The Earl Takes All (13 page)

She fought to keep her own hands equally chaste as they roamed over his shoulders, chest, and back, loosening his cravat, setting his buttons free, but never venturing below his waist, never traversing to the heart of his manhood, even though she could feel it pressed against her, straining against his trousers.

Slowly, so gradually that she was barely aware of it happening, he shifted position until they were stretched out on the sofa, her legs entangled with his, his strong arm cradling her the only thing that kept her from tumbling to the floor.

Tearing his mouth from hers, he erupted in deep, masculine, satisfied laughter. “Why the hell are we cramped together here on the sofa when we could be sprawled in the bed?”

“Because it makes what we're doing seem more forbidden.”

Holding her gaze, he danced his fingers slowly along her cheek, her neck. “You like the forbidden.”

Her cheeks warmed as she recalled all the inappropriate things she'd muttered in his ear, his deaf ear, words no proper lady should ever know, much less speak. Powerfully titillating, they were her little secret. What would his opinion of her be if he knew of them?

“You never have to hide anything from me, Jules,” he murmured in a low cadence that thrummed through her, made her want to hear him purring unsuitable, suggestive statements. “You can always be yourself with me.”

Only she couldn't, not on this matter. Once she spoke the words so he could hear them, there would be no taking them back. What if she offended him, shocked him, caused him to lose all respect for her? What if he didn't? The allure of whispering wicked things in his ear would dissipate. She liked doing it because she knew she shouldn't.

“I am always myself with you,” she assured him, and part of being herself was keeping some delicious secrets.

She brought his head down until their mouths met, their tongues danced and their moans echoed around them. Until the passion soared and the hunger had them rolling off the sofa and onto the floor. How he managed to do it so he landed first, cushioning her fall, was beyond her.

She wanted him desperately, now, tonight. Wanted him moving inside her—­

“Enough!” He scooted away from her until he was sitting with his back against the wall, one leg stretched out before him, the other raised, knee bent. Breathing heavily, he plowed his hand through his hair, tugged on his ear in that endearing way he had, and gazed at her with smoldering eyes that put the heat from the fire to shame. “You are a vixen.”

With a self-­satisfied laugh, she pushed herself up until her back was against the sofa. She brought her knees up against her chest, tucked the hem of her nightdress beneath her toes. “You want me.”

“Of course I want you. With every breath I draw.”

She almost giggled as though she were a young girl. He was disheveled, his shirt hanging half off. She'd done that. Made a mess of him. They'd never gone at it before out of the bed. He was correct. She did like forbidden things.

“You show remarkable restraint, my lord.” She wanted to go to her hands and knees, crawl toward him like a cat stalking its prey, but until they could bring their passions to complete physical fruition, it seemed cruel to tease him too much.

“You've no idea.”

She batted her eyelashes coquettishly. “Oh, I think I do.”

Laughing, he dropped his head back. “You will be the death of me.”

“They call it the little death, don't they?” she asked, feigning a shyness she didn't really feel. Lately she'd been bolder with him than she'd ever been. Perhaps it was giving birth that made her so comfortable with the needs of her body. And his. “That moment when the world falls away.”

“Is that what it feels like for you?”

Nodding, she knew she was blushing. She would probably ignite if she ever shared with him the words she dared to utter that he couldn't hear. “And you?”

He released a long, slow sigh. “Makes me feel as though I could conquer the world. And it feels bloody marvelous as well.”

She laughed lightly, and dared to repeat, “Yes, it feels bloody marvelous.”

Shoving himself to his feet, he reached a hand down to her. “Come, my little vixen. To bed. We have company to entertain tomorrow, a feast to consume, and a day to enjoy.”

Liking immensely that he considered her a vixen, she slipped her hand in his. “And one less day to mark off until we can be together completely,” she told him as he pulled her up.

“One less day,” he said, leading her to the bed.

She found it odd that he sounded a little saddened by the prospect. Keeping her observations to herself, she clambered beneath the blankets and was soon nestled in his arms. She wanted nothing to ruin what had been a most wonderful Christmas Eve.

“
Y
ou
gentlemen are absolutely no good at this game,” Julia announced, crossing her arms over her chest, mimicking a pout that as it turned out wasn't as much of a mimic as it should have been. She was striving not to be cross, because they weren't taking the activity seriously.

After a Christmas feast filled with much talk and laughter, rather than letting the gentlemen retreat to the smoking room for port and a cigars, she insisted they join her and Minerva in the parlor for a few games.

Presently they were all sitting in a circle. The object was not to smile. Generally, people had a very difficult time not twitching their lips or even chortling when they knew they weren't supposed to. But not these gents. So far, she and Minerva had alternated losing rounds while the men just sat there stoically, their mouths not even quivering with the need to lift up.

To make matters worse, staring at Albert's beautiful mouth, waiting for him to smile, only made her recall how heated his kisses had been last night, which in turn made her want to get up, settle on his lap, and latch her mouth onto his until he carried her from the room.

“Actually, we're very good at it,” he said now, his face set in a smug expression that she thought her kiss would utterly destroy. “We've yet to smile.”

“But you're supposed to!” she screeched in frustration.

“Except you told us not to.”

Minerva started laughing, and Julia glared at her. “Help me out here.”

“Perhaps we should give charades a go.”

“We don't have an even number for charades.” She flung her hand toward the viscount. “If Locksley would only marry—­”

He made a choking cough that strongly resembled a strangle. “Now you sound like my father.”

“Has he been after you to marry?” Minerva asked.

“Relentlessly. I was hoping that here, at least, I might find some respite from the constant nagging.”

“Only marriage will accomplish that,” Julia assured him. “Minerva and I shall make it our mission this Season to find you a woman to love.”

“Oh, I'd never marry a woman I could love. If I learned anything at all from my father it is that along that path lies madness.”

Julia shuddered at the words. “Only if she dies young.”

“Which always is a possibility.”

“That's a morbid way to go through life. No wonder you're atrocious at this game.”

“As Grey pointed out, we've been winning.”

At a loss for any other words she released a deep breath of frustration.

“You have to understand, Julia, we didn't play parlor games on Christmas,” Albert said kindly.

In the past, it had been only her, Albert, and Edward here for the holiday, which was the reason she'd invited his friends. There was no hope for it. This year would be different from years past. She just hadn't wanted the difference to be melancholy. “What did you do?”

He shrugged. “Ran wild mostly. No parlor games, no tree, no evergreen boughs or ribbons, no feast. No Father Christmas. For us it was a day like any other.”

“Carolers from the village certainly never ventured to Havisham,” Ashebury said.

“That makes me sad.” She shifted her gaze to her husband. “You knew it would. I suppose that's why you never told me about it before.”

“You shouldn't be sad. We weren't.”

“But you must have had memories of Christmas with your parents.”

“We did. They were magical, special. Marsden offered us nothing to replace them. In a way that was a gift.”

She looked at Locksley. “So you were grown before you experienced a Christmas celebration?”

Appearing uncomfortable, he shifted in his chair. “This is actually my first opportunity to partake in the traditions of the season, and to be quite honest, I'm not particularly fond of the parlor games.”

She fluttered her hand in the air. “Off with you all! Go have your port and cigars, while Minerva and I—­”

“Join us,” Albert said, standing and extending his hand. “It's Christmas; let's start a new tradition.”

As hostess, she needed to ensure her guests were comfortable. She glanced over at Minerva. “Are you willing?”

“Absolutely. Rather than parlor games, in the future might I suggest poker?”

Ashe was suddenly at her side, helping her to her feet. “Only if you won't cheat.”

“My dear husband, I wouldn't dare consider it—­unless something I wanted was at stake.”

Laughing, he began escorting his wife from the room. Locksley followed.

Julia placed her hand in Albert's and he drew her up until she was in the circle of his arms, his mouth moving insistently over hers. Winding her arms around his shoulders, she returned his kiss with equal fervor.

A clearing of a throat had them jumping apart as though they were young lovers caught doing something they shouldn't. Ashe stood in the doorway, eyebrow arched. “Joining us?”

“You're irritating, Ashe,” Albert said as he offered her his arm before leading her from the room.

“Trust me, I could be more so.” He spun on his heel and headed to his wife, who was waiting for him.

“What did he mean by that?” Julia asked, sensing a tension in her husband that hadn't been there before.

“As the highest in rank and the eldest, he's always felt he had the right to boss us around, so he's just being Ashe.”

“But you're glad he's here.”

“Very glad he's here. You've given me a wonderful gift today.”

When they reached the smoking room, they discovered Locksley handing out the glasses of port he'd poured while waiting for them. He raised his glass. “To new Christmas memories.”

“No, wait!” Julia said before anyone could take a sip. “That's lovely, but I want us to take just a moment to remember Edward.”

“Julia—­”

“Albert, I don't mean to bring in sadness, but I thought it might be nice if we all silently reflected on one moment when he made us smile.”

“Did he ever make you smile?”

“More often than he realized, which would have irritated him, no doubt, but that makes me smile even more. It's no secret that we had our differences, but I do hope he's at peace.” She lifted her glass. “So to Edward.”

“To Edward,” they repeated far more solemnly than she wanted before taking a sip of the port.

“Now,” Minerva announced, “I'd like a cigar.”

As Ashe and Locke turned to the wooden box on the sideboard that held the cigars, Julia faced her husband, cupped his cheek, rose up on her toes and kissed him sweetly, tenderly. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Jules.”

“And may the coming year bring us nothing but happiness.” Lifting her glass, she finished off her port, watched as her husband did the same, and wondered why he suddenly seemed remarkably sad.

Chapter 13

T
onight.
Tonight was the night that he told her the truth. While he watched her sip her wine as she waited for the next course to be served, he knew he had to tell her. He'd delayed long enough.

It had been a little over three weeks since Christmas, since their guests had departed. Their nights had become filled with heated kisses and exploring hands. His nights had become filled with frustration. He wanted her with a desperation he'd never known. Wanted to unveil her completely, wanted to worship her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

Instead he dove into the pork and tried to turn his thoughts elsewhere. “I thought I might go riding tomorrow if the rain stops.” It had started just before twilight. Hard, heavy, and chilled.

“To see the tenants?”

“No, just for pleasure. Perhaps you'd like to come with.”

He could tell her then. No, he had to tell her tonight. Get it over with. Get it done.

“I'd enjoy that. I haven't been on a horse in close to a year. Can we stop by the tea shop in the village for some strawberry tarts?”

He thought of her eating them, getting the jam on her lips. He could kiss it off her. “I don't see why not. It'll be a day for doing whatever we like.”

“I wish it were warm enough for a picnic.”

He imagined her stretched out over a blanket, slowly unbuttoning her bodice, peeling the cloth back so the sun could kiss her where he had not. With a silent curse, he grabbed his wineglass, gulped its contents. “When it's warmer.”

Of late it didn't matter what the bloody hell they talked about, he saw her stretched out before him, luring him in, tempting him. If he wasn't careful, he was going to go as mad as the Marquess of Marsden.

Suddenly, he pushed back his chair and stood. “I'm in the mood for billiards. Care to join me?”

She stared up at him. “We haven't finished dining.”

“I've had my fill.” And he had to do something so he wasn't watching her lips closing provocatively around eating utensils. She had the most sensual addicting mouth that he'd ever known. Get her away from the dining table, away from the servants, and he would tell her who he was. Her reaction would no doubt get his mind off what he'd like to do with those lips.

“You've never asked me before.”

“Then it's high time I did, don't you think?” Pulling out her chair, he helped her to her feet.

“Will you think less of me if I confess that while you were away I went into your billiards room and smacked some balls around?”

“Why would I think less of you for wanting to enjoy the game?”

“The room was always your sanctuary.”

“Now it will be ours.” He offered his arm.

As they wandered from the dining room, she admitted, “I'm not certain I was doing it correctly—­hitting the balls.”

“Did they go into the pockets?”

“What pockets?”

“The holes along the sides.”

“Oh, yes, sometimes. Why are they called pockets?”

“Nicer than holes don't you think?”

“I suppose.”

As they entered the billiards room, she said, “I'm always struck by the masculinity of this room. All dark woods and burgundy, the scent of cigars. I never thought it was fair that men got to smoke, drink, and play games while ladies poked needles and pulled thread through cloth.”

He'd always thought it rather shortsighted of men not to invite the ladies into their sanctum, which was the reason he'd asked her and Minerva to join the gents at Christmas. He moved away from her, went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of scotch. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Did you want to indulge?”

“Yes, I believe I will. I'd like to try brandy.”

He handed her the glass, watched her throat work as she sipped. Tonight she was wearing a dark burgundy that suited the room, bared her shoulders and the upper swells of her breasts—­which suited him.

“It's quite nice,” she said.

“It can fool you. Don't drink it too quickly lest it go to your head.”

“What happens then?”

“You'll lose all your inhibitions.”

“We're married. It doesn't matter if we lose our inhibitions with each other, does it?”

“Depends what those inhibitions are protecting, I suppose.” He walked to where the cue sticks were lined up along the wall. He took two, handed her one. “That should be a good length for you. Let's see what you learned while I was away.”

Standing off to the side, watching as she worked to properly hold the cue, Edward knew that she had no idea how dangerous it would be if he lowered all his inhibitions, if he knocked down the walls that warned he could only go so far and no farther.

He had to distract himself before he did something he really shouldn't. She was concentrating so hard, her brow so deeply furrowed, that it had to hurt. “Wait,” he ordered.

She lifted her gaze. Christ, why did she have to look at him as though he were the answer to everything? Why did she have to make him wish he were?

Setting his glass aside, he walked over to her. “You're not holding the cue properly. You want to hold it like this.” Using his own, he demonstrated.

“Oh, I see.” And she did. She was a quick learner.

“Then you bend down so you can see your mark clearly and envision the angle of the strike.”

She did. Her backside sticking out enticingly. He was only a man, not a saint. He shouldn't look, but he did, taking his fill of her lovely form.

“Slide the stick between your fingers like this,” he said.

“That's rather erotic, isn't it? Especially if you imagine your fingers represent a woman and the cue a man.”

“Jesus, Julia.” He shoved himself away from the table. The things she sometimes said.

“Sorry. It's the brandy.”

Turning, he gave her an incredulous look. “You had one sip.”

“Perhaps I should have another?”

Laughing, he shook his head. “Not if one loosens your tongue that much.”

Leaning back against the table, she set her hands behind her, arching just enough to offer him an enticing image. “Why don't you come over here and see just how loose my tongue is?”

So brazen, so bold, so damned tempting, but within her eyes he saw the barest measure of doubt, a whispering fear of rejection. He didn't have it within him to turn away from her, to give those seeds of uncertainty a chance to bloom, not when he desperately wanted her and all she was offering. He wouldn't take all, but he would take a kiss, and make sure it was one she never forgot.

Before he could change his mind, before he could think better of it, he pulled her into his arms and slammed his mouth over hers, growling low and deep when she opened her mouth and her tongue darted between his lips to parry with his. She clung to him with a feverishness she'd yet to exhibit, an urgency that implied she would die without more.

Lifting her up, he placed her on the billiards table, put his hands behind her back to offer support as he carried her down to the green tabletop. He trailed his mouth over her throat, her shoulders, those lovely plump swells of her breasts, while her hands made a mess of his hair, his cravat.

He was between her legs, where he had longed to be for too long, where he had no right to be. Pushing himself up, he looked down on her. She was flushed with desire, her bosom heaving with each breath she gasped.

“I want you,” she rasped. “Take me. For God's sake, please take me.”

“Julia—­”

“I'm recovered. Completely, absolutely. Have me right here.”

He could lift up her skirts, unfasten his trousers—­

He had to tell her the truth. But not here.

“Not when I have waited so long,” he growled, drawing her up into his arms and carrying her from the room.

One of her arms was around his shoulders, while her other hand tugged the knot of his neck cloth free as she nibbled on his ear. He took the stairs two steps at a time while she laughed softly.

Into her bedchamber he went, slamming the door in their wake. The bed loomed large and inviting, called to him. Gritting his teeth, he ignored it and set her feet on the thick carpeting.

“Julia—­”

“I want you so badly. I have for the longest.”

Holding her face between his hands, he looked deeply into her blue eyes. He had to tell her the truth. Now. Before they went any further. Before she despised him fully and completely. Before he despised himself. He had to confess his sins, his duplicity. He had to be honest with her.

He had to lose her forever.

Or he could hold his tongue. Continue on with this role for the remainder of his life. Be Albert until he drew his final breath. Keep his promise to her that he would never again leave her. It was the only way to keep that promise.

To never hear his name on her lips, crying out with passion.

To never be the man to whom she was actually married.

To never be the man she truly loved.

To live the remainder of his life with his brother's leavings.

But in the end he would have her. He would always have her.

Whatever sacrifices he endured would be worth it to keep her happy, to keep from breaking her heart.

He knew his motives weren't purely unselfish, but then he'd never claimed not to be selfish. Because in the end, his silence would keep her with him, and he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life.

He claimed her mouth. And he was lost.

T
he
ferociousness of his kiss didn't frighten her. It merely ignited every ounce of passion she possessed. He'd been right. Holding back, merely teasing each other with what was to come, was making every touch, every sigh, every moan all the sweeter.

Clothing came off in a frenzy of popped buttons and ripped seams. Never before had things between them been so wild, so untamed. It was as though Africa had changed him, stripped him of his civilized veneer.

Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, and only then did they take a moment to appreciate what they had unveiled.

“My God, but you're beautiful,” he rasped, his eyes smoldering with hunger, glinting with need.

He was all lean sinew and corded muscle. Strength and purpose. Familiar and yet not. There was a rigid scar that angled down from his hip. She trailed her finger over it. “Africa was not kind to you.” Leaning down, she pressed a kiss to it.

With a low groan, he had her back up in his arms and was striding toward the bed. Once there, he set her on the mattress and followed her down, covering half her body with his, running his hands over her as though she were unchartered territory. Then he was flicking his tongue over her skin, tasting, tantalizing. She scraped her fingers over his scalp, along his broad shoulders. He fondled her breasts, her nipples puckered, and he closed his mouth over one, tugging gently, and she very nearly came up off the bed.

“Oh, God,” she breathed shakily as pleasure skidded through her.

He kissed the underside of one breast, then the other, before giving the same attention to each of her ribs, climbing down her body inch by marvelous inch. He circled his tongue around her navel, pushed himself down farther until her thighs were resting on his shoulders, his hands cupping her backside.

“What are you—­”

“Shh.” He lifted his heated gaze to hers. “I want to worship all of you.”

He lowered his head, his mouth. His tongue licked the very essence of her, velvet to silk, sultry heat to sultry heat. Clutching his hair, she arched up, offering him more. And he took.

With slow strokes and tiny nibbles and teasing flicks. Slow journeys up and slower ones down. Her body strained against him, begging for release. He increased the pressure, and just when she was on the cusp—­

He retreated, went gentle and tender. She cried out in frustration. He merely laughed, low and dark, and with promise. She would make him pay. When it was her turn, she would make him pay.

Again he brought her to the cusp. Again he retreated.

She was quivering with need. “No more,” she begged. “No more.”

“Once more.” He raised her hips slightly as though she were an offering to the gods of decadence and desire. His mouth worked its magic, suckling and nipping, swirling until her world fell away, until there was nothing except sensation, nothing beyond raw nerve endings and need. Pleasure erupting with such force that her shoulders came up off the bed, she dug her fingers into his shoulders, looked down to see him watching her with quiet satisfaction and a burning need of his own.

With a gasp, her body trembling, she dropped back down, swallowed hard, fighting for control. He glided his body up hers until he burrowed his face in the hollow between her neck and shoulder. She loved the sensation of his slick skin sliding over hers.

“I can't wait to have your cock buried deeply inside me,” she whispered in his bad ear.

“Oh, you are such a wicked girl,” he growled.

Everything within her froze and she stiffened. He went equally still. She pushed on his shoulders until he came up just enough that she could look into his eyes. Eyes that a moment ago had been smoldering with desire and were now cautious, waiting. “You heard me.”

No question but a statement as panic threatened her.

“You said the words aloud did you not?”

“I whispered them in your bad ear.”

“You must have spoken louder than you thought.”

She shook her head. “No. Still, you heard me.” Her heart began pounding. Her stomach recoiled and she thought she might be ill. “You heard me.” Shoving on him, she scrambled back, nearly fell off the bed, catching her balance as her feet hit the floor. Snatching up her dressing gown from its place at the foot of the bed, she jerked it on and held it in tight at her waist. It couldn't be and yet she knew it had to be true. “You're not Albert. You're Edward.”