A Lady of His Own by Stephanie Laurens
Smoothly drew her lips to his, saw her eyes flare briefly before her lids fell. He held her to the kiss until she softened against him, then let the pleasure well and spill through them both.
She resisted for an instant, then surrendered and sank against him, and he almost groaned. Why with her was it so very different? She was the only woman who had ever had the power to make him ache like this, with a weakness, a longing, a need so potent it made him feel helpless.
Helpless to resist.
He parted her lips and sank into her mouth, into the hot lushness. Released her nape, reached farther, turned her, and lifted her onto his lap.
She pressed her hands to his shoulders, fought to keep her spine rigid. When he lifted his head, her eyes flew wide. “What about the coachman?”
“He’s on the box—he can’t see.” Closing his hands about her waist, he nipped her lower lip. “If you don’t shriek, he won’t hear.”
“Shriek? Why—”
He slid his hands up.
“Charles—”
He covered her lips. Let his thumbs cruise the fine silk of her bodice, locating and slowly circling her pebbled nipples. He let his palms cup the soft weight of her breasts, felt them swell and firm. Gloried in the tremor that shook her, that tangled her breath until she breathed through him.
After a long, thorough, painfully arousing exchange, he released her lips and drew in a huge breath. He knew exactly how far it was between Branscombe and Wallingham—not far enough.
Eyes closed, Penny shuddered between his hands, feeling his fingers hard and steely holding her so easily, confident, so certain of her. She’d told herself it would be just a kiss, something she could simply take and enjoy. She’d forgotten that with him there was more, always more.
His head was bowed beside hers; he brushed his lips to her temple. “God, how much I’ve missed you.”
There was a longing in his tone she couldn’t mistake, that resonated through her.
I’ve missed you, too. She held the words back. Yet she had missed him, so deeply she was amazed. She hadn’t realized…only now, now he was back, kissing her again, did she feel the yawning emptiness inside, recognize it, realize it had been with her for a very long time.
Thirteen years, more or less.
The carriage dipped as it passed through the gates of Wallingham. Charles sighed, lifted her and set her on the seat beside him once more.
When the carriage halted and the footman opened the door, she was wrapped in her cloak. Charles descended and handed her out.
She expected him to part from her, to go on to the stables and drive himself home. Instead, he led her up the steps. Catching her puzzled glance, he murmured, “I want to see if Nicholas is home.”
According to Norris, he was, but had already retired to his chamber.
Charles pressed her hand, stepped back and saluted her. “I’ll call on you later.”
His eyes met hers, then he turned and strode off toward the back of the house and the garden door.
She stood watching him, wondering what she was supposed to infer from that last look, then, inwardly shaking her head, she climbed the stairs and headed for her room.
Her maid, Ellie, was waiting. She climbed out of her gown, into her nightgown, then sat on the stool before her dressing table and let down her hair, brushing it while Ellie fussed, shaking out the gown and hanging it, then brushing down her cloak, finally shutting away the pearl necklace and earrings she’d worn in her jewel box.
“Good night, miss. Sleep tight.”
In the mirror, she smiled at Ellie. “Thank you, Ellie. Good night.”
She continued to brush, laying the long strands of shining pale hair over her shoulders, then she sighed, stood, and snuffed the candles in the sconces on either side of her mirror. Crossing to her bed, she extinguished the candle left burning beside it.
The moonlight streamed in through her windows, a ghostly white light painting all in muted shades.
She was tired, she decided, that was why her mind wouldn’t focus, wasn’t interested in thinking about the five strangers or whether Nicholas knew Phillipe Gerond. Slipping her robe from her shoulders, she tossed it across the foot of her high bed; drawing back the covers, she hitched up her nightgown and set one knee on the white sheet.
A faint, muted click reached her.
She looked toward the door—and saw it opening.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Frozen, she stared as Charles slipped around the door, shut it silently, then locked it.
He turned, saw her, nodded, then walked to the armchair before the fireplace. Dropping into it, he stretched out his long legs, crossing his booted ankles…with a start she noticed that he’d changed out of his evening clothes; he was now garbed in breeches and boots, a neckerchief loosely knotted about his throat, a soft hunting jacket hugging his shoulders.
Sitting up again, he pulled the cushion out from behind him and tossed it on the floor, then he shrugged out of his coat and flung it over the chair’s back, then relaxed back once more.
Remembering her position, her raised and bare knee, and that he could see extremely well in poor light, she abruptly lowered her leg, twitched her nightgown down, fleetingly considered redonning her robe, but decided that smacked too much of accommodation. She wasn’t feeling accommodating at all.
She marched around the end of the bed, but halted a safe five paces from him. “What the devil are you doing here?”
Her hissed whisper filled the room.
He turned his head and looked at her. “I told you I’d see you later.”
“I thought you meant tomorrow. What on earth do you think you’re about, settling down there like that?”
“I was thinking of going to sleep.”
“You can’t sleep here, in my room—you know that perfectly well!”
He regarded her for a long moment. “You don’t seriously imagine I’ll allow you to sleep under the same roof as Nicholas, a potential murderer, unguarded?”
CHAPTER
10
THE QUESTION HADN’T, UNTIL THAT MOMENT, OCCURRED to her, but now he’d uttered it, the answer, she realized, was in fact No.
However…she drew in a deep breath, focused on his face. “This is not possible. You can’t just sleep here, in my room.”
“I grant you this chair isn’t the most comfortable bed”—he shifted his shoulders—“but I’ve slept in far worse. I’ll manage.” Putting his head back, he closed his eyes. “Where’s Nicholas’s room?”
“In the other wing. You can’t stay here—if you insist on guarding me, I’ll lock my door, and you can sleep in the next room.”
“The lock on your door’s too easy to pick—I looked. If I’m next door and Nicholas is good at this game, I’ll never hear him. Get into bed and go to sleep.”
The sheer command in his voice had her turning back to the bed before she caught herself; exasperated, she swung around and, seeing his eyes were closed, marched up to the chair. “Charles. No. Wake up.” She put a hand to his shoulder. “This is simply—”
He moved.
She landed in his lap. Swallowed her shriek.
“I did tell you to get into bed.”
His arms came around her.
Planting her hands on his shoulders, she tried to hold him off—tried to stop him from drawing her to him. “Don’t you dare kiss me!”
From a distance of inches, his eyes met hers. A fraught second passed, then one black brow arched. “Or you’ll what?” His voice had dropped an octave. “Scream?”
She blinked at him.
He closed the distance, closed his lips over hers.
He kissed her. Not as before but as he never had before.
Ravenously. With a hunger, a need, that simply slayed her. That poured through her, vanquished any resistance she might have made, vaporized any wish to do anything other than gather to her that greedy, rapacious, devastatingly desperate need, and appease it.
Her
Their mouths melded; their tongues dueled. Heat flared and raced under their skins.
Sexual awareness awoke; she had nothing on beneath her lawn nightgown. The realization only fired her more, anticipation flashing like lightning down her nerves—neither modesty nor caution rose to cool her ardor.
Nothing, she was sure, could cool his; he was like a living flame, burning for her. She spread her palms over his chest, through the fine linen of his shirt drank in the pulsing heat of him.
Like before, yet not. He’d been twenty then, not a boy yet a mere shadow of the man he now was. What he now was held more than fascination, was more than enthralling. To her, he was life, all she’d denied herself for so long, all she’d forced her lonely self to do without—and he was here, potent, powerful, and so clearly hers if she wished.
He was temptation incarnate, at least to her.
She wasn’t even aware of undoing the buttons down the front of his shirt, yet the instant it fell open, she wrenched the halves apart and spread voracious hands over his burning skin.
Traced the taut muscles, fingertips curling, sinking in.
She sighed with satisfaction, felt giddy delight surge as through their kiss she sensed his groan. Sensed his pleasure. She pandered to both—his and hers—and let the sensations pour through her.
She was unaware he was opening her nightgown until his hand closed over her bare breast, skin to naked skin. Something leapt within her; for one instant, she thought it was fear, then she recognized it as excitement.
He caressed, artfully stirred her senses, and excitement heightened to anticipation. Anticipation that grew with every sweep of his fingertips, every whorling caress, until her nerves were tight, and anticipation edged into desire, and desire became edged with need.
She gasped, pulled back from the kiss, had to; she needed to breathe. He let her lean back against his arm and catch her breath.
His lips traced her jaw, then dipped beneath to follow the long line of her throat. They skated into the hollow between her collarbones, pressed heat into her veins, then drifted lower.
Over the full curve of her breast, to just lightly, oh so lightly brush the aching peak. Then with his tongue, he traced the same path; when he reached the end, she heard a shocked gasp and realized it was hers.
Realized her fingers had speared through his black locks and she was holding him to her, arching in his arms.
He accepted her wanton invitation, caressing her with lips and tongue, following some slow, orchestrated score that ran in counterpoint to the fiery compulsion that seemed to hover about them, enfolding them yet not infusing, not driving them.
Not yet.
This was new, at least to her. She knew in her bones he’d traveled this road so often he knew every inch of the way. Yet last time he hadn’t known this, hadn’t known to linger as he was, stirring her in ways she’d never experienced, never even imagined.
From beneath his lashes, Charles watched her, watched passion swirl through her stormy eyes and draw her lids down, watched desire fraction by fraction lay seige to her features, watched it color her delicate skin a soft rose.
If she’d returned to her bed, he would have stayed in the chair and pretended to sleep, but she hadn’t. She’d argued, and the fastest way to resolve the looming battle in his favor had been to kiss her. It was also the perfect opportunity to take the next step in his personal pursuit of her, a pursuit that with every night that passed took on a keener, hungrier edge.
Pressing the halves of her nightgown wide, he languidly feasted, let his senses drink their fill, let his eyes see, his hands possess, his mouth and tongue claim. As he’d imagined doing for years; triumph lent a subtle edge to his exploration, a hint of possessiveness creeping in to tinge his ministrations.
He was not so much surprised as reassured by her responsiveness. On this plane, she’d always been his equal no matter how little she knew it. He’d always known, an instinctive knowledge, one that had fired his ardor all those years ago; it still smoldered, unquenched.
One thing the passage of the years had taught him was a greater, more educated appreciation. The heated silk of her skin was a wonder, the dusky rose peaks of her swollen breasts a temptation he couldn’t resist. Dampening one, he rasped it with his tongue, then gently drew it into his mouth.
He suckled, lightly, then more powerfully. Her breathing fractured; with a strangled cry she arched in his arms, fingers tightening on his skull, tangling in his hair. He released her, caught a glimpse of her eyes, beaten silver beneath her lashes, took in her parted lips, her harried breathing, the rise and fall of those beautiful breasts—blew gently over the ruched peak and heard her sigh.
Lips curving, he transferred his attention to her other breast. She made no attempt to distract or divert him. Her breathing fractured further; skillfully he tightened the tension that held her, notch by notch, until she was quivering.
He had her complete and focused attention. If Nicholas had chosen that moment to walk in, he doubted she would have noticed. He would have; he’d long ago mastered the knack of leaving a part of his mind on watch while otherwise devoting himself to the woman in his arms.
This time, with her, his absorption ran fathoms deep; more than with any other, he wanted, needed, to learn, to explore. To know not only in the biblical sense, but in every imaginable way. To understand and be sure. His concentration was enough to block the ache in his loins, strong enough for him to set his own needs aside, wholly to one side. This time with her he had to get everything right—fate had handed him a second chance; he had no faith he’d be granted a third.
Having her as his—seizing that second chance he’d always craved—was now too important to risk.
She’d grown restless, urgent under his experienced touch—to his mind flying too high too fast, but she’d always been impatient. And, perhaps, given where they presently stood, not yet where he wanted them to be, a quick, uncomplicated end would serve them best.
Relinquishing her breasts, he raised his head, found her lips, and covered them with his. Plunged into her mouth, intending to harness what little consciousness she still possessed and draw her back to earth—instead, he discovered she had her own demands to make, her own agenda.
Her tongue surged against his; her hands slid from his head to his chest, swept, lightly exploring, over the heavy muscles, then slid lower—and made him shudder.
Her unexpected boldness shook him, distracted him, and left him momentarily disoriented. He was the one in charge—in this arena, he always had been, always would be; he knew much more than she. Yet…for long, heated moments, he followed her script, just to see where it led.
Unwise, but he realized too late—realized that while his control had been forged over the years, hers hadn’t. She was still his implusive ange; her reckless play had only tightened the tension gripping her to an unbearable degree.
He heard the truth in her shaky gasp as she pulled back from a kiss that had plunged into desperation. Read confirmation in the tremors racking her, in the frantic pressure of her nails on his skin.
She’d journeyed too close to the edge.
Her nightgown opened to below her waist; pushing the halves wide, he bent his head to the furled peak of one breast, simultaneously slid his palm down, over her taut belly to the fine thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs. Brushing through them, he found and circled her slick, swollen flesh, with one fingertip caressed until she sobbed.
Drawing her tightly furled nipple deep, he suckled powerfully, at the same time stroked lightly, then increasingly firmly.
She shattered.
With a choked cry, she fell from the peak she’d so intently yet unexpectedly, he suspected unintentionally, climbed.
She sighed, and the last of passion’s fury left her, and she relaxed, boneless, in his arms.
He blew lightly, soothingly, over her breast, then lifted his head, reluctantly withdrew his hand, leaning back in the chair the better to support her. He ached, yet all he wanted at that moment was to study her face, faintly limned by the moonlight; he’d never seen it as it now was, peaceful and serene in aftermath.