by Meara Platt
Briefly, he basked in the erotic beauty he had revealed: Hannah’s creamy shoulders, pale curves, the full swells of her breasts tipped with hard, pink nipples, the nip of her waist. Her hips were full, her thighs firm yet feminine, the place between them beckoning. Her mound was shielded by sleek golden curls, which he already knew were soft as silk to the touch. If he touched her there, he knew she would be dripping. If he licked her there, he knew she would be delicious.
Her hands were upon him, hungry, caressing. She was attempting to strip him of his clothing in the same fashion he had so quickly whisked away hers. He caught her hands in his, raised them to his lips for a kiss.
“Not yet, Hannah sweeting.” His gaze traveled the length of her, admiring. He could not deny the pure bolt of unadulterated lust which swept through him then.
Hannah had always been beautiful. But the pretty girl he had known five years ago paled in comparison to the breathtaking siren standing before him now. She was a naked goddess descended to drive him to distraction. Utter perfection. The earlier promise of her curves had been fulfilled, like a prophecy, only tenfold.
She was astounding.
He kissed her again, his hands on her breasts. He cupped them, weighed them, toyed with her hungry nipples. He caught the peaks between his thumbs and forefingers, rolling and tugging on them until she cried out, arching into him, thrusting her breasts forward like the most beautiful offerings.
He wanted to accept. Bloody hell, he wanted to accept all of her. But he could not, and he knew it. This was his chance. He had to remain strong. Impervious to her lures.
He bit her lower lip, tugging.
She hummed her approval. His Hannah was a little tigress, and there was no mistaking that. Part of him hoped her husband had appreciated her, and part of him hoped like hell the bastard had never seen this side of her.
He kissed her longer than he should have, knowing what he planned. Kissed her until he, too, was breathless and witless, his cock once more raging against the imprisonment of his breeches, longing to be sheathed within the warm, tight welcome of her cunny. But that was not meant to be, he reminded himself.
None of it was. She was not. He was not. They had never been. It was better this way. Better for them all. No chance of broken hearts, disappointment, betrayal. No chance he could be hurt once more.
Graham broke away, gazed down at her. Hannah’s cheeks were flushed a pretty pink. Her eyes were wide, lashes low. If her lips had been swollen before, they were almost bruised now, dark red and so full. In her garters and stockings, the rest of her bare, she was vulnerable but so damn beautiful, he could scarcely look at her, knowing he was about to leave her here.
She deserved it, he told himself starkly. She deserved humiliation. Loneliness. She deserved to have her vulnerability turned against her like a brutal weapon. She deserved to lay there naked, begging him, wanting him, and knowing he would never fuck her again.
As if she sensed the horrible bent of his thoughts, she frowned. Her hands were back on his face, cupping, caressing.
“Graham?” she asked hesitantly. “Is something amiss?”
Everything was amiss, he could have said.
Every. Damned. Thing.
“I was not good enough for you,” he forced out. “When I was a second son. When I had no title to claim. Is that why you want me now, Hannah? Because my brother is dead and I am the marquess? Tell me the truth.”
“Your title?” She searched his gaze. “What are you talking about?”
“The reason why you refused to marry me,” he bit out, knowing he should not indulge in this argument. Not here, not now, not ever. He had his revenge, so prettily revealed, awaiting his move.
What the hell was he doing?
“I never refused to marry you.” Her frown deepened, her gray eyes turning fathomless. “And you never asked me. Later, I begged you…I wrote you…”
“Stop.” He took a step from her as if she were made of flame and he feared getting burned. Not so far removed from reality. “No more of your lies, Hannah. No more of you. Find someone else to charm with your witch’s wiles. I need to find a respectable lady to make my marchioness. You would do well to keep your distance from me from this moment on.”
She flinched as if he had physically struck her.
And he felt as ill as ever.
But he could not remain. All his plans splintered. All his thoughts fragmented. He was a tattered wreckage of himself, so mangled and twisted and lost and confused, all because of her. He hated her. He loved her. He had to get away from her.
“Goodbye, Hannah,” he said, and this time, he meant it.
He was leaving this room, these ruins, this house party, the whole blasted countryside. He had been a fool to ever suppose he could walk through fire without getting scorched. She had burned him from the inside out, and enough was enough.
He spun away from her, stalking from the chamber. He was going back to London. Where he belonged.
“Graham,” she called after him. “Wait.”
He ignored her pleas. Leaving his hat, his greatcoat, and most importantly of all, his past behind him, he stalked back into the frigid storm. The punishing lash of rains greeted his face. He welcomed it.
Welcomed the pain.
Because he still had the hope that at the end of it all, he would be free. At last.
Chapter Seven
London
Two months later
* * *
Some mistakes did not bear repeating.
Hannah reminded herself of that particularly painful gem of wisdom as she waited in the entry hall of Belvedere House, the London residence of the Marquess of Haven. Although she was dressed for the biting cold, which had been holding all England in its relentless grip, she shivered, her gloved hand creeping over her abdomen.
Then again, she supposed some mistakes were worth repeating.
She could only hope the outcome this time would be better than it had been five years ago. Lying with Graham again had been foolish. And she had never felt more the fool than when he had left her, bereft of all her clothing, at the false ruins back in Oxfordshire. The bitter sting of his rejection had been most keenly felt when she had finally restored her garments and made her way back to the main house, only to discover that Graham’s carriage was being readied, and he was returning to London.
His butler returned, grim-faced. “I am sorry, madam, but his lordship is not at home.”
Graham’s rejection of her call came as no surprise. She had hardly expected him to welcome her after the nature of their last parting. He had accused her of being a liar, after all, and he had left her, naked and vulnerable, without a backward glance. Without an explanation.
But she needed to see this through, and she knew it. There was a very important reason for her call. She had not braved the return travel to London from the country through the most chilling cold imaginable, on nearly impassable roads, just to be turned away. Thank heavens the winter ravaging the land had relaxed its fury long enough for her to find her way back to the city.
Back to Graham, if only for a moment until she left again.
“Please,” she addressed his butler now, “tell Lord Haven that it is a matter of extreme urgency. Tell him Lady Fawkesbury refuses to leave without an audience.”
The servant’s lips flattened, his disapproval obvious. “My lady, I am afraid his lordship is not at home. If you would like to call another day, perhaps tomorrow—”
“No,” she interrupted, not caring that she was being appallingly rude. “I cannot call another day, sir. I must see him now. Tell him the urgency of the call relates to the country house party we both attended some two months ago. Please.”
It was the closest she would come to an outright confession.
She did not want to have to inform Graham’s butler she was expecting his master’s child. But she would, if Graham forced her into it. She would do whatever she must to see him, to speak to him. Because while many o
f her mistakes of the past had been repeated since Graham had suddenly reentered her life two months ago at that ill-fated house party, there was one she refused to make.
She would not allow herself to be trundled into a miserable marriage once more. This time, when her courses had failed to arrive and she had begun to spend her mornings retching her breakfast into the chamber pot, she kept her secret to herself. And as soon as the weather permitted, she had begun plotting her journey.
Tears were blurring her vision now, as she had become quite the watering pot in her delicate condition. Perhaps she looked desperate. Or pathetic. Whatever the reason, Graham’s butler took pity on her.
There was sympathy etched in his countenance. “There is no need to cry, madam. I shall see once more…perhaps his lordship is…”
His words trailing off, the butler disappeared.
Stop crying, you ninny, she chastised herself. She had already swallowed enough of her pride in seeking Graham out. There was no need to further humiliate herself by begging him to see her.
If he refused her an audience again, she would go, she promised herself. She would send him a missive explaining the circumstances. He could do with the information what he wished.
Footfalls echoed, moving toward her quickly. She straightened her shoulders, dashed away at her irksome tears. But the footfalls returning to her did not belong to the butler.
Rather, they belonged to him.
Graham.
His bright-blue gaze was stormy as it met hers. His handsome face was a study in fury. “Why have you come here?”
She intended to tell him she needed to speak with him in private. She also intended to be calm and cool, to keep him from discovering how desperately her heart beat at the mere sight of him. But her emotions bubbled up within her, rather like a boiling kettle of water, and she was suddenly dizzy under the weight of it all.
Relief mingled with stress mingled with joy.
There was a ringing in her ears, and then the edges of her vision began to go dim. She felt as if she could not breathe enough air into her lungs. And then, all at once, she felt herself falling, helpless to stop.
* * *
Grimly, Graham carried an insensate Hannah down the hall, shouting out orders to his staff as he went. Fear made his heart pound and his mouth dry as he made his way to a salon and gently deposited her upon a striped divan. What the devil was the matter with her? One moment, she had looked as if she were about to speak, and the next, her eyes had rolled, and she had been crumpling to the floor.
He had caught her before she had fallen completely, thank God. If she had struck her head on the marble…but no, he must not think of that now, for she had not, and he was imminently grateful he had been there to snatch her up. He sank to his knees at her side now, gently patting her cheek.
She did not feel feverish.
“Hannah,” he said. “Hannah, come back to me.”
She stirred, her head moving, eyes fluttering. A soft sound stole from her throat.
“Hannah.” He caressed her with the backs of his fingers, unable to help himself.
All the suppressed rage he had been keeping tamped down within him had roared forth when he had first seen her. Did she not know he had fled Oxfordshire with the intention of never seeing her again? Did she not know how badly he had ached for her these last two months? How much he had agonized over his decision to go? How much he resented her for making him want her so? What daring she had, he had thought, to come to his home, to follow him to London.
But then he had taken note of the sign of tears in her eyes, and the next thing he had known, she had been swooning. Holding her in his arms once more had felt right. Touching her now felt right, too.
Having her here, before him, a real woman rather than the chimera who had been haunting him these past weeks, also felt right. Better than right.
“Graham,” she said, as the life returned to her gaze.
“There you are at last.” Relief filtered through him, his heart slowing its rapid staccato.
She was still pale, but at least she had come to.
A discreet knock on the salon door alerted him to the presence of a servant bearing a tea tray, at his request. He directed her on where to place it and then asked her to close the door on her way out.
It was a breach of etiquette, he knew, even though Hannah was a widow. But he did not give a damn. Right now, all he wanted was privacy and the opportunity to make certain she was uninjured and that she had not taken ill. Strange how quickly everything could change.
How had he ever thought he could resist her? And how had he ever believed that time and distance could heal his wounds when five years without her had failed to do so?
“What happened?” she asked, frowning at him, her expression befuddled.
“I was hoping you could tell me.” He touched her brow a second time, just to reassure himself she was not burning up with fever. “You fainted.”
“Oh.” Her eyes fluttered closed once more. “Not again.”
“Not again?” He could not keep the outrage from his voice. “What the bloody hell, Hannah? Are you ill?”
“In a fashion,” she said, her lashes lifting to reveal those brilliant gray eyes of hers once more.
“What manner of response is that?” he demanded, his patience growing thin.
First, she had bombarded him with her presence, stubbornly insisting upon an audience with him, and then she had fainted. Her responses led him to believe this was not a new development.
“An accurate one.” She flashed him a sad smile he could not read. “Will you agree to speak with me, Graham?”
“It would seem I have no choice in the matter, madam,” he grimly observed, realizing belatedly that she was still wearing all her outer garments—pelisse, gloves, hat. The fur muff she had been clutching when he had first set eyes upon her earlier must have fallen somewhere in the entry hall, forgotten.
He set to work on the buttons of her coat, undoing them one at a time. Then he unwound a scarf from about her elegant throat and removed her hat.
“I can do that myself,” she said, catching his hands in her gloved ones. “Stop and listen to me, Graham. There is something I must tell you, and then I shall be on my way.”
Dear God. She was ill. Somehow, the thought of losing her, even when he did not have her—when he had never had her—hit him with the force of a fist to the midsection. His chest hurt. His lungs felt as if they could no longer hold air.
“What is it?” he managed to grind out.
He was still on his knees at her side, and their hands were linked. He tightened his grip on her, as if he could hold her there with him forever. A foolish, instinctive reaction from a man who was foolishly weak when it came to her.
“I am with child.” Her statement was simple.
Shocking.
He felt as if he were about to swoon now.
He rocked back, staring at her. “Mine?”
She compressed her lips, meeting his gaze steadily. “Yours.”
His eyes dropped to her stomach, hidden from his view by the drape of her gown. She did not look as if she were enceinte. It was almost impossible to believe his babe grew within her, a tiny life just beginning from their folly.
She was not ill. She was carrying his child. The consequences of his recklessness.
“My God,” he said, for this changed everything. “We will marry at once, of course.”
She shook her head. “No, Graham. That is not why I sought you out. I have already been entrapped in one unhappy marriage. I will not shackle myself to another.”
He shot to his feet, indignation scoring him from within. Here again was the implication she had not been happy with Fawkesbury. But all he could think of was her refusal to wed him. To shackle herself to him, as she had said.
“You will marry me, and that is final,” he bit out. “I will not allow my child to be born a bastard.”
She stood, but when she swayed on her feet,
he was there at her side, hands steadying her, keeping her from toppling over.
“Sit,” he ordered her.
“No,” she argued in stubborn, Hannah fashion. “I am perfectly capable of standing.”
“You nearly toppled over,” he countered. “What would you have done if I were not here to catch you?”
Twin flags of color appeared in her pale cheeks. “I would do precisely what I have been doing for the last two months without you.”
Her words hung in the air between them, a recrimination.
He swallowed down a burst of shame. He had run from her. Had left her behind in Oxfordshire. It was true. He had been a coward, hell-bent upon saving himself. Hell-bent upon maintaining the shreds of pride he yet possessed rather than surrendering them all to her.
But running had not diminished his feelings for her.
Returning to London had not made him love Hannah any less.
“I am sorry I left you,” he forced out. “If I had any inkling, I would have—”
“You would have stayed?” she interrupted, her voice tart, stinging. “What did you think might happen after you had lain with me, Graham? I should hate you for once more discarding me when you have had your fill of me, but I hate myself more for succumbing to you a second time. The first time nearly killed me.”
Tears shimmered in her eyes, and her chin trembled.
Damn and blast, but he hated seeing her upset. Hated knowing he was the cause of it. The full implication of what she had just said settled over him. Once more, he felt as if they were having two different dialogues. Nothing made sense.
He caressed her back through the thickness of her coat, wishing it gone. “What do you mean when you say the first time nearly killed you? What are you talking about, Hannah?”
A lone droplet spilled down her cheek. “I miscarried five years ago. With the loss of so much blood, the doctor feared I would not survive.”
Five years ago?
Everything in him stilled as he struggled to understand. “I am sorry you lost a child with Fawkesbury, Hannah, but I fail to see how the fault was mine.”