Her Prodigal Passion (21 page)

Goodness, he can't mean to kiss me
there!

A shocked moan broke from her as he did exactly that. His tongue delved into the most secret part of her, his grip on her legs preventing them from closing.

"Let me taste you, darling," he muttered. "I've been dying to know if your pussy is as sweet as the rest of you ..."

His hot breath and words fanned her flames. Her fingers burrowed into the bedclothes as he put his lips on the most intimate part of her body. Cheeks burning, she writhed in blissful agony as he licked and sucked, all the while praising her, telling her how delicious she was, how he'd never get enough of her honey, how he wanted to eat her forever.

Tension burgeoned in her. She could feel the tightening from her belly to her toes.

"Almost there, aren't you? Let's see if this will take you over," he growled.

The velvet flick of his tongue sent her hips bucking from the bed. He did it again and again, lashing her pearl with heated, wet strokes until she was whimpering, her fingers clutching his hair, holding him to the molten center of her being. Then it happened: the explosion that stole her breath, her very sanity.

"Yes," he groaned, "I can taste your sweet honey ..."

He continued to lick her until she lay limp, too sated to move. Only then did he enter her, filling her with a thick thrust that made her spent nerves flutter. She watched his face as he worked himself inside her; his cheekbones were flushed, his brows drawn in a look of pure pleasure. Exhilaration suffused her:
she
was giving him this. Eager for him to find satisfaction, she moved with him, urging him on.

He made a sound low in his throat, and all of sudden, he pushed her knees back, spreading her legs wide. He drove into her, and her breath whooshed out as the altered angle allowed him to go deeper, harder. Upon impact, their bodies made a lewd, wet sound that made her blush and squirm with excitement.

"Alright, darling?" he rasped.

"Yes, oh yes, don't stop ..."

His nostrils flared. "Never. God, I
never
want to stop."

His chest heaved as he pounded into her. The weight of his bollocks smacked her sex, the heavy momentum making her gasp with delight. His jaw tautened, his smoldering eyes on her face. The strength and power of his rhythm sent her soaring into ecstasy once more. He joined her, groaning as he filled her with his jetting heat, with the sudden, dizzying knowledge that in this, at least, she could be the wife he wanted.

TWENTY-TWO

In the village a few days later, Paul watched with amusement as Charity bartered with a cheesemonger for a hunk of the local delicacy. Polite yet determined, his little wife went back and forth in earnest tones with the equally determined merchant. Paul found this practical streak of hers rather endearing; he, himself, never bothered to haggle over anything. And the ladies in his circle were equally blasé when it came to money: just one of Rosalind's hats had probably cost more than Charity's entire wardrobe combined.

Frowning, he caught himself. This was the first that he'd thought of his past love during the wedding trip; it made him feel oddly guilty. So he pushed the thought aside and focused on the pleasures of the present.

By Jove, there'd been many. Charity's passion surpassed his wildest dreams, and he'd never been a tame dreamer. They were getting on well outside the bedchamber, too—better than he'd even expected.

Of course, there were differences in their natures. She was careful with everything—for instance, saving their meal scraps for their village maid's pig farm—whilst he didn't give things like trash a second thought. She preferred quiet and shied away from attention whereas he liked the hustle and bustle of boisterous activity. Yesterday, he'd gone to join in a game of cricket with some local lads he'd met whilst she'd opted to stay in the cottage and work on her sewing.

He didn't mind their divergent ways because they always came back together in the end. What did bother him was when he felt a different kind of distance from her. She had a tendency to withdraw into her thoughts, and he couldn't read what was on her mind.

Was she worried about the shop, her father? Or perhaps she fretted over him going away to box or doubted his ability to help with Sparkler's or found him lacking in some way ...

Whenever he asked, she just smiled and said everything was fine.

Disquiet would cast a shadow over him. He had the vague, irrational sense that he'd done something wrong. That their present sunny idyll was too good to last ...

He shook off his doubts as she came toward him. She was such a fetching thing, he thought with a pang, a wood nymph hiding in plain clothing. For other than the stylish travelling dress compliments of Percy (Paul could hug his sister), Charity had only her own uninspiring gowns to wear. At least she'd left off the pomade: her hair gleamed beneath her old straw bonnet. Once they returned to London, he resolved to see her properly outfitted from head to toe.

He took her shopping basket and held the door open. "Got you what you wanted?"

"Yes," she said, "and for two shillings less than what I was willing to pay."

Hiding a grin at the hint of smugness in her voice, he offered her his arm as they walked along the neat row of shops. "Where to next, Mrs. Fines?"

"I'm ready to head home if you are," she said.

He thought an afternoon session between the sheets quite the capital idea. "I like the way you think," he said huskily. "Your pleasure is my command."

She colored. "I was thinking of getting the cheese into a cool place. It'll melt in the sun."

"I'd like to melt in you, sweeting," he said for her ears only.

Though she ducked her head, he caught the sparkle in her eyes, and his blood rushed with anticipation. He was one lucky fellow, no doubt about it. He was about to hurry her along, when the next storefront caught his attention. The millinery that Mrs. Kent had mentioned. A notion came to him, so alluring that it put a rein on his lust.

He didn't have to wait until London to buy his wife a present.

"Let's take a look in here," he said.

"But I don't need any hats—"

Ignoring her protests, he led her inside.

The boutique's chic powder blue and gold interior belied its location in a country village. A few splendid specimens were set on pedestals so that the customer could see the hats from all angles. As Paul went to examine a white satin creation lined with pink fluted net, the proprietress emerged from the back. Her Parisien accent explained the
à la mode
establishment.

"
Bienvenue
. What may I assist
monsieur
and
madame
with today?"

"My wife needs a hat." Paul gestured at the white one. "I think this will do."

The milliner smiled. "
Monsieur
has an excellent eye."

Beside him, Charity said in an undertone, "Paul, I don't want it."

"Choose another then, sweeting," he said, smiling. "Any one you like. 'Tis my gift to you."

"I don't want any of them."

His smile faded at her somber expression. Why was she being difficult about this? He could see that her straw bonnet was worn at the edges, and there was a mended patch beneath the brim.

"Perhaps you need some time to view the merchandise?" the milliner suggested. "Ring if you need me." With French discretion, she disappeared behind the back curtain.

"What's the matter?" Paul said. "Don't you like any of the hats?"

"You don't need to waste money on frivolous things," Charity whispered. "We ought to save the funds for the future. For useful things—a house, for example."

Given their hasty marriage, there hadn't been time to find a place to live, and they couldn't reside in his bachelor apartments. Upon their return to London, they would be staying with his mama until they found a suitable place of their own. The fact that Charity questioned his ability to provide such a home nettled his pride.

"I'm not a pauper, you know," he said stiffly. "I can afford a few bits of frippery
and
a decent house. Besides I wouldn't call your hat situation frivolous—it's a downright emergency."

Her cheeks reddened. "There's nothing wrong with my bonnet. It's perfectly functional."

"So is a chamber pot, but I wouldn't wear it on my head."

"That's an absurd comparison." Though her voice was calm, her chin lifted a fraction. "I appreciate your gesture, truly I do. But I know you're recovering from losses, and there are better things to spend money on. If we could be rational for a moment—"

His temper flared at the reminder of his disgrace. Why did she bring that up when all he wanted to do was buy her a bloody hat? To pamper her, give her the things that she deserved? Any other lady would thank her husband prettily. But Charity questioned whether he was being
rational
?

At that instant, the milliner returned. Her smile dimmed as her gaze darted between the two of them. "Ah ... perhaps
monsieur
and
madame
need more time?"

"No," Paul and Charity said simultaneously.

He took one look at his wife's mutinous expression ... and grabbed the white satin hat off its stand. He shoved it at the milliner. "We'll take it."

"I don't want—" Charity began.

He picked up the next hat, a black leghorn trimmed with blond lace. "This one, too."

"Paul, you're being—"

He paused before a lilac toque studded with pearls. Raised an eyebrow at his wife.

Charity pinned her lips together.

After the transaction was completed, they rode back to the cottage in silence. Charity looked out the window, her profile turned from him. With bewildered anger, Paul tried to make sense of what had just happened: how had his intended act of generosity led to their first quarrel as a married couple? And why did he feel so bloody miserable at the moment?

By the time they got back, he still didn't have an answer.

He let her down from the carriage, and she headed for the cottage. He remained where he was, his insides roiling with restless energy. How he wished he had a boxing ring to go to, some way to work out his frustrations.

At the door, Charity turned to look back at him.

"Aren't you coming in?" she said.

"I'm going to go for a walk," he said abruptly. "Maybe find a few lads for a round of cricket."

"Oh ... alright then. Will you be back for supper?"

The quiver in her voice made him feel worse. He didn't know whether he wanted to apologize to her or shout at her ... mayhap both.

So he did the wiser thing.

"Don't wait up," he said gruffly and left.

TWENTY-THREE

The next morning, Charity awoke alone, with a dull, throbbing headache. She must have fallen asleep last night whilst waiting for Paul to return home. She'd tossed and turned, her anxious dreams shaped by their argument. Things had been going so well between them: why, oh why, had she gone and ruined things over a stupid
hat
? If she could do it over, she'd have kept quiet and let him buy her the whole millinery if he wanted. She'd even wear the dashed merchandise—the hideous lilac toque included.

But she hadn't kept quiet. Something about Paul brought out a latent willful streak in her nature. Perhaps it was his kindness and attention these days past: she'd never been as comfortable with anyone before. They seemed to be friends. And there was no doubting the physical intimacy between them. Up until yesterday, she'd even entertained the hope that he might be developing affection toward her.

But all that did not mean that he loved her. Or that he ever would.

After the incident at the milliner's, she couldn't blame him.

In retrospect, he'd only wanted to make her fashionable. Why had that garnered her resistance? Why had she been so stubborn about spending a little money?

Because you'll never be fashionable. You'll never be the lady he wanted. His Rosalind.

Her insides knotted at the wretched thought. And that wasn't even her only concern. Knowing his financial situation, she truly didn't want to add to his burdens. He had enough on his shoulders with the tournament, the shop ...

She left the bed, unable to stay there a minute longer without giving into tears. She dressed herself and drew back the curtains; the light of midday greeted her startled eyes. Good heavens, how late had she slept?

And where was her husband?

The door opened.

"Charity, are you up?"

She spun around to see Paul in the doorway. He was in yesterday's shirtsleeves, his jaw covered with dark gold bristle. Despite his disheveled state, he was the most gorgeous sight she'd ever seen.

"You're home," she whispered.

"Got in late." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Didn't want to wake you, so I camped out on the sofa. Thought I heard you rustling about just now."

She nodded—and then she was running toward him. To her everlasting relief, his arms opened to receive her. Held her tightly as she said in a suffocated voice, "I'm so sorry, it was all my fault—"

"Shh, sweeting. I was equally to blame."

"No, you weren't. You just wanted to buy me a present," she sniffled.

"And you just wanted me to be practical." He tilted her chin up, and the warmth in his azure eyes eased the painful tightness in her belly. "Let's let bygones be bygones, shall we?"

He was willing to forgive her—of course, she wanted to move on!

She eagerly nodded.

He kissed her on the forehead. "'Tis our last day before we return to London, so let's not waste it. Come along, I have a surprise for you."

"No more shopping," she said immediately ... and could have
kicked
herself. Why had she gone and reminded him of their disagreement?

Thankfully, he laughed. "Don't worry, my little nipcheese. This surprise won't cost a thing."

An hour later, Charity was beginning to doubt the value of the surprise even if it
was
free. Paul led the way on horseback through the local flora and fauna. The sun was blistering overhead as they passed clearing after clearing. She grew increasingly hot and tired but didn't want to complain. At this particular juncture, she'd ride through the Sahara to stay in her husband's good graces.