Cheryl Holt (13 page)

It was a query that vexed him. Though he’d fumed and ruminated, he had no explanation for his behavior. He
had
to see her again,
had
to seize this rare opportunity to be with her, and he couldn’t predict a future beyond that limited, selfish focus, even though what he was doing was wrong.

Across the way, he saw her. Though she’d tossed a cloak over her golden hair, he could tell from her smooth gait that it was she. Any passerby would suspect her to be a housemaid, sneaking out for a rendezvous.

There was a pounding in his ears, and he didn’t know
if it was the impending thunder or the frantic beating of his heart.

The expanse of grass seemed impossibly long, and her trek transpired with an eerie slowness of motion that had him mulling why he’d suggested she make the dangerous journey. Each step was fraught with peril.

The library had been a precarious location, and they’d courted disaster in the times they’d met there.

He’d deemed his home to be a better alternative, and he had to admit that he was vain enough to want her in his own house, in his own bed, to imagine her there after she’d gone. Or perhaps it was more complicated. Perhaps he couldn’t stand to woo her under his father’s roof.

Finally, finally, she was across and, ere she could utter a word, he swept her into his arms and over the threshold, closed and barred the door.

For several moments, she tarried—hushed and still—peering out from beneath the hood of the cloak. Her blue eyes were round, luminous, and tension rippled off her. He reached up and pulled down the hood.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, shattering the silence.

“So am I.”

Her voice was tremulous, her anxiety palpable, and he hugged her, stroking his fingers up and down her back.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.

“I’m not.”

Untying her wrap, he slipped it off her shoulders, hanging it on a hook by the door, and the garment looked incongruous next to his functional coats and hats.

He took her hands in his, clutching them and running his thumbs over the centers of her palms. Like a smitten dolt, he could have dawdled all night, gawking at her.

“This was a bad idea,” she ventured.

“I know.”

“We’re crazy.”

“Without a doubt.”

In tacit recognition of their mutual insanity, they smiled, but neither was willing to call a halt or recant. Phillip felt as if they’d been bound with a rope that was dragging them toward an unseen destiny. They couldn’t hinder or reverse the tugging toward this inevitability; they could only hold on.

He kissed her, a soft brushing of his lips to hers. The contact was fleeting, tempered, the sort a boy might bestow on his sweetheart. As their lips parted, she was staring up at him, her candor and genuineness visible, and his conscience had him squirming.

She was so fine, so much more than he’d ever pictured for himself, and he was so unworthy of her, but he couldn’t stop what he was doing. He
had
to have her and damn the consequences.

“Come.” He led her to the bedchamber at the rear of the cottage. As they went, she glanced around, assessing his possessions, and he couldn’t help but wonder as to her opinion.

What would she make of the person they depicted him to be?

His lodgings were a bachelor’s abode, with simple furnishings, plain rugs and curtains, stark mahogany against white walls. There was no feminine touch evident, no knitted throws or crocheted pillows, no needlepoint samplers or colorful figurines on the mantel. It was tidy, due to the efforts of a maid Edward sent on a regular basis.

Books were stacked on a shelf along the wall—titles on animal husbandry with a few scattered novels cast into the mix—a chess set on a table, a desk littered with account ledgers where he recorded the expenditures of the stables for his father.

They were modest chattels that indicated an unpretentious, uncomplicated existence, and though previously, he’d felt content with his assets, compared to hers, his status appeared paltry and insignificant.

Would she scorn him for his lack of wealth?

As they crossed into his room, she espied his bed and hesitated, then followed, which he considered to be very brave. This had to be the first occasion she’d ever been in a man’s bedchamber. He proceeded straight to the bed and lay down, bringing her with him so that the awkwardness would be over before she could reflect upon it.

She stretched out, her skirt floating down to tangle over his legs, but, unable to dispel her nervousness, she braced herself on an arm, hovering above him. Her hair was down, secured by a loose cord of green ribbon. He jerked it away, and her locks cascaded over her shoulder in a luxurious blond wave. She looked wanton and seductive, goading his masculine sensibilities to a new height.

Though he couldn’t resolve what he wanted to do with her, he was afire, his restraint tethered by a slender thread. He needed to slow down, to ponder his path lest he overwhelm her with his burgeoning ardor.

Rolling to his side, he shifted her so that they were facing one another, his eyes searching hers.

“Are you going to marry my father, Livvie?”

“I thought I could but . . .” The comment faded, her distress and bafflement apparent.

“Why would you? The two of you are a strange pair.” She was troubled by his inquiry, and he soothed, “You can confide in me. It will be all right.”

After an arduous vacillation, she said, “You must swear that you’ll never repeat this to another soul.”

“I promise.”

“My father died last year.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Since then, we’ve been informed that the estate is bankrupt.”

“So you must wed him.”

“Yes.”

“Have you apprised Edward of your financial quandary?”

“No”—she gripped his arm—“and you vowed not to tell. I have no dowry remaining, and if he learned the truth . . .”

Did she presume it was a keepable secret? That his solicitors wouldn’t investigate? “When are you planning to break the news to him?”

“My stepmother is convinced that if he proposes, he’ll be too much of a gentleman to renege when he’s advised of our plight. You’re well acquainted with him. Are we foolish to hope?”

“Edward can be very generous,” he acknowledged. With his vast fortune, and benevolent nature, he was the type who might assist them. “Is the situation really that dire?”

“There are five females in my family. We have no revenue or resources, and my niece, Helen, is—” She stopped.

“Is what?” he prodded.

“Is ill,” she claimed. “Their fates are riding on me, and the pressure is enormous. What if I can’t win Edward’s favor? What if I can’t save them?”

Dispirited by her admissions, he snuggled her to him. What folly had he instituted by pursuing her? While he’d fathomed that any association was infeasible, he hadn’t realized the full extent of the circumstances that were motivating her. They could never wed, and even though he grasped this fact, it was difficult to accept.

Idiotically, he wished that
he
had the capacity to aid her, that it could be himself, instead of his father, who was rich enough to effect a rescue. For once, he was desperate to act as champion and savior.

They couldn’t aspire to intimacy. She had to be free of his shadow so that she could fraternize with Edward unencumbered, so that she wouldn’t be tempted or swayed into doing what she oughtn’t.

He would protect her from herself. As an adult, conversant with the perils of desire, he knew—as she could not—how it could lead her astray. She needed to focus on Edward, and not be sidetracked by their flirtation into thinking that Phillip was the superior choice.

But still, even as he chastised and reproached himself, he couldn’t let her leave. If nothing else, he could introduce her to the rites of passion, so that—on her wedding night—she would have some idea of what would occur. Without venturing too far, he could confer the experience she lacked, could alleviate many maidenly fears.

Draping her across his front, he clasped her buttocks, pulling her loins into his, and kissed her, a leisurely, methodical exploration.

“I want to make love to you.” To himself, he added,
Just this once. Then never again
.

“I’m not sure what that means.”

“We’ll start out as we did in the library.” He was unbuttoning her dress. “Only we’ll continue.”

“To where?”

“I’ll show you.”

“There’s an end?”

“Oh, yes. There’s definitely an end.”

“I’m so glad to hear it!”

He chuckled, elated that she’d been aroused and out of sorts. In her elevated condition, what he was about to do would be so much more satisfying.

The bodice of her dress was slackened, and it slithered away. Her breasts were bare, the two delicious mounds revealed, and the delightful, elongated tips dangled over his eager mouth.

“I adore it when you don’t wear your corset.” He nestled down to garner a better vantage point, and he played, nipping at and nursing on her.

“Ooh . . .” she murmured, “I’ve been dying for you to do that.”

“Have you?”

“Yes, you cad. You’d left me in a desperate condition. I’ve been cursing you all week.”

He pinched and squeezed. “Poor baby.”

“I’ve been so miserable! I kept feeling as if I were going to burst.”

“We can’t have that, can we?”

He sucked at her nipple, taking it far inside, taunting and biting it until it was raw and distended, then he moved to the other, laving it with the same fierce attention. Of their own accord, her hips flexed, and he matched her languid tempo, but he was too aroused by her. His lust was increasing, and he grappled to constrain himself. He needed to bridle his hunger, to make the experience last as long as he was able.

Easing her onto her back, he inched her skirt up her legs, his torment multiplying. She arched and purred, acquiescing as he petted her calves, her knees, but as he reached her thighs, she tensed.

“Relax,” he coaxed, gentling her as one might a skittish colt.

“This doesn’t feel . . . you shouldn’t be . . .”

“When we’re together like this, everything is allowed.”

“It’s too personal, too . . . too . . .”

He slid up till he was rubbing her belly. “Too what?”

“Phillip!” she squealed.

“Everything is allowed,” he repeated.

To stifle her protests, and to keep her distracted, he abandoned her bosom, blazing a trail up her chest until he was kissing her once more. As she eased into the kiss, he flattened the heel of his hand on her mons. The silky hairs of her privates prickled his skin.

“What are you doing to me?” she panted. “And why?”

“There’s pleasure to be found here. Let me give it to you.”

“Pleasure? How? Where?”

“I’m going to touch you, as no one else has.” With no further warning, he slipped two fingers inside her. She was wet, her womanly juices flowing. Her sheath was tight, virginal, and her inner muscles clenched around him.

“Oh, God . . .” she breathed. “What’s happening to me?”

“This is how a man caresses a woman, how a husband caresses his wife.”

“It can’t be!”

“It is, Livvie. Trust me.”

Commencing slowly, he stroked inside her, back and forth, back and forth, letting her acclimate to the glide of his hand, the illicit intrusion. Initially, she was rigid, strained, shocked by the strange and unexpected trespass, but gradually, she relented and accepted his ministrations.

He intensified the massage, delving more deeply, penetrating as far as he could, then pulling out, mimicking the thrust of a phallus, giving her the stimulation she craved.

She was spiraling higher, her sensual nature taking wing, her erotic instincts conveying her to where she’d never gone before. From her trepidation, it was obvious she’d never journeyed down this prurient path, and he pushed her faster, faster.

She writhed, frantic, her hips working furiously. Though her mind was at odds over what she wanted, and how she should behave, her torso knew what it needed. She was at the precipice and ready to jump over the edge.

“Please,” she begged, “I don’t like it. I can’t bear any more.”

“We’re almost finished.”

“Phillip!” she wailed.

“Now, love. Do it for me.”

He dipped to her breast, suckled her, while he flicked his thumb, dabbing at her sexual center. With great relish, she soared to the heavens, and she cried out, thrilling him with how completely she fell to pieces.

Kissing her soundly, he swallowed her joy, reveling in the moment, ecstatic that he’d imparted her first orgasm.

As the turbulence diminished, her agitation abated, and she calmed. He softened his kiss, tasting and savoring her essence. Heedful that she might be embarrassed by her raucous display, he extracted his hand, and lowered her skirt.

Eventually, she exhaled a huge breath of air. “What was that?”

“The French call it the
petite mort
.”

“ ‘The little death,’ ” she translated. “I can see why.”

“It kills you a bit, every time.”

“It can happen more than once?”

The innocent question charmed him. “Over and over.”

“I’ll die in your arms.”

He laughed. “I doubt it.”

She frowned, her pretty brow furrowing. “How could I be twenty-three years old and not know about this?”

“It’s a secret of the marital bed.”

“Aah . . .” she mused, contemplating, then she halted. “Wait a minute. Have you ever been married?”

“No.”

“Then how do
you
know about it?”

He blushed. While he was no flagrant fornicator like some of the aristocrats’ sons with whom he’d soldiered, he’d never been a monk.

“Well I . . . I . . .” he stammered.

He couldn’t clarify whereby he’d gleaned his information.

“Oh, I get it,” she chided. “You’re a scoundrel and a rake, the type about which my stepmother has always admonished.”

As she was arrayed on his bed, with her breasts naked and her dress rucked up, he couldn’t deny it.

“Perhaps,” he allowed.

“No wonder we virgins are counseled about you knaves. If we were apprised of the forthcoming wickedness, we’d never delay to our wedding nights.”