Miss Goodhue Lives for a Night (10 page)

He put his lips to hers again, and consumed. They wrapped themselves around each other, they let their hands explore. His under her cloak, hers under his jacket.

In fact, why was his jacket still on? On no, this would never do, she decided, and slipped her hands under the coat's shoulders and eased it down his arms.

That had the unfortunate side effect of forcing his head to come up.

“Wait . . . we should not dally,” he said between heavy breaths. “We have to pack, and get on the road . . . the carriage is waiting.”

But even as he said it, his coat hung off his wrists and slid to the floor.

“I've been thinking about that,” she said, biting her lip to hold in her mischief. “I worry that someone will object to us eloping.”

“Who?” he asked, bewildered. “Your father and my uncle are both dead. And we're both of age. No one could stop us.”

“Still,” she said, shaking her head. “I worry that we should be cautious.”

“If . . . if you would rather marry here, we could have banns read . . .”

“No, I think we should make it so if anyone should decide to come after us, marriage will be required anyway. No matter what.”

“Oh?” he asked, then his expression cleared. “
Ohhhh
. I see. You think we should . . . cement the deal, as it were.”

“Just to be cautious,” she said, all innocence and practicality.

“As a lawyer, I do appreciate a sense of prudence,” he said, his fingers playing with the clasp of her cloak.

And suddenly, her cloak joined his coat on the floor. She shivered. Not because of the cold. No, indeed. But because for the first time in possibly her entire life, Cecilia Goodhue was about to get what she wanted.

And she wanted him.

He came forward, she met him halfway. They rushed at each other, with no deference for their clothes, either on their bodies or on the floor.

His hands ran down her back, over the silk of her pink gown. He gathered it up in his hands, lifting it just enough so that it tickled over her thighs as it slid upward. Then he reached down and lifted her by the bottom, pulling her up against his chest. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he held her body up as easily as if she were paper as they stumbled across the room, blindly groping for the bed that was somewhere on the other side. All the while, his lips urged hers on, moving and searching for the one thing that had been long denied them both.

More.

A tufted footstool stopped their path—it was brutishly kicked aside, sliding across the wood floor. They stumbled into a dresser—a muffled “
oo
f
”
and a jumble of trinkets fell to the floor, but it was easily ignored. It wasn't until Theo's foot hit something he couldn't identify that he finally stopped.

“What is . . . is that a fish?” he asked, peering down. “A wooden fish?”

“Two of them, actually,” she said, breathless. “I think the other one slid under the bed. See, there's its tail.” She pointed to the rough-hewn wooden block sticking out from under the bed skirts.

“Well, thank God for the fish, then,” he said. “They are pointing our way home.”

And then they were on the bed, the soft down of the mattress beneath her, the wonderful warmth of Theo above her.

Memory flooded the room. She had seen him as a boy, his body thinner, rangier than it was now, all limbs and shaking hope. And she had been soft and nervous. Now . . . as he tore his cravat off and whipped his shirt over his head, she could see that his body had hardened into the chiseled marble of a Greek god.

“Good heavens,” she breathed, taking him in. “What have you been doing, Mr. Hudson?”

He looked confused, until she ran a featherlight hand over his chest and down to the flat planes of his stomach.

“Oh,” he replied with a smile. “I took up some sport. Boxing, riding, that sort of thing. It kept my body occupied, when my mind wouldn't stop running to certain memories.”

“What kind of memories?” she asked, coming up on her elbows.

In answer, his eyes darkened with mischief as he gently slid her gown off one shoulder, letting the back of his hand caress her warm skin at the rise of her breast. Cool air hit her nipple, causing her to suck in her breath.

She sucked in even more when his head descended to take that dark rose peak into his mouth. She arched her back, giving him more access, more of herself. Just . . . more.

His hand worked the three small buttons at the back of her dress, and he eased the rest of the gown off her shoulders, edging it down to her waist. She hadn't worn stays that evening. The dress was cut so beautifully it did not require them, and even if they had, the rough practicality of her own stays would have been a sin to wear under such fabric. But still, she was a modest enough country girl to feel completely ill at ease without them . . . until that moment. Now, she was thrilled.

His mouth followed the gown and her petticoats with it, his tongue tracing its path down from her breasts, to the cave of her belly. Suddenly, she wasn't wearing anything other than her stockings.

“I missed you,” he breathed, taking in her naked beauty. “Damn, did I miss you.”

“I missed you too,” she said as he settled his weight over her, and the hard bulge encased in his trousers made itself known against her.

Really, it was unfair to keep it tucked away like that, she reasoned as she reached for the buttons of his trousers.

A hand stayed her nimble fingers.

“Wait,” he said. “Just about now is when I believe your father and my uncle are slated to come bursting through the door.”

Both sets of eyes shot to the door.

Waited.

Waited.

“I don't think they're going to make it this time,” he said, and she giggled.

“As much as I would treasure seeing my father again,” she said wistfully, “I don't think this is the time.”

He stilled above her. His expression grew serious, causing the smile to drop from hers.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “About me? About this? Because we don't—”

She stopped him with a kiss. One that contained her whole heart, everything that she hadn't been able to do or say in a decade.

“Theo,” she said, cupping his face in her hands. “Nothing is going to stop us this time. Nothing.”

Worry slid off him as easily as his trousers, which quickly joined all the other clothes on the floor. There was no reason to keep them on anymore, it seemed. Just like there was no reason to keep their bodies apart.

He touched her everywhere. The sensitive spot just behind her ear. The valley between her breasts, just above her heart. The kick of her hip. All the little touches, making the part of her that remained untouched begging for contact.

And she explored. The hard planes of his back. The hollow at the base of his throat. The strength of his thighs. The palms of his hands, which she took and guided to exactly where she wanted them to be.

“Touch me,” she whispered in his ear.

They both sighed when he found her in the thicket of curls at the juncture of her thighs.

She felt the blood move with every beat of her heart, every stroke of his fingers. And when she was slick with lust, he withdrew his hand and poised himself above her.

There was no question anymore. No need for modesty or maidenly doubts. She simply met his eyes, gave him a smile, and then . . . he drove himself home.

It was a shock, being filled so. She sucked in her breath. Immediately he stilled.

“Are you all right?” he asked, gasping for breath.

“Yes,” she said with wonder. “Strange, I always heard it would hurt.”

“It hurts?” His voice was so strained she thought perhaps she might be hurting him.

“No . . . not like pain. It's more of . . . a fullness.”

“So if I do this . . .” He shifted his body, withdrawing slightly, then sliding ever deeper.

“Oh yes,” she said, letting the sensation lance through her. “Yes, I like that very much.”

He kissed her, then grinned against her mouth. “Well, then. Let's do that some more.”

More. It was the watchword of their lovemaking. Everything they did, she wanted more. And he gave it. The tempting kisses, the stirring touches, the delicious pressure. And the way he
moved.
Her thighs clung to his as he pushed himself further, brought her higher, made her more Cecilia than she had ever known she could be.

And when she felt her body riding high on that crest, her eyes closed, lost in the promise of pleasure just out of reach, his warm breath found her ear.

“Look at me,” he said, and she did. She opened her eyes, found his in the dark—dazed by bliss, but fighting. Fighting for or against something, she could not tell.

“I love you,” he said. And then, everything in her broke in to pieces. A thousand glittering crystals showering down in the firelight around them and settling on the pillows next to her.

Theo's body became taut, wild, and his own pleasure washed over him. He collapsed on top of her, as gently as a man of his size could, but he did not leave her. He kept her warm. He kept her full.

She relished his weight as their breathing slowed, as their bodies relaxed and their minds returned to the world, one yet the same and so very different.

And all of a sudden, Cee felt like laughing. So she did.

He joined her, with deep, satisfied chuckles, as he rolled to the side, taking her with him.

“And to think, all this time, that is what we were missing.”

“If only your father and my uncle had arrived a half hour later, we might have had years of it,” he said with a smile. Then, caressing the side of her face, he asked, “How do you feel?”

“Alive,” she smiled.

He snorted. “Really? Because you have just about killed me.”

“Oh, so that's it then?” she said brightly. “One go at lovemaking and you're done with it? Heavens, it must have been terribly unimpressive for you.”

“Unimpressive, it was not.”

“Yet you decide you want nothing more to do with it,” she sighed. “How unfortunate. I shall have to find some other means to sate my newfound lust then.”

“Oh no you don't,” he growled, and reached for her. “You're mine, as is your newfound lust.”

He kissed her again, wrapping his body up with hers. Unfortunately, before events could proceed much further, there was a knock at the door.

“Miss Goodhue?” Lord Ashby's gruff voice sounded from behind the door. “Is everything all right?”

Cecilia froze. So did Theo above her. “Ah, I'm fine?” she called out. “Just . . . just in bed.”

“There . . . there was some commotion,” Lord Ashby called back. “My wife was up with the baby and heard . . . sounds.”

Theo snorted with laughter, and she hit his arm, a little harder than playfully. “Stop that,” she hissed. “I can't be caught making love in the house of an earl I met this morning!”

“Ah . . . and my wife wanted me to ask if you happen to know where Mr. Hudson might be.”

With that Theo stopped laughing.

“Mr. Hudson?” she squeaked in reply.

“Yes.” This time it was Phoebe's voice. “If you do happen to see him, Cecilia, could you ask him if he would like to let the driver go? He's been sitting outside the house for nearly an hour and is getting quite chilled.”

“Of course,” Cecilia replied. “I'll ask. If I happen to see Mr. Hudson, that is.”

“Very good,” Phoebe said. “Sleep well.”

“You . . . you too!” Cecilia called back.

“Good night, Miss Goodhue,” Lord Ashby called out. Then they could hear as he was retreating . . . “What was all that about . . . ohhhhh. You mean . . .”

And then the voices were gone. Both Theo and Cecilia let out long sighs of relief.

“Well,” she said after they were sure they were alone. “Would you like to dismiss the carriage? I'm told the driver is getting quite chilled.”

“No,” he replied, lifting himself up on his arms, suddenly filled with boundless energy. “We need him to get to Scotland.”

“Now?” she replied, sitting up with surprise. “You don't want to wait until morning?”

“I don't want to wait ever again,” he replied. His feet hit the floor, and he found his trousers. Then he turned, a look of concern on his face. “You don't want to wait, do you?”

She placed a pensive finger to her chin. “I have to let Phoebe know what happened with my cousin, of course.”

“You can write her a letter with the details. She can read it over her toast in the morning.”

“And we are expected to have breakfast with Colonel Birmingham!”

“He can read a note over his toast too.”

“And I have a shipment of fabric to deliver to Helmsley. As well as several pounds of tea. And two wooden fish to exchange.”

“Cee,” he said, coming over to the bed, taking her hands in his. “What do you want to do? Not Lady Ashby, not Birmingham, not whoever it was who made you play beast of burden to wooden fish. You.”

She looked into his eyes and matched him smile for smile. Mischief for mischief.

“I want to go to Scotland.”

“Then,” he said, pulling her out of the bed and into his arms, “to Scotland we shall go.”

And so together, they did.

Keep reading for a sneak peek at the final installment in the Winner Takes All series

By Kate Noble

Coming Fall 2016 from Pocket Books!