Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (33 page)

“Yes. Making love.”

If removing his clothing piece by piece didn’t assure her he’d remained true to his intent, words would hardly convince her. “Do you need assistance with your dress?”

“I do not.”

She shifted, and Ben heard her draw in her breath at the sight of him peeled down to his breeches and boots. He sat on the bed, giving her his back so he could tug off his footwear.

Maggie came around the bed and sat beside him. “This doesn’t feel right.”

When he wanted to hurl his boots hard against the bedroom wall, Ben instead set them tidily beside the bed. “What doesn’t feel right about it?”

“It’s broad daylight and we’re not married and we’re not marrying, either.”

“This marriage business troubles you exceedingly,” he observed. “What is about to happen between us has happened before, Maggie, and at your instigation in even broader daylight than this. I believe you enjoyed yourself, and I most assuredly know I did. Do we need to complicate matters beyond that?”

She turned green eyes on him, luminous with some emotion he could not name.

“I suppose not.”

Her busy, brilliant mind wanted to complicate it—he could see that much in her troubled expression—but his not-very-brilliant, lust-clouded mind was determined on simplicity. He took her hand and put it over the fall of his trousers. “It isn’t complicated at all. You want me, and I’m happy to oblige you. Take the dress off, Maggie, or I will tear it from your body.”

And this—this sincere threat of sartorial violence—was what finally won him a small, impish smile.

“You would not tear it off me, but you might ruck it up and wrinkle it beyond salvation.” She drew the dress up and over her head, leaving her sitting on the bed in her shifts, stays, stockings, and boots—though no drawers. Today she wore no drawers.

Ben’s breath about stopped in his throat. His fiancée in dishabille was the most arousing sight he’d ever beheld. Her hair coiled primly at her nape was an erotic contrast to her lacy undergarments, silk stockings, elaborately embroidered stays, and all the abundant feminine curves contained therein.

He knelt at her feet and began unlacing her boots. “You have a secret passion for pretty underthings. I intend to be scandalously indulgent about it when we’re married.”

“Benjamin.” She brushed her hand back through his hair, causing him to glance up from the elegant, narrow feet he’d been intent on cradling in his hands. “Please, no more talk of marriage. Not now.”

“Right.” In a few moments he’d be challenged to form coherent sentences on any subject at all. “Talk later. Kiss now.”

He shifted up over her so she was lying on her back with her legs over the side of the bed, and commenced kissing her. He’d been starving for these kisses—for days, for years. She tasted of sweetened tea and chocolates and of every lustful fantasy he’d taken to bed with him each night for the past two weeks.

“God, I have missed you.” Her stays dug into his bare midriff, but at least he’d had the presence of mind to keep his breeches on. He climbed on the bed, bracing himself above her on his elbows and knees.

“I have missed you, too, Benjamin Portmaine.” She wrapped her hand around his nape and guided him back down to her mouth.

He wanted to ravish; she merely nibbled.

He wanted to plunder her senses; she let one hand drift through his hair.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” He raised himself up on his arms and glared down at her. “Stop thinking, Maggie Windham, and stop worrying or I’ll
make
you stop.”

Her brows knit. “It isn’t something I can—Benjamin? Where are you going?”

He hiked himself off the bed, flipped up the hem of her chemise, and knelt between her spread legs.

She braced herself on her elbows, peering at him. “Benjamin?”

“Hush. I’m busy.” He ran the backs of his fingers up and down the silken skin of her inner thighs. When she slumped back on the bed, he let himself lean in and nuzzle curls slightly darker than the magnificent mane on her head. “Not thinking now, are you?”

“You are
so
naughty.” There was resignation and affection in her voice, maybe even something more.

The moment he touched his mouth to her sex, he felt her mighty, surging brain come to a halt. Her body went still, as well, her hand falling away from his hair, a sigh easing from her.

She tasted sweet and flowery—and just a bit foxy, like a fastidious woman becoming aroused. He shifted his attentions up, to the little bud of flesh at the top of her sex, and her sigh became a groan.

“
Move
.” He growled against her damp flesh, not a suggestion to her mind but a command to her body. She twitched under his mouth then went still, so he rested one hand low on her belly and applied just a slight pressure.

She moved, little seeking undulations of her hips that brought her more snugly against his mouth. He resented her fetching undergarments now, wanted the stays gone, wanted her breasts freed for his touch.

“Benjamin.” Her hand landed on his hair and grabbed a fistful. “I can’t…”

She could, too. He gave no quarter but harried her endlessly with his lips and teeth and tongue until she was thrashing against his mouth. When she was whimpering and keening on the bed, he sank two fingers into her heat, and she came apart.

Her body seized up, the sexy little sounds caught in her throat, and her grip on Ben’s hair became desperate. For a long progression of silent instants, her body fisted around his fingers, and she gave herself up to the passion he built for her.

And then… more silence while Ben lapped soothingly at her folds and then rested his cheek on her curls. When he felt her breathing return to normal, he rose up on his knees and examined her. Above her chemise, she sported a rosy flush, and her eyes were closed.

He crouched over her and kissed her not at all chastely. “That’s what you taste like.” Her eyes flew open, and her fingers went to her lips. “You were curious, but you weren’t going to ask me.”

This provoked another of those slight shy smiles. “I wasn’t—going to, ask, that is.”

“I love how you taste.” He announced this, unlacing her stays while she obligingly rested on her side. “I could get drunk on your taste and the sounds you make and the way you go quiet when you’re coming.”

“When I’m what?” She was up on her elbows again, watching him attack her clothing.

“Your bun is coming loose. Why don’t you finish the job?” And why in the name of all that was worthy did women wear so much clothing? “Coming, overcome with pleasure. The French call it
le
petit
mort
.”

She went boneless against the mattress. “One can see why. Is it the same for a man?”

“Hard to say.” He tugged the stays away from her body. “Very likely, though we haven’t the stamina you ladies can boast.” He untied her garters and rolled down her stockings, leaving Maggie amid the bedclothes, her stays undone, her chemise soft and wrinkled around her middle. “Stay right where you are, Maggie mine.”

The sight of her sprawled and replete like that did things to what remained of his ability to think. It made him notice, for example, that the bed was the perfect height for a man bent on pleasuring his lady and himself in the next several seconds.

He unfastened his trousers, freed his engorged cock from his clothing, and leaned over Maggie where she drowsed on the bed. “You are mine, Maggie Windham. And I am yours. Never doubt it.”

Her eyes came open only to slam shut again as he entered her in one fierce, sweet thrust. He’d barely started to withdraw for the next thrust when she bowed up against him, her sex convulsing with pleasure around his cock. He cradled her close and bore it, his body on that knife-edge between arousal and release, while she dug her heels into the small of his back and clutched him hard.

And when she went soft and sweet beneath him again, he had all he could do to remain still, hilted in her heat.

“I need a moment,” she said, eyes closed. “Kiss me.”

That she would give orders pleased him inordinately, and it was a sound plan, to leaven his screaming arousal with some kisses and tenderness. Maggie sighed into his mouth, and while he soothed them both with sweet, easy kisses, she ran her hands over his torso.

If by petting him thus she’d intended to ease his lust, she failed miserably. Everywhere she touched, Ben felt as if his skin had been panting for the feel of her hands. She dallied a little with his nipples, and a groan escaped him.

“You like that.” She sounded so smug.

He eased a hand over one full breast and secured her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “We both like it.”

“Uhn.” She arched into his hand, which he took for permission to allow his throbbing cock the pleasure of moving inside her, as well. He went slowly at first, easy little movements that might have gone unnoticed amid kisses and sighs and caresses.

But then, bless her, bless her, she started moving with him.

He resisted mightily the pleasure beckoning then demanding that he capitulate. He kept the movement of his hips slow, he tormented Maggie’s breasts with his hands, and he kissed her in an unbridled effort to tip her over into satisfaction before he gave in himself.

“Benjamin Portmaine.” She spoke through gritted teeth, and Ben realized she was holding back, too, waiting for him, striving to share this most intimate pleasure right down to the moment.

He got a hand under her bottom and anchored her against his thrusts. “Now, Maggie.
Let
go.
”

“You… you let go.”

He
obeyed
. He obeyed her, he obeyed his body, he obeyed his heart, and as longing coalesced into intense satisfaction, he felt Maggie yielding, as well. His mind went dark, his body filled with pleasure, and his soul was suffused with light.

***

Gracious, merciful God, she’d been a fool. Maggie lay still, her body spooned into the curve of Benjamin’s larger frame, and tried to hide her tears. More damned tears.

He’d notice them. He’d notice the smallest shift in her breathing, the least tension in her body. She adored him for the intensity of his attentiveness, even as she realized this very astuteness on his part made proximity to him an untenable threat to her peace of mind.

“You’re going to need a soaking bath.” He sounded more smug than contrite. His hand squeezed her buttock, which was perhaps a male gesture of apology—or possessiveness.

“Why will I need a soaking bath?”

“I was too ardent when I used my mouth and my hands, and the first time.”

He’d been perfect—passionate when what Maggie had craved was passion. And then the second time, he’d been lingeringly tender, reminding Maggie that the most devastating intimacies need not be tempestuous.

She’d wanted one last taste of him, one last memory, and yet, the idea of casting him aside remained beyond her ability. Somehow she had to find a way to deal with Cecily, to protect Bridget, to protect her ducal family,
to
protect
Benjamin
, and all without embroiling the dear, ardent, very perceptive man himself any more deeply in her troubles.

The scandal Cecily could detonate in the middle of their lives was more than any decent man should have to bear, much less one who’d already weathered scandal at his sisters’ behest.

“You’re too quiet, Maggie my love.”

She closed her eyes for an instant, felt the warmth and strength of him at her back, inhaled the scent of his skin, felt the texture of his muscular legs entangled with hers.

“I haven’t been sleeping well.” It was all she could think of, but she made herself shift away from him and move as if to leave the bed.

“Not so fast.” He caught her wrist in a gentle, implacable grip. “Do you like the ring?” He tugged her down against his side, and Maggie allowed it.

“The ring is very pretty, but you should not have gone to so much trouble.”

“It’s a tiny gem, Maggie. The least I could do was put it in a decent setting. I think it suits you.”

And he was going to wear a ring, as well, though most aristocratic men did not. Why should they? Marriage did not make them their wives’ possessions, not the way it legally put a woman and her children into her husband’s hands.

She would love to be held in Benjamin Portmaine’s hands—legally, physically, emotionally.

“I have a question for you, Maggie.” His hand came up to cradle her head against his shoulder. Maggie closed her eyes and savored the sheer animal pleasure of lingering with him in bed this way.

“I am not in the mood to offer financial advice, Benjamin. I need at least a dressing gown if we’re to talk about the funds.”

“This is not about money, I hope. I am attempting to inspire more of your trust.”

“Oh?” When she would have peered up at him—the better to determine what that little note of misgiving in his voice was about—he palmed her cheek to hold her in his embrace.

“I am taking a risk, here, Maggie, so please bear that in mind when you answer my question.”