Shameless (22 page)

He lifted his head to look at her. “Touch me,” he whispered. “Put your hands on me.”

She realized she’d been lying there like a virgin bride, clutching the sheets in her fists. She released them, slowly lifting her hands to touch his shoulders. They were rock hard with tension, and there was no shirt to cling to, only warm, smooth flesh. He seemed satisfied, though, and lowered his mouth again, this time to her other nipple, and she wanted to cry out, to beg him. She didn’t, because she had no idea what she’d beg him for.

He pulled his mouth back, and ran his tongue across the distended peak, causing her to gasp in reaction. And then he blew on the dampness, cool in the heated air, and her fingers dug into his shoulders as she squirmed on the mattress in mindless need.

“Let’s get this over and done with,” he muttered, climbing off the bed to reach for the fastening of his breeches.

She didn’t plan to look. She knew she should be curious, but both Thomas and Wilfred had been so secretive about their…rods that she suspected there was something shameful about them. But Benedick had already stripped, and it was too late to look away. She simply stared in awe.

He was magnificent. His torso and legs were long and lean, muscled and strong. He didn’t have the thick mat of hair that had covered seemingly every inch of her husband’s body. His chest was smooth, with just a bit of hair in the middle, moving in a line down below his waist, setting off the jutting erection he somehow thought was going to fit inside her.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re too big.”

He laughed then. “There’s something to be said for having such an ingenuous lover.
Merci du compliment
. It will fit.”

She opened her mouth to protest but he simply silenced her with his tongue, climbing onto the bed beside her, and started pushing off the rest of the nightgown.

“You really want me naked?” she whispered, still uncertain.

“I really want you naked,” he said, moving his mouth to the sensitive skin between her neck and shoulder, biting her gently as his hands divested her of the voluminous nightgown. And now they were both naked in the bed, and she knew there really was no going back.

It should have frightened her. Instead it empowered her, and she reached up to touch his long, thick
hair, as she’d wanted to do countless times before, letting her fingers sift through the silk strands, wishing she could bring it to her mouth, to taste it.

His mouth was moving down, kissing her, licking her, biting her, and she arched up in delight, wanting something, not sure what it was.

“For God’s sake, would you please touch me?” he said in a strangled voice.

She blinked. “But I am touching you.”

“I mean my cock.”

It took her a moment to realize what he meant. He took her hand, drawing it down his chest, and she shivered in delight, entranced with the feel of his hot skin. And then he placed it around him, the hard, silken part of him, and she tried to pull her hand away in sudden shyness.

He held her there, wrapping his fingers around hers, so that she had no choice. She cupped him, and he drew their hands up and down the rigid length of him, and she heard him groan in pleasure.

“How do you feel?” he whispered in her ear, his voice rough.

She was so caught up in the feel of him that it took her a moment. “Afraid,” she said finally. “A little bit.”

“And…?”

“And restless. Needy. Wanting,” she said, shocked at herself.

He kissed her. “That’s good. Anything else?” He kept moving their hands in unison.

“And…and wet,” she said, knowing she was
blushing. The one candle that still burned offered little illumination, just enough to embarrass her.

He smiled then, and kissed her again, full and openmouthed. “Good… You’ve had me hard for days. It’s only fair that I should make you wet.”

“But…but…”

His hand released hers, but she didn’t let go. Instead her grip loosened and her fingertips touched him, glanced across the hot skin, the rigid, protruding veins, the flared head. It still seemed mysterious, but as she let her fingers learn him she felt reaction shudder through his strong body.

He moved then, pulling away from her, lying on his side next to her, watching her out of hooded eyes. She had the sudden fear that she’d hurt him, offended him, but the intent look on his face made her skin heat.

“Relax, sweet Charity,” he said softly. “I’m just going to make sure you’re ready.” His hand covered her stomach, warm and strong, and she shivered in response, as he moved it down, between her legs, his fingers slipping through the curls, into the wetness, and he closed his eyes, smiling. “Oh, my precious, you most definitely are ready. I had so many other things in mind, but I’m afraid I’m simply going to have to take you now. I’ll have to lick you another time.”

“But you did. My breasts.”

“Not there,” he said, brushing against her hard nipples. “Here.” And his fingers slid inside her.

She arched up in shock, crying out. He stroked
her, slowly, spreading the wetness around, and then he moved between her legs, and she tensed, knowing what was coming, knowing it was going to be miserable.

The touch of him against her silenced her, stilled her. She was trembling, trying to hide it, but lying naked beneath a man made subterfuge almost impossible. “I’ll stop if it hurts you,” he said, pushing against her. “We’ll go slow. Just tell me how it feels.”

She trusted him. She’d forgotten that salient point—she trusted him. She nodded, unable to speak, bracing herself, and his smile was so sweet it almost shattered her. “No, my love. This isn’t a torture chamber. Relax.”

“I c-c-can’t,” she stammered, shivering despite the warm of the air.

“I’ll help.” And leaning forward, he bit the top of her breast, just hard enough to shock her into loosening her muscles. At that he pushed into her, so hard, so big, and she should tell him to stop, tell him that it hurt.

And it did hurt. Just a little bit. So little that the pain was almost a kind of pleasure, and she shifted, lifting her hips, needing more of him.

“Am I hurting you?” His mouth was against her ear.

“More,” she said, her voice ragged. “Please. More.”

He held himself still for a moment, and then he pushed, slid deep, filling her, and she cried out, arching against him, taking him.

He began to thrust, slowly at first, watching her,
and she knew he was afraid of hurting her. She wanted to scream at him, to demand, to beg. Did she want him to leave her body? Did she want him to slam into her? She needed something, so desperately, and she didn’t know how to reach it.

His hands cupped her hips, angling them. He continued to thrust, ignoring her efforts to speed him, slow and hard and deep, each push one more claim on her body, and she felt the darkness began to bubble beneath her skin, felt the need blossom and grow and spread through her body, reaching every inch of her skin, tiny pinpricks of reaction. It wasn’t too late, she thought desperately. She could make him stop. She didn’t have to go to this terrifying place he was taking her, where nothing existed but the man inside her, their bodies joined, sweating, slapping together. There was no escape, she didn’t want to escape, but she kept fighting, pushing it away.

“Stop it, Melisande,” he growled in her ear. “Take it. Claim it.”

“No,” she sobbed.

“Take it,” he said again, hard inside her, slamming into her so that the bed shook and her body trembled and she knew she would break apart, and she couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop…

She froze, as an endless, keening delight stiffened her body and tore away the last of her defenses. She felt him cry out, spill inside her, and she welcomed it all, the wet heat of his seed, the shaking of his body,
the crazy-mad delight that caught her in its grip, so tightly she thought she would never unravel.

And then it loosened its hold, and she fell back on the bed, panting, weeping, taken and destroyed. He collapsed on top of her, his chest heaving, and she could still feel him inside her; she still shivered around him in her fading response.

He released her then, rolling to his side, and she was suddenly so cold. Covered in ice, she thought dizzily, knowing she had to get away. She’d been wrong, he’d been right. This was a terrible idea. Because she’d needed him too much, and the having, and the letting go, were too painful.

She wondered if her legs would support her if she tried to get out of bed. Men fell asleep afterward, didn’t they? How long could she safely wait?

And then, to her surprise, he pulled her into his arms, tucking her close against him. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said sleepily. “We’ve only just begun.”

She didn’t question him. She would stay there as long as he’d have her. Lie in his arms to the break of day and beyond. Anything he wanted.

And while she waited for him to fall asleep, she drifted off herself, lost in exhausted oblivion.

B
enedick lay on his back in the slowly gathering dawn. His body felt so richly sated that any move on his part would require superhuman effort, and he had no intention of attempting it. He felt…he could think of no adequate word for it.
Confused
was inadequate,
shattered
too emotional when he was a man who eschewed emotions. He lay in his own bed, the bed he’d never shared with anyone, and listened to her breathe, deep in sleep. He’d worn her out, as he’d planned to. He’d taken her to places she had no idea existed, again and again. He’d taken her hard, he’d taken her fast. He’d made love to her with heartbreaking tenderness. She was the one who was supposed to be shattered.

Instead she slept, and he lay beside her, his mind in turmoil.

Damn her. He should have simply shagged her the first chance he had, and those occasions had been numerous. He’d recognized the sensuous nature be
neath her practical exterior, and it would have taken very little effort to have her and then dismiss her. He had no interest in a long-term mistress, and there was no reason why he should be hard again after last night, wanting her, unaccountably furious with her for sleeping so soundly.

He forced himself to move, slipping from the bed and heading into his dressing room. The dim light from the early dawn gave just enough light for him to see her discarded clothes on the slipper chair, and he gathered them up once he’d pulled on his thick wool banyan. He came back into the now-chilly bedroom and looked down at her.

She looked like a child, an innocent, sweetly sleeping, though he knew for a fact that she had to be at least thirty years of age. Even if he were insane enough to consider marrying she would be the last person he would choose. She was too old to be of prime childbearing age, and since she’d spent ten years of married life without conceiving she was most likely barren. His only reason for considering marriage was to provide an heir, and Melisande Carstairs wasn’t the way to do it.

He was better off with her as far away as possible. There was no earthly reason for the sex to have been as disturbing as it was. She had no skills, no experience; he’d had to coax her and please her when he was used to being the one who needed to be pleased. She was simply wrong; he’d always known it, and the impossible hours they’d just passed simply proved it.

And the longer he stared down at her, the harder he became.

He dumped the clothes on top of her, and she awoke with a start, momentarily disoriented. She sat up, realized she was naked and quickly pulled her discarded clothes against her body, covering herself. Her eyes narrowed as she saw him, and a rich color rose to her cheeks, suffusing them, and he could see her mouth, soft, tremulous, uncertain.

“I would suggest you dress and return home before it’s full light,” he said, his voice clipped and distant.

“Why?”

Damn the woman! Didn’t she know a dismissal when she heard one? He needed her dressed and out of there, before he changed his mind and threw away everything he’d planned so carefully.

“I wouldn’t want the gaggle to jump to any conclusions.”

“What kind of conclusions might they jump to?”

He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to wrap his hands around her neck and hold her still while he kissed her. “That this was anything more than a momentary lapse on your part and a mistake on mine. I’ve done my duty, aided in your education, and now you’re free to apply that knowledge in a more suitable direction.”

She was very still. No expression crossed her face, but then, she was good at hiding her reactions. He wondered if that was pain in her dark blue eyes. If
so, that was a good thing. It would make the lesson stick.

“Indeed,” she said finally. “Have you already taught me everything you know?”

It was a worthy comeback, and he fought his admiration. “All that you’re capable of assimilating. I believe I made myself clear. If there was a chance in hell I’d ever find myself harboring any kind of feelings for you I wouldn’t have succumbed to the very ripe temptation you offered. Awkwardness and enthusiasm is an interesting change now and then, and I won’t deny I enjoyed myself, but in general I prefer a more sophisticated pleasure. Go find some earnest young man who’ll share your charitable activities and leave me alone.”

She blinked. Such a small reaction to his deliberately brutal words, and he wanted more. He wanted to lash out at her, to cause her the same consternation that she’d caused him. But she simply looked at him for a long moment, and he had the odd feeling that she was taking his cruel words and translating them in her brain, as if from a foreign language.

“I see,” she said after a moment. “Perhaps you would be so good as to summon your carriage to drive me home? Or would you prefer I take a hackney?”

He refused to flush. “My carriage will be at your disposal, madam.”

“And would you also allow me to dress in private? I find I have no interest in displaying my body in front of you.”

“Trust me, it would have no effect on me,” he said, ignoring his damned erection. In truth, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to continue with this if he saw her naked once more. The curve of her pale breasts; the soft, perfumed skin; the tawny curls between her legs…the very thought made him break out in a cold sweat.

“And what about the Heavenly Host?”

He had already turned toward the door. “You may trust me to take care of the situation.”

“But I don’t,” she said softly. “I don’t trust you.”

He remembered her words from the night before. She’d told him she’d chosen him because she trusted him. He’d managed to do an effective job of smashing that trust. “Very wise. But I give you my word—there will be no murders on the night of the full moon.”

She didn’t respond. She merely looked at him, seemingly calm and unmoved, and yet he remembered her body clenching his, remembered the shuddering climax that had shaken them both. He could see the mark his mouth had made at the top of one breast, and knew there would be others on her sensitive skin. He remembered when she had sunk her teeth into his shoulder rather than cry out, and the spur that tiny bit of pain had forced.

“Goodbye, my lord.”

Even then he wanted to change his mind. Wanted to cross the room in two swift strides, pull her back into his arms and kiss her senseless. Wanted to bury
his aching cock in her sweet, welcoming body, drinking in the richness of her response.

He gave her a nod, and left the room, before he made an even bigger disaster of his life than he already had.

She pushed the covers back, looking down at her body. She was damp and sticky between her legs—the last time he’d been too tired to do anything more than collapse on top of her, and they’d slept. Or so she thought. He’d washed her the other times, gently ministering to her, and she’d let him. Foolish, foolish woman.

The room was cold, the fire out, and she looked down to see her nipples puckered against the icy air. There was a red mark on her breast, another on her thigh, and she closed her eyes for a moment, remembering.

She was made of sterner stuff than that, she reminded herself, opening them again. This was all working out for the best. She’d chosen Benedick Rohan for one reason and one reason alone. He was purportedly a brilliant lover. If the previous night was any judge of his skills, he’d been sadly underestimated. He was
astonishing
. So good that even with his cruel words echoing in her ears she’d still lie down for him if he wanted her.

So now she knew. The pleasures of the flesh were, in fact, desirable, and how much more delightful they’d be with someone she loved. She could now search out a good, decent man to marry and, per
haps with a miracle, bear children. She wanted to be a mother. She now had enough information to ensure that the next man she fell in love with would be able to bring her pleasure, as well. She needed to get home swiftly, to make notes as to what had been most pleasurable so she wouldn’t forget, and then she would instruct her future husband….

There was a strange, choking noise in the room, and she looked around her, appalled, then realized the sound came from her own throat. She swallowed, convulsively, shoving the pain back. She was being ridiculous.

She washed swiftly with the now-icy bowl of water before dressing. She was shaking from the cold, and perhaps something else, but she wasn’t going to consider that possibility. When she finally rose to her feet, her ankle almost gave way beneath her, and she welcomed the pain, a distraction from what she refused to consider.

Her cloak lay across the chair by the dead coals, and she wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling the hood up over her face. She found the walking stick she used to help her perambulate, then opened the door, half afraid she’d see him again. She wasn’t quite sure she’d manage to keep her icy calm much longer if she had to look at him again. Into his dark green eyes, cool and assessing, at his beautiful, distant face.

Someone was waiting for her, and she almost jumped when she recognized Rohan’s majordomo. “Your ladyship,” he said, his voice soft and inex
pressibly kind. “Your carriage is waiting. I’ve had it brought to the side portico—there’s less of a distance for you to walk on your bad ankle.”

“That’s very kind of you.” She struggled for a moment, then remembered his name. “Richmond,” she added, and was rewarded with his smile.

“It’s my honor, your ladyship. May I offer you my arm?”

She took it. She didn’t want to lean on him, didn’t want his kindness, but she really had no choice. They made their way down the flights of stairs with stately grace, and the pain was a welcome distraction from that stronger, bleaker pain inside her. By the time he handed her into Rohan’s town carriage she was biting her lip to keep from crying out, a film of sweat covering her forehead. She’d been an idiot, as always. If she’d simply stayed home, as Rohan had instructed her, this never would have happened. She would be in happy ignorance of the wonders of the flesh, and she could continue to think of Rohan as an annoyingly attractive thorn in her side.

She sat very still on the seat as she was conveyed the short distance to King Street, and she directed the coachman to take her around the back, to the garden entrance, rather than up the twelve steep marble steps to the front door. She was handed down with great care, far more care than Rohan had ever shown toward her, and she limped up onto the terrace, pushing open the French doors that led to what had once been a salon and now served as a sewing room. The
house was still and quiet, the gaggle still asleep in their chaste beds, while she had been carousing.

She couldn’t think of them as the gaggle any longer. That had been his term for them, and he was no longer any part of her life. She moved into the deserted hallway, glancing up at the interminable flights of stairs.

She couldn’t face them. She went into the front room, where she and Emma both had desks, and sank down on the chaise, leaning back and closing her eyes. The morning was still and quiet and beautiful, and she had a new life to begin. What a glorious morning, how delighted she was with her little experiment, and how good it was that Rohan had retained his boredom with her while proffering her exquisite, sublime pleasure.

Indeed, life couldn’t be much better.

“Are you crying, miss?” A small, anxious voice came from the general vicinity of the banked fire, and Melisande made a damp, choking noise as a bundle of rags emerged from the shadows. It took a moment for her vision to clear through her streaming tears, and she saw Betsey’s bright young face, creased in uncharacteristic worry as she looked up at her.

For a moment Melisande’s voice refused to obey her. She struggled, then managed to come out with something faintly akin to a conversational tone. “My ankle is paining me, Betsey.”

“Yes, miss.”

Betsey was still proving remarkably stubborn
when it came to proper forms of address, and Melisande knew she should instruct her in the proper form.
Your ladyship
for a titled female,
miss
for an untitled one. On no account was she a miss, and yet Betsey persisted, possibly because the only comfort and safety she’d known had been provided by a miss long ago.

Melisande swiftly wiped the dampness away from her cheeks. “What are you doing up so early, Betsey?”

Betsey moved into the light, and Melisande could see that the child had been crying as well, and her own heart turned over. “I couldn’t sleep, miss. I curl up down here when I can’t. That way, when Aileen comes back, she’ll be able to find me right away.”

It took all Melisande’s self-control not to wail. Aileen wasn’t coming back; of that one thing she was absolutely certain. Whether the Heavenly Host had murdered her, or Aileen had simply run off to a place where she didn’t have to work quite so hard, Melisande didn’t know. She only knew she wouldn’t be back.

“You need your bed, child.”

“You do, as well, your ladyship.”

Melisande smiled briefly. For once Betsey had got it right. “I’ll tell you what. You and I will both go up to our beds. I’ll leave word with Mrs. Cadbury that you’re to be allowed to sleep late today, and by the time we’re both up and dressed we’ll both be feeling much better. Does that sound like a good idea?”

Betsey looked at her doubtfully. “I don’t think I’ll
be feeling better until Aileen comes back. I don’t know what I can do if she doesn’t come home.” She yawned unselfconsciously, and for the first time that morning Melisande felt like smiling.

“You can stay here for as long as you want to,” she said, and paused. “If Aileen doesn’t come back, you still have more than twenty women who’ll be your older sisters.”

“Not Cook,” Betsey said judiciously. “She says I get in the way. She’s more like a mum. But she says I might not be a total disaster in the kitchen.”

Melisande did smile then. “That’s good news. If you learn to cook you’ll always have a job.”

“Violet says working’s harder than lying on your back. I think she’s wrong, though.”

“She is wrong. If you don’t feel like sleeping, you could go down to the kitchens. Cook is usually awake by now, starting the bread. She could use the help.”