Desire Becomes Her (26 page)

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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

BOOK: Desire Becomes Her
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It was a cold unpleasant ride through the falling dusk. Within minutes it began to rain in earnest again and by the time the lights of High Tower appeared, it was a shivering and wet quartet that rode into the courtyard. Luc would have departed at that point, but surprising himself and everyone else, it was Stanley who said earnestly, “Darkness is not far off and with this storm, it would be madness for you not to accept our hospitality. I suggest that you dine with us and if necessary stay the night.” He smiled, the first natural smile he’d ever given Luc, and added, “Besides, Uncle Silas would have my head if I allowed you to ride away in this weather.”
Luc laughed, thinking that Gillian’s brother might have some redeeming qualities after all. “Thank you,” Luc said. He cast an eye at the blowing rain and added, “I will accept the chance to warm myself by the fire. If the weather continues as it is, I may have to avail myself of your kind offer of a bed.”
Silas was delighted at Luc’s arrival with his nephew and nieces, and when Stanley mentioned his offer of a night’s hospitality, Silas quickly seconded the idea.
“Of course, you’ll stay,” Silas said warmly. The matter settled, Silas turned his attention to his nieces. Sophia was her usual handsome self and Gillian looked fetching, her trim figure accented by the military air of her riding habit. Gillian was laughing at something Stanley said, her eyes gleaming almost gold between her dark lashes, her cheeks rosy from the cold, and noting Luc’s eyes fixed on her vivid face, he smiled to himself. With the gaze of a connoisseur Silas studied Gillian once more, deciding that the topaz and diamond pin nestled against her bosom was the perfect accent. “That’s a pretty bauble you’re wearing, my dear,” he commented.
Her smile fading, Gillian said, “Thank you. Charles gave it to me.” Picking up the skirt of her riding habit she murmured, “And now if you will excuse me, I’ll go change.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” said Sophia and followed her from the room.
The two younger gentlemen also departed, Stanley to change for dinner, Luc to be shown to his room for the night. Luc had no other clothes with him, but a robe was quickly found and while he warmed himself in front of the flames on the hearth in his room, his outer clothes were whisked away to be brushed and dried by the fire in the kitchen. When his clothes were returned, Luc redressed and joined Stanley and Silas downstairs minutes ahead of the ladies.
Silas noticed Stanley’s change of attitude toward Luc immediately. Throughout the evening, with satisfaction, he watched the interplay between the two younger men, noting that Stanley no longer bristled at every word Luc said and that his manner was more open and friendly. Luc was, of course, Silas thought fondly, his usual entertaining and charming self.
Silas found it a most informative evening. The interplay between Luc and Stanley was not the only thing that caught his attention. Gillian’s covert glances at Luc when she thought no one was paying attention inflamed hope in his frail chest—as did the way Luc’s gaze strayed repeatedly in her direction... . He was an old man, but he remembered well those heady first days of falling in love, the uncertainty, the sudden thrill when eyes met, the anxiety and the urgent yearning that was never far away. He smiled. Unless he missed his guess, Gillian and Luc were a good distance down that rose-laden path.
A match between his younger niece and Luc was Silas’s secret and most longed-for desire. The idea hadn’t occurred to him full-blown, but as he’d come to like and know Luc, the notion had crossed his mind that it was a pity that Gillian hadn’t married someone like his young friend, instead of that bastard Charles.
That thought, once planted in Silas’s brain, didn’t go away and over the months, the more he’d considered it, the more he thought it was a perfect solution for both Gillian and Luc. Luc, because of his birth, and Gillian because of that blasted scandal, were alike in many respects. Society tolerated them, but Luc would never be welcomed into any of the great families of the
ton
and those same families would be appalled at a marriage between Gillian and one of their members.
Luc’s relationship to Viscount Joslyn gave him a position and entry denied many in his situation but it didn’t change the fact that he was born a bastard and had made his way in the world by his wits. Silas nodded. Luc had done well and while he might be more acceptable these days as the owner of a fine estate, it was unlikely any of the formidable matrons and high-stomached lords of the
ton
would allow him to marry into
their
families.
No, Luc and Gillian were a perfect match as far as Silas was concerned, and it was apparent, at least to him, that they were very much attracted to one another. Of course there was that troubling scandal and gossip surrounding Gillian, but he suspected that if Luc set his sights on her, his young friend wouldn’t let a little thing like murder stand in his way. He grinned. A lesser man, yes, but not Luc. If he loved her, Luc would take her and the devil be damned! Luc would also, Silas decided shrewdly, move heaven and earth to prove her innocence.
Silas’s gaze moved to Gillian. Luc would sweep away any obstacles in his path, but the problem, and Silas recognized that there
was
a problem, the problem was going to be his dear niece. His mouth tightened. Damn Charles Dashwood! The bastard had taken an innocent young woman wildly in love with him and twisted and trampled over those tender emotions. Offering her to Winthrop! Beneath the table, Silas’s veined hands clenched into fists. By God! Besides any other crimes that could be laid at his feet, for that dastardly act alone Charles wanted killing.
It wasn’t surprising that after Charles, Gillian was mistrustful of men and had no desire to remarry—and that scoundrel Canfield, he thought disgustedly, had done nothing to endear the male sex to her. Silas saw the problem clearly. On the surface Charles and Luc were painfully similar, both men being blessed with a quick charm, a handsome face and a clever mind. And both were gamblers... . Would Gillian, he wondered, be able to put Charles’s cruel and careless indifference behind her and see that beyond generalities, the two men were
nothing
alike? Would she realize that with Luc she’d always be treasured and safe? Or would she allow the past to destroy what might be her only chance for happiness?
Chapter 14
W
hat had been merely unpleasant weather turned into a snarling storm and when he retired around midnight, Luc was lulled to sleep by the sound of rain and wind lashing against the walls of High Tower. Once the storm passed, a few hours before dawn, the absence of sound woke him—that and a particularly vivid dream of Gillian writhing naked beneath him.
His body wound tight, knowing that sleep would prove elusive, Luc cursed, threw back the covers and, reaching for the borrowed robe, slipped into it. The garment fit snug through his broad shoulders, the sleeves stopped above his wrists and the hem hit him above his ankles, but it covered his nakedness. Tying the belt around his waist, he walked over to the dying fire and tossed on a few pieces of wood. Remembering that Meacham had pointed out the decanter of brandy and snifter that had been left for him on a small table near the bed, he walked back and poured himself a snifter.
Spotty moonlight filtered into the room from the French doors that opened onto a narrow balcony, and taking his brandy with him, he opened one of the doors and stepped outside. The night air was cool and damp, but not so cold and wet that it drove him back into the warmth of the bedroom. Clouds scudded across the sky, and with a sea-scented breeze blowing in from the Channel ruffling his black hair, Luc stood near the stone balustrade that framed the balcony and sipped his brandy.
The trailing clouds obscured the moon, but there was enough light filtering through for Luc to make out shapes and shadows. The balcony on which he stood was one of several at the rear of the house, and he guessed each accessed a bedroom; a five- or six-foot gap between the balconies gave a measure of privacy.
As the minutes passed, the raw need that fueled the most erotic dream he’d ever experienced ebbed—as did his fierce erection—but the image of Gillian’s face, flushed with desire, her soft mouth rosy and swollen from his kisses, did not.
This evening, with Gillian unbearably near, had been an exercise in torture, he decided. The candlelight had caressed her pale shoulders rising above the sage-green silk gown she wore, making Luc wonder how sweet her skin would taste at that tempting juncture where her neck and shoulder met, and her scent ... All throughout the evening, Gillian’s perfume, a blend of pinks and peonies, tickled his nose, and erotic images of lying her down naked amidst a garden of summer blooms flooded through his brain. It had indeed been an evening of torture. Torture to sit and smile and act the part of a gentleman when every nerve, every instinct, demanded he snatch the tantalizing sprite from her home and family and, using her body as he willed, ease the hunger that clawed through him. At least, he reminded himself, he’d been able to control that mad impulse. He grimaced. Barely.
He took a slow swallow of his brandy, considering his obsession with Silas’s niece. There were two solutions, he finally concluded, and neither one pleased him. He could marry her, take as his wife, a woman suspected of murdering her husband. Or he could take her to bed, seduce the niece of his good friend.
Diantre!
What in hell was he going to do about Gillian Dashwood?
Feeling as near bewitched as he’d ever been in his life, Luc scowled. The honorable thing would be to marry her, he admitted, but he balked at shackling himself to a woman suspected of murdering her first husband. A question popped into his mind. If she had murdered her husband, why, he wondered, had she done so?
An arrested expression on his handsome face, he stared into the night. Emily and Cornelia had repeated what they knew of the affair, both admitting that it was only gossip. Gossip that had credence in fact: Charles Dashwood was dead and he’d been murdered. But had his wife murdered him? Was it possible her story of being struck on the head after finding Dashwood dead was true?
Luc’s lips twisted. Ah, Christ! The woman
had
bewitched him. Here he was making excuses for her, grasping at straws. Her poor murdered husband had probably made excuses for her, too, he thought disgustedly, right up until the moment she’d stuck a knife in his ribs. But that didn’t change Luc’s basic problem. He wanted her. And he suspected he was willing to risk his life to have her.
Moodily he stared out into the darkness. There was another solution, he admitted finally; he could simply walk away from the temptation Gillian presented. Cut the connection to Silas and the inhabitants of High Tower. He scowled. He had too much fondness for Silas to do that. His friend would be hurt and wouldn’t understand why Luc no longer came to call.
Lost in his thoughts, he was unaware of the click of a door as it opened onto the balcony next to his, nor did the movement of a slight figure drifting toward the edge of the balcony catch his eye. It was the scent ... the scent of pinks and peonies that broke his concentration.
At the first whiff of that evocative scent, the image of Gillian as she’d been in his dream, naked and writhing beneath him, leaped into his mind, and he was instantly and infuriatingly erect once again. Certain the scent teasing him was his imagination and proof of how far gone he was, he snarled, “
Zut!
I am mad.”
The feminine gasp from the next balcony spun him in that direction. His breath caught. Standing on the twin to his balcony, wearing a filmy white garment, was Gillian. It was too dark to see her face clearly, but the small form and the cloud of dark hair swirling around the slender shoulders identified her—that and the scent he thought of as hers and hers alone.
Since the moment she’d laid eyes on him at The Crown, Gillian had been painfully aware of Luc Joslyn. She tried to ignore him, tried to ignore the sudden thump in her heart, the leap of her pulse whenever their eyes met, but to no avail. He fascinated her, and though she fought against it, she could not keep her eyes off him. It didn’t matter whether it was that lean, dark face, the broad shoulders or the elegantly muscular body—they all held her in thrall. All through the evening she’d endured the forbidden images of his features taut with desire and his beautifully masculine hands fondling her breasts before sliding lower... .
Her whole body aroused, her nipples peaking beneath her chemise and gown, heat and moisture pooling between her thighs, she’d bid everyone good night and fled to her rooms. But there had been no escape—he’d come to her in dreams, and when she’d woken with the memory of his mouth on hers and his big body locked with hers, she hadn’t been surprised.
What did you expect? she demanded, as she’d left her bed and shrugged into a lacy wrapper. That you’d dream of angels and cherubs after an evening spent being seduced by the mere presence of Luc Joslyn? She snorted. She couldn’t even blame him. Not once had he done anything but treat her politely. Damn him!
Knowing that sleep was impossible, and glad that the storm had passed, she pushed open her French doors and stepped out into the night. The breeze cooled her cheeks and ruffled her hair as she walked to the edge of the balcony. Leaning against the stone parapet, she stared blindly into the darkness.
Until he’d spoken, she’d been no more aware of Luc on the next balcony than he had been of her. To find the object of her dreams standing only feet away sent a wave of color flying over her face. Across the space that separated them, she stared at him, her lips half-parted in shock and despair.
Leaving his snifter on the edge of the railing of the balcony, Luc walked the short distance to the gap between the two balconies. Ignoring the surge of heat in his groin at the sight of her, he asked, “Trouble sleeping?”
“Apparently so,” she muttered. Jerking her gaze away, she stared into the night, her thoughts scrambling.
“At least the storm has passed,” Luc said and cursed his dull tongue. She was lovely in the cloud-dappled moonlight, sable hair loose and tousled, drifting around her shoulders, the diaphanous wrapper rippling in the sea breeze. A sudden gust flattened the garment against her body, revealing every line, every curve of the dainty body that bedeviled him, and Luc’s mouth went dry. Hunger slammed through him and he could think of nothing but how much he wanted her.
“Yes, it has,” she replied. Against her will, she found herself drifting toward him. Opposite Luc, she halted, the gap and the railing around the balcony the only barrier separating them.
In the shifting moonlight they stared wordlessly at each other, neither one able to form a coherent word or thought. Almost a tangible presence, desire swirled in the air between them, Gillian aware that underneath his robe that he was naked; he just as aware that only the thinnest of garments prevented her from being as bare as she had been in his dream.
The memory of that dream, of her face flushed with desire, blotted out everything in Luc’s mind but the need to have her. Heedless of the danger, he bounded to the top of the railing and in one fluid movement leaped the distance that separated them.
Gillian had only a second to step back before he was there in front of her. The next instant, she was swept into his arms. His mouth came down hard and demanding on hers, and she trembled as she was crushed against that muscular form, her breasts flattened against his chest, her mouth invaded and conquered.
She had no thought of resistance, no thought of denying him. Her arms fastened around his neck, her body pressing closer to his, her tongue meeting and tangling with his. The insistent nudge of his rigid member thrilled her and helplessly she arched against him, aching to know him fully.
Luc’s hands dropped to her bottom, and cupping that firm flesh, he lifted and pulled her tighter to him. They swayed together, each movement an agony and a delight. His hands holding her pressed against him, his mouth devoured hers, his tongue thrusting urgently into hers, mimicking the motion of his hips.
This was no gentle seduction and Gillian reveled in it, reveled in the frantic movements of his body, the seeking exploration of his tongue. Already aroused by her dream, his touch was fire to tinder and she was aflame, her fingers tearing at the belt of his robe, the need to feel him inside of her overpowering.
Consumed by the same primitive prompting, Luc lifted her clothing, his hand sliding warmly up one leg until he found the damp heat between her thighs. He explored, his fingers burrowing through the springy mat of hair until he found her silken core. Teasing her, his knuckles brushed against that delicate opening, before slowly, deliberately thrusting a finger into the welcoming heat, her excited moan inciting him. He stroked deeper, harder, and she stiffened and cried low as she convulsed helplessly around his fingers.
The need to find his own satisfaction almost had him lowering her to the floor and fitting his body to hers, but a spark of sanity remained, and aware of their location, he dragged his hand away from her sweet center. Swinging her up into his arms, he carried her through the French doors into the privacy of her bedroom. Gillian made no protest, her kiss as hungry as his, and her tongue, an arrow of fire darting into his mouth, banished all thought but one from his mind: he
must
have her. More by luck than instinct he found the bed in the darkness and, dropping her, followed her down to the mattress.
Clothes were thrown off and in seconds warm, silky feminine flesh was sliding against hot, hair-roughened male skin. She was soft and willing in his embrace, arching up and inviting his caress, her fingers moving through his dark hair down to his shoulders and across his back to his tight backside.
Luc shuddered as she explored the curve and shape of his buttocks, and his mouth dropped to her breast, sucking her nipple. Nuzzling the generous breasts, he muttered, “You taste like peaches—ripe, summer peaches, warm and fragrant and oh, so very sweet.” His mouth fastened on her nipple and he bit down gently, sending a spear of pleasure soaring through her and her fingers dug into his buttocks.
“You like that, eh?” he murmured. “What else do you like,
m’amie?
” He shifted slightly, and his hand traveled down to the junction of her thighs. Deliberately, he parted the tight curls, and once again finding the damp silk, he thrust one then two fingers inside of her. The clenching of her body around his fingers and the rising of her hips gave him his answer. His voice thick, he said, “I like it, too. I like tasting you and feeling your readiness for me.”
Gripped by a passion she had never felt before, wild to have his body sunk deep within hers, Gillian’s hand closed around his thick shaft. “And you,” she managed. “You are as ready as I am.”
“More,” he growled and, in one fluid motion, rolled onto his back, taking her with him. Astride him, his hands on her hips, he slowly lowered her onto his member, groaning at the wet heat that met his invasion.
He was well endowed and Gillian had a momentary qualm at his size, but the hunger to have him, all of him, had her pushing down to meet his upward thrust. She gasped as her body stretched and accepted the broad length of him. Experimentally, she wiggled around, the feel of him buried within her exciting and arousing. Reveling in the sensation of having
him
beneath her, she slowly rocked, hardly moving, each shift of her body sending shocks of pleasure spiraling through her.
Luc bore her teasing movements as long as he could, and when he feared losing control, his hand closed around the back of her neck and he pulled her mouth down to his. Against her lips, he said, “Ride me,
amante.
Ride me hard or slow, but dear God!
Ride me!
”

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