For now wanting and liking would do, but his ultimate goal was Eleanor's heart and he meant to have it, as surely as he meant to give her his.
But at this moment his betrothed wanted to seduce him, and he planned to let her. "Straddle me," he instructed in a low tone. "Have your way with me."
She did as he bid. Her cheeks were flushed and her movements were a little awkward, but Brahm had never seen anything so erotic in his life as Eleanor hiking her skirts up around her pale thighs so that he could see her stockings and garters, and straddling his lap.
He was hard as a rock already.
She kissed him, her lips sweet and demanding, coaxing his tongue into mating with hers. Instinctively she knew how to arouse him. Once she gained more confidence and experience as his lover, she would be able to turn him into a quivering mass in seconds.
God, how he looked forward to helping her gain that experience and confidence.
Without his telling her to, she reached down beneath her skirts, her hands brushing the bulge in the front of his trousers. His hips jerked at the contact. Quivering mass indeed.
Her fingers fumbled with his falls, every second making him harder and harder and more and more eager. Were it anyone else, he would suspect this maidenly awkwardness was a ruse, but not with Eleanor.
Finally she freed his aching erection, stroking the length of it with anxious, inquisitive fingers— fingers that threatened to undo him.
"If you want me, stop playing with me and take me," he growled.
Eleanor only laughed at his desire. She rose up on her knees and positioned herself over him, lowering her body until he felt moist curls brush the tip of his cock. He groaned, his eyes closing as she placed the sensitive head at the slick entrance to her body and slowly allowed him to ease inside her. A shudder racked her frame as her muscles embraced him. Gritting his teeth, Brahm arched his hips, trying to shove himself deeper within her tightness. She would have none of it. She kept herself lifted just enough that he could do nothing but sit there and let her have her way with him. It was his own fault; he had told her to do it.
Eleanor's cheek brushed his temple as she slowly flexed her thighs, lifting herself until he was in danger of slipping out of her. Then, suddenly, she dropped back down, taking him so quickly he groaned aloud.
With excruciating slowness, she undulated atop him. Her hips set a maddeningly docile pace as she lifted her hands to the neckline of her gown. Her movements perfectly controlled, her fingers amazingly steady, she shoved the sleeves of her evening gown lower on her arms before tugging the neckline down and baring her pink, round, pert breasts to his gaze.
Beneath her skirts, his fingers dug into the soft flesh of her buttocks. He tried to control her movements, tried to set the rhythm of her hips. The sight of her nipples hardening under his gaze was enough to make him want to thrust inside her until they both came with abandon. Her thighs trembled with exertion, but she maintained her control of their lovemaking.
Her fingers slid around to the back of his head, tangling in his hair as she pulled him forward, silently demanding that he worship her breasts with his mouth.
"All I can think about," she whispered in a voice so throaty he ached just from hearing it, "is how it felt to have your mouth on me."
She didn't have to say any more. Leaning closer, Brahm took one nipple into his mouth and gently bit at the puckered flesh. Eleanor gasped hotly, and the satiny nub in his mouth hardened further.
"Oh!" She shoved down on him hard, her buttocks brushing the front of his thighs. "I never knew it would feel like this, that it would feel so good. It's like we were made to fit together."
Had he not thought the very thing himself?
"We were," he rasped against her skin as he moved his mouth to her other breast. His sex pulsed within hers. "You are mine and I am yours."
His words must have had the same effect on her as hers had on him, because she ground her body down on his like a wild woman, pumping him so fiercely, with such tight, slick strokes that he thought he might expire from pleasure.
Grasping her hips, Brahm held her as she rode him. His tongue circled her nipple, flicking it with teasing strokes even though he wanted to suck it until she cried out in pleasure and pain. He wanted to make her feel as acutely as she made him feel.
Tension coiled in Eleanor's body as she moved. Her thighs trembled; her internal muscles gripped him like a vise. Her little moans rang in his ears as her buttocks flexed in his palms. His own body reveled in it, tightening in response.
Her release struck first. Her spine arched, thrusting her breast into his mouth. He sucked hard as she shuddered around him. Her head thrown back, she cried out as climax rolled over her. She soaked him with her juices, clenched at him with her sex as her body continued to move with his. Her orgasm was so incredible that it triggered his own. His breath rushed out of him in one wild gasp. He couldn't see; he couldn't think. The world ceased to exist as his release pumped out of him into her welcoming body.
Their foreheads resting together, they both gasped for breath. Neither of them made any move to separate their bodies. They held each other as their bodies cooled.
"I believe I am going to enjoy being married to you," Eleanor informed him, her breath warm against his cheek. They were still joined, still one.
Brahm chuckled as he gathered her closer. "I
know
I am going to enjoy being married to you." And then he kissed her, his heart soaring. They were simply perfect for each other. Nothing could ever tear them apart now.
Nothing.
Chapter 13
E
leanor could not wait to be married.
It wasn't just the pain in her toe— throbbing and making her want to curse in a most unladylike fashion— that made her wish that either.
Once she and Brahm were married there would be no more of this sneaking about at night, no more worries about being caught together. And no more stubbed toes or other injured extremities. It was a mistake to keep their engagement secret. They should have made the announcement already, then she would not feel like an intruder in her own house, sneaking down corridors in the dark, dead of night.
She sighed as she silently hobbled closer to his door. It was half-past two in the morning. All the guests were abed— she hoped. Only she and Brahm knew of their plans to meet, but that didn't keep her heart from pounding a little too fast. There would be so much gossip were she caught. It did not matter that this was her house and she should be able to come and go as she pleased. Even if she and Brahm announced their engagement immediately after, there would still be those who speculated and wondered if Brahm had proposed simply because he had compromised her.
Too bad she couldn't be more like Brahm and not care what people thought, but she did care, especially when those thoughts might have an adverse effect on her family.
Finally she reached his room. Soon she would be inside where no one could see them, no one would find them. And then she needn't worry about gossips or anything else until she left him again.
She did not knock— someone might hear. Instead she hastily turned the handle and slipped inside on quick, silent feet. Besides, they had planned this meeting earlier. She had the note to prove it.
A lamp burned low on the bedside table, illuminating the blue and white interior. Like all the guest rooms, this was neither too feminine nor too masculine, pleasing to both sexes, with a view that overlooked the garden and lake beyond.
However, the view from the window was the last thing on Eleanor's mind— a good thing too, as the drapes were drawn.
She turned her attention to the bed and gingerly moved toward the figure beneath the blankets. Slowly she came out of the darkness into the dim light, her gaze never leaving the bed. Was Brahm asleep?
She frowned. The body in the bed looked too small to be Brahm's.
It was too small. It was also too voluptuous. And too blond.
Eleanor froze, staring in horrified disbelief at what she saw. There was a
woman
in Brahm's bed.
Not just any woman, but Lady Dumont. Brahm was nowhere to be found, but there was Lady Dumont, obviously naked, and obviously as surprised to see Eleanor as Eleanor was to see her.
"Lady Eleanor!" Lady Dumont sat up, hugged the coverlet to her bosom, her expression so horrified, it could not be false. "What are you doing here?"
Heat swept over Eleanor, followed by cold and then followed by nothing at all. Odd how something that should have crushed her made her feel so…empty. "I might ask you the same question," Eleanor remarked hoarsely, "but the answer is fairly obvious."
The older woman looked far more curious than Eleanor was comfortable with. "I suppose so. The answer to why you are here, however, is not so obvious."
It was next to impossible to speak with her throat so tight. Had Lady Dumont slipped a dagger between her ribs when she wasn't looking? It would explain the sudden, sharp pain there that broke though the haze of nothing. "I needed to talk to Lord Creed."
Lady Dumont tugged the blanket up further, casting a needless glance about the dimly lit room. "He's not here."
That was fairly obvious, unless the blackguard was hiding beneath the bed. How dare he do this to her— again! "Yes, I can see that. I would wait, but the room is a little crowded. Good night." She had to get out of there before the tears came. She could hold this façade for but a few more minutes, and then she was going to completely fall apart.
Lady Dumont and Brahm. At least it wasn't Lydia in his bed. She could be happy about that, but she wasn't. How could he do this? Had he no self-control? Or had he replaced his craving for alcohol with a craving for women?
It had to be the former, because there was a bottle of wine and two half-full goblets beside the lamp.
Wine. He was drinking wine? Was this all some kind of nightmare, or had Brahm Ryland been lying to her ever since his arrival at the party? He told her he was not a rake, that he no longer drank, and yet here was evidence to the contrary.
Evidence that Eleanor did not want to believe, and no longer wanted to look at. It simply hurt far too much.
"Please tell the viscount I was here," she asked, pivoting on her heel. Yes, let the bastard know that she knew what he was up to.
But escape eluded her. She had taken only three steps when Lady Dumont said, "You are in love with him." The softly spoken accusation clung to Eleanor's skin like oil.
She turned, shoulders slumping under an invisible weight. "I beg your pardon?" Was this the part where Lady Dumont crowed about her conquest? Perhaps she would inform Eleanor why a man like Brahm would never be satisfied with one woman, especially one as provincial and plain as she.
But Lady Dumont didn't looked pleased with herself at all. In fact, Lady Dumont looked very, very sorry. "Lady Eleanor, I think perhaps I owe you an explanation."
"You owe me nothing, I assure you." How much more of this humiliation was she expected to take? This woman was in Brahm's bed— the very bed she had shared with him herself. It was a profanity against everything she had hoped for and dreamed of. When Brahm was gone, she would have the bed burned.
"It is not what you believe." Lady Dumont looked very young sitting there, her hair about her shoulders. Eleanor could see why Brahm would find her so attractive. He was obviously partial to blonds.
Eleanor snorted. "Oh, I think it is exactly as I believe. Now do excuse me, Lady Dumont. Your lover will no doubt return soon." And she did not wish to be there when that happened, else she would not be responsible for her actions.
Lady Dumont raised up in the bed, as though she thought to give chase. She hesitated, obviously remembering her nakedness. "Please, let me explain."
No. She'd had all she could take, all she would suffer through. Eleanor left the room without acknowledging the older woman's pleas. Without thought to her own reputation, or anything else for that matter, she hiked up her skirts and ran down the corridor, all the way to the end and then over to the family wing. The pain in her stubbed toe spiked through her foot and up her leg, blessedly distracting her from the pain in her chest. She did not stop running until she reached her own room, her lungs near bursting from her exertions.
Her own room was quiet, a gold and cream sanctuary for her broken heart. She could throw herself on the bed and weep, but she was too angry for that right now. Pacing. Pacing was good. She would do that instead. Despite her sore foot, she needed to keep moving, else she just might lie down and never get back up.
Her strides were muffled by the thick beige rug as she paced. Her movements were jerky and stilted at best, as though both her legs had fallen asleep. In fact, her entire body seemed to have fallen asleep.
How could she have been so stupid to trust that man? How could she be stupider still in wanting to find some excuse for his actions. Was he foxed?
