Daring Miss Danvers (22 page)

“I can feel the thread of the flower I embroidered,” she said, drawing in his scent and the warmth of his embrace. Both gave her a sense of peace that she’d never felt before. “I know it’s hardly masculine to have a jasmine blossom on your handkerchief, so I used white silk thread to blend in. I thought you would laugh when you saw it.”

“Laugh?” he asked, his voice sounding peculiar as if this was the first he’d noticed it. Now, he turned it in his hand, holding it up to the waning afternoon light coming in through the windows. “Ah. Because of the Sumpters’ musicale. I stole one of your flowers.”

“And tucked it inside your handkerchief,” she smiled at the memory even though it gave her a twinge of sadness. Without warning, a fresh fall of tears spilled out. “A memento of our brief make-believe courtship.”

He hugged her tighter still. Then, bending down, he lifted her effortlessly in his arms. “Shh . . .” he crooned, brushing his lips across her forehead as he carried her across the room. “You’re tired and overwrought. We have much to discuss when you are rested.”

The annulment, of course.

He would want to discuss that immediately. They had a new plan to make, after all. She feared that it would be the last conversation they’d have.

He made a move to lower her to the bed when she stopped him, gripping his arm. “If I wrinkle this gown, your grandmother will never forgive”—her words trailed off as she looked down at her hand—“me.”

He was in his shirtsleeves. How had that escaped her notice before? Through the fine lawn, she could feel the heat of his flesh. He was solid, too.
Very
solid. Of course, it made sense that as a man he was bound to be. Yet, for some reason, the knowledge fascinated her.

Rathburn set her feet down. “I’ll send in your maid straight away.”

Automatically, she shook her head, her attention still diverted to her hand on his arm, marveling at how the muscle flexed beneath her palm. “Maudette retired to the country. I have no maid.”

He swallowed, and the sound drew her attention. She lifted her gaze to his throat, the exposed flesh above his cravat and below the line of his jaw. Standing this close, she could see the shadow of his whiskers just beneath the surface of his skin. This too was very male, very different. Fascinating.

His hand at her waist twitched, bringing her attention to precisely how close they stood. Mere inches apart, with her gown nestled against his legs. “I should send for a maid, all the same.”

Reluctantly, she released his arm. “The robe is no trouble,” she said, her fingers finding the delicate chain between her breasts.

She hesitated. Her gaze slowly lifted to his. Without a maid, she would undress herself as she’d done for years. Without a maid, she could keep a semblance of freedom. Yet, without a maid, she had no chaperone to ensure her reputation would remain intact after the annulment.

Emma unclasped the chain and let the garment slide from her shoulders. “It slips off without effort.”

Rathburn drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. She remembered how the gown beneath clung to her like a second skin. The modiste had designed her chemise to do the same. She wore no stays or petticoat beneath it. With the robe on, it had hardly mattered. But now, he was seeing her as she’d dreamed he would.

His irises grew dark. He opened his mouth to breathe, too. “Emma,” he rasped, the low sound causing swift heat to cover her flesh from head to toe, warming and tightening her skin simultaneously.

Strangely, her breasts felt full, heavy, and yet taut at once. When his gaze traveled down the white satin, a quiver pulsed through her. Even the soles of her feet tingled. She imagined that quake leaving her body through the floor because in the very same instant, he staggered back from the force of it.

R
athburn bit back a curse, gritting his teeth. Emma stood before him, barely sheathed by her wedding gown. The white satin brought to mind the petals of jasmine and the countless fantasies he’d had of her wearing nothing other than those blossoms. Of course, the reality of having her within arm’s reach was far more powerful. He shook with the effort to keep his distance.

“I should leave you to rest,” he said, but couldn’t seem to force himself to retreat.

She lifted a hand to her throat, drawing his attention to the pulse beating as hard and fast as his. Her fingertips fluttered over that spot and her lips parted. She drew in a breath that seemed stolen from his lungs because he couldn’t draw in enough air. And he needed air, not only to breathe, but to think clearly.

He’d come in here to check on her. To ensure she was faring well after what must have been an overwhelming morning. He also wanted to talk about their plans. Future plans together, he hoped. For that, he needed them both to be clearheaded.

She took a step forward and lowered her hand from her pulse to the buttons in the center of his waistcoat. “We’ve barely seen each other lately. As you said, we’ve much to discuss.”

He shuddered from the intimate gesture and closed his eyes. “Not here. I can’t think in here, not when you’re so tempting.”

“Tempting?” She exhaled a disbelieving laugh. “You’ve kissed me only once.”

His eyes flew open. “Don’t you understand how impossible it’s been for me to resist kissing you? For weeks, I’ve thought of your lips—their sweet flavor, petal soft texture, plump ripeness so luscious a new sin could be named for them.”

Without thinking, he reached for her, his hands on her waist. He leaned in, pressing his mouth against her temple, burying his nose into the fragrant fall of curls there and drawing in a breath that threatened to unman him. When she lifted her gaze, his breath came out shaky. “Most of all, what you don’t understand is that if I kiss you now, I’ll take away your right to choose—”

She lifted her arms and took his face in her hands, her action surprising them both. “If my only choices are having you kiss me now or watching you walk through that door, then I choose this . . .” She rose up and pressed her lips to his.

R
athburn pulled her flush against him. A sound of utter surrender tore from his throat at the first swipe of her tongue against his. His hands tightened on her waist, his thumbs caressing the bones of her hips, his fingers splayed over her lower back and . . . lower still, stroking the curve of her derriere.

Yes, she was the one who kissed him. Emma felt bold, daring, unwilling to release him until she’d had her fill. It was as if she’d unlocked a secret door. A door hidden to both of them until now. The force behind it refused to be ignored or shut out.

He ravaged her mouth in return, drawing her tongue deeper. She wanted to climb inside him and found herself clutching his shoulders as if preparing to do exactly that. He crushed her against him. His hands moved over her back, eliciting tingles along her spine. Further down, he cupped her, lifting her to her toes, inviting her to arch against him. She did, and
oh, yes . . .
that felt nice.

Rathburn groaned. The low sound vibrated from his body into hers, making her restless.

The heaviness in her breasts compelled her to press them hard against him. When she moved, her gown shifted. Only now did she realize that he’d unbuttoned her. Recalling how many fantasies she’d had of his dexterous fingers doing nothing more than unbuttoning her glove made her smile against his lips. This fantasy was far more salacious. Far more real. And suddenly everything she wanted.

She’d spent far too much time being cautious and sensible.

Not taking a moment to second guess, she lowered her arms and let the satin slide off her shoulders. The movement wasn’t lost on him.

Rathburn broke from her kiss, but only long enough to look down at her breasts through the gauzy veil of her chemise. A feral, guttural sound escaped him as he slid his hand up along her waist, her ribs, to the curve of her breast. He covered her, pressing and kneading her aching flesh. His thumb brushed the peak of her nipple as his mouth descended on hers again, capturing her cry of surprised pleasure.

The kiss transformed even more. It was no longer about discovery, but more of possession. No one else had seen her like this or touched her. Rathburn was the first.
The only
. She felt claimed by him in the most primitive way, a fresh canvas marked by the heat of his hands.

Wanting to touch him as well, she pulled at the knot of his cravat, working through the folds until it fell away. Free, at last, to touch him, she moved her fingertips over the heated sinew of his throat, tracing the outline of his Adam’s apple. A rush of pleasure spiked through her when he swallowed. It was such a basic action, but to feel the motion against her own flesh made it supremely carnal.

Driven by impulse, she nipped at his bottom lip before suckling the firm flesh. Rathburn grunted a sound of impatience. He tugged her wedding dress down from her waist and let it drop to the floor. Pulling her flush against him, he lowered her to the bed.

Emma delighted in the feel of him. He was warm, but heavy, too. His weight and deep, plundering kiss made it difficult to breathe. Then with a slow slide of his hips, she quickly decided breathing wasn’t necessary.

All she needed was him. And more of this.

He moved against her again and she squeezed her eyes shut on a swift jolt of pleasure. White starlight bloomed beneath her lids. His responding groan told her this felt as good for him. His hips rolled against hers again and again, faster each time.

“Emma. Emma.
My Emma
. Please, tell me to stop,” he rasped in between kisses. He attempted to lift himself off her, taking away the pleasant weight of him. “There are things we should discuss . . .”

Her body quickened. She held fast to his shoulders, shaking, trembling. “Later.” Why would she tell him to stop when this felt so wonderful? She wanted more. “Please stay.”

A startling feral heat darkened his gaze as he claimed her mouth again. His hands skimmed down her body, teasing the sensitive peaks of her breasts through her silk chemise. Feeling brazen, she arched into his palm, not afraid to let him know that this was what she wanted. Not afraid to tell him without words how desperately she loved him. How she would die if he left her. How she would die if he ever . . . stopped . . .

Before she could finish the thought, her back bowed off the soft mattress. Every muscle in her body locked. Her breath seized in her throat. A sudden shower of tingles washed through her, converging deep in her core. Her body contracted sharply, clenching, writhing against him in helpless, wanton pleasure.

The spasms went on and on until she felt as if the last vestiges of her life might drain away. Still, she clung to him, refusing to leave this earth without him. If she were to die from pleasure, she wanted to take him with her.

Remotely, as if she were both locked here in his embrace and also floating above herself, she realized the air felt cool on her legs. His hold had shifted. His hand moved down her body, caressing her, sliding over her hip, down her thigh to the edge of her chemise and back up again.

He shifted away from her for a moment, but only long enough for her to murmur her displeasure at having him gone. “Don’t leave,” she whispered.

This time when he lowered onto her, it felt different. Hotter. A scorching heat touched her where her body still throbbed.

“You’re so wet for me,” he groaned into her mouth.

She made a sound of agreement without fully understanding what he was saying. She wanted more. More of his kiss. More of his weight. More.

Rathburn gave into her unspoken demands and pressed against her. The scorching heat of him burned her at her core. He hissed as if he felt the heat of it, too. The burn continued as she felt her body stretch and feel uncomfortably full. She fought the urge to tell him that she wanted him to return to whatever he was doing before. She’d liked that quite a lot.

This new sensation was too complex. She could feel him everywhere, her breasts flush against his chest, his weight pressing her into the soft mattress, his heat filling her. It was too much.

As if he sensed it, he shifted marginally, effectively easing the burning, stretching sensation. His kiss gentled. His tongue caressed hers slowly, deeply, their breath mingling. She hummed in approval and slid her fingers into the cool strands of his hair. He moved again, letting her get used to the full feeling as he rolled his hips. A wanton purr rose from her throat.

He groaned. “Em . . .” he said brokenly against her lips. “You’re so—” He shifted again. The hard, scorching heat of him pushed deeper inside. Impossibly deep.

She gasped at the sharp tearing sensation. Her body went rigid. All at once she had the urge to push him away and yet cling to him. It was too much. She was too full. Her body refused to stretch anymore. This felt foreign. Not at all the way it had a few moments ago.

Rathburn stilled and looked down at her, his expression grave and tense. “Darling, are you hurt . . .” he began but broke off to brush a tear from the corner of her eye. His expression turned tender, a gentle smile curving his lips. “I’m a cad.”

Emma wanted to agree, but couldn’t be sure it was entirely his fault. “I think we did something wrong,” she confessed in a whisper. “It doesn’t feel the same.” Was this the surprise her mother had warned her about? It certainly didn’t feel wonderful at the moment.

“There was no other way, my love. Not when I’ve wanted you like this for an eternity.” He lowered his head and kissed her. “I needed to be inside of you.”

Her body tingled at his confession, quick to forget about the pain. Yet, she still felt stretched and too full and wasn’t sure what to think about it. Even though she didn’t know what to expect from making love, she knew she never expected this confused mixture of sensations.

Without waiting for her to be certain, he rolled his hips against her, edging even deeper inside. She held her breath, expecting another stab of pain. However, this time there wasn’t. Only heat and fullness. Her eyes widened as she gazed up at him. The look he returned to her was full of feral promises as he drew her legs around his hips.