When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (23 page)

George Fellowes glanced up, his chisel hovering above a block of limestone. “My lord? What brings you by this old, dusty place on such a fine day?”

It
was
dusty. The fine grains floated on streams of light from the windows. He glanced around at the shop, noting the scarred worktables, the shelves he had crafted alongside George, the tools neatly lined up in a row. Sighing with satisfaction, James grinned at the mason and said, “George, I have a need for stone.”

“You—you wish me to make something for you?”

“No. I shall make this myself. I will also require the use of the workshop, for a time. Perhaps a week or so, if it is not too troublesome having me in here again.”

George’s shaggy brows arched in surprise. He scratched his head with the wrist of his mallet hand, scattering a cloud of dust from the brown mop onto the table and floor. “Of course not. It has been too long since we last worked side by side. What sort of stone are you looking for?”

Pausing to admire a handsome marble round likely destined to top a wooden table, James felt his grin growing. Viola would light up for him again. She would see what he had made for her, and the stars would return to her eyes—he knew it with a certainty he could not explain.

“Something extraordinary, George,” he answered finally. “For this, only extraordinary will do.”

*~*~*

CHAPTER TWENTY

“I find cleanliness to be an underappreciated and woefully underutilized attribute. Perhaps if you ponder this observation at greater length, and at a greater distance from my current position, you will come to agree.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Sir Barnabus Malby after said gentleman’s third quadrille.

The Difficult Conversation did not happen that afternoon, as James disappeared for hours before dinner, and Viola busied herself consulting with the household staff and familiarizing herself more fully with Shankwood Hall’s routines. She would, after all, be its mistress. Provided he chose to remain married to her. And she would not know whether that was the case until she had the Difficult Conversation.

Which, similarly, did not occur that evening, for James entered Viola’s chamber whilst she was lingering amidst the scented steam of a bath. He’d sent Amy scurrying and promptly set to work ensuring she was cleaned very, very properly. Thereafter, he’d plucked her dripping form from the water and carried her to the bed, where he’d proceeded to make love to her with breathtaking thoroughness and attention to detail. Those magnificent hands—along with every other magnificent part of him—had done their work well.

Matters proceeded in much the same pattern over the following week, with James waking early and being strangely absent for most of each day, only to return in the evenings to ravish her body until she was limp and sated and sleepy. During meals, they chatted about food and fishing and festivals and all manner of other topics. But not the one thing that might change everything.

A Difficult Conversation, she found, was difficult to schedule when one dreaded the very thought of it.

When it finally did occur, it came at her like a bull charging through an unexpectedly open gate. She was writing a letter to Charlotte, struggling to explain her circumstances without sounding morose, when James entered the sitting room connecting their bedchambers.

She glanced up, noting the odd layer of dust upon his skin, the sweat along the open neck of his shirt. He wore no cravat, no coat. His waistcoat was plain green wool. His sleeves were rolled past thick, muscled forearms.

Suddenly, she wanted to leap upon him. Sink her teeth into those arms. Claw her fingers into his neck. Feel him inside her again.

The need was fierce. Nearly painful in its intensity.

His eyes found her. Heated and burned. “There you are, lass.” A half smile curled his lips.

She rose from her chair. Tossed the pen onto the writing desk. Drifted toward him as though pulled by a line. Fisted her hands in the linen of his shirt.

And yanked that delicious mouth down to hers.

He groaned, the sound vibrating against her lips and tongue. She stroked and invaded, pulsing the way he’d taught her. He groaned again. But he did not wrap those arms around her.

“Hold me,” she panted, her breath catching as her need caught fire. “I want to feel your hands upon me.”

“I am filthy, lass. I don’t wish to ruin your gown.”

She growled, her fingers digging into the muscles of his chest. “I don’t give a blasted fig about my gown, James Kilbrenner. I need you. Now.”

He laughed, the sound a sensual rumble that made her nipples peak and her thighs clench. “Demanding little thing, aren’t you?”

She tore at his waistcoat buttons, throwing the fabric wide so she could yank the hem of his shirt from the waist of his breeches. Then she went to work on his fall.

“Slow down, lass. There’s no need to rush.”

“There is every need. My need.”

“And don’t I always see you well satisfied?”

The third button of his fall gave her trouble, so she resolved the problem by simply reaching inside and taking a firm grip upon his cock. He had taught her the word after much coaxing. He’d been most reluctant to share the term with her, as though coarse language would debauch her any more than the acts his cock performed on a regular basis. Besides, she liked the word. She liked what it described even better.

Now, it was in her hands, exposed to her eyes. All that massive heat and hardness, designed for her. For her pleasure. She bent forward and took him in her mouth, the difference in their heights making it a simple matter.

“Ah, God almighty, Viola.” Finally, his hand touched her, but only to cup the back of her head. His hips jerked as she suckled the tip, her hand gripping him at the base, holding him at her mercy. She loved him with her tongue, stroking and circling, finding a sensitive little spot just underneath.

The rumbling roar of her husband’s will finally breaking penetrated her consciousness an instant before she felt him take hold of her head and jerk his hips away. Just enough to remove himself from her mouth. Just enough to draw her upward and stare into her eyes with such furious turmoil, she felt it as a pain in the center of her chest. His hands held her cheeks, his fingers enfolding the back of her head. At some point, she realized, he had loosened her hair. She felt the weight of it on her back.

“Ye want this filthy Scot tae soil yer bonnie gown, dae ye, lass? Be very sure.”

“I am sure.” She groaned. “James. Oh, God. James. I hurt. Take me. Please, I beg you.”

In the next instant, his hands were upon her, running over tight, aching nipples. Grasping at rose silk skirts. Tearing her bodice from nape to waist. Then he was spinning her. Forcing the gown down over her arms. Cracking her corset wide open. Cupping her breasts in dusty, capable hands.

She felt his engorged cock pressing against her backside through her skirts, felt his fingers squeezing her wanton nipples. Felt his hot breath and his lips and his whiskery jaw working at the side of her neck. Then one of his arms dropped to her waist. Lifted her out of her skirts. Spun them both. Carried her to the green velvet sofa. Set her upon it sideways with her knees on the cushion, her hands braced on the rolled arm.

He braced himself behind her. Pulled her hips back into his. Ran the tip of his cock teasingly along her drenched folds. Bent over her, squeezing her nipple with his brilliant, strong fingers. Whispered hot in her ear, “Take yer filthy Scot inside ye now, Viola.”

He took her in a single, breathtaking stroke, sinking deep and true.

She keened her pleasure, clawing the green twill beneath her fingers, loving the feel of his flesh pounding into hers. Wanting more. Demanding more. Her hand reached back. Grasped a handful of his hair. Pulled him forward so she could turn her head and take his mouth again.

He thrust harder. Faster. Hammered them together with fire and force. Squeezed and stroked her breasts with one hand. Braced the other beside hers, holding himself above her while his hips and his cock took her higher. And higher. And tighter. And then, he was driving her over the precipice.

She seized and screamed and shuddered. Squeezed his ravenous cock with sharp greed and astounding pleasure. She felt his rhythm crescendo, hang suspended for a moment, then he gave one final thrust before pulling free of her body, his slick cock a heated pressure sliding against her skin, jerking and exploding as he broke their kiss to roar his climax. The sound echoed through her skin and bones. She closed her eyes, savoring it. The sound of his pleasure. The scent of pine and sweat and her and James.

Gently, he slumped back onto his heels, gathering her up in his arms and cradling her against him. He sat with her in his lap. Stroked her hair and kissed her neck. “Look what I’ve done. Bloody hell. Now you’re a proper mess.” Then he rubbed at a spot of dirt on her shoulder. “I should never have handled you so roughly. I am sorry.”

She played with the hand that still gripped her waist, measuring his fingers against hers. That was when she started the Difficult Conversation without even trying.

“Why do you always behave as though I am some pristine creature to be kept safely behind glass?”

His body tensed. A long silence fell. He lifted her and set her gently on the sofa. Then, he rose. Buttoned his fall. Went to the spot where her gown and petticoats and corset had pooled on the floor. Without another word, he left the room, leaving her sitting, stunned and sticky and naked on green twill.

Moments later, he returned carrying her favorite peach dressing gown. He thrust it out to her. She stood to wrap it around her body.

Then she watched him pace the length of the room. Four times. No. Five.

He spun to face her. “Because that is what you are, Viola. Pristine. Beautiful. You are too fine for these hands.”

“Oh, that is pure rubbish. I happen to adore those hands. In particular, I adore when they are upon my body. Or inside my body, for that matter.”

He ran one of the aforementioned hands through his hair. A bit of dust plumed. “There.” He pointed to the dust. “Filthy. I should not be touching you at all. But I am a selfish, greedy, lusty brute, and I cannot bloody well resist.”

“You are my husband.”

“Aye. But that does not mean we suit, Viola.”

All warmth fled her skin. Ice ascended to replace it. She blinked slowly, absorbing what he had just said. Stumbling backward, she collapsed as the backs of her knees hit the sofa’s edge, sitting with a soft whump. “Do you …” She swallowed and tried again. “Would you feel the same about Alison?”

He stalked toward her, bending forward and bracing his hands on the back of the sofa to either side of her head, his face hovering inches from hers. “Listen to me, lass. What you witnessed that day was not what it seemed. I went to see her, yes. We spoke. Her husband had died. In a moment of grief, she kissed me. I was surprised for a single moment and did not react. Then, I pushed her away from me.”

She watched his eyes, beloved and green. They burned like a forest aflame. “Because you are a man of honor,” she whispered.

“No. Bloody hell, Viola. Because I do not want her. I want you. Do you understand? I want you until I cannot bear another moment. Until I hurt in every piece and part, every bone, every muscle, every inch of me. Honor has nothing to do with it.” He shoved away. Turned his back to pace half the length of the room from her. Clasped his hands atop his head. And stood that way for long seconds before continuing quietly, “If I were being honorable, I would have let you marry that weak-chinned blighter Lord Hugh.”

She wanted to speak. But her heart was squeezing and pounding so hard, she could scarcely take a breath. Finally, she was able to gasp enough air to say his name. “James?” The word was querulous and thin, but it drew him around to face her, his arms dropping to his sides. “You want me?” she confirmed.

“I am not good enough for you, lass.”

She shook her head. “That is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. You are the finest of men.”

He glanced down at his hands. “No. I am—”

“The finest. Of men.” She stood. Walked to him. Took his hands in hers. “If you want me, I am yours, James. It is, and always has been, that simple.”

*~*~*

His wee bonnie lass had a smudge on her pristine, white cheek. Her hair was in wild, black disarray. Her rose-petal lips were swollen from his kisses.

But her eyes. Ah, the stars had returned. They shone their light up at him, entire constellations of incandescent beauty.

Charlotte had tried to tell him. At the masquerade, when he’d stood watching Viola flirt and dance, when he’d stood burning inside an agonizing hell of rage and want, Charlotte had said all he must do was stop, turn ’round, and let Viola run into his arms. Then she had advised that he take care not to bruise the indomitable Miss Darling, as one never knew when those bruises might begin to matter a great deal.

As usual, Charlotte had been right. But he’d not wanted to hear it. He’d convinced himself that giving in to his desire for Viola would harm her more than rejecting her. It had driven him to inflict wounds that he was only now beginning to see heal.

Gently, he caressed Viola’s precious cheeks with his great, muckle hands, rubbing at the smudge with his thumb. He bent to kiss her brow softly. Then those miraculous eyes. Finally, he kissed her lips, resting his mouth against hers, taking her breath into his lungs.

“You are mine, lass,” he whispered. “My wife. I mean tae keep ye, come what may.”

She nodded, a tear escaping.

“Dinna cry.”

“I am happy,” she replied, her voice husky and soft. “I thought you wanted her. Loved her. I knew I had trapped you into marriage, and I thought letting you go was the proper thing to do.”

“Now, there is where you went wrong.” He smiled and kissed the spot where her tear had fallen, tasting the salt on his lips. “When you pursued me, you didna give a bloody damn what was proper. You tempted and twisted until I didna know up from sideways. That was an effective strategy, by God.”

She laughed, the sound a full-throated balm to his soul. “I was determined, wasn’t I?” She sighed and stroked his wrists. “Victoria reminded me my mistake had been taking away your choices, and that to leave you before I had asked what you wanted would be to repeat my error. I am glad I listened.”

He kissed her again. “As am I, lass. Had you left me, I would have had a devil of a time chasing you. And you would have had a devil of a time being caught.”