The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance (63 page)

It was obvious that if she wanted to save this marriage, she needed to show him that she was still the wife he once knew and loved. The wife capable of overseeing his passion and his pleasure in the most unexpected of ways.

“A rose-coloured muslin gown,” she offered in a soft, soft tone. “It tapers off my shoulders.”

She shakily pushed away a misplaced curl from the side of her face. She hadn’t realized how nervous she was about being intimate with him again. Especially under such unconventional circumstances. They were in his uncle’s library, for heaven’s sake. But that was exactly the point of this game. To let everything, including one’s surroundings, disappear.

“Rose-coloured muslin tapering off your shoulders,” he murmured as he undid the three small buttons at his throat. The open slit of the shirt fell open to his mid-chest, displaying those defined muscles beneath.

It was more than obvious where her husband had been spending all of his time these past three months. At Jackson’s. Boxing. How many poor men had he hit far too hard because of her?

He yanked his shirt out of his trousers and drew it up and over his head. Muscles rippled in cascading unison as his shirt floated off to the side and ruffled his blond hair.

Gwendolyn would have fainted if she hadn’t locked her knees into one another. For physically, Camden was still every bit of the man she remembered. And missed.

He quietly stood there, at his full height of almost six feet, his broad, smooth shoulders set and his arms lean and defined from all the boxing and fencing he’d engaged in since he was twenty. Soft golden blond hairs trailed from his chest down to a narrow path that made its way towards the only thing that remained covered.

He shifted his jaw, but otherwise continued to stand, motionless. As if waiting for her to approach.

She moved closer to him and set the slippered toes of her shoes against the tips of his large leather boots. She allowed her skirts to cover both their feet. Her gaze drifted up the length of his naked chest, which rose and fell in slow, even breaths, until she rested upon the view of his full lips. The clean and simple scent of soap mingling with cognac drifted towards her, causing her already heightened senses to flutter. He always preferred the simple scent of soap. Even on her. Which is why she didn’t wear any perfume tonight. In his honour.

The clock in the room chimed, startling her for a moment. It chimed a total of eleven times before clicking back into silence.

Camden’s large hands grabbed hold of her shoulders, causing her heart to nearly leap out of her throat in astonishment. He reached down and around her with his bare muscled arms. His large hands grabbed each round cheek of her bottom, hidden beneath her skirts, then yanked her body up hard, against his towering, broad body. He held her firmly in place against his erection, his jaw tight. Stating his intentions quite openly.

He slid his hands from her bottom and up along the back of her gown. His fingers gently grazed the hidden hooks on her back, which held the material of her gown in place.

Her mind blanked and nothing mattered in that moment. Nothing but his touch. She stared up at him in complete awe, her chest falling and rising a bit too quickly.

Without a single word, he released the hooks, the muscles in his taut arms shifting around her. One by one, he released them, until he had opened the entire back of her muslin gown, exposing her corset and the chemise beneath it. His jaw tightened and his lips pressed together as he slipped his large hands beneath the parted material. He swept it down from her shoulders and arms, letting it fall to her waist.

His hot hands skimmed the length of her arms, causing her to catch her breath as goosebumps frilled her skin. He slid his hands up towards her neck and dug his long fingers into the nape of her neck. He tilted her head up towards him and bent his blond head, lowering his lips on to hers.

A warm softness grazed her lower and upper lips.

Gwendolyn closed her eyes in utter bliss and slid her hands up the tight, smooth length of his muscled back. She pressed her body against his warmth. And revelled in it. She hadn’t realized how much she missed the bliss of his touch until that moment.

His wet tongue slid into her mouth and touched hers. He pressed his lips harder against her and moved his tongue more urgently into her mouth, silently demanding she make love to him.

Before she could fully enjoy his kiss, he withdrew his tongue from her mouth and outlined her lips softly with the tip. Circling, tasting. Circling, tasting. He drew her upper lip slowly, playfully between his teeth, nipped it then licked. Nipped it again then licked.

Passionately kissing him, her hands left the expanse of his back to slide down between their bodies, past the folds of her muslin gown gathered at her waist. She blindly unbuttoned the wool flap of his trousers and shoved the material past his muscled thighs, wanting to touch every part of him.

Their mouths momentarily broke away from each other as she grasped hold of the hard length of him with one hand. She slid her hand against his hard smoothness, staring up at him, wanting and needing his reaction.

His lips parted in a groan, he threw his head back and held her firmly against him. His chest heaved unevenly as his body tensed. He groaned again, levelling his head. He blindly grabbed hold of her wrists, bumping his knuckles against her corseted stomach.

He yanked her hands away from his body, then grabbed hold of her waist, and dragged them both on to the floor. She gasped as the cool wooden floor pressed against the exposed, heated skin of her back.

He rolled carefully, but quickly, off to the side, threw off his shoes and all the other clothes on his body. Until he was left gloriously naked with nothing on but a velvet blindfold. He felt his way back to her and climbed atop her legs, still covered by her mass of skirts. It was the only material left separating them.

He gathered up her skirts in one hand, pushing them up and away from her legs and thighs, causing the bulk of material to cascade across the floor on both sides of her. His hands slid up the length of her stockings, past the tied garters that held them in place, and pushed her legs apart. Cool air pressed against the wetness between her legs as Camden lowered his head.

His hot wet tongue met her core. She gasped and closed her eyes as a powerful sensation of pleasure rippled through her body. His tongue pressed harder against her, and she gasped in complete disbelief that she was already so shatteringly close to divine intervention.

But then his lips disappeared, as did the warmth of his hands, as he yanked her skirts back down.

Her eyes popped open. Her breaths came in short desperate takes. She blinked.

He wound his arms around her, his body hard, yet so warm and welcoming. “I cannot deny it,” he whispered hoarsely. “Despite everything, I have missed you.”

Her heart skipped. “You have?”

His hand affectionately skimmed the side of her face, down the curve of her throat.

He slipped over the length of her and dragged her skirts back up her thighs, causing her to melt. He slowly skimmed his forefinger from the inside middle of her exposed thigh up to the very spot she wanted and needed him to touch most. Her heated skin tingled in response as she further dissolved into a world of pleasure she had forgotten, and to which she desperately wanted to escape again.

He slid his finger deep into her, pushing her once again towards climax. She fisted the material of her gown and her mind momentarily emptied. It was amazing.
He
was amazing. He’d always been. She’d simply … forgotten.

He climbed over her, placing both hands on each side of her head and rubbed his hardness against her.

His mouth found hers without hesitation, as if he knew exactly where her lips were, and he kissed her deeply, his tongue pushing hard against hers.

She moaned into his mouth as he lifted himself on to one arm and used his other hand to guide himself into her. She gasped as his hips drew back and he drove deep into her, hissing out a breath.

Gwendolyn cried out in bliss and dug her nails into the flesh of his taut skin, trying to feel and breathe her way through the moment. Trying to feel and breathe through every sensation imaginable as it enveloped her body.

He drove deep into her again. She could barely breathe as those building, wondrous sensations scorched her body. She moved against every thrust, wanting and needing more. She could feel the sensation within her core building. Growing. It had been too long.

“Gwendolyn.” His voice simmered with fierce passion as he licked her entire mouth, leaving it cool and wet. He slammed repeatedly into her, grinding her harder to the floor.

A remarkable haze took over the rest of her body and mind. Her name entwined upon his lips and the escalating pressure of his hard length moving against her threw Gwendolyn into that spiralling, whirling paradise she’d missed.

She savagely held on to his naked waist and cried out as endless ripples roared throughout the entire length of her body that both tightened and released her core.

He was relentless in his savage need. “Gwendolyn,” he rasped, then threw back his head and let out a guttural moan of pleasure that reverberated throughout her entire body and soul.

That flushed face, partly hidden by the black blindfold, and his heaving, muscled chest boasted of the pleasure he had taken. And she couldn’t help but love it.

He settled silently beside her.

She swallowed, noticing that several candles had flickered out and that shadows were beginning to creep towards where they lay on the floor. Surely now he knew how she felt. How she had always felt.

He raked his ruffled blond hair with a hand, shifting against the floor. “I want to know,” he blurted. “For God’s sake, I have a right to know.”

Her eyes widened. So much for him knowing how she felt. After a few harried tries, she stumbled up and on to her slippered feet, fumbling with the upper section of her gown in an effort to shove her bare arms back into the hanging sleeves. “Is that all you have to say to me?”

“Blast you, Gwendolyn!” He snapped both of his hands up and frantically tugged at the blindfold. “Why do you refuse to answer? Because of guilt?”

“No. Because if I do, I will be acknowledging that you never trusted me to begin with. And if there is no trust between us, what else is left of this marriage? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Feeling as though her legs wouldn’t hold her up for much longer, she sank to the floor before him.

When Camden ripped the blindfold away from his face and flung it aside, his eyes were instantly flooded with warm candlelight and the earthy colours of his uncle’s study. It somehow snapped his fuzzy, hazed brain and body back into focus.

He blinked at Gwendolyn, who sat near him on the floor. His heart momentarily stopped beating as he wordlessly stared at the beautiful face he had missed so much.

She continued to gaze straight at him, with those blue-green eyes, and lowered her chin ever so slightly. As if not in the least bit pleased with him.

Several golden-chestnut curls, which had fallen from their pinned places atop her head, lay scattered around her bare, slim shoulders. Shoulders that were not properly covered by the lopsided sleeves of her rose-coloured evening gown.

The room wavered and tipped to the side as he leaned over and snatched hold of his shirt, which lay beside him. Her words about his lack of trust bit into him. For she was right. But that still did not explain why Westbrook had her stocking.

“Camden.” Her strained voice brought him back to reality. “Why are you allowing doubts to destroy the last of us?”

He never had doubts before. Not until they had agreed to a mutual separation. All of these months without her had been consuming the last of his soul.

“If you feel an explanation is too much to ask, I will bid you a goodnight.” He stumbled to his feet, veered over to his clothes scattered across the wooden floor and frantically snatched them up one by one. Cravat. Waistcoat. Collar. Trousers. Coat. Boots.

“Camden,” she insisted hoarsely. “It splinters me no end that you would think the worst of me. Based on a silk stocking. Do you know how ridiculous you are being?”

He kept his back to her, his chest heaving. “And rumours, madam. Rumours of him calling upon you at unconventional hours. All that aside, are you informing me that the silk stocking I received was not yours?”

“It is mine. But Lord Westbrook did not acquire it by stripping it from my body, that I assure you. He bribed one of my servants for it in an effort to make you think the worst of me. I will gladly present that servant to you, whom I have since dismissed, if my word is not enough. Westbrook sought to bed me during our separation, but I never allowed it. Not a touch. Not a kiss. And, because of that, he sought to destroy me, and in turn, us. Though I have been suffering, I have been faithful to you, Camden. The question is, who do you believe? Lord Westbrook? Or me, your wife of four years?”

Camden turned towards her, feeling nauseous. And he knew it had nothing to do with all the spirits still warming his blood. He stared her down and whispered hoarsely, “Swear it. Swear it upon whatever love we ever shared. Swear he never touched you.”

“I swear it upon the love I hope we
still
share. I would never hurt you in so cruel a manner, and I had hoped you would never hurt me by thinking that I could.” She pleadingly met his gaze from where she knelt on the floor, her muslin gown spread out about her in a puddle of rose-coloured cloth. The backside of her dress, which he had unhooked sometime during the height of his fantasy, was still wide open, exposing a pale-blue corset, the chemise beneath it and a few glimpses of pale, smooth skin.

Having known his Gwendolyn for four years of marriage — and a year of courtship before that — he could tell by her eyes, her demeanour and her voice that she was in fact telling him the truth.