Margaret Moore (19 page)

His kiss deepened, his tongue teasing hers as they intertwined like dancers. Her arms tightened about him, holding him closer, as if she were trying to meld their bodies into one being formed of love and desire.

Her hands stroked his back and ran over the coarse cloth, feeling the taunt muscles beneath.

No pampered nobleman he, but a man who had labored and struggled and risen above his terrible beginnings to claim her heart.

If she thought him worthy, he had said.

If he thought
her
worthy—as he apparently did, judging by the ardor of his embrace.

Panting, she drew back and searched his features before her gaze locked onto his desire-darkened eyes. “I love you,” she whispered.

He smiled, a wonderful smile that was both triumphant and yet modest, too. “I have never been happier, Vivienne. My love. My sweet, sweet love.”

Again he kissed her, and once more the heat of passion exploded between hem. She inched forward, then slipped.

“This sofa is too narrow,” Rob murmured, his lips against her cheeks.

“Yes,” she agreed.

“Perhaps we should go—”

“No, not yet. Please, Rob, not yet.”

She eased herself to the floor and reached up to take his hands. Taller than she, he loomed above her in the dim light like Hades claiming Persephone, the dark lord of her heart.

Her heart pounding, her body demanding, her skin aching for his touch, she drew him down to her.

Primitive desire banished all thoughts and took control of them both as his lips meandered along the slope of her chin. She had never known such burning need, such incredible desire.

She wanted him. More of him. All of him. The man she loved. The man she needed.

When he teased the taunt peaks of her breasts through the satin of her bodice and the linen of her shift with his fingers, her knees trembled and her limbs grew heavy.

He sat back on his ankles and tore off his jacket, then laid it under her head.

“Always thinking of others,” she whispered.

He lay beside her. Raised on one elbow, he played with one of her ringlets with his free hand. “I adore your hair,” he said, bending to kiss the lock.

She laughed softly, a tremulous sound, combined as it was of excitement and pleasure. “I like your hair, too. I am very glad you do not wear a wig.”

“I cannot afford one.”

“I hope you will always find a better use for your money than that.” She reached up and tugged at his cravat until it was loose about his neck. “I noticed your linen is always very clean.”

“You were studying my linen?”

“I confess I have been studying you at every opportunity,” she replied. “You are a very handsome man.”

“Am I?”

“Oh, yes. No doubt that is why I have such an urge to see you without your shirt on.” She began to undo his shirt.

“In view of your startling confession, Mistress Burroughs, I admit to a secret desire to see you naked.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and not because she was ashamed. “Naked?”

“Completely,” he said with a slow, roguish smile. “Or if not completely, I would settle for parts.”

His hand lightly cupped her breast, then gently kneaded it.

She gasped and closed her eyes, delighted by the sensations he aroused. “Don’t stop,” she moaned softly.

“I won’t,” he whispered.

Then he knelt between her legs and his mouth crushed hers possessively while she insinuated her hand into his shirt, feeling his chest and the rapid rhythm of his heartbeat that matched the exciting throbbing of her own blood.

“Make me yours, Rob,” she pleaded softly, tugging open his shirt and pressing heated kisses against his bare flesh. She wanted him now, with every particle of her being, the need fiercely physical, as if without him inside her, she would die. “I want to be yours, Rob,” she pleaded.

“No, Vivienne,” he murmured hoarsely. “I am yours.”

With a low growl of savage desire, he shoved up her skirts and petticoat, then freed himself. She made a small cry at the brief pain as, with a long, slow groan of conquest, he pushed inside her moist and waiting body.

In the next instant, she forgot the pain. She gasped, arched and nearly swooned as he began to thrust. Leisurely at first, his movements deliciously, tormentingly slow as her body accommodated itself to him.

Her mind swirling with new sensations, she clutched the hard curve of his arm muscles and felt more than heard the rasp of his breathing, hot on her ear.

The hard, virile thrusts quickened, taking her to a new realm of sensual pleasure. Of womanhood.

Within her, it was as if something burst, like a dam trying to hold back the raging waters of a flood, and as she cried out, a low rumble began deep in his throat. It burst free as he collapsed against her.

She lay still while the throbbing subsided, and she could feel him still inside her, a part of her.

He was perfect, and being in his arms was perfect. Perfectly wonderful, perfectly natural.

She cared for a man who had been honest with her. Who thought of her welfare before his own. Who was so good and generous to those less fortunate.

And whose hands and lips and body made her feel so alive.

This was not how she had imagined losing her virginity. She had imagined a large bed with white sheets and a handsome, loving husband gently persuading her.

She did not bemoan the lack of a bed, or the gentle persuasion. “I love you, Rob,” she sighed.

He raised his head to look at her, perspiration on his brow. “Vivienne?”

“Yes?”

“I love you more than I have ever loved anyone in my miserable life.”

Tears of both joy and sympathy filled her eyes as she tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear. “I am going to do my best to see that you’re never miserable again.”

Then suddenly they heard a man’s disgruntled voice outside the door.

T
he lovers froze.

“Do you know who that is?” Rob asked in a whisper as he withdrew and stood, hurriedly straightening his clothing.

“No, I have no idea,” she murmured as she shakily got to her feet, too, looking down at her wrinkled and disheveled gown in dismay. She glanced in the mirror on the dressing table and saw that her hair was equally untidy. “I can’t be seen like this!” she hissed in a panic.

Rob grabbed his jacket from the floor. “We’ll go down the back stairs and say you got lost. This house is so enormous—” The door to the closet opened. “Odd’s fish! What have we here?” King Charles declared, his brown eyes bright with surprise, and not a little humor, as he took in the scene before him.

“Your Majesty,” Rob gasped, bowing and trying to push Vivienne out of sight behind him.

What kind of nightmare was he in? Had he gone mad? He had just made love with Vivienne on the floor of another man’s bedchamber.

As if that were not shameful enough, being discovered by the king was a disaster.

If Mr. Burroughs heard what they had done—and why would he not?—he would be furious with Vivienne, punish her who could say how and never allow them to marry. He would likely denounce Rob for seducing his niece, but that was minor compared to what might happen to Vivienne if her reputation was destroyed.

Charles glanced over his shoulder and said to someone they couldn’t see, “Keep watch, Buckingham. If that Jerningham creature comes this way, tell her we have returned to Whitehall.”

He sauntered into the closet and closed the door behind him.

This was indeed a nightmare, Rob thought desperately, looking over his shoulder to see Vivienne pale and apparently immobile by the back-stairs door.

How could he have let this happen, he who prided himself on his self-control?

“Some women can be a damned nuisance,” Charles remarked as he ran his gaze over Vivienne and her wrinkled gown and disheveled hair. “While other women we cannot get enough of.”

He suddenly transfixed Rob with a look. “A loving woman is a wonderful creature, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he replied as a feeling of helplessness washed over him.

“Good evening to you, my dear,” Charles said, finally addressing Vivienne. “You are the charming young lady we met the other day after that
other
performance, are you not?”

Rob moved back and took her cold hand in his. Whatever happened, he must take the blame for this.

Then she squeezed his hand and gave him a reassuring smile.

“I was introduced to you at the theater, Your Majesty,” Vivienne boldly replied. “And this is Mr. Robert Harding, a solicitor.”

Was there a more dauntless woman in London? Or one more deserving of his admiration and respect as well as his love?

The king chuckled and winked at Rob as one man of the world to another. “We hope you will excuse our untimely interruption.”

“Majesty, I fear you are making a mistake. Mistress Burroughs lost her way and I—”

“And you were assisting her? Well, well,” Charles said, and Rob realized the king did not believe him. “Her gown seems rather ruined, and her face quite flushed in a way we recognize, but if you wish to maintain that story, very well. We know you attorneys are all excellent liars and it is foolish to contradict you.”

“Sire,” Rob began, wanting to protest that he was an honest man—but he had just lied to the king of England.

“I love Mr. Harding and he loves me,” Vivienne declared.

She was marvelous. Utterly, completely marvelous.

But this was still a disaster.

“We envy you, Harding,” the king said as he ran another slow, measuring, and obviously approving gaze over Vivienne.

Another emotion arose in Rob at the proprietary gleam in the king’s eye.

“Yes, we certainly do envy you,” Charles announced. He leaned forward and spoke to Vivienne in a conspiratorial whisper. “We realize Harding is a handsome fellow, but we don’t suppose you would consider gracing the royal bed?”

While Rob fought to subdue his rage, he realized that Vivienne seemed in firm control of her emotions.

“No, thank you, sire,” she calmly replied to the king’s lascivious request.

Charles chortled. “We feared you would say that.”

He found this situation amusing? He expected them to share his sense of humor?

Rob had met arrogant men before, but this was beyond anything he had experienced.

The king ran his impertinent gaze over Vivienne again. “I daresay Martlebury will have apoplexy when he finds out what has been going on here. You needn’t look so shocked, my dear. Surely it is not so surprising that we hear all the rumors and gossip. So many courtiers seem to have nothing to do but gossip. We understand Martlebury’s been bragging about the young lady with the rich uncle he plans to marry. Apparently, he has been counting his proverbial chickens too soon—or do you intend to marry Martlebury anyway?”

“Sire,” Vivienne said firmly, “I
never
intended to marry him. That was all my uncle’s plan.”

“Martlebury is a nobleman and a courtier,” Charles pointed out.

“Yes, Your Majesty, but I could never love him.”

“You love this attorney?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she affirmed, looking at Rob again.

“Majesty,” Rob said, letting go of Vivienne’s hand and stepping forward. “While I fear I acted without due regard for Mistress Burroughs’s honor, I assure you nothing would make me happier than to marry her.”

“A noble sacrifice.”

“Majesty!” Rob cried in protest, no longer caring that the man before him was his sovereign. “It would be no sacrifice—unless it be on her part, for I have little to offer her.”

“Except yourself,” Vivienne hastened to add.

“As happy as this outcome would apparently render the both of you,” the king noted, “we do not think Mr. Burroughs would agree to such a match. The good man strikes us as the kind to put profit before pleasure, except where Lady Castlemaine is concerned, apparently.”

Rob slid a glance at Vivienne’s face, which grew even more pale. “Lady Castlemaine?” she murmured.

“Odd’s fish, yes!” Charles cried. “Your uncle has sent her so many presents, we have quite lost count. And we are worldly enough to know he does not send them purely out of the goodness of a generous heart.”

Vivienne clasped her hands together. “Majesty, my uncle is a good man, if somewhat stubborn in his ideas and—”

“With exquisite taste in women,” Charles placidly interrupted. “He also sees Lady Castlemaine for the beautiful, greedy creature she is. If he persists in his pursuit with such exquisite gifts, she is likely to repay him with what he so ardently desires.”

Vivienne and Rob exchanged astounded looks.

“She has never been loyal, and never will be,” Charles explained. “But since there is but one king of England, she will always come back, and because she possesses talents no man should be quick to dismiss, we accept her as she is—as she accepts her king. However, that does not mean that we intend to encourage any man with sufficient means to tempt her. Therefore, we would very much enjoy—how shall we put this?— exacting a measure of retribution for his efforts to enjoy our
grand amore’s
favors.”

“I don’t understand, Majesty.”

“Nor I, sire,” Rob added.

“Then we must say you are both surprisingly slow—and you, Mr. Harding, are reckoned a very clever fellow,” the king replied with another chuckle. “However, given what you have been doing, we will excuse you.

“Now, since we understand your uncle has great plans for you, Mistress Burroughs, your infatuation—”

“Sire, I
love
Mr. Harding.”

“Vivienne,” Rob warned, thinking it unwise to interrupt the king.

“Well, I do!”

The king grinned and nodded. “You must forgive us, my dear. Love, as you mean it, is not something we encounter every day.

“To resume, your love for this man would, we believe, not be met with favor by your ambitious relative.”

“Sadly, I fear you are probably right, Your Majesty,” Vivienne agreed.

“While you, Mr. Harding, would likely stand a better chance to claim this lady’s”—his grin widened—“hand if the field were clear of obstacles like Martlebury and the rich, but perpetually befuddled, Cheddersby.”