Nearly a Lady (38 page)

But he didn’t explode. He neither shouted, nor stormed, nor demanded.

Oh, he was livid; she could all but see the fury come off him in waves. But there wasn’t a hint, not a whisper of lost control. He was in absolute command of himself—perfectly still but for the coiling of muscle in his shoulders and the slight, almost imperceptible lowering of his head.

He stared at her, unblinking, and suddenly, she knew she had lost the upper hand.

“Did you expect me to believe that?” he asked in a dangerously soft voice.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, you do.” He took a step toward her. “You most certainly do.”

She began to back up without thinking, and he moved forward in return. Slowly, steadily he stalked her across the room.

“Do you think me a jester, Winnefred?”

“What?”

“A fool to poke fun at because I’ve made you laugh a time or two?”

“No. I—”

“Harmless then, because I kissed you in the moonlight and let you go?”

“I never—”

“Is it the limp? The cane?” In a move so fast it took her breath away, he swept forward and pinned her to the wall. “Did you think I couldn’t catch you?”

Before she could even think of responding, his mouth swept down on hers and devoured it. It was nothing like the kiss he’d given her in Scotland. Nothing at all like the sweet meeting of lips they’d shared by the bridge. He used his body to keep her pressed against the wall and his hands to grip and tug her wrists over her head.

“Stop me, then,” he breathed against her mouth. “Stop me. Show me why you thought it safe to play your little game.”

For a moment insult and fear warred with desire. But then she felt it—the tremble in his hold, the hard crash of his heart against her chest, the quickened breath against her skin. He was struggling as she was.

She had promised herself she would not wait and hope, but she’d never promised not to take a chance. “I played . . . because I knew you would win.”

His grip tightened, his eyes went black as night, and then his mouth slanted over hers again.

There was no time for her to sink gently into the heat as she had in Scotland, no chance for her to find her way into the moment. She was pulled instantly, and willingly, into a battle of teeth and tongue and lips.

He shifted, sliding a knee between her legs. She heard herself moan in pleasure and press forward in a wordless plea to be closer. Her fingers flexed and un-flexed beneath his grip, needing to reach for him. But Gideon didn’t relent; he kept her trapped and immobile against the wall.

The ache became a need as he dragged his mouth away to taste the line of her jaw, the lobe of her ear, and the column of her throat. She felt the rough scrape of his teeth and the soothing flick of his tongue. He nipped lightly at the sensitive spot between her neck and shoulder, and she gasped at the startling sensation.

He went still at the sound, his weight pinning her, the ragged catch and release of his breath hot against her skin. Slowly, his hands loosened and slid from her wrists, and for one terrible moment, she feared he would let her go completely.

He didn’t. In a sudden change of mood, he slipped an arm around her waist and gently pulled her away from the wall. Then he was kissing her softly, languidly, as if he could spend hours just tasting her. His hands no longer sought to trap or take but to arouse through her gown with long, slow strokes and light, feathery brushes. As if he had suddenly decided to take care. More—that he wanted to take care.

Her last rational thought was that
this
is what she wanted. To feel needed and cherished, and loved.

 

G
ideon had stopped thinking altogether. He reacted on feeling and instinct alone. His mind was blank but for thoughts of the woman in his arms. There was no ship, no battle, and no responsibility. There was no more anger or the wild need to brand what was his. There was only Winnefred . . . The feel of her fingers in his hair, the weight of her soft body against his, the sweet taste of her mouth, and the faint scent of lavender on her skin.

She overwhelmed him, drowned his every sense, and washed away all but the need to sink further into the feel and taste and scent of her. Almost of their own accord, his fingers began to work the row of buttons down the back of her gown. The material slipped from her shoulders. He nudged it further, down her slender arms and waist until it pooled on the floor in a circle at her feet. Firelight danced behind her, outlining her form through the thin white chemise and lighting her upswept curls.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, reaching up to pull the pins from her hair. She was so beautiful.

He undressed them both in stages, stopping to touch each inch of her skin as it was exposed, and giving her a chance to do the same. She was both tentative and tenacious in her explorations, letting her fingers investigate his bare chest and arms, and her hands brush over his hips and waist. She hesitated when he removed his trousers, but only briefly.

His eyes closed on a groan when her small hand sought out the proof of his desire. He stilled, allowing them both the pleasure of her discovery, until that pleasure grew too keen. Keeping an arm firmly around her waist, he drew her hand away and walked her backward to the bed.

He followed her down to the counterpane and started the process of exploration all over again. She was a study in contradictions. So small, he thought, so fragile, but there was strength in her arms, and he felt the long, lean muscles of her legs as they moved against his. He dipped his head, tasting her neck, her collarbone, her breast. Her skin was impossibly soft, terrifyingly delicate, and yet he could feel the reminders of her calluses as she ran her palms across his back. She was both pale and flushed with passion. She was helpless and in command of his every thought, his every move, his every desire.

That desire grew sharp and ruthless as he watched her sigh and moan and arch beneath him. The need to take her clawed at him, and still he held off. He wanted her blind with need, lost to the demands of her body.

He took a nipple in his mouth, teasing it into a hard point with his tongue and teeth. He ran a hand down her side, over the subtle flair of her hip, and across the silken skin of her thigh to reach the softness between her legs.

She nearly came off the bed. “Gideon,
please
.”

His name from her lips was more than he could stand against. He settled himself over her, struggling to be gentle, to take care as he pressed forward into the wet heat of her. She draped her arms over his shoulders and tilted her hips in encouragement . . . until he met the barrier that marked her as an innocent and, hoping faster might be better, pushed past it with a single determined thrust.

She tensed and swore. “Oh.
Ouch
.”

He grit his teeth until the blinding pleasure of being inside her dimmed just enough for him to bend his head and kiss her brow. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“This is . . .” She stared at him in shock and swallowed audibly. “This is
not
what I thought—”

“I know.” He took her mouth in a long, deep kiss, only releasing her when he felt her nails recede a bit from his back and heard the breath she was holding flow out in a long sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “Give it a minute more. Can you do that?”

She nodded and even managed a hesitant smile.

He wasn’t sure he could do it. Every second, every heartbeat felt like an eternity. She felt like heaven, and every muscle in his body screamed at him to move, to sink into her again and again, until the need that had been clawing at him for so long was satisfied. He refused to listen. Keeping a tight leash on his own desire, he set about rekindling Winnefred’s passion, his hands seeking out the places that had made her gasp and sigh before.

When she began to gasp and sigh again, he carefully withdrew and sank back into her, gauging her reaction. He groaned in relief when she met his thrust with a cautious movement of her own.

“Yes. Sweetheart.” He thrust again, a long, deep stroke that drew a moan from her lips. “That’s it . . .”

He loosened the leash then, letting instinct and desire take over. He lost track of time and place, of everything but the sweet sound of Winnefred’s cries growing faster and higher in pitch and the biting pleasure that came from drawing out the moment of his release, waiting for Winnefred to find her own.

When she did, when her legs banded around his waist and she bucked and cried out in his arms, he plunged deep one last time, then pulled himself free with a ragged groan and spent his passion on the white linen of Winnefred’s bed.

G
ideon stood in the library and scowled at nothing in particular. He didn’t want to be in the library. He didn’t want to be scowling, particularly, either. What he wanted was to go back upstairs, slip into bed with Winnefred, and pretend everything was fine, everything was as it should be. That’s how he’d woken—with his limbs entangled with hers and the soft brush of her breath against his neck. For a few blissful moments, he had lain awake, steeped in the warmth of her and the memory of their lovemaking.

But all too soon, the reality of what he had done began to creep in, and with it came worry, remorse, and recriminations.

Naturally, he would have to marry Winnefred as soon as possible. It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. And a part of him nearly crowed at the idea of it—at the knowledge that she was his now and that she would always be his. But the other part of him, the part that had driven him to leave Winnefred sleeping in her bed, berated him for his shortsighted selfishness.

It wasn’t a simple matter of having her. It was a matter of being responsible for her . . . And for any children they might have.

An image came into his mind of a small girl with amber eyes and light brown hair with golden streaks. She’d have his sense of humor, he thought, and her mother’s laugh. He could almost hear that laugh.

The image faded away, only to be replaced by a likeness of Jimmy. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, armless Jimmy.

He dragged an unsteady hand through his hair.

There would be no children.

There would be no guarantees either, unless he meant to take a vow of abstinence—and he wasn’t so damn shortsighted he could fool himself into believing that a feasible plan—but there were steps a man could take to lessen the likelihood of a pregnancy, and he meant to follow them. He didn’t have a choice.

Winnefred might not care for it, but she was a reasonable sort . . . Well, no, she wasn’t always. But she was practical. She would understand. She would have to. She bloody well didn’t have a choice either.

 

W
innefred didn’t understand. She could not, upon waking, immediately puzzle through why she had fallen asleep to the sound of Gideon’s breathing and woken to silence. Not complete silence, she amended, for she could hear the muted sound of voices downstairs and the soft shuffling of footsteps in the hall.

She turned over and looked at the window. Thin streams of sunlight snuck into the room around the edges of the drapes.

It was morning, she realized groggily. Late morning, by the looks and sounds of it. The servants must be up, clearing away the remnants of last night’s ball. And Gideon had left because he’d not want it discovered he had spent the night in her bed.

Memories of that night came flooding back, accompanied by a warm wash of pleasure. Suddenly very much awake, she rolled out of bed and began to wash and dress.

Her mind raced with a thousand questions. What came next, a declaration of undying love and eternal devotion? That sounded a bit theatrical . . . It also sounded rather lovely. And closer to the truth of how she’d felt for some time now but hadn’t been able to admit.

She loved Gideon.

She loved his dark eyes, his handsome face, his sense of the absurd, and his thoughtfulness and generosity. She loved the feel of his hands on her skin and his mouth against hers. She loved everything about him . . . Well, not his misplaced sense of guilt so much, but the rest, certainly.

Was she to confess that love to him now? Would he confess his back? And what came after? It wouldn’t be marriage. He’d made himself perfectly clear on that issue, and she wasn’t foolish enough to think he had changed his mind over the course of a few hours. Perhaps, over time, he would grow amendable to the idea. He was clearly
capable
of changing his mind. After all, he’d chosen to put his guilt before her . . . Until last night.

But what to do in the meantime? Were they to have a clandestine affair? They certainly couldn’t have an open one. Lilly would never forgive her.

She spent some time trying to figure the problem out before giving up the notion of doing it alone. She’d just have to ask Gideon, she decided, and headed for her door. She couldn’t very well plan their future without him, anyway.