Captivated by a Lady's Charm (Lords of Honor Book 2) (28 page)

“One never sees one’s actions as heroic.” The dance. She referred to the bloody dance once more.

With jerky movements he poured himself a healthy glass of whiskey. He turned to face her. A muscle jumped in the corner of his eye. “And that would be because there was nothing heroic in my efforts,” he said with a casualness that raised a frown from her. “You wish to think you married a Waterloo soldier? An adept man who saved lives?” He continued over her attempts at protestations. “A man so modest he should reject the praise, content with the memory of his own greatness? But I am not that man.” Christian raised his glass in a mocking salute and then downed the contents in a long, painful swallow. He relished the burning trail it marked down his throat. “Do you know who I am?”

She jutted her chin out. “I would have you tell me.”

“I am a man who convinced my two best friends to join me on that grand adventure.” He recalled Derek, now the Duke of Blackthorne and Maxwell as they’d been—skeptical and hesitant.
I rather like my good looks
… Derek had jested.
I’ve little desire to return a monster whom none of the ladies will take to their bed
… His mouth burned with the need for more liquid resolve and he swiped the whiskey from the sideboard and poured another glass to the brim.

“It was still their decision to go, Christian.
They
decided.”

He scoffed. “Is that supposed to bring consolation?”

“No,” she said firmly. “It is supposed to show you that you aren’t responsible for the decisions another person makes.”

How desperately he wanted to cling to that undeserved absolution and yet it could not come from her. Perhaps it could not even come from Maxwell or Blackthorne or any of the other men. Perhaps it could not come from anyone because there was no absolution to be had. “They were far better fighters than I ever was,” he said quietly to himself. The great irony—he’d been the one eager for the show upon that grand stage but Blackthorne and Maxwell had taken to battle as though they’d been born to it. While he’d muddled through battles, a living failure of a soldier. “They saved me…” His voice broke and he took another sip. “More scores than I deserved.” Christian stared into the half-empty contents of his glass. How much better Blackthorne would have been if he’d have just let him flounder in battle.

“Do not say that,” Prudence snapped. Icy steel underscored her command and brought his head up. “You deserved to live and I am…” Tears flooded her eyes once more and she sailed over and cupped his face between her palms. The cold edge of the stick bit into his cheek. “And I am glad they did save you. How very empty my life would be if I’d not met you, Christian.”

Her words filled him, lifted him. The chains of his past, however, would never free him. “I would have you know the whole of it,” he said tersely, stepping back.

“Then tell me,” she demanded, a spark glinting in her eyes. “Tell me everything.”

He would and then she’d cease to look at him as though he were the single reason for her smile. He’d been selfish long enough where she was concerned. “I am the reason my friend was nearly killed.” His mind shied away from offering her the whole truth.

Her mouth parted.

Christian grinned, even as her silent shock knotted his insides. “What, nothing to say to that? Would you have me tell you the chaos at Toulouse?” The floodgates cracked open and then the memories rushed through of the terrified panic. The agonized screams. Then that one shot. The burning scent of flesh invaded his nostrils and bile climbed up his throat. With a roar, he hurled his empty glass at the opposite wall where it exploded into a spray of crystal shards, falling upon the sideboard like a thousand useless teardrops.

At the soft, hesitant touch on his sleeve, he stiffened and braced for the loathing in his wife’s eyes. Instead, agony bled through their crystalline depths. “Oh, Christian,” she whispered and then wrapped her arms about his chest.

He went taut, his hands of their own will came up and hovered about her, aching to fold her close and breathe in the purity of her summer scent. Christian closed his eyes and drew in a shaky breath, determined to have the whole of it told. “I was a lousy shot. I spent more time shaking in battle than killing men. Maxwell and Blackthorne became protectors of sorts. Set themselves up at my side.” As though he’d been a bloody babe in the nursery in need of constant care. “Timing was everything.” He dropped his chin atop the silken tresses of her golden curls and stared beyond to the raging fire in the hearth. Those flames drew him back to Toulouse. “Do you know how to fire a gun, Prudence?”

She nodded once. “My brother schooled me on how to use a gun. He would take us hunting but Poppy and I despised killing the animals so we would go along and scare them off so he could not kill them, either.” Ah, God, that was the manner of innocent she was and had been. His wife’s eyes grew distant with the memory. “After failed outings, Sin insisted we fire at the trees on our country estate until we became skilled shots.”

…Look at the mark I left up that demmed tree! I will kill scores of Frenchies…

A sad smile pulled on his lips at the memory of him, Derek, and Tristan battling one of the oaks on his father’s property. How hopelessly naïve they’d been. “Shooting a man in the midst of war is very different than shooting at a tree.” His ears flooded with the bloodcurdling screams and the thunderous booms of cannon fire.

“When a flintlock is fired, it sprays a shower of sparks forward from the muzzle and another sideways out of the flash hole. In battle, a soldier fires in volley to ensure one soldier’s spark does not ignite another man’s powder as he is in the act of loading.”

Prudence stilled. “Oh, God,” she whispered.

She knew.

Yet it needed to be spoken into her existence, so she truly knew. “Der—Blackthorne,” he said, the agony ripped through him with a vicious ferocity. The pain of regret as sharp now as it had been then. “While he loaded his weapon, I fired, and his flint exploded in his face.”

A gasp slipped past her lips.

“He is…” He shook his head once. “
Was
, the second son of a duke.” Christian dug his fingertips into his temples to blot out the dark reminders of those early days when he’d returned from war. “Society whispers about him. They call him the Beast of Blackthorne.”

“That is horrid that Society would be so cruel.” A spirited gleam burned in her eyes. Ah, that was just one of the things he loved about her. She spit in the face of Society’s cruelness.

He let his hands fall to his side and then balled them. The man reviled as a beast had been made that way by Christian’s mistake. Desperate to be done with the telling, he continued in a gruff voice. “Both his father and brother died and he found himself duke.” Christian stared over the top of her head, unable to meet her gaze. “He does not leave the confines of his townhouse.” His telling was met with a long, energized silence. “And now you know the man you married, Prudence.”

His arms hung uselessly at his side and he waited for the moment she retreated in loathing at the coward she called husband. “I owed you these truths before you married me,” he said flatly. Yet he’d proven a coward even in that. “I was not supposed to care. I did not want to find a woman who cared for me and respected me, but you were always there and I always wanted you to be there.” Always wanted her to be forever at his side.

She searched his face with her unfathomable eyes. “Oh, Christian.” Leaning up on her tiptoes, she placed her lips to his.

Lesson Twenty-three

Many times a gentleman needs a lady to make him see reason…

S
he kissed him. And in that kiss, she infused all the love, hope, forgiveness, and joy her husband deserved. And while she kissed him, her heart broke and bled for a man who saw no worth in his life. A man who, with his dignity and self-guilt, had more honor than anyone else she knew. And she kissed him for the loss he’d known.

Prudence sank onto her heels. His expression may as well have been carved of stone. “What happened was not your fault.” She thought of the young man in the crimson uniform grinning in the abovestairs painting. “You were merely a child.”

“I was eighteen,” he rejoined.

“A boy.”

“A man who knew my mind.”

An obstinate one at that. She could have only imagined him eight years earlier.

Before she could issue any further protestation, he said, “You are eighteen, Prudence. Are you a girl or a woman?”

Prudence wrinkled her nose. “I am a woman, but this is entirely different.”

“Oh?” He folded his arms. “And how?”

She gave a flounce of her curls. “Well, I’m a woman and we are more practical and logical than a man at that same age. You race your phaetons and douse yourselves in cologne and run through town as though you’ve just shed free of a too-strict governess.”

His lips twitched. “And hiking along a riding tract is so very practical?”

She swatted his arm. “Do hush, that is entirely different.”

He flashed a smile, displaying two rows of perfectly white teeth. “Of course it is.”

Her belly fluttered. Oh, God how she loved his smile. Hated to see him sad. Ached to make him happy.

Prudence knew he intended to divert her attentions with that easy grin and teasing words. A pang struck. How many years had he spent adopting a carefree façade when inside he was the tortured boy who’d gone off to fight? “I do not believe your friends blame you,” she said solemnly, bringing them back to the discussion he needed to have, needed to have eight years ago. Lord Maxwell’s devotion was testament to the bond they shared.

A spasm of pain contorted her husband’s face. “Blackthorne has not spoken to me in six years.”

“Did you try to see to him?” Or had guilt kept him away?

He gave a brusque nod. “When I returned, for the first two years I would try to visit. He saw me once.” Something dark glinted in his eyes. Memories of those long ago visits? “The other times I was always turned away.” The column of his throat worked. “I miss that friendship. He, Maxwell, and I were once as close as brothers.”

Her heart ached for his friend’s loss and yet… “It was a mistake, Christian. And surely with time, that anger has healed. You should try to see him again.”

Christian shook his head. “He will not see me.”

“But if he would?” she persisted.

Without hesitation, he said, “Undoubtedly.”

Hmm…

“I believe—” Her words ended on a soft gasp as he drew her to him.

“I do not want to speak any more about Blackthorne,” he whispered against her lips. “Or my past.” He brushed a kiss against the corner of her mouth.

Her eyes fluttered as he continued to trail kisses around her lips, teasing, enticing her in such a way that a breathless anticipation caused a heat in her belly that spread lower, warming her. “You are just trying to silence me,” she managed to rasp as he dropped his attention to the swell of her décolletage and placed a row of kisses along the exposed flesh.

“I am just trying to make love to my wife.” He gripped her hips, bringing her flush to the swollen length of his shaft pressed against the front of his breeches.

A moan climbed up her throat and she rubbed herself against him, needing to ease that aching pressure pulsing at her center.

An agonized groan rumbled in his chest.

Concern jerked her away. “Did I hurt you?” In response, he ran his hands up and down her hips in a tantalizing manner, urging her to resume those slow, rhythmic movements. Then, with a staggering precision, he expertly released the row of tiny buttons along the back of her dress. He worked the gown free of her body and it sailed to the floor in a pile of white ruffled lace. Christian drew her shift overhead and tossed it atop her dress.

Her skin burned under the heated intensity of his gaze and she drew her arms close to shield the thatch of curls between her legs and her modest breasts.

“Do not.” That harsh command ripped from his throat, ragged with desire.

She hesitated and then let her hands fall to her sides. As though worshiping a long searched after treasure, he palmed a small breast. His sure, deliberate exploration was that of a man who committed the feel and shape of her to memory.

Christian continued to pass his fiery stare over her. “So beautiful,” he whispered.

Her breath hitched as he captured a swollen, pink tip and rubbed the bud back and forth. He continued to tease and tweak the turgid bud until her hips undulated with a hungering need for more of his touch.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, dipping his head. And before she knew what he intended, he captured a nipple between his lips and suckled.

Her legs buckled, but he was prepared and easily caught her to him. Guiding her backward so she had the support of his desk, he never broke contact with her breast. He trailed the tip of his tongue around her nipple and then blew on that crest until he wrung a cry from her.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out as he gently nudged her legs apart with his knee and pressed his oak-hard thigh against her core. Prudence moved against him, gripping the edge of the desk to keep from falling back. She fought to breathe. God help her, she’d never felt anything akin to what coursed through her now. She moaned and continued to ride his leg, knowing she should be ashamed at her scandalous response to him, and yet she could no sooner stop her body from straining to him than she could stop the earth from spinning. All she felt was a hunger for more. For him.

“From the moment I held you in my arms for that waltz, I have dreamed of this moment,” he whispered against her ear. He captured the soft lobe of her right ear between his lips and sucked.

Incapable of words, she turned herself over to feeling, reveling in the strength and power of his touch. He slid a hand between them and found her center with his fingers.

“Christian,” she cried out, clenching her thighs reflexively about him.

He was relentless in his efforts, palming the soft, dampened thatch of curls that shielded her womanhood.

Prudence dropped her legs open, needing more of him and he slid a finger slowly inside until madness loomed. Her head fell back and a wanton groan lodged in her throat. She moaned in protest when he pulled away from her but he merely shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it into a quiet heap on the floor. He tugged off his snowy cravat. His waistcoat and shirtsleeves followed suit until he remained bared at the waist before her.

Her breath caught as she took in the whipcord strength of him. She trailed her fingertips along the muscles of his forearms and they strained at her attention. Emboldened, she continued her exploration to his flat nipples and she caressed him. Did her touch drive him to the similar madness he’d brought her to? Prudence stole an upward peak. Christian studied her through thick, hooded lashes, desire burned from his gaze. She swallowed hard and then with a sense of power at the knowledge he was as affected by her as she was of him, she pressed her lips to his chest.

The air left him on a hiss and he caught her to him. His mouth covered hers. There was nothing gentle about his kiss. It was a fiery meeting of two people who’d hungered for one another and she boldly returned his thrust and parry. She dimly registered him carrying her to the leather sofa opposite the hearth and laying her down. The blazing heat warmed her skin and she shoved herself up onto her elbows to examine him. Clad in nothing more than his boots and breeches, she longed to see him naked before her.

As though following her unspoken, bold wishes, he tugged off his boots with an ease any valet would have admired and tossed them aside. He lowered his hands to the fastenings on his breeches. Not taking his gaze from hers, he shoved his pants down then kicked them aside.

Prudence wetted her lips, as her mother’s early lessons intruded on her earlier desire. A spear. She’d said it was like a spear and that had sounded like a deuced awful experience. Though, there had been nothing awful about any of what had come before this moment. Perhaps her mother had been wrong and had merely had it…wrong. She stole a peek at his
spear
and then her cheeks promptly burned. Oh, bloody hell, must her mother have proven correct about this? She shot her gaze to Christian’s. He studied her still through those deeply veiled lashes.

“We won’t fit,” she blurted. She gave her head a shake. “That.” She motioned to his long, plum-tipped member. “Will never fit.”

The ghost of a smile played on his lips as he eased himself over her. “It will fit. I promise you.”

He made to kiss her lips, but she angled her face away. “You can’t be truly sure about that.” And even if he proved correct in this regard, it was going to hurt like the deuced devil.

“Oh, trust me, I am sure,” he said with such masculine arrogance she frowned.

“Because you’ve been with others?” she said tartly. She knew the warnings and whispers he’d been a rogue and yet she’d never known him to be that man. She’d only known
her
Christian. Suddenly, she despised all those faceless, nameless women to come before.

Christian furrowed his brow and then blinked slowly. He lowered his mouth close to hers and froze, their lips a hairsbreadth apart. Their rapid breaths merged in an unsteady cadence. “I know because your body was made for mine, just as I was made for you.”

“Oh, Christian,” she whispered, caressing his cheek with her fingers. Her heart swelled with love for him.

He claimed her lips once more in a kiss, slipping his tongue inside. The leather groaned in protest as he shifted himself over her and continued his exploration with his mouth, dragging his lips in a path over her body. Her neck, lower to her previously neglected breast.

She bit the inside of her cheek as he closed his lips over the turgid bud. Her hands came up reflexively and she fisted the long strands of his blond hair, anchoring him to her chest. Desire pooled at her center, leaving her burning and aching for more. A cry of protest burst from her lips as he ceased lavishing his attention on her tender breast, but he was moving down her body. She forced her heavy lids open and shoved herself up on her elbows as he settled himself between her legs. “What—?” Her words ended on a soft keening cry as he put his mouth to her moist curls. He slipped his tongue inside the curls and caressed the swollen, aching nub at her core, laving her wildly until she collapsed backward. Prudence scraped her hands along his shoulders. “Th-this is scandalous,” she managed to rasp out.

He paused, looking up at her. “Do you wish me to stop?”

She would die if he did. In silent reply, Prudence tangled her fingers in his hair once more, and turned herself over to the sensation. He pushed his tongue inside her, taking her up higher and higher on this illusive peak, so all she was capable of was feeling.

A cold emptiness filled her as he ceased his shocking ministrations, but he shifted his body over hers. She dimly registered the hard length of him pressing at her damp curls as he slid easily inside her. Prudence wrapped her arms about his back, urging him on. Then he stopped, his shaft bumping the entrance of her womanhood. A pleased smile turned her lips. How very wro—

“Right,” she cried out, as the sharp tear cut across the haze of desire. Her bloody mother had been proven right. Oh, why must she always be right?

Her husband froze, his chest heaved with the force of his breathing. “What is right?” His words came out fast and ragged.

“My mother.” She winced and moved experimentally. Bloody hell. It still hurt. Her center throbbed in a way that was not at all pleasant.

Christian flinched. And it appeared to hurt him, too. “I would rather we not speak of your mother at this precise moment,” he whispered and turned his attention to her breast.

“Yes, but you see…” She gasped as the stirring in her womb was reawakened at his wicked caress. He reached between them and found her slick nub, rubbing the button once again until the pain receded.

“Yes?” he breathed, switching his attention to her other breast and suckling on her nipple.

Her hips of their own volition lifted, searching for him once more. “Did I-I say something?” Her body was a bundle of nerves and heightened sensations so that all she was capable of was feeling his touch.

Then he began to move within her—long, languid strokes. He slid his hardened shaft deep inside and then withdrew. In and then out. In a slow, tortured rhythm that drove back all earlier discomfort and left, instead, in its place a burning ache for…for…

“Christian,” she cried out, as he increased his movements. Her hips rose and fell in time with his until their bodies were matched in a synchronized harmony. A bead of sweat dotted his brow and his face contorted. “Are you in pain?” she whispered, brushing back the faint sheen of perspiration.