To Marry an Heiress (10 page)

Dear God, her lack of demureness served as an aphrodisiac, heightening his pleasure even as it lured him to increase hers. He suckled gently, swirling his tongue over the sensitive bud as shudders rippled along the length of her.

Whimpering, she combed her fingers up into his hair, holding him in place—or perhaps she sought to keep herself tethered—as her hips undulated in his lap. His body reacted as though she’d poured molten passion over him. Every nerve ending leaped to attention. Blood thrummed between his temples and rushed to his loins.

With a low growl, he swept his mouth across the valley between her breasts, latching his lips around
the darkened center of the other pliant orb, tugging, nipping, biting gently. She nearly shot off his lap.

His breathing grew labored while hers quickened. With an awkwardness he hadn’t experienced since his youth, he pulled her gown off her shoulders, along her arms, and over her hips. With a tiny mewling sound she buried her face in his shoulder and drew her knees up toward her chest as much as she was able.

“Don’t hide from me, sweeting,” he croaked as though his voice had yet to change into that of a man.

But she did hide, refusing to face him, so he watched the play of firelight over her bare narrow hips and the manner in which it danced over her hair, which cascaded down her back to pool at the curve above her backside. How had he ever considered the vibrant tresses to be dull?

He felt as though he’d been observing her through a mist of resentment—she was the salvation he wished to God he did not need, he had not wanted to want her, and so he had blinded himself to her attributes. Her giving nature revealed itself in each shudder, each twist, each sigh.

Placing one arm around her back, sliding the other beneath her knees, he pressed her against him and stood. He couldn’t recall ever carrying a woman to bed, but somehow it seemed the most natural movement, as though nothing else would do.

Gently he laid her on the soft linen sheets that awaited them after an attentive servant had turned down the coverlet earlier.

When Devon’s arms were no longer encircling
her, Georgina opened her eyes. The darkness of the night cast shadows over him as the firelight failed to reveal him.

She watched with stunned fascination as he slowly worked free the knot holding the corded belt at his waist. The silk robe fell open, the fire’s glow only daring to caress the defined muscles of his chest, as she longed to, leaving the remainder of his body in obscurity. His skin looked as silky as the cloth had felt beneath her fingertips.

With little more than a slow, masculine roll of his shoulders, he caused the robe to slither to the floor, taking the shadows with it. Her breath backed up in her lungs at the sight of his naked magnificence, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes…and especially in between.

He looked as though he’d been sculpted from Texas red granite: solid, substantial, firm. He was quite simply breathtakingly beautiful. She thought she should be afraid of his immense size and hardened muscles, but she could only stare in wonder with the realization he intended to share his glorious body with her.

To have and to hold suddenly took on a whole new meaning for her.

The bed dipped beneath his sturdy weight as he stretched out beside her and skimmed his fingertips from her collarbone down to her hip. A light grazing of roughened skin against soft. Then up until he cradled her breast within his palm. He lowered his mouth to her flesh, and the incredible sensations that had abated were brought back to life with
amazing swiftness, as though her body had simply gone into hibernation waiting for the heat of his mouth to reawaken it.

And how he stirred it. Amazing. Incredible. With his hands, his mouth, his tongue, the hard length of his body. Responses rippled through her. Acute. Hot. Swirling deep. Rising. Had she not agreed to this marriage, she might have never known that a man’s touch caused a woman’s body to hum.

Tentatively, she reached out and touched his chest, much more intimate a gesture than cupping her hand around his neck. He stilled, and she wondered if she’d committed a grave mistake.

He lifted his head, his gaze traveling over her features as though he was searching for something unfamiliar. With the greatest of care, he combed her hair off her brow and tucked it behind her ear before giving her a haunting smile. “I should have known you wouldn’t be content to simply take.”

Beneath her palm pressed against his flesh, she felt the thundering of his heart. “Is it all right if I touch you?”

“Quite all right, I assure you.”

She licked her lips as her gaze dipped to the dark shadows between their bodies before darting back up to his. “Is there anyplace I shouldn’t touch?”

He slowly shook his head, his eyes darkening to the blue of midnight. “None at all.”

Raising herself up on an elbow, she leaned forward and flicked her tongue over his nipple, as taut as hers. He issued a guttural groan as his fingers clutched the back of her head. A small thrill of intox
icating victory shot through her with the knowledge she had power over him, perhaps not as much as he had over her, but enough to lead her to believe if they could become partners in lovemaking, they could eventually become partners in all things.

She returned her mouth to his distended flesh, licking, fascinated by the differing textures, the dampness her touch caused, his hardness that remained. He trailed his hand along her spine, and she guided hers along his ribs and lower.

He cradled her hip at the same moment she cupped his. He inched his hand lower. She glided hers up toward his heart.

“Chicken,” he purred in a low, sultry voice.

She snapped her gaze to his, expecting mockery. Instead she was greeted with desire, yearning. She absorbed the heat of his stare, even as she nodded slightly, acknowledging his claim.

He wrapped his hand around hers and carried it to his mouth. He pressed a kiss to the heart of her palm, his breath coating her skin in dew. Holding her gaze, he moved her hand lower, lower into the shadowy crevice between their bodies, to the torrid heat that stood at the ready.

She furled her fingers around the velvety length of him. She watched as he closed his eyes and swallowed, his Adam’s apple slowly sliding up and then down, mimicking the movement of his hand over hers as he patiently taught her how best to fondle.

Then his hand drifted away, leaving her to explore while he once again took up his tender ministrations. He nuzzled her neck, nipped beneath her
chin, grazed his mouth across her collarbone, while his hand skimmed across her stomach and sought its own darkened crevice.

With his knee he nudged her thighs apart and wedged himself between them. She might have known fear then if he hadn’t gazed down on her as though he thought she was, if not beautiful, at least pleasing.

His mouth swooped down to capture hers, his arms tightened around her, and she felt the sureness of his long, deep push. She stiffened. He stilled. Beneath her hands his back was slick, his muscles tense.

“The pain will ease, sweeting, I promise,” he whispered near her ear before beginning to move slowly against her.

The discomfort did subside as the sensations began to swirl through her again, more intense than before. His mouth took hers again and again after each quick sojourn to her throat, her breast, her shoulder. A nip here. A kiss there. And then the thrust of his tongue as sure as that of his hips.

Beneath him her body curled from the pure pleasure of each stroke. She dug her fingers into his bare buttocks as the tempo quickened and he dove deeper and deeper into her.

With a cry, she spiraled over the edge at the same moment that he drove himself as deeply as possible and with a guttural groan stilled, his arms trembling, his breathing harsh, his breath skimming across her shoulder as he buried his face in her hair.

For all that had come before and during, she
hadn’t expected to savor this moment. She felt as though her body was unfurling, as though she’d simply been a bud waiting for the sun to coax it into full bloom.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered breathlessly.

“Good.” Easing off her and onto his side, he rolled her toward him and tucked her in close against his damp side, her head coming to rest near his heart where she could hear its rapid pounding.

Her smile of contentment withered as she lifted her gaze to his and found him unsmiling, staring at the ceiling, obviously lost in thought. He absently skimmed his fingertips up and down her arm, but she could sense him drifting away, going someplace where he wouldn’t allow her to follow.

Was he thinking of his first wife or his present bargain?

He rolled his head to the side and looked at her. He combed strands of her hair behind her ear before leaning over and kissing her brow. “Go to sleep now.”

Standing, he tucked the blankets around her before walking to the window. He drew the curtains aside, and moonlight spilled into the room. He appeared to be such a lonely figure, standing with his arm braced against the pane. As lonely as she was.

She wanted to call him back to bed, to beg him to hold her for a moment longer…but she wanted all he had to offer without having to ask for it.

Even their glorious lovemaking had come at a price: her father’s wealth. Without his money and
Devon’s great need for it, she would have never known about the beauty that could pass between a man and a woman.

She swiped at the tears dampening her cheeks, closed her eyes, and sought whatever comfort she could find in dreams.

Devon stared at the fog rolling in, swallowing the street lamps’ lights until their soft glow was all that was faintly visible. He’d never in his life left a woman in bed so beastly abruptly, but he’d needed to distance himself, wanted to gain control of his raging emotions.

He’d expected to perform his duty, bed her dispassionately, and dread the next mating. Instead he’d been consumed with an intense desire. As in all things, she was incredibly easy to please, to arouse. So frightfully giving. Why couldn’t she be content to simply take what he offered?

Because it was her nature to please, the very heart of her, which allowed her to marry him in order to gladden her father, worrying little of the consequences to herself. He’d never known a woman such as she.

She scared the hell out of him.

On rare occasions, since Margaret’s death, he’d bedded women, but he’d never felt unfaithful to her or her memory, as he did now. Always before, he’d sought and found the much needed physical release. Tonight he’d come close to achieving emotional release.

The manner in which Gina had writhed beneath
him, whimpered his name—was she even aware she’d called out to him as she’d reached the pinnacle of pleasure or that he’d trapped her name behind his clenched jaw?

He rubbed the stiff nape of his neck. What was it about her that affected him so? He didn’t want her love, and he had none to give. Their relationship was based on her need for a child and his for money.

With a sigh he turned away from the window and walked to the bed. With feathery fingers the moonlight limned the lone teardrop clinging to her lashes. Reaching out, he captured it with his knuckle. “You overlooked yet another tear, sweeting.”

His chest ached as he wondered why she’d wept this time. He considered returning to his room.

Instead he slid beneath the blankets and wrapped Gina within the cocoon of his arms. Perhaps they both needed more than the original bargain dictated.

G
eorgina awoke to the heavenly weight of a man’s leg draped over hers, his open hand resting against her breast, his mouth puckered against the nape of her neck.

She hadn’t expected him to return to her bed. She hadn’t thought she’d spend the remainder of the night wrapped in his embrace. She was surprised she’d slept soundly, deeply, with him sharing her bed.

It was uncanny, the manner in which their bodies would shift to accommodate one another. For a time they’d slept front to front, then his back pressed against her front, finally her back curved to his chest. She wasn’t certain which position she preferred. Each had something to recommend it.

The fire in the hearth had burned itself out long ago, but the man in the bed had held the early morning chill at bay. She supposed in time she’d consider these days as hot as the English did, but she was still
too accustomed to heat with the ability to cook an egg dropped on the boardwalk.

The sunlight barely peered through a parting in the heavy drapes that hung over the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Devon began to rub his thumb lazily along the underside of her breast. Through the night she’d discovered he had the ability to stroke her in his sleep, to squeeze her breast or her backside, and to bury his fingers in the wiry curls between her legs. To press against her, moan low, then snore softly.

She’d awoken with each touch only to discover the caress was not a prelude to lovemaking, but simply an unconscious motion on his part. Yet his actions endeared him to her for their possessive nature and their sweetness.

In the end he hadn’t left her to sleep alone. She was fairly certain Englishmen did leave their wives alone in their beds. Why else would they have two bedchambers joined by a door?

Did the husband always come to his wife’s bed? Or was the lady permitted to seek out her man?

She’d have to check with Lauren and discover if some sort of book on bedchamber etiquette existed. The Brits had books on every other aspect of behavior. Surely she could find one that went into detail regarding what happened behind closed doors.

His fingers joined his thumb, kneading, shaping, gently pinching, tenderly tugging. Insistent. Not quickly drifting into stillness as they had through the night.

The bed rocked as he rose up on an elbow.

“Awake?” his deep voice rumbled, scratchy with its first use of the day.

How intimate it seemed to have his first words of the day fall on her ears. She twisted her head slightly, smiled at him, and nodded. His hair swept across his brow. His beard was as shadowy as the corners where the sunlight had yet to reach.

Since he hadn’t objected to her touch last night, she lifted her hand and touched his jaw. The whiskers were thick, rough, creating a raspy sound as she trailed her fingers along them across the defined edge of his chin.

He placed his hand over hers, holding it in place as he lowered his mouth and kissed her palm, his eyes never leaving hers. Her body tingled with the memories of the night, stirred to life as though the fires had merely been banked, waiting for dawn.

“I missed my morning ride,” she said inanely.

He smiled with such warmth, a smile that traveled up to touch his eyes, a sparkle there she’d never before seen, a joy almost, a teasing glint.

“If we go slowly and take care, keeping in mind you might be a bit sore this morning, you should be able to ride me.”

Her breath rushed out with an unexpected
oomph
, as though he’d snaked an arm around her chest and given a crushing squeeze. “R-ride you?” she stammered.

If at all possible, his smile grew. “You were all for experimenting last night.”

“No, I was just curious.”

“Then be curious still,” he dared. “Unless you are experiencing great discomfort this morning.”

He’d offered her an honorable out, which she had no wish to take.

“I’m not hurtin’,” she assured him.

He traced his finger around her cheek, along her jaw, to the tip of her chin. “But you are nervous. Do you know how I know? Because you speak with a charmingly slow drawl when you’re nervous.”

He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Utterly charming. As are you.”

He sounded baffled, as though he hadn’t expected to be beguiled, and having been, wasn’t quite certain he approved of her wiles. Only she’d given him nothing but honesty, because she’d learned in the long run it served her best.

People always knew where she stood, and if they knew, then so did she.

“My morning ride?” she reminded him.

His eyes darkened, his gaze dropping to her lips. “Ah, yes.”

He rolled onto his back and lifted the blankets, making a tent, inviting her to join him on his side of the bed—on top of him.

She turned onto her side, running her gaze up and down the magnificent length of him. “What do I do?”

“Straddle my hips.”

“Then what?”

“Go as slow as you like, as easy as you need to.” With his free hand, he cupped her cheek and stroked
his thumb over her lower lip. “You can plod along, trot, or gallop.” He brought her mouth to his. “You control the reins, sweeting.”

He kissed her with a lassitude born of the dawn, a reluctance to begin the day. With the heel of his hand, he moved her head more in line with his, her body following as she sat on top of him, a sense of vulnerability mingling with an unfamiliar fleeting feeling of domination.

He draped the blankets over her shoulders before moving his hands to her breasts. She could see an advantage to this position. It gave him more freedom of movement, while she could do as she wished.

She traced the indentations of his chest, every muscle, every dip, every flattened plane. She welcomed the power, rejoiced in the endowment. She had not expected to feel so amazingly comfortable with her body so soon and certainly not with his.

And yet the touching, the positioning, the closeness seemed remarkably natural, as though they’d known each other a lifetime instead of merely a week.

As her hands traveled over him, she felt him tensing beneath her between her thighs. His breath came in harsh little pants as she explored slowly with her mouth, lapping up the salty dew coating his flesh.

He dug his fingers into her hips.

“Who would have thought you were one to torture?” he rasped. “Be quick about riding me or you’ll miss your chance.”

He lifted her and then eased her down inch by in
credible inch. Initially she did experience discomfort, a slight burning, as she took him deep inside her body. For all his threats, all his eagerness, he guided her cautiously, watching her face.

“Halt me if you need to,” he ordered.

But she had no more ability to stop than he did. He released a low shuddering sigh that rippled through him as she sank down completely, enveloping all of him, absorbing his fullness.

Leaning forward, she planted her hands on either side of his shoulders and braced herself above him. A fine sheen of sweat coated his brow, his neck, his chest. Each breath he took seemed more labored than the one that came before it.

With his hands guiding her, she rocked slowly against him, increasing the tempo until she rode fast and furiously, the sensations mounting, her body growing as taut as his.

With one hand maintaining its vigil at her hip, the other moved to her breast, his nimble long, slender fingers massaging as he rose up and latched his mouth onto her nipple. She dropped her head back, riding him for all she was worth.

The intense pleasure spiraled upward, outward, inward, ebbing, flowing. He grabbed her hips, pumping into her as she peaked with rapture. Tiny jerks continued to ripple through him as he otherwise lay still beneath her, breathing harshly, his eyes closed, his beautiful mouth opened slightly.

Reaching up, he cupped her head and directed her down to his chest, her limp, sated body sprawling over his. She thought she might never move again.
She’d just remain here for the remainder of her life, reliving that glorious moment of release, a pinnacle she realized they’d reached simultaneously.

She smiled with the wonder of it, that two people could be so in tune with each other’s needs and desires. Merciful heavens. If only every aspect of their marriage could be as satisfying as the physical part, the years stretching out before them would hold incredible promise.

He took a deep breath, and a hard shudder vibrated through him, through her.

“When I watched you in the park, I was under the impression you would have preferred riding a stallion. I’m rather pleased to learn I judged you correctly.”

She pressed her fist to her mouth to stifle her giggle. Were people supposed to laugh during or after lovemaking?

He rubbed her head, his fingers circling her scalp. “I daresay I make a fine stallion, don’t you think?” he asked lazily.

She nodded, and he laughed low, a rumble beneath her cheek.

He fell into silence, and she relished the comfort of it, of not having to speak, of simply lying in bed with a man who seemed in no hurry to move, except for his hand, threaded through her hair, scraping her scalp.

“This is nice,” she said softly.

“So it is.”

The quiet wove around them. Peaceful. She would have this contentment for the remainder of
her life. Of all the things she’d expected of her marriage, she found this revelation the most pleasing, because it spoke volumes.

“Unless you have a burning desire to remain in London for the Season, I have some matters at Huntingdon to which I must attend,” he said. “I thought we would leave on the morrow.”

She lifted her head. He watched her through half-lowered lids, as though at any moment he would drift back off to sleep.

“What about my father?”

“He’s welcome to join us. The manor has an abundance of chambers. Why, he could have an entire wing to himself if he wished.”

“I’ll ask him. I’d like to spend the afternoon with Lauren.” She gave him a wry smile. “She’s the reason I came to England to begin with, to visit with her.”

He cradled her face between his hands. “If you’d prefer to stay, we shall stay.”

Stay. Attend boring balls and monotonous dinners where she wouldn’t be allowed to sit beside her husband because husbands never sat next to their wives. She didn’t like the rules here. They should be less evident and confining in the country.

“I’d like to go to Huntingdon.”

“Splendid.”

He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her close before flipping her onto her back and landing on top of her, raised up on his elbows to keep the bulk of his weight off her. He gave her a deliciously wicked grin. “What say before we begin making social calls, you take your stallion for another ride?”

Standing before the window in Ravenleigh’s library, Devon gazed out on the garden and watched his wife strolling beside her father. He envied the old man’s ability to put her completely at ease.

The wind carried her laughter while the sunlight brightened her smile. He imagined her eyes sparkled with joy and her voice reverberated with the love she held for the man who had sired her.

He could hardly fathom he’d made love to her three times this morning. He’d thought twice had done him in until he’d gone to his bedchamber and begun to dress. He couldn’t remember what he’d thought he needed so urgently to tell her when he’d returned to her chamber and caught her rolling a stocking up that impossibly long, slender leg of hers.

Her foot had been perched on a stool, her petticoat slung back over her knee, and the only urgency of which he’d become acutely aware was the necessity to bury himself in her up to the hilt and then some.

In the last two years of his marriage to Margaret, he’d barely been able to work himself up for a weekly romp. He’d blamed his lack of interest on his schedule, on her disappointments, on his failings as a husband.

He’d certainly never expected to again feel as randy as a schoolboy, as eager as a young man in his prime. Nor had he expected to tease in bed, to enjoy her so damned much.

“Cognac?”

“Yes, I believe I shall.” Distractedly he reached for the glass his cousin offered. “Thank you.”

Ravenleigh pressed a shoulder against the window casing. “Am I to deduce since you’ve been staring at your wife for the better part of two hours that you are not finding marriage to Gina quite as objectionable as you feared you might?”

“You’re welcome to deduce anything you wish.” He sipped the cognac before shifting his gaze to his cousin. “I will admit she has turned out to be quite an unexpected boon.”

A treasure, actually, although he was loath to admit it so soon after the vows had been spoken. He dared not trust that she would continue to be as giving once they arrived at Huntingdon. Yet why should she find fault with him there when she hadn’t here?

With her father’s money in his hands, he could make certain that she never discovered the unpleasant side to his life that had so turned Margaret against him. The baser part of him that had caused self-loathing.

“Indeed?” Ravenleigh asked.

“I would not say so if I did not mean it.” He swirled the liquid in the glass. “Tell me. How does Lady Ravenleigh address you?”

“As Christopher.”

“And your first wife?”

“The same.”

He nodded speculatively. “Margaret always called me Huntingdon. Even in the throes of passion.”

“I doubt that’s unusual. After all, you and I are first cousins and yet we call each other by our titles rather than our given names.”

“Perhaps.” But he could not help but he haunted by the realization that Margaret might have considered herself married to his title more than married to him. She’d never called him Devon. He found it endearing, the manner in which Gina cried out his name as though he’d carried her into a realm of such magnificent beauty she could hardly believe it.

Damnation, but he liked the way she said his name, a slight hesitation as though not quite certain it was acceptable. As though she cared about acceptability. Not his wife. Not a woman who went without a chaperone and rode bareback at dawn.

But she did care that she pleased him and that made him care all the more about pleasing her.