She released a soft cry of surprise at how defenseless she felt in this position. Then another cry when he shifted until she impaled herself upon him.
He buried his face in her shoulder. Her hands clutched his back, feeling his uneven breathing. His heat surrounded her, filled her. From this angle, she had no control over the depth or speed of his entry. The sensation verged on uncomfortable, however greedily her body clung to his. Another whimper escaped and she jiggled to adjust to the thickness inside her.
He nudged his hips up and the dizzying climb that had started when he’d used his hand flared into blinding light. She convulsed in his arms, digging her fingers into his coat as she sought some anchor in this reeling, brilliant world.
It cost him not to move. Through her peak, she felt his quivering rigidity. His back felt like a steel column, his shoulders like planks of oak.
Drifting down from that astounding climax, she opened her eyes to see deep lines bracketing his lips. He looked furious.
She smiled her satisfaction. She’d learned that look could denote something other than anger.
She let herself dangle in his arms. If he released her, she’d melt into a puddle on the extravagant carpet. She rested her cheek on his coat, hearing the fierce heartbeat under her ear. There was something breathtakingly decadent about the fact that they were both dressed—mostly.
“You’re still fighting me,” he said unsteadily.
She started, trying to force her sluggish brain to make sense of what she heard. Her head was too heavy to lift. Honestly, at this rate, he’d have to carry her upstairs. Or call Thomas to help. Which could be interesting. “What?”
“You’re holding back.” His voice was a bass rumble, vibrating against her cheek. His hands gripped her hips, holding her in place.
She muffled a weary laugh. “Don’t be an idiot, Cam. You just sent me to the stars.”
“It’s not enough.” She felt him inhale. What sweet intimacy to be close enough to count his every breath.
“I don’t understand.”
Except she did. Didn’t she feel exactly the same when she stared into his eyes at the peak of intimacy and knew that he held himself separate?
How odd that he too felt the faint distance, minute but unmistakable. The fear of revealing her love always hovered, even when she was lost to pleasure.
“I’m deep inside you, deep enough to touch your heart, and I feel—” He broke off. She could imagine why. He didn’t deal in emotions, especially his own. “I feel like you elude me.”
“I’m right here.” Except they both knew she wasn’t.
“In body.”
“That’s enough.” She shifted to ease the fullness. Her shoulder dislodged a book and sent it tumbling to the carpet with a dull thud.
“It’s not.” He sounded confused. And frustrated.
“Cam, you have me.”
“Not completely,” he said stubbornly and jerked his hips to confirm his claim.
Another cracked laugh. “Cam, you’ve got me against the blasted wall, for heaven’s sake. Anyone who heard you would think you mad.”
Except, most tragically, Penelope Rothermere.
It suddenly struck her that they both wanted the same thing. Access to the other’s soul. Without risking their own vulnerabilities.
“I know what I mean,” he persisted, shifting. Almost unwillingly, her exhausted body adjusted.
She crushed her face into his shirtfront, breathing his rich scent. His lips brushed the crown of her head. After such passion, the unexpected tenderness stabbed like a knife. Before she reminded herself that longing mustn’t infect this moment, she released a soft, unhappy sigh.
The hands under her bottom hardened to bruising. She tightened her legs around his hips, feeling the slide of his trousers against her bare skin. The sensation was wildly erotic. Everything about this encounter was wildly erotic.
“Hold on, Penelope,” he whispered.
He slid from her body, then slammed back. The thrust crashed her into the wall. Three more books toppled. That stretching sensation returned. And to her astonishment, a flicker of arousal.
Cam’s slow withdrawal fired every nerve. He took her again. And again. One final rise and he went taut and still. With a rough groan, he pumped into her.
It turned out that she had more than a flicker left. Caught in the conflagration, all Pen could do was hold him and pray that she’d survive the ride. She felt pummeled by pleasure, stripped to essentials, re-created as Cam’s creature.
She’d had no idea that the physical world encompassed such wonders. Or that the physical body could endure such extremes of delight. If she thought she’d yielded before, this sizzling connection proved that Cam could draw more from her. More reaction. More pleasure. More wildness.
More love.
He staggered and lost hold of her hips. Her feet slipped down and their bodies separated. She grabbed his shoulders. She had no hope of standing on her own.
“I hope Thomas went to bed,” she said shakily, staring at Cam and seeing what she expected. A man flushed with satisfaction, his gaze lazy, his clothing in disarray.
A man who still concealed his true self behind his eyes.
She still hardly believed what he’d said. They fought the same battle. After tonight, she recognized how cruel that struggle would become. Why was he so set on gaining her surrender? Was it about power? Pride?
Cam laughed softly. “I love to hear you cry out.”
“I love to hear you grunt,” she retorted.
“Come upstairs and I‘ll grunt some more.”
As she straightened, her skirts slithered to her ankles. “I don’t think I can walk.”
Cam held her loosely by the waist. “Catch your breath.”
Despite the declaration of war—for what else had that been?—they stood leaning into one another for a sweet interval. Gradually Pen’s breathing settled, her awareness of something other than physical sensation returned.
“I’ll get you that brandy.” He kissed her briefly on the lips.
To save herself sinking into his arms and revealing exactly how besotted she was, she drew away and bent to collect the books that had cascaded around them at the heights of their passion.
“Cam?” she said in shock.
He turned from the side table where he poured their drinks. “Yes?”
Her voice shook as she extended a book toward him. “I wrote this.”
“You did indeed,” he said as if his ownership of one of her travel memoirs meant nothing. “And very good it was too. If you check the shelves, you’ll see your other books as well.”
Still holding the book, she slumped onto a chair. “I’m… surprised.”
Damn him. What hope did she have of resisting? There was a poignant pleasure in knowing that he’d read and enjoyed words she’d written.
He brought her the brandy. “Let’s drink to your talent.”
He spoke so casually when she felt completely overturned. And not just because of that headlong seduction. It was an effort to keep her voice light. “Which talent in particular?”
His brows arched. “Let’s just say that the last half hour has given me a new appreciation for my library.”
She met eyes alight with humor and found herself laughing with an unfettered amusement that she hadn’t felt since her aunt’s death. Careless of the brandy, Cam drew her up into his arms as he laughed with her.
Briefly, despite this being the depths of night, sunlight warmed her world.
Chapter Thirty-Two
When Harry heard the carriage stop outside Aunt Isabel’s house in a narrow street off Russell Square, his heart threatened to explode with excitement. He drew a deep breath of the dust-laden air and strained to hear Sophie’s steps approaching the door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The triple knock signaled her arrival. She sounded impatient. Almost as impatient as he.
He flung open the door to see the dark, unmarked carria
ge and Pen’s anxious face peering out the window. He waved to reassure her, before his attention focused on the veiled woman on the step.
Without speaking, he caught Sophie’s wrist just above her short glove and dragged her into the hall. Under his fingers, her pulse pounded madly.
The slam of the door echoed through the unoccupied house like a gunshot. He tipped back her bonnet and flung away the veils concealing her beautiful face. Then he was kissing her and she was kissing him. The long, lonely weeks suddenly didn’t matter.
His darling was here. He was alive again.
Three afternoons he’d waited since Pen had delivered his note. Three afternoons alone in this neglected house left empty for years while Aunt Isabel toured the Continent. In this middle-class neighborhood, nobody was likely to discover him with Sophie.
He kissed Sophie’s lips, chin, cheeks, nose, brow. Hundreds of words tumbled out, boiling down to three essentials.
I love you.
I missed you.
Don’t leave me.
He took far too long to realize that Sophie was crying. He caught her face between his hands. “Sweetheart, what is it?”
She sniffed and regarded him with swimming blue eyes. “I’m just so happy to see you. I thought James might leave me in that frozen wilderness until he drove up with Desborough and forced me into the chapel for the wedding.”
“You said your brother wouldn’t bully you.”
“He’s so set on this match. Desborough is coming to propose tomorrow.”
Dread oozed down Harry’s spine. “Hell.”
She nodded. “If I say no, I’m afraid that James will send me away again.”
“But your aunt has left Northumberland.”
“There’s always Alloway Chase.”
He strove to lighten the atmosphere. “At least it’s not in Northumberland.”
Sophie didn’t smile. “It may as well be. It’s in the middle of the Yorkshire moors and my mother will watch me like a hawk.” She stared at Harry as if he had every answer. If only he did.
“Can you put Desborough off?”
She shrugged unhappily. “Given that his suit is an open secret, any delay will make James suspicious.”
Harry hated to see Sophie so defeated. He kissed her until she clung. By the time he’d returned to earth, she looked less distraught.
“Play for time.” He seized her hand and stripped off the glove. He pressed a fervent kiss to her palm before leading her into the heavily curtained drawing room.
Sophie’s spurt of hope faded. “It’s only delaying the inevitable.”
“Say you’re considering the proposal favorably. It might make Leath less vigilant.”
“If I marry Desborough, all is lost.”
On a stage, the statement might sound melodramatic, but she spoke nothing less than the truth. His Sophie wasn’t made to be his mistress. She deserved better than to become an adulterous wife.
“We’ve only got an hour,” she said bleakly, slumping onto the chaise longue.
“I’d hoped for longer.” Harry catalogued each fair feature. An hour? It seemed too cruel. Although only a lifetime would suffice. Even then, he’d feel cheated.
“It was difficult enough getting away from Lady Frencham’s tea party. The duchess said she wanted to take me to her modiste.” Sophie removed her second glove. “Although anyone with half a brain must realize that Her Grace hasn’t been in London long enough to recommend a dressmaker.”
From what he’d seen of Pen’s drab ensembles, no girl of style would take up her offer. That gray monstrosity she’d worn at the Oldhavens’ would frighten the horses.
The mention of clothing focused his attention on Sophie’s costume. “Good God, is that a tent?”
Despite her turmoil, a broken giggle escaped. She untied the toggles fastening the cloak. “Your sister lent it to me, as well as the bonnet and veil. But she’s so much taller than I am.”
“You look like you’re drowning.” If they only had an hour, he didn’t want to spend it stewing over their tribulations. “I doubt your own mother would recognize you under all that material.”
Gracefully Sophie slipped the cloak from her slender shoulders. In this cheerless room, her pink muslin gown was as fresh as cherry blossom. Harry could no longer bear to keep his distance. In two paces, he was on his knees beside the chaise, her hands in his. “Now you look like my girl.”
“Your sister is wonderful.” Her sweet, brief kiss made his heart caper. “She looks like you.”
“Poor thing.”
Sophie giggled again. He was pleased to see the back of her tragic air.
“Stop fishing for compliments.” The amusement drained from her expression. “She’s very good to help us. I can’t imagine her husband approves. Last night at the opera, James and Sedgemoor glared at each other like a pair of snarling lions.”
Harry sighed. “My sister couldn’t have married anyone less likely to raise me in your brother’s favor.”
Sophie’s hands tightened. “It’s so unfair that Uncle Neville’s wickedness has blackened anyone called Fairbrother. Especially as I never liked him and James positively despised him.”
“You know how society works, Sophie. People still talk about Sedgemoor’s parents, and he’s always been a model of propriety.”
“Harry?” Sophie asked uncertainly. “What are we going to do?”
He suspected she wanted him to come up with a long-term solution. Unfortunately, he hadn’t found one yet. “Pen’s given me a key for this house. Night or day, I can meet you here.”
Sophie looked no happier. “James watches me.”
“He’ll grant you more freedom if you agree to marry Desborough.”
Sophie wrenched her hands from his and lurched to her feet. “I can’t marry Desborough. Not when I love you. How can you ask it?”
Harry stood and swept her into his arms, feeling how she trembled. “I’m not asking it.”
“Then you want me to lie?”
He growled low in his throat. “Once we’re married, there will be no more hiding, no more secrets.”
“I hate it too,” she whispered, nestling into him in a way that made his heart expand with pride. How had this glorious creature come to love him? He wasn’t worthy, although nothing in heaven or hell could stop him loving her.
“We can’t go on like this. It’s tearing us both to pieces.”
Tears filled her eyes. “And our hour must be nearly over. I’m so lonely without you.”
“Me too,” he said glumly, tightening his embrace and kissing her.
Sophie’s lips were so soft and her sighs so sweet that minutes went by before Harry recalled that he had something important to say. And not much time to say it. He smiled into her flushed face. She looked like she floated in a blissful dream.
He heard a church clock in the distance strike the hour. “Sophie, we must make plans. If Desborough proposes, say you don’t want to rush things with him.”
She gripped his waist as if resisting their parting. He prayed this separation would be brief. “I don’t want to rush things with him.”
“Well, that’s good,” Harry said with a short laugh. He kissed her quickly, but withdrew before heat engulfed him.
She looked displeased. “Kiss me again.”
“I dare not. This is an empty house and that chaise longue fills my head with naughty thoughts.”
“I don’t mind.” Her voice wobbled. “Harry, I don’t want to go.”
“I don’t want you to go. But you must.” Very gently, he wrapped her in the voluminous cloak and replaced her bonnet, arranging the veils. “Pen’s outside.” He’d heard the rattle of the carriage a few minutes ago.
“I know,” Sophie said miserably.
“Be brave, my love.” He kissed her hands tenderly then passed her the gloves. “I swear we’ll find a solution.”
“I hope so.” He couldn’t see her expression, but he heard how emotion thickened her voice. �
�Because, Harry Thorne, you’ve been reckless with my heart.”
“Never,” he said in shock.
Her tone hinted that she smiled through tears. “You’ve made me fall so deeply in love that I can’t live without you.”
“Oh, Sophie…” His voice wasn’t much steadier than hers.
She whirled away and rushed down the hall. He didn’t follow. Instead he stood in the empty room and listened to the door click shut.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Bad blood will always out, you know.”
The low, insinuating female voice reached Pen on her return to the crowded ballroom from the ladies’ retiring room. Shock more than curiosity made her pause. The tone was repellently malevolent. Just hearing it made her want a thorough wash.
What on earth could engender such spite?
A palm tree concealed the speaker—Lady Frencham’s soiree had a tropical theme—so Pen had no idea who she was. Even after a fortnight in London society, she had difficulty identifying people. Although if she’d heard that nasty voice before, surely she’d remember it.
A second woman replied before Pen could do the decent thing and move out of earshot. “He’s done a grand job of convincing the world to forget his slut of a mother. I’d mention his father, but nobody knows who that is. There are two likely candidates. But given the late duchess’s depravity, hundreds more could have sired him.”
The late duchess? Although no names had been mentioned, a sick foreboding coiled in Pen’s belly.
“He gives himself such airs that one might almost believe him the gentleman he apes. Almost.”
“Until he turned up with that Thorne strumpet.”
Dear Lord, they were talking about Cam. And her.
Horror kept Pen trapped beside the palm tree. Was this what everyone thought?
She flattened a trembling hand against the wall and told herself to leave. The proverb about eavesdroppers hearing no good of themselves came to mind. That clearly counted double for hearing no good of those one loved.
“A marriage in Italy? I for one don’t believe a word of it. Don’t tell me she wasn’t sharing his bed. After the shipwreck, the game was up, so they married in haste. I see trouble already. They act more like strangers than newlyweds. There’s more Rothermere scandal ahead, my dear. That hussy Penelope Thorne won’t limit herself to one man. And Sedgemoor will tire of her soon enough and seek entertainment elsewhere. It’s in the family line, isn’t it?”