by Anne Stuart
He lifted his head and looked down at her, bemused. He knew the answer to the question she kept asking, and he was damned if he would tell her. He was marrying her because she made him feel alive, he was marrying her because he’d never wanted a woman so much in his life, he was marrying her because in her arms he felt like he’d finally come home for the first time in his life.
He kissed her again, and because he no longer had to hold her in place he slid his hand down her neck, his fingertips tracing a pattern on her warm, creamy skin. God, he wanted to lick her all over, he wanted to claim every inch of her. He wanted to show her that the small release she’d had before was nothing compared to what he could give her, and he wanted to drown in her response.
The neckline of her sunny yellow dress was demurely high, her breasts guarded by layers of cloth and whalebone. He let his fingers trace one, and she startled for a moment. He lifted his head to look down at her. “Hush, Sophie. You’re like a fortress with all these layers. I won’t do anything but touch you.”
She stared at him, her dark blue eyes slightly dazed, and then she reached up and pulled his head down to hers again. He would have laughed in triumph but her mouth was too wonderful, and he cupped her breast in his large hand, his thumb finding the nipple beneath all that armor with unerring instinct, rubbing, gently at first, and then harder, pinching slightly until it was like a button beneath the cloth, and she was squirming on his lap, needing more.
He tore his mouth away, finally moving it to her neck, kissing her soft skin, sucking at her, biting her, and she responded with a low moan, her arms tightening around him as she tried to get closer. God, he wanted her breasts in his mouth; he wanted to suck at her like a hungry pup. He wanted to push her down on the carriage seat, shove up her skirts, and slam into her sweet, moist depths, finding his own, mindless release.
He wouldn’t do it. He’d already taken her too hard, when he thought she’d been experienced. The next time he got inside her he was going to take his time.
But he could get her ready. It didn’t matter that her delicious bum was seated directly over his straining erection—it provided a wicked stimulation on its own as she squirmed. He held her safely in one arm as his hand slid down her leg, reaching the hem of her heavy skirts and touching her stockinged foot.
He’d forgotten he’d stolen her shoes to keep her from running, and for a moment he smiled at the brilliance of it. Her foot was small, sensitive, and he rubbed it, his thumb beneath the arch, and her reaction was electric. Who would have thought a woman would like her feet rubbed this much, he thought, increasing the pressure, and she moaned in pure pleasure. He put that information in the back of his brain for further use, but he had more interesting destinations in mind. Taking the hems of her dress and petticoats in his hand, he began to draw them upward.
Her moan of pleasure turned into a sound of distress, and he returned his mouth to hers for a brief, caressing moment, feathering her lips with his. “Hush, love. I promise. I’ll only touch you.”
He looked into her dazed blue eyes as if he could command her agreement like the great Mesmer, and to his relief and astonishment she finally nodded. He kissed her again, a brief, hard one. “Good girl,” he praised her, and lifted those ridiculous layers of skirt higher still.
Why did women wear so goddamned many clothes? After they were married he would take her away someplace, maybe a secluded cottage, and she could dance around in her shift the way she had in his garden, when he’d finally succumbed to his . . . obsession.
It was easy enough to simply slip his hand beneath all these layers, to move up her silk-covered leg to the ribboned garters that tied them in place. And the silky flesh above it. She wore the very latest in Parisian underwear. Her knickers were of a fabric so soft it was practically nonexistent, but he moved past, up her lovely thigh to his ultimate goal.
She jerked again when his fingers found her, the soft curls between her legs, the dampness between her thighs, and he wanted to lick her there. He would, sooner or later, but now he let his fingers dance over her, letting her get used to his touch.
She’d settled back again, her bum rubbing against his cock, and he stifled his groan of pleasure. Please God she didn’t suddenly move the wrong way and cripple him for life, he thought absently, but even that thought couldn’t make his raging erection subside. He knew how to pleasure women—and he rubbed that spot just below the curls with deft, delicate pressure. She climaxed immediately, a short burst of release, and he smiled against her flesh. It hadn’t simply been his kisses today that had brought her to her peak so quickly. She had to have been thinking of him, remembering, to be this easily satisfied.
But he had no intention of stopping there. He held his hand still, against the lovely plump folds of her sex, and then he slid one finger inside her.
She squeaked, moving again, and he wondered what would happen if he came in his trousers, against the skirt of her dress. She was still so tight, reminding him that she’d been a virgin until he’d taken her. Guilt was long gone, only triumph that she was his, would be only his, and he moved his finger gently, rubbing inside the slick channel, preparing her, as his thumb touched her spot once more.
She started to climax, and he pulled back. She was clutching his shoulders, her fingers digging in, but at this she bucked, making a sound of distress at his withdrawal. He slid two fingers inside her this time, the wetness easing the way, and he felt her clamp around him, felt her shake.
He rubbed again, just enough for another small climax to hit her, and he pulled back. She made a soft cry of need, and a fierce possessiveness washed over him, one he didn’t want to consider or question. Mine roared through his blood, and he pumped his fingers into her, feeling the start of another climax. He wanted more from her, he wanted to make her cry and scream with pleasure, he wanted to give her such pleasure she could never forget it no matter how far she tried to run. He pressed his thumb up against her, rubbing the dampness around her, rubbing that bundle of nerves, and he felt it through his own body: the sudden rigidity of the soft armful, the gasp of shock, the explosion that rushed through her, and he covered her mouth with his to drink in her cry of completion.
He made it last. He knew how; just as one peak subsided he touched her again and another washed over her, and he did it again and again, until she was trembling in his arms, her face buried against his neck, and she was sobbing, demanding, overwhelmed.
He brought her down gently, and she collapsed against him, a sodden little heap of femininity in his arms. He was still hard—there hadn’t been any unexpected accidents, which frankly astonished him. He could have come just from watching her face. He withdrew his hand slowly, caressing her as he did so, smoothing the soft cloth of her knickers, trailing down her leg and pulling her skirts down. He caught her foot once more, slowly rubbing it, and he felt the last of the tension leave her body. He took her other foot, giving it the same sort of attention, and smiled at her response. She purred like a kitten against his neck. He could feel the dampness of her tears, which probably infuriated her. She struck him as a girl who didn’t like to cry. No, not a girl, not any longer. A woman.
He held her, simply held her, as the well-sprung carriage made its way toward London. He could wait that long. Once inside the town house he could carry her directly up to bed and finish what he’d started. Surely he could manage to hold out that long. At least there would be no one there but the small, discreet staff he always kept on. He would feed her in bed, he would eat her in bed, he would indulge them both in an unending orgy of pleasure that would never stop.
And then, tomorrow, he would marry her, whether she liked it or not.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SOPHIE OPENED HER EYES. They felt sticky, odd, and she reached up to touch them. It almost felt as if she’d been crying. Slowly, but far too surely, memory came back to her. She was curled up on the carriage seat next to Alexander, his arm around her, her head tucked against his shoulder, and she remembe
red what he’d done to her.
She shoved at him, hard, only succeeding in falling off the seat. He caught her in time, pulling her back up into his arms, and a weak, wicked part of her wanted to sink against him. She was stronger than that.
This time when she scrambled away he let her go, watching her as she ended on the seat opposite him, in the farthest corner away from him.
“You lying bastard,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s hardly the response I usually get for such unselfish behavior on my part. Gratitude would be far more appropriate. And I didn’t lie. I told you I would only touch you, and that’s what I did. And you certainly didn’t do anything to discourage me. In fact, I vaguely remember hearing a please somewhere in there.”
“You’re disgusting.”
He laughed. “And you’re a prude.”
She glared at him. She was the furthest thing from a prude that she could imagine, but he made her feel like a nun. Why had she let him do that to her? How could she have been so willing, so wanton?
It was his kisses, she decided. She gave him a disgruntled look, calming down a bit. “Do you put some kind of poison on your lips?”
He raised both eyebrows this time. “I beg your pardon?”
“Every time you kiss me, my wits desert me.”
She expected mockery, but after a startled moment he simply smiled. “Well, that’s a start.”
Talking about it wasn’t a good idea, she thought. It led to dangerous waters. “How far are we from London?”
“About two hours out, I expect.”
“And are you going to return my shoes, or will you be carting me up the front steps like a character in a French novel?”
He made a face. “More like a gothic novel, where I carry you off and imprison you in my lair.”
“You’ve already told me that’s what you’re doing,” she said.
“Well, I was going to put you in a nice, airy bedroom to yourself for the time being, but if you prefer a lair . . .”
“Do you have one?”
“Oh, yes, I keep a lair, a dungeon, and an oubliette in every one of my houses. You never know when they might come in handy.”
She ignored his amusement. “How many houses do you have?”
“Reconsidering me as marriage material? Wise girl. I own Renwick, a house in St. John’s Wood, a manor house in Yorkshire, and a farm in the Lake District, and I believe there’s a run-down hunting lodge just over the border in Scotland. You have to understand that my elderly uncle only recently succumbed to a long life of wretched excess and I haven’t had time to inspect all the honors and dignities that go along with my title.”
“Honor,” she scoffed under her breath.
“Not that kind of honor,” he said reprovingly. “Besides, I’m on a trip to London to marry the innocent child I accidentally despoiled, and if that’s not honorable—”
“Not when she doesn’t want to marry you. And I’m not a child,” she snapped, then realized how childish she sounded.
He always did this to her. Got her wound up, so that she blurted out inappropriate things and did things she should never do if she had half a brain. Which she appeared to be lacking, every time he touched her. What an idiotic, weak-willed female she was!
“Need we go over this again?” he said, sounding bored.
She closed her mouth. They’d been arguing about that very thing when he’d pulled her into his arms and proceeded to demonstrate quite clearly why she should want to marry him, and she didn’t dare risk giving him the excuse to put his hands on her again, any more than she wanted to risk temptation.
“Since you refuse to listen, no,” she said, straightening out her crumpled skirts, trying to forget what had happened beneath them. “May I look at your newspaper while it’s still light?”
He smiled. “Of course, my precious.” He handed it to her, and she turned past the front-page advertisements to the articles and society columns, waiting for him to stop paying attention to her.
He didn’t—he was watching her with lazy interest, as if waiting for something. It didn’t take long for her to realize what he was expecting.
There were no advertisements in the paper apart from those on the front page. He’d taken those pages out, the polite inquiries for domestic servants and lost dogs, cutting off that avenue of escape. She didn’t let her expression change. “The paper seems thinner than usual.” It was no more than a casual comment.
“I took leave to remove sections before we left that would be of no interest to you,” he replied.
“How kind.” She couldn’t keep the acid from her voice.
“I am always at your service, my love.”
She wanted to grind her teeth in frustration, but she kept her expression as impassive as his. As soon as he returned her shoes and turned his back she’d be gone. She could buy a newspaper anywhere, or find an employment agency. Or take the train to Plymouth and hope for the best. She had countless options.
So why did the thought of leaving him dishearten her? Why was she, the most practical and levelheaded of creatures, suddenly so confused?
She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d bested her in the question of the newspaper, so she forced herself to read an extremely dull article on the arguments in a minor parliamentary issue, a look of intense concentration on her face. She glanced up once, but he hadn’t even noticed. His eyes were closed, and whether he slept or not, she didn’t think hurling herself out of a carriage would be a solution.
She set the newspaper down with a sigh, and if one corner of his mouth quirked in the trace of a smile, she ignored it. Once they reached London the possibilities would be endless. She could wait till then.
Astonishingly enough, the bumpy roads got worse as they neared the city, not better, and feigning sleep certainly wasn’t the answer. Sophie glanced out her window as they drove through the city, wondering where her usual excitement had gone. When she was young, indeed, a few months ago, she had always been breathless with anticipation when they left Renwick for the London town house on Curzon Street, the town house that was now a burned-out wreck. She had found her time in the country to be more penance than respite, and she’d done everything she could to make her father return to the city.
None of that thrill remained. She looked at the houses, the people, the lamplighter making his rounds, the dung- and mud-filled streets, and she thought of the theater, shopping, riding in the park, all the things that she’d loved. And she wanted to be back at Renwick.
The carriage stopped sooner than expected, and she looked out her window into the gathering dusk. Shadows had invaded the carriage, and she couldn’t see Alexander’s face, but he seemed to recognize the place.
“My shoes?” she said.
The coachman opened the door, and Alexander climbed out first, then turned and reached a hand for her. She held up one bare foot.
“Yes, they’re quite lovely, but I think you’re better off without shoes for the time being. And you shouldn’t have taken off your bandages.”
“I didn’t need them, and . . . oof!”
He’d reached in, caught her arm, and hauled her out, not into his arms, but over his shoulder, starting up the stairs as if hauling an unwilling bride was an everyday occurrence in the area. For all she knew, it was.
She considered struggling, but he’d probably slap her on the bottom, and she simply wanted to get out of sight as quickly as possible, so she stayed very still until the front door opened for him, and a butler welcomed them in, not even batting an eye. “Welcome home, sir. We’ve been expecting you for some time.”
Alexander let her down, and her body slid against his in a most undignified fashion that she wanted to feel again. “You have?” he said, looking perplexed. “I didn’t send word I was coming.”
“No, but—”
“Alexander!” came a new voice from behind Alexander’s tall frame. “I knew you’d show up sooner or later. And look
at the pretty present you brought me. Or are we going to share?”
The man’s voice was light, charming, and Alexander stiffened with shock. He slowly turned, still blocking her view. “Rufus,” he said in a hoarse voice. “You really are alive!”
“I am indeed, brother mine. Bloody but unbowed.”
Alexander was looking as if he’d been struck by lightning. He stared at his brother with a dazed expression, then shook his head, as if to clear his brain. “Why didn’t you come to Renwick?” he demanded.
“And deal with my mother’s histrionics? I think not. So tell me, who’s the delightful little crumpet who’s hiding behind your skirts, so to speak?”
Alexander moved then, and Sophie took her first look at Alexander’s recently deceased brother, who apparently wasn’t dead after all.
He was a handsome man—anyone related to Alexander would probably have to be. In fact, he was possibly prettier than Alexander was, with large eyes and a generous, smiling mouth, a tousle of dark hair with an artfully arranged curl over his forehead. He was a bit too thin, and his face was pale, as if he’d been ill, but he made her an extravagant bow that almost sent him tumbling.
Alexander caught him immediately, and the man gave his brother a rueful smile. “My blasted leg,” he said, then glanced at Sophie. “Beg your pardon, beautiful stranger.”
“She has an affection for bad language,” Alexander said. “Sophie, may I present my Lazarus of a brother, Rufus Griffiths? Rufus, this is Sophia Russell, my affianced bride.”
Did she imagine that fleeting expression of shock that washed over Rufus’s pale face? She must have, because a moment later he’d limped toward her and taken her hand in his, kissing it with great panache. “So I’m finally to have a sister? When did all this happen? I’ve only been dead a few weeks.”
Alexander laughed, but the sound was uneasy. “I want to hear what happened to you. One moment you’re on a grand tour, next we hear you’ve gone overboard on some pirate’s ship, which I always took leave to doubt. What in heaven’s name happened to you?”