freshly plucked.

And that was when she saw the lover’s mark on her neck.

Look, there goes a woman laid something proper.

M
any newlyweds’ first dinners were disasters. But Venetia was an old hand at managing a household and the Duke and Duchess of Lexington’s first dinner, a small, intimate affair for family and select friends, proceeded without a single snag.

Venetia and her husband had invited Helena to stay with them, starting this very night. Helena had accepted, her mind already busy, trying to think of a way to take advantage of the change.

“You are scheming something,” said Hastings.

The man was beginning to read her all too easily, as if she were a children’s alphabet primer. She looked longingly toward the other occupants of the drawing room, hoping someone would saunter by. But as was usually the case, once Hastings had cornered her, no one else came.

“I don’t advise you on how to live your life, Hastings. You should return the same courtesy.”

“I would. Except if I were to set off a scandal, you wouldn’t need to marry me. If you did, however, I wouldn’t get off the hook so easily. I’m practically part of the family and people will look at me and wonder why I didn’t step in and save you.” He paused dramatically. “But I’d rather not marry you.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t?”

“I’m an old-fashioned man, Miss Fitzhugh. The little woman ought to be, well, little, to start. She ought to agree
with everything I say. And she ought to look at me with stars in her eyes.”

“And yet your fictional bride would have had you for breakfast.”

His gaze raked her. “That’s why I keep her hands bound,” he said slowly. “And her person fictional.”

Her breaths came in shallowly. “Then don’t marry me. I won’t cry my little heart out.”

“But I will, when it comes to that. I won’t have any choice. So don’t push matters to their logical end, I beg you, Miss Fitzhugh. You are the only one who can stop our marriage from taking place.”

And with that, he rose to accost the dowager duchess at the other end of the room.

F
itz had never thought his wife beautiful—pretty, yes; lovely, at times; but not beautiful. How blind he’d been, like a novice gardener who only understood the gaudy spectacle of roses and dahlias.

The light lingering on her smooth, fine-grained skin. The way she held her head, her throat, slender and elegant. The courtesy and interest in her eyes, as she listened to her neighbor.

He couldn’t look away from her.

She was not a showy blossom, good for a few days—or at most a few weeks. She was more like the hazel tree beloved by Alice: In summer one found shelter and peace under the green shade; in winter the bare limbs were still shapely and durable. A woman for all seasons.

Their eyes met. She colored and looked away, the very
model of decorum. When she’d been anything but in the dark, when she’d been all indecent touches, hot kisses, and rapturous whimpers.

Her ear, exposed by her upswept hair, was delicate and comely. Her profile was as exquisite as any he’d seen on an ivory cameo. And her eyelashes, had they always been so long, curved as dramatically as scimitars?

At the end of the evening, with Helena staying behind at the Lexington town house, Fitz and Millie traveled home alone.

They were silent inside the carriage. He didn’t know what to make of his reticence to speak to her. He certainly didn’t feel physically bashful—he’d disrobe this minute if his nudity in a moving carriage with all its windows open wouldn’t offend her. But it was shyness all the same, a shyness of the mind, perhaps. He was not yet accustomed to the reality of their marriage, not yet accustomed to going home with a woman he held in such high esteem—and making love to her, too.