Authors: Alice Duncan
“But—but
you’re Tom Partington. You’re a hero.”
He
snorted again, and rolled his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake!”
“Why
would you care for me?”
“Because
you’re everything I ever wanted in a woman and had begun to believe
didn’t exist! Because you’re bright and talented and practical and
can do things! Because you don’t sit on your butt and expect the world
to cater to you! Because you’re lovely and sweet and—and you grow
flowers! Because you take care of this huge house and the garden and
plan meals and entertainments and decorate for Christmas and don’t
simper and whine and expect the world to kowtow to you!” He realized
he’d begun to holler and took a deep breath. “Damn it all, Claire,
I care about you because you’re
you
!”
Claire
blinked at him several times and Tom held his breath. He hadn’t meant
to get mad.
She
dropped her head again and seemed to stare at her fingers, which were
once again tormenting his handkerchief. With a small frown, she said,
“I thought for sure you’d fall in love with Dianthe.”
“Dianthe?”
Tom cried incredulously.
“She’s
so lovely. She’s beautiful and tiny and she floats here and there
and she writes poetry and . . .” Her voice trailed off.
When
she lifted her head, Tom realized she truly didn’t understand his
choice. He said, slowly and distinctly, because he didn’t want her
to misunderstand, “I think you are to be admired for your loyalty
to your friend, Claire. And I know Jedediah Silver thinks the world
of Miss St. Sauvre. Personally, however, I think she’s got mice in
her attic.”
“Wh-what?”
“Her
ace, queen, and king are missing. Her front door doesn’t close properly.
The squirrels have eaten all her acorns.”
“I
beg your pardon?”
“Oh,
God.” Tom ran his fingers through his hair again and flung himself
back down on the chair across from Claire. He swept her hands up in
his. “Listen to me, Claire. I think it’s wonderful that you set
such a great store by your friends. Loyalty is another of the attributes
I find extremely attractive in you. God knows, without the loyalty of
my friends and mine for them, we’d none of us have survived when we
scouted for the railroad. But Dianthe St. Sauvre is—is a pale imitation
of the woman you are.”
“She
is?”
“She’s
nothing compared to you.” He stood up again, his agitation propelling
him. “What would a man want with a damned sonnet when he can have
comfort, peace, and joy in his home? Why should a fellow want to watch
some poet prancing around and chanting about spotted horses when he
can have a woman who can offer sound suggestions to create a whole new
business in breeding Appaloosas?”
Claire
whispered, “Oh!” as if Tom’s words were a revelation to her.
He
scowled at her. “Yes, ‘oh!’ What do you think a man like me would
ever find enticing about a female who sits around all day and writes
stupid poems?”
“You
think her poems are stupid?”
“Well
. . .” Tom waved a hand in the air. “Sort of. They’re sort of—well—fluffy.
If you know what I mean.”
“You
really think her poetry is fluffy?”
Her
voice was very soft. Tom was afraid he’d gone too far. “I’m sorry,
Claire. I know how much you value your friends. And it’s not that
I don’t admire Miss St. Sauvre. I’m sure she’s a good friend to
you. And I have to admit she is pretty. And I’m sorry I can’t share
your feelings about her poetry. I guess I haven’t had much to do with
poetry and stuff like that over the years.”
“No,
please don’t apologize, Mr. Partington.” She cleared her throat.
“Do—do you really think her poetry lacks substance? Do you honestly
think it’s silly?”
“Well
. . .” Tom tried to gauge Claire’s emotional state, but couldn’t.
He’d lived his life around rugged men. Female sensibilities—except
those of ridiculous females like his mother—were as foreign to him
as Gordon Partington’s brandy had been his first night here. He decided
to tell the truth. “Yes.”
Time
seemed to stand still for a moment as he looked at Claire and she looked
at him. Then, in what seemed to Tom an explosion of blue sateen, Claire
shot from her chair and into his arms like a bullet.
“Oh,
Mr. Partington! Tom! How I do love you! How I’ve always loved you!”
Tom
didn’t have time to brace himself. When Claire plowed into him, his
arms closed around her and he staggered backwards. He smiled when he
fell onto the sofa, though. He smiled and laughed and his heart was
near to bursting with satisfaction. When he kissed her this time, he
had her full cooperation.
Claire
wasn’t entirely sure she believed Tom’s assertion that he cared
for her. Nevertheless, he’d said such sweet things, had declared his
fondness for her with such passion, and said exactly what Claire had
always wanted to hear about herself and never believed she would—particularly
from Tom Partington—that she couldn’t seem to help herself. He even
considered Dianthe’s poetry fluffy! She kissed him back with all the
gusto she’d kept suppressed for the ten years since she’d left her
father. In fact, she hadn’t realized she was capable of such boldness.
When
he let her go briefly, she experienced a momentary fear that he found
her enthusiasm repugnant. She looked up and discovered, however, that
he was merely removing his evening gloves. When he renewed his embrace,
fire danced on her naked skin where his bare flesh touched hers.
“My
God, Claire,” he panted, and she feared yet again that she’d somehow
done something wrong. Her worries faded when he continued with, “You
feel so damned good.”
She
whispered fiercely, “So do you, Tom. You feel good, too,” and he
growled like a wild beast, startling her. Then he seemed to lose control
entirely and began to ravish her with his mouth and hands. Claire had
never felt anything so exciting in her life.
He
was like a man possessed. He nibbled her chin and her cheeks and her
ears, nipping her earlobes and outlining her ears with his tongue. Claire,
who’d never even dreamed kisses could be carried to such extremes
of passion or be felt in such far-flung regions of the human anatomy,
whimpered with delight.
His
hands were those of a madman, stroking every inch of flesh they could
find. When they ran out of bare skin, they started to uncover more,
an activity that momentarily shocked the innocent Claire.
Tom
said, “Please, Claire. Please. I want you so much. I’ve never wanted
a woman as much as I want you. I need to feel you.” She relented.
A
gentleman had never spoken to her thus. If anybody had asked her a mere
hour earlier whether she believed she could inspire such ardor in a
masculine breast, she’d have replied with an emphatic negative. She
might even have laughed, albeit with regret. Yet here and now Tom Partington,
the her of her very life, was showing her in no uncertain terms how
much he desired her. Claire was thrilled.
“I’ve
dreamed of this, Claire,” Tom said raggedly. “I’ve dreamed of
holding you and feeling you and—and seeing you.”
When
he got to the “seeing you” part, the last button on Claire’s bodice
gave way and it fell to her waist, her ribbon-tied spectacles hitting
the floor with a clunk.
Claire
gasped, “Oh!” when she found herself suddenly bared to Tom Partington’s
eager gaze. Well, perhaps she wasn’t exactly bare, as she still wore
her chemise and corset, but she was barer than she’d ever been in
front of a gentleman, ever. Tom was close enough for her to discern
his avid expression. Suddenly her father’s unkind remark about men’s
brains being in their britches came to mind. She tried to cover herself
with her arms, but Tom caught her wrists.
“Don’t,”
he rasped. “You’re beautiful, Claire. You’re so damned beautiful.”
“Oh!”
she said again, and wished she could speak words as easily as she could
write them. She was sure Miss Abigail Faithgood would have been able
to say something besides “Oh!” in such a circumstance. On the other
hand, Miss Abigail Faithgood might have screamed. Claire definitely
did not feel like screaming.
She
saw Tom swallow convulsively several times. Then he lifted his gaze
from the swell of her nearly naked bosom and looked into her eyes.
“You’re
so damned beautiful, Claire. I want to make love to you, but I don’t
want to frighten you.”
“Oh.”
“I
want to—to take you to my bed, Claire. I want you to say right here
and now that you’ll share my life and never leave me. If you ever
left me, I don’t know what I’d do or how I’d ever carry on. We
belong together, Claire, you and I. Certainly you must be able to see
that.”
“W-we
do?” she stuttered, which she didn’t consider much of an improvement
over “Oh”.
He
nodded fervently. “We do. I’ve never met a woman like you before.
I didn’t think you existed for me, Claire. I thought I’d live and
die alone. Being with a woman on a long-term basis never entered my
head until I met you.”
“It
didn’t?” Claire frowned. Surely she could do better than this!
“No.
Please say you’ll let me make love to you, Claire.”
“I—I—”
He
didn’t give her a chance to finish, but wrapped her in his arms, squeezing
her tightly against him. It was just as well. She had no idea what to
say. His hands renewed their exploration, sending shock waves of feeling
through her, as his words reverberated in her brain. He wanted to make
love to her! Her!
His
hands sought the twin swells above her corset, and Claire almost shrieked
with the excitement of feeling his touch on her sensitive flesh. Her
mind was of no use to her at all when he grabbed her corset hooks and
began to unfasten them.
“Mercy,”
she whispered.
“Make
love to me, Claire. Make love to me and make me the happiest man on
earth. Please say you’ll make love to me. If you do, I’ll take care
of you always, Claire. You said you love me. You meant it, didn’t
you?”
His
head jerked up and he stared at her for a second, his expression suddenly
wary, as if he suspected her of having been merely humoring him. Claire
thought it was about the sweetest expression she’d ever seen.
“Of
course, I love you,” she whispered.
“Thank
God! Then will you make love with me?”
He
went back to nuzzling her flesh. When the last of her corset hooks came
free, Claire breathed deeply. Then her breath left her in a whoosh when
she felt Tom’s hands cover her breasts.
She
cried out softly at his touch, startled to her toes.
“Does
that feel good, Claire? You feel good to me. You’re perfect, Claire.
Perfect. Oh, Lord, you’re perfect.”
Claire,
who knew her breasts to be round and firm, although small, was shocked
yet perversely proud to have her feminine attributes praised by the
man she loved. Somehow she managed to say, “Y-yes. Yes, it feels good,”
and Tom growled again. She wondered if gentlemen growled frequently
when in the throes of passion, or if it was a characteristic borne of
Tom Partington’s life in the wilds of the American frontier. His growls
gave her a goose-fleshy, excited-all-over feeling.
There
was something about what Tom was doing with her breasts, Claire realized,
that was extremely thrilling. The sensation was not confined to her
breasts, either. She began to feel a tingling, physical anticipation
in her body that made her want to squirm. She moaned softly, and her
head fell back.
That
seemed to excite Tom, who immediately accelerated his assault upon her
bosom. When Claire felt his warm moist tongue lave her rigid nipple
through the fine lawn of her chemise, she was grateful she no longer
wore her corset or she’d surely have fainted for want of air.
“Let
me make love to you, Claire. Say you’ll let me make love to you.”
Claire
wondered what he was doing if he wasn’t making love to her. He seemed
very insistent, and Claire, who had again lost track of the conversation,
tried hard to pay attention to his words. To encourage him to explain
himself, she whimpered, “Hmmmm?”
“I
want to make love to you. Please let me, Claire.”
“Oh,
Tom,” she murmured, delighted at having the matter cleared up.
“Is
that a yes?”
“Hmmmm?”
He cupped her breasts and buried his face against them. In a shockingly
bold gesture, she ran her fingers through his beautiful golden hair
and pressed his head closer.