The Stepsister's Triumph (13 page)

Benedict leaned against the cold stove, gripping its edges in both hands like he meant to break the iron in two.

“Benedict?”

Madelene's voice was soft as the first light of sunrise and just as sweet. She was right behind him, and the pleading question in his name went through him like a knife. “Did I do something wrong? Please tell me what I did.”

“Nothing,” he croaked. “You did nothing.”

“Then turn around. Look at me.”

He must. He had to do this simple thing, otherwise he would hurt her. Already, that damnable fear had crept back into her voice. He could not allow it to take root. It would be unfair. It would be criminal.

He made himself straighten. He made himself turn. She was not as close as he thought. There was a good three feet between them, but her presence filled the whole room. It was as if everything else had faded to a mere line drawing of itself. Only Madelene was whole and real.

“Perhaps you should go,” he said. “It must be near our time.”

He watched the doubt cloud her beautiful, clear eyes, and something in his heart crumbled.

“I will not go,” she whispered. “Not this time.”

“What?”

“I will not go until you tell me what is the matter.”

He could make her leave. He knew it. He could snap, shout, play the dragon. She would recoil and she would run, as she had before. She might even answer him in anger and they could have a genuine quarrel and she could storm out. That would be better for them both.

Except that was a lie. It would only be better for him. If he forced Madelene away, he would do nothing except wound her, and Benedict found he did not have it in him to deal such a blow.

“I am what's the matter,” he told her. “I am a wounded recluse, Madelene. I cannot be the kind of man you need and deserve. Not even here, beyond the threshold I tried so hard to create.”

She stood paralyzed in the patch of sunlight that streamed in from the open doors. Benedict watched his words settle into her. He watched her comprehension blossom, both for what he said and what he did not.

His heart was thundering. His whole frame shook from its pounding, marking an irregular counterpoint to the waltz that still drifted faintly and lazily in on the warm air.

“You are the man I need, Benedict,” she said. “You are the man I want.”

No!
he wanted to shout.
It cannot be!
I
cannot be!

But there was such naked and absolute trust in her face and such a world of longing in her voice. His whole soul must respond to it. She had never spoken this way to another man. He knew that at once. In this moment, she gave him a portion of herself no one else had ever seen.

And even as his reason protested, Benedict's heart leaned toward Madelene. He wanted—no, he
needed—
to be the man who could accept all that her eyes promised. He must be the man who could protect and cherish her body and soul, as she deserved. He needed to return to her a measure of love and trust to match her own.

And he could not move. He could not name what held him back, but he stood rooted to the floor, with as little volition as a figure in one of his own paintings.

“Madelene,” he breathed.

There was a heartbeat's hesitation, a moment of aching doubt that was like death itself.

“I'm here.” She opened her arms. “Benedict, I am here.”

*   *   *

Did she move first, or did he? Madelene would never know. All she did know was that Benedict was in her arms, and his mouth was covering hers. He was so tall she had to go up on her toes to reach his mouth and answer his frantic kisses with her own. She was calling his name, half laughing, half crying. She didn't know what she was doing, and she didn't care. He speared his fingers into her curls to hold her still while his mouth plundered hers. His tongue thrust into her mouth, demanding answer. He was not gentle. He'd forgotten she was fragile. He was treating her like she was strong.

And oh, it was sweet.

She pressed hard against him, seeking to feel every contour of his body. Her hands gripped his shoulders and dragged down his back. She found his hips and shamelessly pulled him against her so his arousal pressed against her belly. Excitement shot through her like summer lightning. She shivered, and her shiver made Benedict groan.

“Slowly, Madelene,” he murmured into her ear. His heated lips brushed her sensitive skin. “Gently.”

“I don't want to go slow. I am tired of it.”

Benedict chuckled. He pulled back just a little, so she could see his smile and the dangerous desire in his half-lidded eyes. “Oh, my dear, I understand.” He drew his fingertips down her throat, and lower, to dip beneath the edge of the demure fichu she wore. “But you must trust me. If we take the time, it will be so much better at the end.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, and she blushed at how ridiculous the question sounded. But Benedict only smiled.

“Oh yes.” He kissed her, right at the spot where the neckline of her dress met her collarbone. Her belly tightened. No, her whole body tightened. He kissed her there again and drew his mouth over to the hollow of her throat, and up, to the soft spot beneath her jaw, to the corner of her mouth, to the center, to open and taste and tease her. “I am very sure. But are you?”

“Entirely.”

“If you want to stop . . .”

“I won't.”

“You don't even know . . .”

Greatly daring, she raised her fingers and pressed them against his lips. His mouth was hot to her touch, and she could not resist rubbing her fingers across the sensitive skin there.

“I do,” she told him. “Helene has a book about it.”

His eyes widened. For a moment, she was afraid she'd shocked him, but no. “She would.”

“She says, and Miss Sewell says, we should know . . . what men want, and how it, we . . . that is . . .”

She was blushing. Benedict took her hand from his mouth and laid a kiss against her palm.

“I understand,” he said. “I think Helene and Miss Sewell are quite right.” Mischief sparked in his black eyes. “And now I don't want to think about them anymore.”

“Oh?” she said, amazed at the delight filling her. It made her careless, made her free. She could do anything in this moment. She could say or be anything. No one could stop her, because here, there was no one to see except Benedict, and she wanted him to see all and everything about her. “What do you want to think about?”

“This.” He wrapped his arms tight around her, pulling her back against his chest. He lowered his head and kissed her, slowly, this time, tenderly. He lingered over each movement, each sensation, so they could both savor it.

“This,” he murmured as his mouth slid down her cheek to her jaw, to her throat.

“This.” His deft fingers undid the brooch that held her fichu closed. It dropped to the floor with a clatter, and the demure, gauzy kerchief drifted down after it. Now his mouth was on the bare skin over her collarbone, gliding down to the exposed swell of her breast. She sighed, and her fingers tangled in his hair, trying to hold him in place, or maybe just hold on to him. Her knees had gone weak, and her breath hitched. She was seeing stars, but she'd never felt less faint in her life.

Benedict shuddered against her. She felt him struggling against her hands to raise his head. She let him, because she wanted to see his eyes, wanted to see the haze of pleasure there.

Instead, she saw worry.

“We need to stop,” he said. “Your friend will be here soon.”

What on earth was he talking about . . . ? Then Madelene laughed.

“I forgot to tell you. I came alone today.”

He stared, and then he smiled, slowly, wickedly. “You did?”

She nodded. “I had an appointment of my own, so I just had the coachman bring me directly here afterward.”

“I shall have to have a word with that chaperone of yours,” Benedict murmured. “She really is most careless.”

“You said we were not thinking about her.”

“No,” Benedict agreed. “We're not.”

He kissed her again, sweetly, thoroughly. At the same time, he was lowering them both onto the worn Turkish carpets until they were on their knees together. Her hands stroked down his back until her palms caressed his taut buttocks. She liked it. She liked the way her questing hands made him draw a deeper breath, made his own hands tremble a little against her back, and broke the rhythm of his kisses. She liked that she could unsettle him, even while she hoped he would never stop caressing her. Even more than this, though, she liked the hard ridge of his arousal pressed so shamelessly against her.

Her dress loosened. She felt the cool air on her bared back. When had he done that? How had he done that? She didn't care. He kissed her shoulder, drawing her sleeve down, kissing each inch of skin as he exposed it, until she drew her arm free.

“Oh, my dearest,” he breathed.

He was kissing her, and his hand cupped her exposed breast, and even through stays and chemise, the pleasure of it burned. His other hand was pressing against her shoulder blades so that her breast was crushed against his hard palm. She pressed her mouth against his shoulder and moaned.

“Turn around, Madelene,” he said huskily.

She turned herself so he could more easily reach her laces. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the subtle brush of his fingers as he found the knots and loosened the stays. Her body tensed with need, and yet at the same time, she felt a profound relaxation.

Her bodice fell away, down to her hips. Benedict lifted her stays from around her and laid them aside. Madelene turned again, with nothing but her chemise covering her, and it was to see Benedict staring. His Adam's apple bobbed nervously.

“What's the matter?”

“I . . . I'm afraid,” he whispered.

“You? Of what?”

“Of how much I need you. Of disappointing you. Of . . . of you coming to regret what we do now.”

“But I could not. I want this, Benedict. I want you.”

She drew her chemise off over her head. She was entirely naked now, except for her stockings and garters. The warm breeze slipped sensuously across her skin, and perspiration beaded between her breasts and thighs.

Benedict's hand shook as he reached out. Gently, lovingly, his fingertips traced the side of her breast. His thumb ran across her nipple. She made a small sound deep in her throat and leaned toward his touch.

That must have been the right thing to do, because whatever hesitation had gripped him vanished. He cupped her fully, massaging her, stroking her, raising a heat in her unlike any she'd known yet. He circled his thumbs across her nipples, and the sensation was exquisite. She let her head fall back and dug her fingers into his shoulder blades.

Somehow, her fingers found the lapels of his smock and his coat and pushed them both back. Benedict laughed and kissed her, and she laughed and surged forward, and then they were both wrestling with his clothing, tossing aside smock and coat and waistcoat, pulling off shoes and stockings. Her fingers dug eagerly into the waistband of his tight breeches to drag his shirttails free. Her fingers shoved his aside as they both tried to undo the buttons on his fly at the same time. He pulled her sideways, rolled them over, struggling, wrestling, delighting in the absurdity of it. She felt the shock of the hard floorboards under her soft skin, but it didn't matter, because somehow Benedict's breeches had come off and Madelene could finally feast her eyes on the whole of him.

“Oh. My,” she breathed.

“Do you like what you see?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “It's . . . rather larger than the illustrations in the books.”

“Flatterer.” He gathered her to him. “Now you come with me.”

He scooped her lightly, easily into his arms, and she shrieked and giggled and clung to his shoulders. She also kissed his throat, because it was near to her. The rasping texture of the stubble there was so fascinating, she barely realized she was being lowered onto a bed. Her eyes, which had closed themselves, flew open in surprise.

They were behind the set of carved screens that fenced off one corner of the studio, and which, she now saw, concealed a wooden camp bed and a washstand. Benedict had sat himself down on the narrow bed so his back was against the wall, and pulled her to him until she was draped sideways across his lap. It was a ridiculous position. It was delightful, especially since he was kissing her again. She ran her palm across the hard planes of his chest, revelling in the feeling of the crisp, dark curls beneath her hands. She found his nipple and touched it and toyed with it, just like he had with hers, until he drew in his breath with a long hiss.

She smiled and felt his cock throb hard where it pressed against her thigh. Hesitation, cold and unwelcome, made her hand falter in its heated explorations.

Benedict felt this at once and drew back.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I . . .” Madelene touched his shoulder and his arm. “This is going to sound ridiculous.”

He kissed her brow. “I swear it won't.”

Madelene lifted her eyes to his. She brushed a stray lock of his hair back behind his ear. “I'm afraid I'll lose my nerve,” she said. “I'm afraid I'll want to stop.”

But he only smiled and shrugged one shoulder. “Then we'll stop,” he said simply.

“I don't want to. I don't
want to
want to. Don't let me.”

“Oh, my dear,” Benedict breathed. “I can't do that.”

“But . . .”

He laid his hand against her belly, and fresh fire gathered in the spot beneath his palm. “Listen to me, Madelene,” he said seriously. “I want you. I can't describe how much. Holding you, it's like returning home after exile. But you and only you can decide how far you want this to go.”

“I thought men . . . that is, I thought there was a point when you couldn't stop.”