My Unfair Lady (31 page)

HE KEPT HIS BACK TO HER, HEARING HER PANTING over the lash of the rain against the windows, and he steeled himself from his reaction to her excitement. She must come to him. He peeled the wet coat from his body, stripped off his cravat, and forced off the linen cloth of his shirt from where it stuck to his back. The fire warmed his face and chest, yet he barely felt the contrast of the coldness of the room behind him because of her gaze. She watched his every move, and he could feel the heat of her stare behind him.

   He unbuttoned his trousers and rolled the wet cloth off his hips, bending over when it reached his knees, grinning when she gasped at the sight of his bare bottom. He stepped out of the wet puddle of cloth and clenched his fists, physically fighting the need to turn around, to hold out his arms to her in invitation. Instead he stepped onto the softness of the bearskin rug and lay down on his side, his bottom leg straight, the other bent upward, letting his shaft rest against his inner thigh, the hard weight of it throbbing against that sensitive skin. He held his head up with one hand and let the fingers of his other stroke the fur while he stared into the fire, and waited.

   She still panted. She moved about the room; he could hear the swish of her skirts even though the softness of her tread was, as usual, uncannily silent. She stopped at the locked door three times, spun, and crossed the room only to return to it again. His ears strained for the sound of the latch being turned, the click as she unlocked the door, and for one dreadful moment he thought she'd leave.

   And then he felt the hem of her skirt brushing his bare back, and he started to breathe again.

   "Byron?"

   He clenched the fur in a sudden fist.

   She fumbled at her buttons, he heard the rip of fabric, raised a brow at the creative American curses that issued from her sweet lips. He felt the slight breeze that her gown made as it landed on the floor. She stepped over his back, between him and the fire, and knelt. Again she questioned him with his name, and he fought not to look into her eyes.

   She placed her hot little hand on his chest, and he obligingly rolled over, then laced his fingers behind his head with an air of nonchalance that felt difficult to maintain as he looked up at her, the swell of her breasts the most erotic thing he'd ever seen. His shaft jumped, and her eyes widened, her mouth parted, and she bent her head and molded her lips against his own.

   When her tongue entered his mouth, he curled his own around it and she snapped her head back, her silky skin marred with a frown. Then her eyes lit, the corners of her mouth tilted upward in a wicked expression that barely resembled a grin, and she kissed him again.

   He could feel his arms shake as he fought to keep them from wrapping around her. His fingers ached to touch the nipples that lightly brushed against his chest. Trying to teach her something about herself was painful for him. He had a hopeful thought that maybe he'd gone about this all wrong. After all, the girl had been a virgin when he'd taken her, she'd never had a man before, how would she even know what to do?

   She looped her leg over his hips as if mounting a horse and rubbed the wetness of her opening up and down his shaft. When she scooted forward, his shaft sought her entry as surely as a bee sought honey, so that with barely a wiggle and a twist on her part, the head of his shaft was poised to enter her quicker than he would have thought possible.

   "Say it." He meant it as a command. It sounded like a plea.

   She bent and kissed him again, plunging her tongue deep inside his mouth, telling him without words what she wanted to do. She managed to bury the tip of him just inside her folds, forcing him to release his death grip on the back of his head to grab the cheeks of her bottom. His hands nearly encompassed all her flesh, and he held her still, turning his head to the side to break their kiss.

   She bucked, and he held on.

   "Tarnation, what do you want me to say?" she snapped.

   "That you want me. That I'm not seducing you. That you've never wanted a man as much as you want me right now. This moment. And forever."

   The glazed look faded from her eyes, and she seemed to be looking inside of herself. At least, he hoped so.

   "Yes, I want you. Let me have you, Byron. Let me take you as you took me by the pond."

   He wanted to hold out for the "forever" part. But he couldn't. The woman had broken his will, sitting astride him, her breasts a work of art, her opening wet and hot and teasing him past all endurance.

   He dropped his hands.

   Summer rose up on her knees, pulling his shaft straight up with her, still slightly surrounded by her folds, and he dropped his hands again to his side. She plunged herself down, the tight, perfect wetness surrounding and squeezing him until his mind went blank and he tore fistfuls of bear fur from the rug to stop from touching her. She continued to move up and down, pulling his shaft out of her and then plunging it in again, as if to repeat that first, pleasurable jolt of entry.

   He had wanted her to take him, hadn't he? To prove to her how much she desired him?

   The problem was that he desired her just as much, if not more. And her movements were slow and languid, driving him beyond any reasonable man's endurance. With a low growl, he grabbed her hips, his fingers pressed into the smooth cheeks of her bottom, and held himself deep inside of her, until she stopped fighting that slow torture of him.

   They stared at each other, two people joined as one, and he hoped that she felt the same sense of completeness, the absolute rightness, that came from their loving. That she'd never want another man but him.

   Still keeping himself deep inside, he began to move her hips back and forth, grinding her against him, until her eyes widened with surprise and she leaned her body slightly forward, causing her nub to stroke the skin of his pelvis as well.

   "Oh," she murmured, straightening her legs a bit so that she half lay, half crouched atop him.

   Byron could feel the muscles in his arms bulging as he took full control of her body, pulling her backward and forward, with an increased rhythm that had her breasts bouncing and rubbing across his chest, exciting him more, causing him to grit his teeth to hold back his own explosion of pleasure until Summer reached hers.

   But he couldn't hold it back and he felt himself explode inside her, with only enough control over his brain to realize, with relief, that she'd stiffened with the pleasure of her own release at the same time. This made his own pleasure multiply tenfold, and he continued to experience waves of bliss longer than he would've thought possible.

   Byron slid his arms up her bare back and enfolded her in his embrace with a tenderness that he'd never felt before. "Do you really think it's going to feel this way with that Monte fellow?" he whispered into her ear. "I've been with enough women, madam, to assure you it will not. What we've found within each other is rare and unique." He lovingly kissed the bottom of her earlobe and smiled when she shivered.

   Byron continued to murmur nonsense words of love until the sleep that threatened to overwhelm him eventually did, and he wasn't aware that he'd drifted off until she started to wiggle out of his arms. Summer did it with a stealth that made him realize that she didn't want him to wake, so he pretended to be asleep until she'd dressed and left the room, the faint sound of the door closing behind her feeling like a slap in his face.

   The Duke of Monchester sighed and rolled over, staring gloomily into the fire. He'd made her realize that she wanted him—physically, anyway—but it wouldn't be enough. If he hadn't overheard the conversation between her and his son, he wouldn't even know that she still wasn't his. But he had, and therein lay his problem… and his advantage. Even though she'd killed a man in self-defense, it was obvious to him that she'd never forgiven herself, to the point that she wanted to become another person entirely, in an attempt to leave that other Summer behind.

   But he wanted that other Summer, and he lay awake for most of the night, planning on ways to make her his. After all, she'd never get presented to the Queen with the bumbling attempts he'd made to make her acceptable to society, and she wouldn't return to New York until she'd accomplished her goal. So he had plenty of time to make her realize that she didn't need to run away from herself, or her past. Just into his arms.

   She rose with a curse and splashed her face with the frigid water laid out on the washstand, wincing a little when she wiped the cloth over the rest of her body. She encountered several tender places from her loving of the duke.

   
Oh yes
, she thought to herself. He'd certainly taught her a lesson last night, one that she couldn't afford to ignore any longer. Her body wanted that man, even when her brain told her not to go anywhere near him. He was like having chocolate in the house; if it was there, she'd eat it.

   A very grumpy Meg helped her to dress. Although her maid's head had healed, her humor had not, and she'd flatly refused to accompany Summer back to London; any penchant she'd had for adventure had been snuffed out of her by that drive over the cliff. She tended the animals with her usual kindness and helped Cook in the kitchen, but when Summer had written to Maria, Meg had sent her own letter to Sandringham requesting her former position back.

   Meg took the animals and left the room to help Cook prepare breakfast, leaving Summer alone to stare at the little desk where the letter that Maria had written her still lay unopened. She'd been too afraid to read it yesterday, but took a deep breath and knew that she needed the answer even more today. The duke had made that apparent last night.

   She tore it open and read the childish scrawl of Maria's answer to her and smiled with relief. Her friend had agreed to cut short her pleasant visit with the Baron of Hanover and accompany Summer back to London. And yes, she'd also help her find another sponsor. But once they'd achieved their goal of getting Summer presented to the Queen, Maria had every intention of accepting the proposal of Lord Balkett and would not be returning to New York with her.

   Summer crumpled the letter in her hand and paced the room. So far, all she'd accomplished by coming to London was losing her best friend. And she couldn't blame the duke for failing at making her acceptable to society; too much of it had been her own fault. She'd come to England to become another person, and she hadn't even tried. She could've learned to ride that ridiculous sidesaddle, she should've ignored the suffering of those birds—just like the rest of the aristocrats. Foxes were to be hunted, not to be kept as pets, and a real lady would never carry a knife.

   Before she could change her mind, she reached down and unstrapped the sheath from around her calf, only fondling the grip of the knife for a moment before tossing it into her trunk. With grim determina tion she began to pack her clothing, vowing to leave for London this morning, even if she had to walk. Even if the duke refused to let her go.

   A little twist of fear knotted her belly. What if he didn't stop her from going?

   
Stop it,
she told herself. Of course she didn't want him to stop her. He liked her just fine the way she was. To him, she'd always be that miner's girl who had shot a claim jumper. And she didn't want to be that girl anymore.

   Summer swept down the stairs, her steps faltering as she reached the kitchen entryway, hearing the laughter of Lionel and Cook. And Byron. How could she go off and leave them? What would they do without her?

   She fox-walked to the door and peeked around the corner, her brown eyes widening in surprise. The duke sat on the floor with Lionel, both of them wiping tears of laughter from their eyes, Cook beaming down, and even surly Meg grinning with delight.

   Then Summer saw the cat and gasped. "What in tarnation…" she muttered as she entered the room.

   "Oh, Summer," crowed Lionel. "See what my father made for Hunter? Now I don't have to carry him around anymore; he can get about all on his own."

   "I see that," she replied, crouching to get a better look at the contraption that surrounded the cat. The critter's back end was strapped to a box with wheels; all he had to do was move his front legs, and the wheels turned and his back end followed. Hunter kept turning to sniff at the thing behind him. Summer felt surprised that the cat hadn't tried to twist out of the confining bindings, but the animal seemed to understand and even appreciate the contraption, making dashes across the room, and then stopping to lick at a paw as if nothing unusual hung from his rear.

   "Very clever," remarked Summer, meeting Byron's eyes, and then wishing she hadn't.

   "Lionel and I both worked on it," he replied, looking at his son with pride.