His arms tightened around her. He had shown her the pleasure she had wanted to know. A part of him felt a fierce, primitive triumph for that. He had surprised them both with passion he had never known possible.
But at what price?
* * * * *
Juliet came awake abruptly to the birdsong that heralded the coming day. The brief hope that she had merely experienced the most vivid, detailed dream in her life gave way to the realization of exactly what she had done. There was no denying reality.
For another moment she tried. With her eyes closed, she lay snug against him — against the solid warmth of the American, Mr. R.J. Romeo Hopkins. Gradually, she had to admit that he was more than a figment of her imagination. One of her hands curled around his shoulder. Her cheek rested against his ribs.
As he took each measured breath, she could feel the rise and fall of his chest. Just like a man to sleep as deeply as if his life had not been changed by the night. But then, his hadn't. How could she have been such a fool?
The play. All the fault of the play. Damn Master Shakespeare. Damn his headstrong lovers. Damn the moon.
Strong language, but she was mightily vexed. She should have known better. She should have — her life was ruined. Unless — if no one found out — he was to go back to America, after all. An ocean apart, she would not have to chance upon him in society. To know that he had seen her at her weakest and most vulnerable.
An entire ocean would certainly dampen the fear that his careless words might make yet another scandal for her family to live down. Or, worse, that she might allow him to make love to her again. If he were across an ocean, she could not be tempted as she had been last night.
With a sigh, Juliet opened her eyes. She did not precisely concede that she regretted the experience. She could not. If he had vanished from her room with the morning light, she would have cherished the night forever. But he was here, solid and real, with all the attendant realities and problems that must be faced in the harsh light of day.
The difficulty was that she simply did not want to face them. She did not want to face him. How could she without remembering how much pleasure his lips could bring her? Perhaps she could sneak away and return to Anderlin? That way she never need see him again.
Their limbs were such a tangle, she was afraid to breathe too deeply as she pulled first her leg free and then her arm. She moved slowly to leave the bed without waking him as her mind began to work feverishly on how to accomplish a hasty return home without raising Miranda's suspicion.
The untangling operation required that she look at him closely in the light so that she could stop all movement if he seemed about to rouse. She stopped a moment with surprise. She had not realized that men had hair on their chests. Her fingertips had tickled against it last night, but to see hair so dark on his skin was rather shocking. A closer look revealed that the hair was dark and silky where it curled against the skin around his nipples — so flat compared to her own.
His nipples were rather shocking to look at as well. They were dark brown and wrinkled, and for one horrifying moment she thought she would not be able to resist the urge to taste one — something she had not thought to do last night.
"I'm afraid to say that your idea, as enticing as it may be, Miss Fenster, is not at all wise."
She glanced up in dismay to see that his eyes were open, though he had not moved except to speak. Though his words were intended to have a dampening effect, the heat in his gaze and the rapid increase in his breathing betrayed him. The half-formed idea sparked into full life, and she ran her hand lightly over the firm muscles that banded his ribs. "What would it matter? I am ruined, after all."
"You are no such thing." He sat up, shaking off her fingers. His gaze had turned brisk as a winter breeze as soon as she uttered the word ruined.
"Of course I am." She turned away, acutely aware that neither of them wore a stitch of clothing. Last night it had seemed the most natural thing in the world. Now she found herself suddenly unwilling to be exposed to his sharp assessment.
"There has not been a maid in the room as of yet. None but the two of us know what madness we were about. If we are quick, we will keep it so." She heard him slide from the bed and begin to dress, but she did not turn around to watch him rescue the clothing they had left in a sorry heap on the floor last night. Not even when he tossed her nightdress to her.
His words made sense. If no one knew, then it would be as if last night never happened. Beneath the covers, she struggled to put on her nightdress. "You must leave at once."
"First we must decide what to tell your family." She turned to him, too startled for modesty. To her disappointment, he was almost completely dressed and just fastening his collar. His clothing, however, looked sadly rumpled. "Why tell them anything?"
He gave her the look she hated most, the one that implied that she was utterly brainless. Her younger sisters had perfected the expression, but Mr. Hopkins managed to convey his meaning very well as he said sharply, "They will ask questions, and we must give them satisfactory answers."
She wondered if he was the muddled one, not she.
She asked impatiently, "What questions would they think to ask regarding an event that never happened?"
"Don't be foolish." His voice sounded annoyingly like Miranda's when she chided one of the children. "We will marry. I may not be English, but I understand what propriety demands."
Propriety? She should have known. "What of your heart?" She tightened the laces of her nightdress and left the warmth of bed.
He flushed darkly. "It was not my heart I listened to last night, much to my regret." He frowned and undid the cravat he had tied badly. "I acted the fool. I am prepared to pay the price even if my father should choose to disinherit me for it."
Beneath his composed surface she could plainly see the pain and regret. "I think you have a soul as melodramatic as you claim mine to be. Disinherit you? Why should your father do such a thing just because you choose to marry me?"
"We Americans see such things differently than you English. I am in business. I need a wife to work by my side. You — " He looked away. "My father might worry that you could not take the strain."
"You mean he might find me as useless and frivolous as you do?" She pushed away the hurt that threatened to bring tears to her eyes. "Why, then, can we not simply solve the dilemma by agreeing not to reveal last night's events to a soul?"
"Juliet!" Why did he look at her as if she spoke nonsense? He added, in clipped tones, "There could be a child."
"Impossible." But, of course, it was not.
He did not answer, merely raised his eyebrow quizzically until she turned from him in frustration. His implacability on the matter made her frantic. She could not marry him. She could not leave England for America. She would not. She must convince him that he was not honor bound to marry her.
But how? She reviewed all the careful rules Miranda had drilled her in before she came to London to be brought out into society. If she had not been a virgin, he would not feel this obligation to her. She said firmly, to make the lie more convincing, "You are not obligated to marry me. You are not the first man in my bed."
"No?" In his eyes, shock was quickly followed by naked hope. "You have had another man in this room? In this bed?"
"More than one," she said a bit angrily. His eagerness squeezed at her heart. He had wanted her last night. She was sure of that. But this morning he was humiliatingly willing to consider any excuse that would allow him to escape her bed without a wedding.
He advanced toward her. Outraged, he asked, "More than one? Two? Three? A dozen?"
Was this something so dire that he would strike her for it? She closed her eyes and answered quickly, "Yes." She waited for a blow.
Instead, he commanded, "Open your eyes. Look at me."
She opened her eyes and gazed at him with reluctance. There was no hint of violence in his manner as he asked softly, "Tell me the truth, Juliet. You have had another man kiss you as I did last night?"
She forced herself not to waver in meeting his eyes as she answered, "Yes."
"And touch you here as well?" His index finger touched ever so lightly the sensitive crest of her breast through the thin covering of lawn.
Her response was a surge of desire. The answering flare in his eyes was quickly suppressed. "Yes." She reached up to capture his hand.
He gently disengaged her fingers from his and clasped his hands behind his back, out of her reach. "No, Juliet. You have not."
"How can you be so certain of my virtue?" She did not know whether to be insulted or flattered that he believed she had not allowed another man the liberties she had allowed him.
He regarded her closely for a moment, until she felt like a specimen on display in a museum. "The look in your eye when I touched your — " He broke off abruptly. With a swallow, he continued without inflection or emotion, to her great disappointment. "When I touched you just now I could see that what you told me was not true."
"How could you see such a thing?" Yes, he was definitely gazing at her in much too dispassionate a way for a man named Romeo.
For a moment she thought she glimpsed a spark of what had been in his face under the full moon. "Last night, when I kissed you, when I touched you, you had the look of a woman who was not certain what she wanted."
"So'?" This was tedious. Why must he treat her like a student struggling with a difficult lesson? She much preferred the man she had gone to bed with than the one she had awakened to find in her bed.
"This morning you have the look of a woman who knows very well what happens when she is touched by a man."
"I do?" Was he just guessing? Could one see that kind of knowledge upon a face? "Can anyone tell, do you think?" Would Miranda? She could not bear it if her sister knew what she had done.
Leaning in toward her looking glass, she examined her face carefully. She looked no different to her own eyes. Perhaps there was a pink to her cheeks that had not been there yesterday. And, oh, goodness, there was a red mark on her neck that corresponded to a delicious kiss she remembered down to her toes. But that could easily be covered.
He sighed. "The truth is not visible to anyone who does not try to bed you, Juliet. Do not worry that any casual acquaintance will see it."
"Do you mean that if I choose to marry ... or rather,
when
I choose to marry, my husband will know that I — that he is not the first man to take me to bed?" She did not like the idea of having anyone know such a thing about her. Most especially not a husband. "How could he bear knowing that I ... ? Can a man forget something like that?" Or forgive it? She looked at him in dawning horror.
"I will never mention a word. I swear on my honor." He sank onto the bed and buried his head in his hands for a moment. "I was as foolish as you, but I knew what would happen. You did not know — at least not until I showed you. How could I ever hold you to blame?"
"We cannot marry, Mr. Hopkins. We barely know each other."
He raised his head and gave an exasperated laugh. "My name is R.J. I see no reason for you to call me Mr. Hopkins any longer, do you?"
"It would not be proper ... " Juliet's protest died as she recognized the folly. If one did not know a man who had — the heat of memory took her — who had touched her breasts, who had pushed a part of himself inside her .…
Who would have thought so much pleasure could be had from what they had done that she could forget for a moment how little she knew him? "I don't want to call you R.J." She fought back the tears that threatened. "I don't want to marry because I made a mistake. I want to marry for love."
He regarded her sternly. "Living under the duke's protection, you may have thought you were answerable to no one. But I assure you that for our actions last night, marriage without scandal is hardly a great price."
"I could join a nunnery."
He raised a brow. "I don't believe there are any in England. But if you are serious, I'm sure I can find an American convent for you."
Had she truly made the choice of husband without knowing what or whom she chose? Perhaps, if she made herself forget what they had done, it would not show on her face when she did choose a man to marry. "Would any man who wished to marry me be able to see that I ... that we — "
"For some women, I believe the answer is no." He rose from the bed and came over to take her face in his hands. "But for you, Juliet? I am certain he would see it clearly in the way you looked at him."
"He would?"
"I'm afraid so. Unfortunately, you are now vulnerable to other men who would take advantage of you as I did last night. Men who would not offer marriage but only disgrace."
She gazed at him in dismay even as his hands on her skin made a shiver of pleasure course through her. "Then why would any man marry me?"
"I will not mind." He hesitated, and then said quickly, "But I would expect you never to do such a thing again." He added, "Except with me, of course."
At first she thought she had not heard him properly.
And then outrage flashed through her like lightning. He could not have hurt her more if he had slapped her face instead of cradling it between his hands. She pulled away from his grasp and moved to the window. "How dare you? Of course I would not cuckold my husband."
"I am sorry if my words impugned your honor, Miss Fenster." He seemed almost as horrified as she had been by his words. "I do not know what to say. I can assure you I have never been in this kind of situation before."
The absurdity of being addressed so formally by a man who had taken many more liberties with her than the uninvited use of her first name made her laugh ruefully. "I do not know whether to be grateful or unhappy that you have no experience in dealing with such things."
He came to the window and looked out upon the balcony, which had been the cause of their downfall. "It is almost full morning. I must go." He tightened the knot of his cravat, straightened his jacket, and said, "We will settle the details later."