A Rake by Any Other Name (18 page)

How much simpler life would be if young people simply did as their elders asked without question. Surely they realize we have their best interests at heart. Most of the time.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

She kissed him back. Soon it wasn't about who was kissing whom. There was no question about who was in control.

Neither of them.

Richard knew he ought to hold back, but he couldn't. Sophie was too inviting. Too welcoming. Too…herself.

They sank back together on the soft grass, never breaking off their kiss. Her mouth was a whole world, a new and uncharted country. He explored it with relish.

She returned the favor, biting his lower lip in teasing nips.

At first Richard thought he might try some of the old tricks Maddie had taught him, but then, when his kiss with Sophie deepened, all thought of the object of his calf-love fled from his mind. It was as if he was that green boy again and had never kissed anyone but Sophie.

No one had ever experienced this heart-stopping exchange of breath, this exchange of souls. It was entirely new. He and Sophie were making it up as they went along.

When she touched him, it burned clear to his bone, but it was a healing fire. She wiped all memory of past dalliances from his mind. He was coming to her with all the fervent urgency of a lovesick lad but with the depth of feeling of a grown man.

He wanted all of her—good and bad. There was nothing about her he would change. Not her sharp tongue certainly. It was all twined up with his. Not her acerbic wit. They were of the same mind, at least at this moment.

She was his. His very heart. His Sophie.

But when she moaned into his mouth, he remembered that a man had taken from her before. Richard was determined to give.

This dalliance would be about her, he decided. His cock rioted, but he was a stubborn man and he was about to prove it. He'd give her pleasure without expecting it in return.

He stroked. He kissed. He undid the silver frogs that fastened the front of her blue riding jacket with studied slowness. He teased her breasts with glancing strokes that had her arching into his hand.

All the while he made love to her mouth in slow thrusts.

He ran his fingertips over the top of her chemise. With each pass, he slipped farther beneath the lace trim to tease her taut nipples. They were barely peeping above the boned stays, but it was enough. He undid a couple of the hook and eyes, and peeled back the stays so her breasts were bared to the sun. He would torment them until she begged him for release.

But Sophie wasn't the sort to beg. She grasped him by the ears and moved him down to her breasts.

***

“Oh, yes. Just like that,” she murmured when he latched on to her aching nipple and sucked. She knew she ought to be working to remove his jacket, to focus on giving him pleasure, but joy was singing in her head so loudly she could scarcely think of anything. Besides, whenever she tried to disrobe him, he gently pushed her hands aside.

“Just be, love,” he murmured. “Just be.”

So instead of doing, she was free to feel.

Sophie could simply put herself into his strong, capable hands. She was a bundle of needs desperately seeking to be released, a handful of kindling ready to burst into flames. She ached—a good kind of ache— in so many places, but Richard was working to ease them all.

Her breasts had sent a fiery message to her belly. Warmth and heaviness and a slow pounding settled between her thighs.

Richard was saying things into her neck as he kissed his way back up. Delicious things like “so beautiful” and “oh God” and her name. Over and over again, he said her name as if it tasted like honey on his tongue.

Julian had never done that. Perhaps he'd been afraid he'd say the wrong name at an unguarded moment.

Then Richard suckled her earlobe and all thought of Julian fled. He might never have existed at all. Or maybe he was only a bad dream, one she never need revisit again.

Richard's hand fumbled under her voluminous skirt. He found her knee and shot up her thigh.

Oh
Lord.
She ought to stop him. A good girl would. A girl like Antonia would never have let things get this far. She felt a twinge of guilt, thinking about Antonia. She'd never known about Julian's wife until it was too late. Richard had told her about Antonia almost immediately.

She was a Jezebel after all, a temptress who stole men from other women.

But if he was so besotted with Antonia, why was he kissing her?

Careful, Sophie. That's how light skirts reason so they can sleep at
night.

Then Richard's mouth was at her breast again, and there was no more thinking after that. Her knees parted as his hand continued to slide up her leg. He fingered the tops of her pantalets. Then he brushed his palm over her hot, secret center, not staying nearly long enough.

She whimpered.

“Hush, love. It'll be all right. I'll make it all right.”

She wanted him to touch her
there
so badly, but he seemed to be taking pains to skirt that part of her.

Men were like that. She had ached for Julian to touch her there too, but he never did. Not with his hand. She'd wanted it so much, but she wouldn't beg.

Besides, she was ashamed of that wanting.

She'd had a very English governess in Bombay when she was about fourteen. Her mother wanted to make sure she knew how to behave properly, so Mrs. Pritchard, who came with a flawless list of references as long as her arm, was engaged to “civilize” Sophie. Along with instruction on which fork to use, Mrs. Pritchard had drummed into her head that a specific part of her was shameful. She even made Sophie wear scratchy wool gloves to bed, lest she be tempted to touch herself.

As soon as Sophie's mother discovered this component of her daughter's education, she sacked Mrs. Pritchard and hired a native
ayah
.

“There are worse things than using the wrong fork,” Mrs. Goodnight had said.

But the damage was done.

Sophie was still afraid that very needy part of her that so wanted to be touched wasn't worthy of it.

What if Richard was repelled by her? Something hurt inside her chest at the thought. Then it hurt worse at the idea that he wouldn't
want
to touch her.

Then, wonder of wonders, he did touch her.

Gently. With reverence, almost. He cupped that part of her and held her hot little self in his hand.

She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back the tears. Then his hand began to move, and she let them flow. They were tears of joy, of wonderment, and of such relief.

Everything went warm and liquid. His blessed fingers slid between her soft folds. Just when she thought she couldn't hold another drop of wanting, he found a spot that unleashed such a flood of sensations, she gasped at the shock of it.

Pleasure radiated through every bit of her. Then he returned to that spot and stroked it until she thought she'd go wild.

She'd thought herself so very worldly. So un-virginal. She'd been the other woman, after all.

She'd never experienced anything like this.

Then the pleasure turned sharp-edged. The wanting was back with a vengeance. She moved her hips. She moaned. She was wound so tightly she was sure something inside her was near to breaking. She hadn't wanted to plead, but the word danced on her tongue.

“Please.”

“Come to me, Sophie,” Richard urged.

And then something inside her did break. It was rather like the recoil of a shotgun, except bliss ricocheted through her instead of bird shot. Her limbs bucked as pleasure spread from the source of her release. She cried out. Nothing intelligible, of course. She couldn't form a coherent thought, let alone a word. She turned into him, hooking a leg around his legs, her hands feverishly seeking the buttons over his hips that would drop the front of his trousers.

He pulled back slightly. “No, Sophie. I won't demand anything from you. I want to give. Not take. Besides, when I take you completely, it'll be in a proper feather bed with silken sheets.” His hand continued to draw out her release for another few moments.

When her body finally settled, Richard was still holding her, still looking down at her.

“Part of me wants to wipe that smug grin off your handsome face,” she said. The other part wanted to half worship the man.

“Don't I have something to feel smug about?”

Whatever it was he'd done to her, it was the most extraordinary thing she'd ever experienced. “I won't say that wasn't…”

“Breathtaking?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Heart pounding?” He laid his head between her breasts, his warm breath feathering over them.

Her chest was still pounding. “You know it was.”

He rose up to look into her eyes. “Loving?”

The word snatched her breath away. “Who said anything about love?”

“I just did.”

“So are you trying to say you love me?”

“I'm not trying.” He pulled his hand from under her skirt, leaving her feeling strangely bereft. Then he smoothed down the fabric. “I'm saying it…” He paused as if the seriousness of his words had finally hit him. “It may well be possible that I love you, yes.”

“My word, what a declaration. It may be possible that you love me.” She sat up, tucked her breasts back into her stays, and refastened the hooks and eyes, smarting at his underwhelming statement. Why couldn't he simply say he loved her with no qualifications? He'd taken her to the heights. Now he was tossing her off a precipice. “Careful, Lord Hartley. You'll turn my head.”

“Stop it, Sophie. I'm serious.”

“So am I. A girl has to pace herself with you. First, I'm repugnant—”

“No more of that.” He put his fingers to her lips to silence her. “We thoroughly debunked that myth.”

“I suppose we did,” she admitted, wishing the warm glow they shared hadn't faded so quickly. “But that doesn't change the fact that I'm never quite sure where we are with each other. We bare our souls, and you make me feel…”

“What?”

Her cheeks heated. She despised girls who colored up at every little thing, but now she couldn't help doing it. Of course, this was not such a little thing. “You made me feel things I've never felt before.”

“Really?” The smug grin was back. “Your Lieutenant Parrish was a total rotter then.”

She shot a dagger glare at him. “I would appreciate it if you refrain from mentioning him. Ever. Again.”

“I'll try.” He plucked a bit of grass from her hair.

“Because if you do keep casting him in my teeth, I shall never speak to you. Ever. Again,” Sophie promised.

The grin disappeared. “Then I consign him to oblivion. Consider He-who-shall-remain-nameless eternally forgotten. May I take it that Maddie Wharton is similarly relegated to the flames of forgetfulness?”

“Yes. Yours, as well as mine, if you please,” she said as she fastened the last frog on her riding coat. “If I catch you smiling over nothing, I don't want to have to wonder about the source of it.”

“Fair enough. But I promise you, if you catch me smiling over nothing, I'll be thinking of you.” He captured her for another quick kiss. “Now, shall we tell our families about our change of heart?”

She blinked slowly at him, hoping he would make an unequivocal declaration. Love with no limits. Love with no conditions. Simply love. “What change of heart?”

“You'll marry me now, surely.”

Sophie shifted uncertainly. His “may well be possible” sort of love didn't inspire her confidence. “With Lady Antonia still in residence at Somerfield Park, I think an announcement of any sort is premature. And a bit unfeeling. She had expectations when you invited her and her family to visit.”

“You're right. I'm being selfish, and I don't wish to be unkind to her. Very well.” He stood and pulled her to feet. “I shall speak to Antonia as soon as I return home. She and her family will be gone by tomorrow.” He grasped her waist and tugged her close. “And you and your family will move out of Barrett House and take up quarters in the guest wing at Somerfield Park until the banns have been read.”

“What? No special license? Father will be dismayed.” She sheltered behind flippancy to hide her disappointment that Richard was all details but no declaration. How could a man who made her body sing for the pure joy of sensation be so taciturn about his own feelings? She put on her bonnet and failed miserably at tucking her hair back up under it. “He always says that everyone who is anyone is wed by special license these days.”

“Those things cost the earth.” Richard tied the bonnet ribbons beneath her chin, obviously not caring how disheveled she looked. “Remember, my dear, you'll be wedding a title, not a fortune.”

“That's right. You're the one who would be wedding a fortune.” How had he missed that she hadn't really accepted his awkward proposal?

His smile faded. “I don't want your father's money, Sophie.”

“You wouldn't have a choice.”

“We always have choices. Haven't we proved that this very day?”

He was right. Nothing had happened between them without both of them wanting it. That did bode well for a marriage. She imagined accepting his suit. If they presented a united front, surely they'd be able to turn her father away from showering them with all his wealth. Henry Goodnight would still probably insist their wedding be the grandest occasion ever witnessed in Somerset and would likely send them on a honeymoon that would beggar the royal family. But Sophie thought she could temper his generosity enough to save Richard's pride.

“We can talk terms later,” she said. “For now, we only have to let our families know that we have decided to tolerate each other.”

“Oh, I think you do far more than tolerate me.”