If Ellie hadn’t already realized she loved him more than this world could understand, she would have known for sure at that moment. She had to sniff as the tears on her cheeks made her nose itch. “No one in my family ever said I love you,” she whispered. “So it’s a bit foreign to me, but I assumed you knew how deeply I love you.”
“I do now,” he replied softly, “and I’m ready to show you just how deeply I love you.”
He undressed her slowly, as if her dress was made of some fragile fabric that one had to be extra cautious with. It was insanely and incredibly wonderful, and though she felt a hint of shyness when she was completely bare, she also felt powerful. He loved her, and she him, and she never wanted him to doubt that ever again.
His fingertips barely touched her skin as he slid his hands down both of her arms and back up. “You are so beautiful. So breathtakingly beautiful.”
“That’s a bit like I love you,” she said, stepping closer to him. “They’re foreign words to me, but I like hearing you say them.” Liking the smile on his lips, she kissed his chin. “Now quit fooling around cowboy and kick off your boots.”
He laughed and swung her into his arms, holding her only long enough to drop her onto the bed. “Whatever you say, darling.”
She twisted to pull the covers out from beneath her and then plumped up the pillows. He was kicking off his undergarments when she turned to lie back against the pillows. After sweeping a gaze from his bare toes up to his overly handsome face, she held out both arms. “I’m waiting.”
His passion was as powerful as his strength, and his teasing nature even more prominent as he set about introducing her to the marriage bed. Between his lips and hands, Ellie was soon beside herself, reaching a desperation she’d never expected. Dal was taking his time, exploring every minute part of her body with such thoroughness she feared she might burst. She repeated his name over and over and her hips rose off the bed as his hands and lips created an intensely burning need so powerful she could barely breathe.
“Dear heavens,” she mumbled between gasps, “what are you doing to me?”
“Loving you,” he replied.
“Well, for land’s sake,” she all but shouted, “don’t stop.”
“I won’t, darling,” he replied. “I won’t.”
The moment, the one she hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for until it happened, arrived when Dal slowly slid inside her. Her entire being tensed momentarily at a snap, but then her breathing quickened at the pleasure of raising her hips to meet his.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, Dal.”
“Hello, Mrs. Roberts,” he said as his mouth met hers. Their tongues played a game of hide-and-seek while their bodies united in a ritual so spectacular she didn’t want it to ever end. They moved together, as one, rising and falling, all the time kissing and whispering words of pleasure and love.
All the wildest dreams in the world could never have prepared her for all of this. The love, the passion, the need, the finality. Like a bubble blown too big, all of a sudden she seemed to pop, and it was the most satisfying, beautiful thing that had ever occurred inside her.
Then she realized Dal was holding her close and breathing as hard as she was, and they were both covered in a sheen of sweat, and she loved every detail.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’ve never...been more...all right...in my life,” she responded, still trying to catch her breath.
Dal rolled off her to lie on his side, watching her closely. “Me, neither.”
She closed her eyes, still a bit stunned and a whole lot happier. “Goodness.” Taking in a deep breath in order to speak without gasping, she said, “I guess I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Dal chuckled and kissed the end of her nose. “You, Mrs. Roberts, are amazing.” Plucking out one of the yellow blossoms she’d pinned in her hair, he said, “As amazing and beautiful as a flower in full bloom.”
Content and fulfilled, Ellie closed her eyes and smiled. “I am, aren’t I?”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from SAVED BY SCANDAL’S HEIR by Janice Preston.
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Saved by Scandal's Heir
by Janice Preston
Chapter One
Mid-February 1812
Harriet, Lady Brierley, paced the lavishly furnished drawing room at Tenterfield Court, mentally rehearsing the words she would say to Sir Malcolm Poole. If she had known the baronet was hovering so close to death, she would never have made the journey from London at this time of year. She had not known, however, and, now she had come all this way into Kent, she might as well ask the questions to which she sought answers. She had come to Tenterfield to find the truth of the past, in order to help her friend Felicity Stanton come to terms with her sister’s death...and Harriet was certain that Sir Malcolm held the key to that particular puzzle.
Felicity’s older sister, Emma, had been just eighteen—an innocent girl seduced and impregnated, who had seen no way out of her predicament other than to take her own life when the man she’d believed loved her had cruelly abandoned her.
Harriet suppressed her shiver. She could so easily have suffered the same fate. Was that why she had been so quick to come to Tenterfield? The empathy she felt for Felicity’s poor sister? There but for the Grace of God...
She crossed the room to stand again before the portrait of the baronet, painted in his younger days, although he was still far from being an old man even now. He gazed down at her, devastatingly handsome, with his lean aristocratic features, dark auburn hair and deep green hooded gaze. Harriet shuddered, partly at the knowledge of what this man was—or what he had been, in the past—partly at his resemblance to... Resolutely, she steered her thoughts in a different direction. This trip was bound to resurrect painful memories... She must rise above them...concentrate on—
‘Lady Brierley. To what do we owe this pleasure?’
Harriet froze. It could not be. Had she conjured him up in the flesh, just by allowing her thoughts one tiny peek at those memories? Moisture prickled her palms even as her mouth dried. She drew a calming breath, gathered her years of experience in hiding her feelings and turned.
He was frame
d in the open doorway.
Benedict.
After all this time.
He had the same long, lean legs and wide shoulders, but this was a man, not the youth she’d once known. His chin was just as determined but the high forehead under the familiar fox-red hair now sported faint creases. His lips were set in an uncompromising line and his leaf-green eyes pierced Harriet as he stared into her face, his gaze unwavering. A cat stalking its prey could not be more focused.
Harriet swallowed past the jagged glass that appeared to have lodged in her throat.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Poole.’ Had those composed words really come from her lips? She took courage. She had faced worse than this. ‘I apologise for calling uninvited. I did not realise your...’ What was his relationship to Sir Malcolm again? All she could recall was that he had been Benedict’s guardian. ‘Sir Malcolm was so very ill. I had hoped for a few words with him.’
‘He is my second cousin. I’m the only other Poole left now.’
‘I’m sorry.’
The platitude slid readily from her tongue. She wasn’t sorry. The world would be well rid of the Pooles. But she would remain polite. Let nothing of her bitterness show. Sir Malcolm had spent his life in pursuit of his own pleasures, a dissolute rake with not a care for the ruined lives he left in his wake. Felicity’s poor sister had been just one of his victims. And Benedict had proved himself equally as contemptible, equally as careless of the heartbreak he had left behind. Hardly surprising with Sir Malcolm as his only role model since childhood.
Benedict prowled into the centre of the room, nearing Harriet. The very air seemed to vibrate between them. She stood her ground, although she could not prevent a swift glance at her maid, Janet, who had accompanied her, sitting quietly on a chair near the beautifully carved stone fireplace. Benedict followed her gaze.
At least I am not alone.
‘Why are you here?’ The words were softly spoken. Benedict’s green eyes bored into Harriet’s. ‘Did you think to wed another wealthy man on his deathbed?’
‘Brierley was not on his deathbed! And I had no ch—’ Harriet shut her mouth with a snap. She’d endured over seven years with that lecher. Seven years of misery and disgust, empty arms and a broken heart, all because of Benedict Poole.
She had not in a million years thought to meet him here. He had gone overseas—right to the other side of the world. And even that was not far enough away for Harriet. Hatred for this man rose as the long-suppressed memories cascaded through her thoughts.
His lying words. His false promises. All of it.
She concealed any hint of her feelings. He must never know how her heart still ached for what might have been. She braced her shoulders and raised her chin.
‘If Sir Malcolm will see me, I should be grateful for a few words with him.’
She glanced at the window—the clouds had blended into a uniform white vista of nothingness and she saw a few snowflakes flutter past. The snow that had threatened all morning as she had travelled deeper into Kent had finally begun to fall.
‘I should like to leave before the weather takes a turn for the worse. If you would be so kind.’
Benedict bowed, and gestured towards the door. ‘Your wish is my desire, my lady,’ he said, his words flat and emotionless.
‘Thank you.’
She stalked to the door, passing close by him...too close... His scent flooded her senses...triggering such memories, arousing emotions she had never thought to feel again. His unique maleness: familiar, even after eleven long years, spicy, heady...and...brandy. Brandy? This early in the day? He was a Poole through and through. Nothing had changed.
‘Come, Janet.’
Harriet swept into the spacious inner hall, from which the magnificent polished oak staircase swept up to the first floor. The evidence of Sir Malcolm’s wealth was everywhere, from the exquisitely executed landscapes hanging on the walls to the elegant Chinese porcelain vases and bowls that graced the numerous console tables to the magnificent crystal chandelier that hung over the central circular table complete with its urn of jessamine, lilies and sweet bay. In February! For all his wastrel tendencies, Sir Malcolm had clearly not exhausted his vast wealth. And, presumably, Benedict would inherit it all. Plus the title. No wonder he was here, with his cousin at death’s door. He deserved none of it, but she would not allow him to sour her. Never again.
They spoke not another word as they climbed the stairs side by side, and walked along the upper landing, Janet on their heels. Harriet told herself she was pleased. She had no wish to exchange forced pleasantries.
They reached a door, which Benedict opened.
‘Lady Brierley, to see Sir Malcolm,’ he said, before ushering Harriet and Janet through, and closing the door firmly behind them.
It was baking hot in the room, which was not the master bedchamber, as Harriet expected, but much smaller, and decorated—tastelessly, in her opinion—in deep purple and gold. The fire was banked high with coal, blazing out a suffocating heat, and Harriet felt her face begin to glow. With an effort, she refrained from wafting her hand in front of her face. It was so airless and the stench caught in the back of her throat. How could anyone get well in such an atmosphere?
The huge bed dominated the room, the level surface of its purple cover barely disturbed by the wasted form of the man lying there. It was hard to believe this was the same man she had always known as strong and vital. He looked ancient but—she did a quick mental calculation—he could not be much more than eight and forty. Sir Malcolm’s face was skeletal, the bloodless skin slack, and yet his eyes were still alert, dominating his shrunken features. Those eyes appraised Harriet with the same cold speculation she remembered from both her childhood and from the times her path had crossed with Sir Malcolm’s during her marriage to Brierley. Disgust rippled through her.
‘Heard I was dying, did you?’ The voice was a dry, cracked whisper. ‘Thought you’d have another shot at snaring Benedict’s inheritance?’
‘I have no interest in your cousin,’ Harriet said. ‘I am sorry to find you in such circumstances, but I have come on a quite different errand. I did not know you were ill, and I certainly did not know Mr Poole was here, or I would have thought twice about crossing your threshold.’
He croaked a laugh. ‘That’s as well for you. His opinion hasn’t changed since the first time you tried to trap him. Even as a youngster, that boy was no fool. A Poole through and through. He could see straight through you then and he’ll see straight through you now. He’ll look higher for a wife than Brierley’s leftovers, that I can promise.’
Harriet bit her tongue against rising to his provocation. It seemed even the imminent judgement of his maker could not cork Sir Malcolm’s vitriol. She cast around for the appropriate words to ask him about Felicity’s sister. When she’d decided to come to Tenterfield, she hadn’t anticipated trying to persuade Sir Malcolm to tell her the truth on his deathbed.
‘Well, girl? What d’you want? I haven’t time to waste pandering to the likes of you. Tell me what you want and be gone. You hear, Fletcher?’ He addressed the servant standing by the window. ‘This lady is not to spend a minute more than necessary beneath my roof.’
The man bowed. ‘Yes, sir.’
Harriet tamped down her anger. ‘I wish to ask you about something that happened in the past. Do you recall Lady Emma Weston? She attended Lord Watchett’s house party at the same time as you, in the summer of 1802.’
Sir Malcolm’s lids lowered to mask his eyes. ‘How do you expect me to remember one chit out of so many?’
‘She was Lady Baverstock’s daughter. It was the year following Lord Baverstock’s death.’
His thin lips parted and Harriet recoiled as his tongue came out to touch his lip. ‘Ah. Yes, indeed. The golden angel.’
Nausea churned Harriet’s insides
. Time had softened the memory of quite how contemptible Sir Malcolm had always been, despite his wealth and his handsome face. He had, however, been irresistibly charming to the young innocents he had targeted, and Harriet quite understood how a naive young girl could fall for his silver-tongued lies. She had been fortunate to be immune from his attempts to seduce her when she was young enough to appeal to his tastes. She had resisted, thinking herself in love with Benedict. Time had proved she was just as naive as poor Lady Emma, whom she was now convinced Sir Malcolm had seduced and impregnated and abandoned. Emma had escaped by taking her own life. Harriet had not been so cowardly—or, mayhap, so brave—when her heart had been broken, although...there were times during the years following her marriage to Brierley when suicide had seemed an enticing option.
‘So it was you,’ she said to the man in the bed. ‘She wrote to you, after the summer you met. She was in love with you.’
His head twitched to one side. ‘I said I met her. I admitted to nothing else.’
But Harriet knew, without a shadow of doubt, that Sir Malcolm was the man who had despoiled Felicity’s sister. He had been a rake of the very worst kind; she did not need his confession. She leaned in close, breathing through her mouth to avoid the sour smell emanating from the bed.
‘She killed herself! You seduced her and abandoned her, and she killed herself because she was carrying your child.’
He looked at her, his slitted eyes glinting. ‘Best thing for her. One less fatherless brat to worry about. Isn’t that so, my lady? Although you could not even manage that, could you? Lost it, as I recall. Careless of you.’
Harriet reared back, pain ripping at her heart. She must get out. Now. She should never have come. She suddenly realised this trip hadn’t just been about Emma but about her, too—an attempt to make sense of the path her life had taken since she had fallen in love with Benedict. And she saw that she and Emma were the same: gullible victims of men who used and abused them and abandoned their responsibilities.
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