One Good Earl Deserves a Lover (31 page)

For the sister he could not save, whose life he’d destroyed.

For the brother whose life he’d taken as surely as if he’d crashed the damn carriage himself.

“It’s not your fault,” she said again. “You couldn’t have known.”

He’d thought the words a hundred times. A million. But they never comforted. “If Baine were earl . . . he would have heirs. He would have sons. He would have the life he deserved.”

“The life you deserve as well.”

The words came on a vision of that life. Of those little blond, bespectacled girls and laughing boys capturing frogs in the heat of a Devonshire summer. Of their mother.
Of his wife.
“That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t deserve it. I stole it from him. I robbed it from him while I was in the arms of his mistress.”

She stilled at the words. “His mistress. That’s why you didn’t touch me. Didn’t kiss me. Why you don’t . . . with other women.”
How the hell did she know that?
She answered before he could ask the question. “The lady at the card table . . . and Miss Tasser . . . they both implied that . . .”

Dammit
. “Did they.” It was not a question.

She pinned him with that knowing blue gaze. “Is it true?”

He could lie. He’d spent half a decade convincing London that he hadn’t stopped the rakish behavior. That he’d made women his life’s work. He could lie, and she’d never discover the truth.

But he did not want to lie to her. Not about this. “It’s been six years.”

“Since you’ve lain with a woman?”

He did not speak, and the truth was in the silence.

She pressed on, eyes wide. “Since you’ve lain with
any
woman?”

She sounded so shocked. “Any woman.”

“But . . . your reputation. You’re a legendary lover!”

He inclined his head. “I told you that you should not believe everything you hear in ladies’ salons.”

“Forgive me, but if I remember correctly, you did divest me of my clothes without the use of your hands.”

The image of her in his office, draped over his chair, flashed. More welcome than he’d ever admit. He met her gaze. “Luck.”

“You don’t believe in it.”

She was incredible. His perfect match.

“Six years without touching a woman,” she said in awe.

He paused. “Until tonight.”

“Until me,” she breathed.

He wanted to share that breath, to touch her again. “I can’t stop myself with you.”

Her lips curved into a smile of utter feminine satisfaction, and Cross was instantly heavy and stiff, even as he renewed his vow not to take her. Not to lose himself in her. Not even now, when she owned him inch by unworthy inch.

“It is your punishment, then? Your penance? Celibacy?”

“Yes.” On her lips, it sounded idiotic. Celibacy had no place near Philippa Marbury. Not when she was so obviously made for him.

Fifteen minutes in an alcove at the Angel had not been enough.

A lifetime would not be enough.

“I cannot. Not with you, Pippa. You’re to be married.”

She hesitated, then whispered, “To another.”

He ached at the words. “Yes. To another.”

“Just as you are.”

“Yes.”
His ultimate penance.

She lifted one hand, settling the soft palm on his cheek and he could not resist capturing it with his own hand, holding her touch there. Savoring it. “Jasper.” His given name whispered through him, and he loved it on her lips. Wanted to hear it over and over again, forever. If he were another man, he might have a chance to.

But he had to leave her.

She was not his to touch.

“Jasper,” she whispered again, coming up on her bare toes, wrapping her other hand around his neck, pressing her beautiful body against him, nothing but a scrap of linen between his hands and her soft, lovely skin.

He shouldn’t.

Every inch of him ached for her—the product of too long a time without her followed by too brief a time with her. He wanted to lift her and throw her onto her bed and take her . . . just once.

It would never be enough.

“If you really want to save me . . .” she whispered, her lips disastrously close.

“I do,” he confessed. “God help me . . . I can’t bear the thought of you hurt.”

“But you have hurt me. You hurt me even now.” Her voice was low and soft, with a thread of irresistible wickedness he did not expect.

His hands came around her waist, adoring the heat of her through her night rail. “Tell me how to stop it,” he said . . . knowing the answer.

“Want me,” she said.

“I do.” He had wanted her since the moment he met her. Since before. “I want every inch of you . . . I want your mind and body and soul.” He hesitated, the words an ache in the room. “I have never wanted anything like you.”

Her fingers slid into his hair, tangling in the strands. “Touch me.”

He couldn’t deny her. He couldn’t resist looking back.

One glance. One night.

It was all he could have. It was more than he had ever deserved.

One night, and he’d leave her to her perfect, ideal world.

One night, and he would return to his Hell.

“I won’t ruin your life, Pippa. I won’t let you be destroyed.”

She pressed her lips to his, her soft skin making him mad, and whispered so quietly he almost didn’t hear it. “I love you.”

The words rocketed through him, and he couldn’t stop himself from lifting her into his arms and giving them both what they wanted. What would change everything and nothing at the same time. He lifted her against him, adoring the way she followed his lead, pressing herself to him, running her mouth across his jaw, setting him on fire.

She shouldn’t love him.

He wasn’t worth it.

Wasn’t worth
her
.

“You are a remarkable man,” she said, lips at his ear. “I cannot help it.”

One night would destroy him.

But there was no resisting her. Her brilliant mind. Her beautiful face.

There never had been.

Chapter Sixteen

H
e hadn’t touched a woman in six years. Had resisted them . . . until her.

Until now.

Until this moment, when he lifted her from her feet and carried her to the bed where she’d slept for her entire life, and lay her down, following her down with his heady, heavy weight, pinning her beneath him with long limbs and corded strength and the promise of a pleasure she had never known.

Eight days prior, she’d stood in his office and asked him to teach her about ruination; here, finally, was the lesson for which she had not known she’d asked. The one for which she was utterly, completely desperate.

He kissed her, entirely different than the one that shattered her thought and breath earlier in the evening, but equally devastating. This one was slow and lavish, a claiming of lips and tongue that had her clinging to him, instantly addicted to the pleasure that only he could give.

She sighed her satisfaction, and he captured the sound with another long, lush mating of lips and tongues before lifting his head and meeting her gaze in the candlelight. “You are the most incredible woman I’ve ever known,” he whispered. “You make me want to teach you every wicked, depraved thing I’ve ever done . . . ever dreamed.”

The words were pleasure and heat—threading through her fast and furious until she had to close her eyes at the sensation. He brushed his lips across one of her cheeks, leaning down to her ear. “Would you like that?”

She sighed her agreement, and said, “The room is spinning.”

His lips curved at her earlobe. “I thought I was the only one who noticed.”

She turned to face him. “What causes it?”

“My little scientist . . . if you have time to wonder about that, I am not doing my job well enough.”

And then she didn’t care if the room spun because the globe was off its axis, because his lips were on hers, and his hands were stroking up her legs, carrying the linen of her nightgown with them, and she wanted nothing more than to touch him in every place she could.

One long hand slid beneath the night rail, palming her bottom as he lifted his weight from her, before stroking fingers curved along her hip and urged her thighs apart.

When he settled between them, his hard heat pressing against her pulsing core, she thought she might die of the pleasure. She writhed against him, desperate to be closer to him, thinking of nothing but touching him, getting as close to him as she could.

He tore his lips from hers, gasping her name. Rocking against her once, twice, sending thick arcs of pleasure through her. He stilled above her, and she opened her eyes, instantly drawn to his beautiful grey gaze. He pressed his forehead to hers. “Shh, darling. I shall give you everything you wish . . . but you must be quiet . . . if your father hears . . . you shall be ruined.”

“I don’t care,” she whispered, rocking up against him again. And it was true. Ruination was worth it. She would be free of Castleton and could spend the rest of her life here, with Cross. In his den of sin. In his arms. Anywhere he liked.

He would never allow it.

The practical little voice whispered through her, and she pushed it away. Anything was possible now, tonight, with him. Tomorrow, she would face the rest of her life. But tonight . . . tonight was hers. Tonight was
theirs.

Tonight, there was no room for practical.

“Show me everything. Everything that you know. Everything that you like. Everything that you desire.”

He closed his eyes, a wash of something that could have been pleasure or pain chasing over his face, and she pushed herself up on her elbows, pressing against him, loving the feel of her breasts against his warm chest, loving the way her thighs cradled his lean hips and the heavy, hard, thickness of him was seated against the part of her that ached so much for him.

She rocked against him there, testing the way they fit, and he hissed at the movement, his eyes opening to narrow slits, grey gleaming pewter in the candlelight. “You will pay for that.”

She smiled. “You cannot fault me for experimentation.”

He laughed softly. “I cannot. After all, without that particular penchant, I would not have you here. Now.” He kissed her again, quick and intense. When they were both gasping for breath, he lifted his head again, and said, “How else can I help you with your research, my lady?”

She took a long moment, her gaze running over his beautiful face.
Stay with me,
she wanted to say.
Let me stay with you.

But she knew better. Instead, she lifted her hands to his chest, pushing the lapels of his coat to the side and pressing her palms flat against his waistcoat. “I believe my research would be well served if you were nude.”

He raised a ginger brow and did not move. “Do you?”

She raised a brow in retort, and he smirked, rolling off her and shucking his coat, waistcoat, and shirt before returning to the bed. “Does this help?”

“In point of fact, good sir,” she said, letting one hand fall to the smooth skin of his torso, loving the way he stiffened at the touch, “it does. But you are not nude.”

He pressed a kiss to her neck, letting his teeth scrape along delicate skin until she shivered and sighed. “Neither are you.”

“You never indicated a wish for me to be.”

He lifted his head and met her gaze. “Make no mistake, my lady. I wish you nude every moment of every day.”

Her eyes went wide. “That would make teas and balls awkward.”

His white teeth flashed, and she loved him more with the wicked smile. “No teas. No balls. Only this.”

His hand rose to punctuate the sentiment, carrying the linen of her night rail with it, sending it sailing across the room, landing on Trotula, who gave a startled snort. They both looked to the hound, and Pippa laughed. “Perhaps I should send her away?”

He met her gaze, grey eyes filled with amusement, his smile sending a thread of pleasure through her as pure and unbridled as any before. “Perhaps that would be best.”

Distracted by her task, she led the dog to the door, opening it just enough to shoo the beast through it. Closing the door, she turned back to him, taking in the long, muscled length of him on the bed, staring at her.

Waiting for her.

Perfection.

He was perfect, and she was bare before him, bathed in candlelight. She was instantly embarrassed—somehow more embarrassed than she had been that night in his office, when she’d touched herself under his careful guidance. At least then she’d been wearing a corset. Stockings.

Tonight, she wore nothing. She was all flaws, each one highlighted by his perfection. He watched her for a long moment before extending one muscled arm, palm up, an irresistible invitation.

She went to him without hesitation, and he rolled to his back, pulling her over his lovely, lean chest, staring up at her intently.

She covered her breasts in a wave of nerves and trepidation. “When you look at me like that . . . it’s too much.”

He did not look away. “How do I look at you?”

“I don’t know what it is . . . but I feel as though you can see into me. As though, if you could, you would consume me.”

“It’s want, love. Desire like nothing I’ve never experienced. I’m fairly shaking with it. Come here.” The demand was impossible to resist, carrying with it the promise of pleasure beyond her dreams. She went.

When she was close enough to touch, he lifted one hand, stroking his fingers along hers where they hid her breasts from view. “I tremble with need for you, Pippa. Please, love, let me see you.”

The request was raw and wretched, and she couldn’t deny him, slowly moving her hands to settle them on his chest, fingers splayed wide across the crisp auburn hair that dusted his skin. She was distracted by that hair, the play of it over muscle—the way it narrowed to a lovely dark line across his flat stomach.

He lay still as she touched him, his muscles firm and perfect. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, fingers stroking down his arms to his wrists.

His gaze narrowed on her. “I am happy you approve, my lady.”

She smiled. “Oh I do, my lord. You are a remarkable specimen.” White teeth flashed again as she gained her courage, retracing her touch, over his forearms, marveling in the feel of him, reciting from memory, “
flexor digitorum superficialis
,
flexor capri radialis
. . .” along his upper arms, “
biceps brachii
,
tricipitis brachii
. . .” over his shoulders, loving the way the muscles tensed and flexed beneath her touch, “
deltoideus
. . .” and down his chest, “
subscapularis
. . .
pectoralis major
. . .”

She stilled, brushing her fingers over the curve of that muscle, the landscape of him . . . the valleys of his body. He sucked in a breath as her fingers ran over the flat discs of his nipples, arching up to her touch, and she stilled, reveling in her power. He enjoyed her touch. He wanted it. She repeated the stroke, this time with her thumbs.

He hissed his pleasure, one wide hand falling to the inside of her knee, sending a river of heat through her. “Don’t stop now, love. This is the most effective seduction I’ve ever experienced.” He traced along the top of her knee. “Tell me . . . what is this?”

She took a deep breath. “The
vastus medialis
.”

“Mmm.” Fingers moved, higher. “And here?”

She shivered. “
Rectus femoris
.”

They slid to inside her thigh. “Clever girl . . . and here?”

“
Adductor longus
. . .”

And higher.

“
Gracilis
. . .”

She moved, breathless, spreading her legs to afford him better access, and he rewarded her, moving higher, barely stroking. “And here, love? What’s this?”

She shook her head, desperate for more. Struggled with words. “That’s not a muscle.”

He increased the touch, barely. Enough to drive her utterly mad. “No?”

“No.” She sighed.

The touch moved away, leaving an ache in its wake. “I see.”

She grabbed his hand in one hand. “Don’t stop.”

He laughed, the sound low and wicked, and levered himself up, taking her mouth in one of those long, maddening kisses, sucking and licking and claiming until she had lost herself in him . . . against him. And only then, when she was pressed against him once more, panting and nearly wild with heavy, tingling desire, did he give her the touch she craved.

He stroked against her pulsing flesh, soft, then firm, swirling and stroking and giving her precisely what she wanted. She gasped against his lips. “Jasper,” and he rewarded the soft cry, his thumb working a tight circle at the place where pleasure pooled.

It was coming again, that secret, sinful ecstasy that he’d showed her before . . . and she wanted it in his arms, against his warmth. With him.

With him.

“No.” She clasped his hand, staying his movements. “No . . . not without you.”

His gaze softened on her. “Lovely Pippa . . . I want you more than you can ever know . . . but I can’t take you. I can’t ruin you. I won’t.”

Frustration flared at the words. “I don’t care. I want it.”

He shook his head, his hand in that dark, devastating place. “You won’t want it. Not tomorrow. Not when you realize what you’ve done.”

She levered herself over him again, pressing a soft kiss to the high curve of his chest, adoring the feel of his groan beneath the caress. “I won’t regret it. I want it,” she whispered to the hair there. “If we cannot have . . .”
each other.
She did not say it. “I want
tonight.
” She lifted her head, aching with desire and need and the worst kind of love. “Please . . .” she begged him, her hands slipping down that trail of hair to the waist of his trousers. “Please, Jasper.”

He closed his eyes, the corded muscles in his neck stretching and tensing. “Pippa. I am trying to do right. To be honorable.”

The words came on a wave of understanding. He had once accused her of living in black and white, of thinking that everything was truth or lie. But in this moment, she understood grey. She saw that his right was so very wrong. That his honor would bring no comfort to either of them.

Tomorrow, he could have honor.

Tomorrow, everything could return to right and wrong. Up and down. Truth and lie.

But tonight, everything was different.

She leaned down, pressing her bare breasts to his bare chest, taking his lips in a long kiss—one she’d learned from him—refusing to let him pull away. Refusing to release him to the specter of his honor, she said, “
This
is right, Jasper. One night with you. My first night . . . my only night. Please.”

His hand came to her breast, and she sensed the conflict raging in him—loved him all the more for it. “You will regret it. You and your distaste for dishonesty.”

She wouldn’t. She knew it with unwavering certainty. “I will never regret this. I will never regret you.” It was only then that it occurred to her that it was true. That for the rest of her life, married to Castleton or ruined spinster, this night would be the greatest of her life. This moment would be one she savored forever.