My Brown-Eyed Earl (20 page)

Oh. She swallowed. He knew that she would not back down from a challenge. But perhaps she could torture him a little. “Very well.”

She pulled her sleeves up onto her shoulders and pushed her hem below her knees, covering as much of herself as she could before she eased herself off the bed.

“I don't think you understand the game,” he said, scowling.

“I think I do.” She swayed her hips as she walked around the bed, letting her fingertips trail along the edge of the mattress. His hungry gaze tracked her every move.

When she reached the bedside table, she turned the lamp up brighter, fully aware that the thin lawn fabric she wore would be nearly transparent. “How's this?”

He sat up, and his jaw dropped. “Jesus, Meg.”

“I shall assume that means you approve.”

“God, yes.”

“Good.” Praying she didn't make an utter fool of herself, she faced him, slipped off her sleeves, and slowly lowered the chemise—over her breasts, belly, hips, and legs—till it puddled at her feet.

For the space of several breaths, he didn't move. His expression dark and unreadable, he devoured her with his eyes. “You are beyond beautiful.”

Beyond beautiful.
They were the heady sort of words a wallflower didn't dare hope to hear, but he'd said them—to her. Best of all, he looked at her in such a way that she couldn't possibly doubt the truth of them.

He held out a hand to her, and she crawled back onto the bed, kneeling before him.

“You more than fulfilled your end of the deal,” he said approvingly.

“You should know,” she said, gliding a palm over the hard planes of his chest, “that I intend to take full advantage.”

“I would be disappointed if you did not.”

She pressed her lips to his shoulder and nipped at his neck while her hands roved over his back, down his sides, and across his abdomen. Every inch of his body was coiled power, taut muscle, and male perfection. She pushed him onto his back and leaned over him, sighing as his light sprinkling of chest hair tickled her breasts.

“I want you, Meg,” he said. “More than I've ever wanted anything.”

“I want you, too.” Dipping her head, she lapped at his flat nipple and smiled when he groaned in response.

“Christ.” He rolled her over, pinning her beneath him. She savored the weight of his body on hers and the hard length of his arousal pressed against her hip.

“Who's impatient now?” she teased.

“Guilty.” He stood, hauled off his trousers, and pulled her close. Cupping her cheek in his palm, he said, “Are you certain about this?”

“I am.” God help her, she was. Women like her—genteel, poor, and plain—were rarely presented with these opportunities. When else would she have the chance to experience passion with a man who made her heart beat wildly every time he looked at her?

With a grateful moan, he pressed his lips to hers and kissed her till she was dazed. He seemed to know just how to please her, and with every touch he brought her closer and closer to the brink. She touched him too, curling her hand around the smooth length of him and stroking until he groaned.

At last, he nudged her legs apart and touched his forehead to hers. “Meg.” He spoke her name like a prayer, sacred and true.

She speared her fingers through the damp curls at his nape and wrapped her legs around his hips. “Yes.”

He entered her slowly, every muscle in his body quivering with restraint. She pulled him closer and urged him on, for there was no going back. She had already given herself to him.

In her admittedly naïve romantic fantasies, she'd imagined that coupling would be controlled and perfunctory, similar to a sweet, timeless dance. But their joining was
nothing
like that.

It was skin on skin, damp and hot. It was raw power and glorious abandon. It was wildly physical and, at the same time, heartbreakingly intimate.

Nothing existed outside of the two of them. The entire world had boiled down to this—the brief escape and exquisite pleasure they could bring each other. Her whole body and soul, it seemed, were wound up in him.

Every kiss drew her deeper under his spell; every touch drove her nearer to her release. His face was a study of intense concentration, as though pleasing her required his complete focus. But his eyes held a tenderness, too—a softness that shattered the shell around her heart.

“God, you feel good,” he whispered, his breath ragged as he moved inside her. “I need you to come for me.” He said it like he'd die if she didn't.

“Tell me … what to do.”

Growling, he rolled over so his back was on the bed. She sat astride his hips, the hard length of him still buried inside her. He took her hand, kissed her palm, and placed it over her breast. “Touch yourself,” he commanded, moving her hand in tantalizing circles, “while I touch you.”

Good heavens. Heat crawled up her neck. “I don't know if I—”

“It will be pleasurable … for both of us.” He guided her, murmuring his encouragement, then let his hands fall away.

She felt terribly brazen and exposed, but she desperately wanted to please him—and herself. Swallowing her embarrassment, she did as he'd asked, lightly squeezing her breasts.

“A fine start,” he said. “I think you can do better.”

Gathering courage, she smiled. “Very well.” She stared at his handsome face as she traced circles on her breasts with her fingertips, teasing the taut peaks until they tingled deliciously. Her wickedness was doubly rewarded when Will moaned in response. He gazed upon her as though she were Aphrodite, sent to earth to torture him.

“Damn it,” he cursed, his thin thread of control snapping. He gripped her hip with one hand; with the other, he reached between them and caressed her, finding the most sensitive spot and the source of her pleasure.

It was too much. Her head fell back, the world went black. She was aware only of him, moving inside her, rocking beneath her, and touching her
there
.

“That's it,” he breathed. “So. Damn. Good.”

She whimpered as the pressure built, spiraling and beating out of control.

And then it took her. Release rolled over her like a storm, awesome and frightening in its intensity—but breathtakingly beautiful. She cried out, and Will was there, holding her as she crested, letting her savor every infinite, fleeting second.

When at last she emerged from the clouds, sated, she blinked at him. “Did you … that is…”

“Not yet.” He flipped her onto her back and cradled her face in his hands. “But I will.”

Slowly, he moved inside her, setting up a rhythm that ignited her desire once again. She grasped his arms, thrilling at the way his biceps flexed beneath her hands. With every thrust, he seemed to claim her as his, imprinting himself on her body and heart. She relished the friction of his skin against hers as their bodies collided, faster and harder, till they were both panting, reaching for something together …

The crescendo overtook her again, but this time, Will came too. She reveled in the pure power of it, crying out as he pumped one last time, groaned, and rolled off her, catching his seed in his hand.

They laid side by side for several minutes until their breathing had more or less returned to normal.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Amazing.” Like she'd learned how to fly.

“I knew we would be this way.” He kissed the side of her neck, the light stubble on his jaw abrading her skin delightfully.

“What way?” she asked, even as pleasant little tremors echoed through her body.

He stared at the ceiling for a moment as though searching for an answer. “Extraordinary. In every sense of the word.”

The compliment warmed her. “I'll fetch you a towel.”

On her way to the washstand she stepped over Will's boots, scooped a sheet off of the floor and wrapped it under her arms.

“Forgive me for saying so,” he said, “but your bedchamber appears to have been ransacked.”

She wrung out the towel over the basin and tossed it to him. “I fear it was. And for once, the twins are not to blame for the mess.” Flopping on the bed beside him, she sighed happily. She had no idea how long the glow of their lovemaking would last, but she intended to enjoy it while it did.

With a chuckle, he washed up, returned the towel, and extracted the coverlet from the mountain of clothes on the floor. When he rejoined her, he snapped the bedspread in the air and let it billow down on them, forming their own little cocoon. She snuggled close to him, committing this moment to memory.

Years from now, she'd think back and recall what this night had felt like. He had made her feel beautiful and respected and special. Like he cared for her as more than a childhood friend, or a governess, or a lonely wallflower. In baring herself to him, she'd discovered both a power and vulnerability that she'd never known she possessed.

And no matter what happened tomorrow, that knowledge would change her forever.

 

Chapter
TWENTY-ONE

 

Will would have given anything to know what Meg was thinking. When he'd climbed through her window a few hours ago, she'd been shaking with rage. And now … well, now she seemed content. Blissful, even.

She fit perfectly next to him, her lithe legs twining with his, her hand splayed over his chest. Everything about that night—at least
after
she'd interrogated him about his ex-mistress—had felt right and exhilarating and true. This was unchartered territory.

And it scared the hell out of him.

He wanted nothing so much as to hold her, sleep, and pleasure her once more before morning. But since there was no telling when he'd have the chance to speak with her privately again, and since he'd nearly broken his neck in order to do so, he needed to seize the moment.

“I never told you why I knocked on your door earlier tonight.”

She raised her head and arched a brow at him. “When a gentleman knocks on a young woman's door in the middle of the night, it's rather easy to discern his mission. I trust you accomplished yours?”

“Vixen.” He ravished her mouth with a kiss, already hungry for her again. “I confess your poor opinion of me is somewhat warranted. However, I really
did
want to speak with you tonight.”

“Very well,” she said, tracing lazy, swirling patterns on his chest with a fingertip. “You have my undivided attention.”

“I wish to apologize for my mother's behavior this afternoon. And for Lady Rebecca's. They had no right to malign you or your uncle.”

“No,” she said soberly. “They did not.”

“I do not know Lady Rebecca well, but I cannot think what possessed my mother to forget her manners.”

“I am well aware of my reputation. Your mother and Lady Rebecca simply gave voice to the unkind barbs that others only dare to whisper behind my back. I must give them credit for that.”

“They do not deserve any credit at all. But I would like to give them a chance to make amends for their deplorable conduct.”

Her finger froze mid-spiral, and she looked up at him, wary. “What do you mean?”

Christ, this wasn't going to be easy. He sat up, and she did the same, leaning against the padded headboard. With the coverlet clutched to her chest and glorious curls tumbling around her shoulders, she was the portrait of sensuality. Damn it, he had to focus.

“I'm hosting a dinner party here, on Thursday evening. My mother and Lady Rebecca will be in attendance.”

She stiffened. “The twins and I will be sure to stay out of their way this time.”

“You misunderstand. I don't want you to stay out of sight,” he said. “I wish for you to attend the dinner party—as my guest.”

“Will, I…” She gaped at him as though he'd lost his mind. “I think that would be a
terrible
idea. For many reasons.”

“I disagree. Once they have the chance to better know you, they will revise their opinions and realize the error of their ways.”

“And I thought
I
was naïve,” she muttered.

“You don't believe in giving people second chances?” he asked.

“I don't believe in subjecting myself to unnecessary ridicule,” she tossed back, but he was almost certain that her indifference was a mask for hurt.

“I would never permit them to mock you,” he said earnestly. “Not under my roof.”

“I know. You defended me earlier today.” She shot him a wobbly, grateful smile. “But a dinner party is not going to convince your mother and Lady Rebecca to change their opinions of me … no matter how much you might wish it to.”

He reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers. “What if I asked you to attend the dinner party on Thursday … for me?”

A small, vertical line appeared between her brows, and she swallowed hard. “Why is it so important to you?”

Why, indeed? Because now, more than ever, he wanted a future with her. And if there was to be any chance of that, he needed to know she could mingle with his family and friends and host parties and be comfortable moving about in his world. “I care about you. My mother is the only close family I have left, and for all her faults, I care about her, too. I would like the two of you to get along—or at least be on civil terms.”

She stared at him for the space of several heartbeats, then exhaled. “How many guests?”

He smiled. “No more than eight.”

“Very well. I cannot believe I'm agreeing to this, but I shall attend, as a favor to you—on one condition.”

“And what is that?” He planted a kiss on the inside of her wrist.

“You must invite my friend Charlotte, so that I'll have an ally there—and so that I won't be the only governess at the table.”

“Done. I'll invite her and Torrington. You see? That was shockingly easy.” And yet she still frowned as though troubled. “What else concerns you?”