Love's Price (Lord Trent Series) (17 page)

A surge of excitement swept over him. He’d be able to dally with her as often as he liked! There’d be no barriers, no holding back.

“I can’t decide what’s best,” she mumbled.

“If the situation with Miranda grows too unpalatable, we can rent a house for you. But not yet.”

It was strange, but he wanted her in his own home, in his own bed—a spot he’d never let any other lover occupy. He wanted her around and underfoot, and he didn’t want to stash her in some hideaway acquired for illicit purposes. It would seem too seedy and not worthy of the burgeoning affection he felt for her.

She licked her bottom lip, the tip of her tongue galvanizing him.

“Will we begin immediately with the...the...”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“But
I
do.”

She blushed, nervously tugging at the lapels of her robe.

“I’ve heard that it’s very physical.”

“It is, but I will make it wonderful for you.”

She glanced down. “I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be. Everything will be all right now.”

As Westwood drew her into his arms, Helen trembled. Before her arrival, he’d shed his coat and cravat, and the front of his shirt was open. She snuggled close, burying her nose in the center of his chest.

With her choice made, there would be no half measures. If she was to be his paramour, she would do it with as much gusto and enthusiasm as she could muster.

She would learn and observe and practice, would give him all that he asked for and more. In some distant future, when he sent her away, she hoped he’d be glad that he’d known her, glad that she’d been part of his life.

In all of her dithering over how to convince him to aid Harriet, Helen had recognized that she had just one thing of any value to tender—and that was her chastity. She’d suspected that he’d jump at the chance to bed her, and there was such a sense of inevitability that she wasn’t sad or upset. She felt as if she’d been marching down a long road, her path leading her to this precise spot.

They would be lovers. He wanted it to happen, but
she
wanted it to happen, too. She wouldn’t pretend otherwise. She would get what she craved, with assistance for Harriet thrown into the bargain.

“We’ll start with your calling me James,” he said.

“Yes, James, whatever you want is fine. Tell me what to do.”

With her acquiescence being so easily won, he appeared worried as if—now that he’d gotten his way—he wasn’t sure he should proceed.

Wouldn’t that be just her luck? What if she’d finally offered herself to a man, only to have him realize that he didn’t desire her after all?

But she needn’t have fretted.

He began kissing her and kissing her, bestowing the type of breathtaking embraces that make her lose her inhibitions, that made her eager to please him and damn the consequences.

His hand slid inside her robe, and he clasped her nipple, pinching and squeezing it so she writhed against him.

Inflamed by her movements, he picked her up, twirled her toward the bed and laid her down. He followed, stretching out atop her, his large body pushing her into the mattress. He was so much bigger than she was, but he didn’t feel heavy. He felt familiar and welcome, and she rippled with anticipation as if she was aware—on some instinctual level—of exactly what was coming.

He fussed with the belt on her robe, loosening it to bare her torso, then he nibbled down her neck, her bosom, to her breasts. He sucked on one, then the other, going back and forth, back and forth, until her heart was pounding so hard that she thought it might explode.

He touched her between her legs, as he had the night they’d trysted in the garden, and this time, with her knowing what was approaching, the caress was even more thrilling.

Quickly, he goaded her to the precipice where bliss could sweep her away. She cried out, liking how he chuckled, how he nuzzled a trail to her mouth to kiss her again.

“You are so fine,” he murmured.

“How do you do that to me?”

“You have a very sexual nature. It’s simply a matter of coaxing it to the fore.”

He drew away and yanked off his shirt, giving her a full view of his broad shoulders, his narrow waist. His chest was covered with a thick matting of dark hair, and the sight titillated her in a manner she didn’t comprehend.

“Have you ever seen a naked man?”

“Definitely not.”

“We’re built differently.”

“I’ve been told that we were.”

“I’ll join myself to you—here.” He fingered her womanly sheath. “It will hurt the first time.”

“Why?”

“There is a thin piece of skin, called your maidenhead. I will tear through it, and you may bleed a bit.”

“Bleed!”

“And you’ll be sore in the morning.”

“Oh.”

“But you’ll heal fast, and in the future, you’ll scarcely remember it.”

She had heard gossip that it would hurt, but she hadn’t heard there would be tearing, or that she would bleed. A wave of virginal alarm swamped her, and he noticed her trepidation. He kissed her very sweetly, very tenderly.

“Let me do it,” he urged. “Let me know you like this.”

When he looked at her as he was, when he spoke in that intimate tone of voice, she couldn’t tell him
no
. There was no grander feeling in the world than having his attention focused on her.

She cradled his cheek in her palm. “Yes, I want it to be you.”

“Promise me that you’ll never be sorry,” he said. “Promise me that you’ll never regret doing this with me.”

“I’ll never be sorry.”

He began again, leading her into the spiral of desire. Each time, the feelings rose more rapidly, the intensity increasing. She was ready and eager for what he was about to confer.

A new gleam came into his eye, a new tautness in his anatomy. He widened her thighs, his torso dropping between them, and he fumbled with the buttons on his trousers, opening the front, jerking them down around his flanks.

There would be no stopping, she knew. Even if she changed her mind at the last second, he would have to proceed, and on realizing that she’d driven him to such a heightened state, she suffered a vain thrill.

He pulled her thighs even wider, wedging himself into her sheath. Her innocent body protested the strange situation, and she tensed.

“Relax,” he whispered.

“I’m trying to.”

“We’re just about finished with the worst of it.”

He smiled at her, and she smiled in return, but he didn’t ease up or moderate the pace.

Dipping to her breast, he sucked at it, distracting her, enticing her, then he flexed with his hips, pushing and pushing again, and suddenly, he was inside her. She arched up, surprised by the odd result, but deciding it wasn’t nearly as painful as she’d feared.

He was very still, letting her adapt, and as she acclimated, he started to move, slowly at first, then with more vigor. He would withdraw all the way, then shove in to the hilt, doing it over and over. With each penetration, it felt more natural, more satisfying, until she was enjoying the maneuver very much.

No words could describe the sense of intimacy they’d generated. Their joining was a dream come true, remarkable beyond her wildest expectations.

“Wrap your arms around me,” he advised.

“Like this?”

“Yes, just like that. Hold me tight.”

“I will.”

“Don’t let go.”

I won’t
, she thought.
I will never let you go
.

His motions became less defined, more rough and tumble, and she recognized that the end was coming.

He grew very tense, and he thrust deep, seeming frozen with ecstasy, then he groaned with pleasure and collapsed onto her.

For many minutes, they lay together, silent, pensive, until he slid away and their bodies were no longer connected. He rolled them so they were facing each other.

They stared, neither sure of what to say, and she didn’t understand why, but she felt as if she might weep. She wasn’t sad—she was very, very happy—but she was extremely overwhelmed by what had transpired.

“I’m not a virgin anymore, am I?” she said.

“No.”

“It was different from what I imagined. Different, but better.”

“In the beginning, it’s a tad awkward, but you’ll get the hang of it.”

“Sort of like riding a horse?”

“Sort of.” He chuckled. “Are you sore?”

She stretched her legs and winced. “A bit, but I’ll mend.”

“I could order you a bath.”

“Don’t you dare.”

It was the middle of the night, everyone abed, and while she would have loved to relieve the ache in a hot tub, she never would. Both because she could never let the servants know she was in his bedchamber, but also because she would never frivolously rouse them at such a late hour.

The fact that he would even consider it only underscored their disparate positions. It emphasized how foolish she’d been to ruin herself for him, but at the moment, when she was still in his arms, the heat and smell of their mating strong in the air, she wouldn’t worry about it.

On the morrow, there would be plenty of opportunity to fret and stew.

He spun her away from him and spooned himself to her backside. A lazy hand was draped across her hip, his fingers tickling her belly.

Someday, he would grow weary of her, and they would go their separate ways. How would she ever return to being the woman she’d been before they’d met? How would she ever survive without him?

A few tears surged and dripped down her cheeks, and she was glad he couldn’t see, for she didn’t want to explain the myriad of emotions careening through her. He’d think she was a sentimental ninny.

It occurred to her that this was why people married prior to commencing an affair, that this was why they vowed to honor and cherish with friends and family looking on. There was too much at stake; there was too much to lose.

He nuzzled her hair, her nape.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

“Very.”

“Close your eyes.”

“I can’t. I’m scared I’ll fall asleep, and I won’t awaken in time to sneak out before anyone sees me.”

The remark left her very sad. It was only appropriate that she depart, that they keep their liaison a secret, but the admission that she couldn’t be caught with him made their behavior seem sordid and wrong, when she simply wanted to concentrate on how beautiful it had been.

Reality was quickly crashing down, and already, she hated her situation. She yearned to have him all to herself, with no jealous ward or prying servants to interrupt or condemn.

“Will I...I...see you tomorrow?” The possessive tone in her voice was embarrassing.

“Let’s meet for breakfast at ten. Wear your blue walking dress.”

“I will.”

He yawned, drifting off, and she knew she had to leave or she’d joined him in slumber.

With a stark certitude, she realized that this was how it would always be for them. She would covet and pine and love him, but in the end, she would always be alone.

As his breathing slowed, she rose, grabbed her robe, and tiptoed to her room. She went to the window and gazed out at the star-strewn sky. She said a quiet prayer for herself, for her sister. Then she sat in a chair, watching through the tedious hours until dawn. She was conflicted, wishing she could change her fate, but thankful too, that she’d had no choice in matter.

If she’d never known James Harcourt, if she’d never agreed to become his mistress, would her life ever have truly been worth living?

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Oh, Fanny, would you look at that!”

“What is it?”

Fanny glanced over to where her sister-in-law, Anne Sinclair, peeked out the drapes into the rear garden. Anne was Phillip’s wife, as well as sister to Fanny’s husband, Michael.

“You have to see for yourself,” Anne insisted, and Fanny rose from the sofa and walked over to join her.

They were at Henley Hall, Michael’s estate, and evening was fast approaching. The sky was a soothing purple, and the green colors of the park had deepened to a rich emerald. Supper was about to be served.

Phillip and Michael were huddled together on the verandah, seated on a bench, their heads pressed close. They were both new fathers, with Michael holding their little daughter Elizabeth, and Phillip holding his son, Charlie, whom he had named after Lord Trent.

It was nearly time for the babies to be bathed and put to bed for the night, so they were tired and irritable. Michael and Phillip had taken them outside, neither willing to admit that they wanted a few more minutes with the children before their nannies whisked them away.

The two men appeared to be entranced, joyous and content in their parenthood. They had a running argument over which baby was smartest, which was cutest or had first exhibited various signs of development, and their interest astonished her.

Prior to their marrying, Phillip and Michael had been the most unlikely types to revel in fatherhood. But who could ever know what a person was truly like?

Michael had spent a decade as a soldier, and Phillip had been a rake, yet they’d both adapted to family life as if they’d never wished to live any other way.