A Groom of Her Own (Scandalous Affairs Book 1)

by Christi Caldwell

  Caleb stuffed his hands inside his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Yeah.”

  And as they made their way back down the rise and to his carriage, he couldn’t quell that same disappointment.

  Chapter 14

  A short while later, they resumed the journey to the farthest-flung region of North Yorkshire.

  Claire didn’t know what future awaited her as a married woman to the stranger in North Yorkshire.

  She didn’t know whether she’d be happy in her changed circumstances. Or miserable.

  She couldn’t say whether she’d have regrets at having given up all hope of love in the quest for the limited independence a lady was able to find in a world so very unkind to women.

  Until she drew her last breath, she would recall walking hand in hand with Caleb Gray through a rugged terrain so raw and primitive it harked back to times long past.

  And she would hold on to that moment forever, a gift given to her by the most unlikely person. When she was old and gray and sketching alone at an estate she’d agreed to take over and run, she would think back to that stolen moment in Malham.

  Nay, it wasn’t just Gordale Scar that would linger in her memories forevermore. It was all of these hours spent with him, from the taproom at the Rotted Rooster to the night they’d shared in a lone room, sleeping on a floor and conversing so easily.

  Her heart hammered.

  There was also the pleasure she’d known in his arms. She’d remember that, too. Every last naughty, forbidden word of encouragement he’d breathed against her ear, the coarse brush of his unshaven cheeks upon her neck. And the bliss that had consumed her as he’d shown her all the passion her body was capable of.

  Surely there was something wicked about her that she wanted more of those moments with him. Even knowing how he felt about her status as an almost-married woman and how committed he was to being a man of honor who didn’t infringe upon an engaged couple, she ached to taste of him again.

  From under hooded lashes, Claire stole a glance at the seat occupant across from her.

  Not that she need worry about him catching her watching him.

  When they’d boarded the carriage, he’d grabbed his sketch pad and become lost in his own work. This time, while she’d sat on, unable to concentrate or think about anything. That was, she’d been unable to think about anything except him.

  “You going to show me?” he asked so suddenly, so unexpectedly, she jumped.

  However, with his head trained down as it was and his fingers moving quickly over his page, she might have merely imagined he’d spoken.

  But then he ceased those broad strokes he’d been taking with his pencil and looked up.

  Caleb lifted an eyebrow. “Well?” he prodded, snapping the leather book shut and setting it aside.

  She’d not a clue as to what he was asking her.

  At the protracted silence, he pointed to her bench.

  Claire followed that gesture over to…

  “My sketch pad?” She puzzled her brow in confusion.

  He gave her a pointed look, confirming she’d heard correctly.

  That had been all she’d ever wanted from Caleb Gray. She’d been asking him for as long as they’d known each other to consider her work, or evaluate it, and issue guidance. She’d wanted him to look at what she’d created and offer up his insight into how she might grow. But that had been before… before he’d shredded her for the kind of work she did.

  Caleb, however, had made it abundantly clear over the years just how he felt about both her art and engaging with her in this way. “You’re teasing,” she exclaimed.

  “You know I don’t tease, sweetheart.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “That much is true.” He’d been plenty mocking over the years, but that was altogether different. Having secretly observed him and Poppy at work, she’d hardly heard him laugh and barely seen him smile.

  Only—

  This time, a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes formed on his mouth, that non-mocking, merry grin of his that did all manner of things to her heart. “Come on now.” He crooked his charcoal-stained fingers, the devil luring Eve.

  “No.”

  His grin fell. “No?”

  She nodded. “No. We have gotten on these past couple of days, and I’ll not go ahead and ruin it now by…”

  “Letting me be honest about your artwork?” he drawled.

  She slunk in her seat. “I was going to say be boorish with your opinion.” A strand of hair tumbled over her vision, and she blew it back. “Though it’s probably all really the same.”

  Caleb chuckled. “But it’s not.”

  “You were so receptive to my opinion on your work when I came to visit the establishment showcasing your work?” The day that had seen her back to the wall, with his body pressed to hers and his thigh between her legs, and—desire reared itself once more, causing that all-too-familiar ache between her legs.

  Color filled his cheeks. “Fair enough point,” he said gruffly, and Claire gave thanks that he’d no idea the naughty path her thoughts had wandered down.

  “Furthermore, you were adamant you didn’t wish to see my work, Caleb. What’s changed now?”

  “Everything,” he said softly. “Can’t explain it.” His enormous shoulders came up in a shrug. “Perhaps it’s that we were always at odds before. Perhaps it’s because I want to see what you’ve done and how you’ve grown. I don’t know, Claire. I just do.”

  It was the most real and most honest response he could have given, absent of mockery or gentle teasing. And she appreciated his befuddlement, because it was the same one she’d been afflicted by in their recent time together.

  Which was mayhap why she found herself reaching for her sketch pad. Only, as Caleb held his hand out to receive it—

  Claire stopped herself. For there were images contained within that she did not want him to see. Nay, ones she could not let him see. Those belonged to her, ones she’d carry into her new home and look back upon. Ones that she couldn’t let him see and know meant so very much to her.

  “Not all of them,” she said, setting the parameters for him. “Only the ones I allow.”

  He inclined his head. “Fair enough.”

  Claire hesitated a moment more, and then snapping it open, she angled the sketch pad out of his reach and fanned through the most recent drawings, making her way toward the back of the book. “I cannot believe I am letting you see my work,” she muttered to herself. “I must be mad.”

  “I think we both can probably identify with having gone a little bit mad these past days, sweetheart.”

  That helped some, knowing that whatever this shared connection had blossomed and grown into wasn’t a one-sided misery for her to suffer alone. That he was affected in some way, whatever that way might be.

  Claire stopped midway through the book and then slapped it into Caleb’s hands. “Here.”

  He made no attempt to look down, and she shifted on her seat.

  Was that what this had been? Another game of some sort?

  “You don’t have to show me, you know,” he said in serious tones. “It’s your work. I’m not forcing you, and wouldn’t force you, to share something you don’t want to.” The way she had hijacked his and availed herself to those renderings that had stolen her breath for the pain and emotion within them.

  Caleb made to shut the book, but Claire put her palm on the spine, staying his attempts. “No.” She held his eyes. “I want you to.” That hadn’t changed. The desire to have this man, a master of what he did, give insight into what Claire had crafted had remained all these years.

  Even as she, with her work, would never, ever have a hope of attaining the level of his skill. For that wasn’t what it had ever been about. It had been about learning from him and growing.

  At last, Caleb glanced down.

  “It’s my sister-in-law,” she said needlessly, needing to fill a void, because even as she wanted him to evaluate her sketches, her be
lly roiled and twisted in a thousand knots at having him look. “And her babe. My mother would be scandalized if she saw such an image…” Because a breastfeeding mother would elicit only horror and shock. “She believes it is wrong for a mother to ween her own child, but Poppy quite liked it and—”

  Caleb glanced up briefly. “Claire,” he said, managing to turn her name into a command that was both gentle and firm at the same time.

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, forgive me. As you were.”

  He resumed his study.

  All the while, Claire sat there, plucking at the lip of the black velvet upholstered bench she occupied.

  Not for the first time, she wondered what madness had compelled her to expose herself in this way. And not just because of Caleb’s past criticisms.

  These contrary sentiments made little sense, paired together the way they were. How could one wish both to share one’s work with the world and then simultaneously want to throw up at the thought of doing so?

  At last, he looked up.

  And said… nothing.

  “My mother believes it wrong, but it felt like the most natural thing in the world. The most beautiful,” she murmured, glancing down at her own rendering, one of her first attempts with color pastels. “And I just… felt it should be cap—” Her words ended on a breathy sigh as Caleb leaned across the carriage and kissed her.

  This meeting of their mouths proved unlike any of the other times before.

  There was a gentleness, and somehow, there was an even deeper intimacy for the tenderness of this exchange.

  With a little sigh, Claire angled her head back so she might better receive his kiss. Warmth spiraled in her belly and fanned out to every corner of her being.

  He drew back, and she fluttered her lashes, forcing them to open.

  Caleb dusted two fingers along the curve of her cheek, the callused pads of that flesh rough against her smoother, softer skin, and it was a union of two disjointed sensations that, when paired together, only made sense.

  “You see things, Claire,” he said quietly, his eyes following the path his touch took. “And I think, maybe, that’s one of the reasons I’ve not known what to do with you.” He paused that tantalizing caress, and she bit the inside of her lower lip to keep from urging him to continue, to please not stop. “Why, I feared being around you because of what you might see… in me. About me.”

  “Is it wrong that I want to kiss you again?”

  “I might make an exception this once.”

  With that, the book slipped from her fingers as Caleb drew her onto his lap, guiding her so she straddled his hips.

  All the while, they made love with their mouths. Parting her lips, she let Caleb inside, relishing the taste and feel of his tongue as he swept inside, devouring her.

  Claire’s breath dissolved to sporadic little bursts of air.

  Suddenly, he drew away, and she found herself back on her bench. She gasped at the loss of him, feeling cold and empty.

  But then he caught her hem, and with a tantalizing slowness, Caleb drew her dress up, higher and higher, the muslin rustling in a wicked way as he bared her limbs.

  Not even the chill in the carriage could cool her body now. All the while he pushed her dress and chemise up, his eyes remained locked with hers. The usual mocking glint had been replaced by something more powerful, more primitive, containing a rawness that caused an almost painful ache between her thighs.

  Then he lay one of his large, paint-stained palms upon her right thigh, his fingers callused and coarse and harsh against her smooth, pale skin. There was something possessive in that touch, and she found herself longing to be possessed by it. Claire’s breathing increased, hitching slightly as he continued exposing her to his gaze… and then his touch.

  “Oh, goodness,” she whispered. Of their own volition, her legs fell open for him. For whatever he both taunted and tempted her with.

  A smile played at his lips, this one devoid of its usual coldness, replaced with a male satisfaction that she recognized even in her innocence. And she couldn’t care for his triumph, because in this moment, letting herself open to his touch, the triumph belonged only to her.

  He pressed his palm against the curls shielding her womanhood.

  And then his fingers began to move inside her.

  She bit the inside of her cheek and lifted her hips into that touch.

  “You like that, do you, sweetheart?” He nuzzled the shell of her left ear.

  Claire trembled. “You know I do.”

  “I know I like hearing you say it better,” he returned huskily.

  “Very well.” Her voice had a breathless, wanton quality she didn’t recognize as her own. “I don’t like it.” His eyebrows snapped together. Claire covered his hand with hers, holding him where she wanted him. “I love it.”

  He went absolutely motionless, and then with a low growl, he lowered his head to take her mouth. But he was too late. Claire was already laying claim to his lips, and the same primal passion that had stolen all reason in London and at the Rotted Rooster wrought its same havoc upon her now. She parted her lips, letting him inside so she could taste of him again. And he obliged. God, how he obliged. His tongue lashed against hers, a hot brand scalding for the heat of it.

  She emitted a breathless gasp, the sound lost to their kiss as he caught her by the waist and brought her back over him so that she straddled his hips once more.

  The rocking cadence of the carriage brought their bodies even closer together. Still, Claire ground herself against him, rubbing herself upon his flat, hard-muscled stomach.

  Another one of those dangerous rumbles worked its way up his throat as he filled his hands with her buttocks and squeezed with a fierceness that bordered on pleasure and pain. So hard, she’d wear the marks tomorrow, and she wanted them there. She wanted to be branded by this man and this moment.

  She might have a passionless future awaiting her, but she’d have passion in the now.

  Caleb slipped a hand between her legs, and the wetness there eased the glide of his fingers inside her sodden channel.

  Claire dug her fingers into his nape, her nails sinking into the muscles there, leaving crescent marks upon his flesh.

  And then he worked her. Stroking her. He eased first one long digit within her and then drew it back, continuing that rhythmic cadence. His breath came as raggedly as her own. As if his pleasure blossomed with the growth of her own pleasure.

  Desperate little moans spilled from her lips, only to be lost inside his mouth. She wanted more than… this. Her body hungered for more. She wanted to climb that peak and come again and again as she had in the inn. In a bid to get closer to him, she pushed herself hard against the fingers moving inside her.

  And then, tormenting her as he’d always done—only in this, a new way—he slowed his strokes and then stopped.

  Claire wrenched her mouth from his and cried out. She’d believed she’d disliked Caleb Gray. But if he stopped now, she’d despise him until she drew her last breath. “Do not stop,” she panted against his mouth and pumped her hips in a bid to restart his movements. Not again. Not for any reason.

  He continued withholding that which she craved. Instead, with the pad of his callused thumb, he teased her nub, that oversensitized flesh, and in so doing, he pulled a long groan from her.

  “How wet you are, sweetheart.”

  It was precisely what she was. But the words were so plainly spoken as to be erotic, wicked. And she proved scandalous and shameful, for she thrilled at those naughty words.

  “You want more of that?” he teased, and biting her lower lip, she nodded, thrusting her hips forward, searching for that which her body yearned for. Needing him to assuage the ache threatening to consume her.

  “Tell me, then, sweetheart,” he whispered harshly against her ear. “Tell me how much you want it.”

  She was journeying to meet her husband. The man she would wed. And though the union she was entering into would be a bu
siness arrangement, she’d not considered that she’d take a lover. Or know a lover.

  As if he felt her hesitation, he pressed three fingers against her center, releasing the tension and then resuming that pressure. Again and again, until right continued to recede and desire continued to suck her deeper under its pull.

  “Unless you want me to stop.”

  And then he ceased that glorious rhythm.

  Claire cried out, grabbing for his hand, fighting to bring him back to where she wanted him. For she needed this. In this moment, she’d not survive unless there was some surcease from the web of pleasure he wove. There’d be plenty of time later to chide herself for this fleeting insanity. For now, she intended to surrender herself fully to her own yearnings. “I need it desperately,” she said between the strained breaths she managed to draw.

  His thick dark lashes swept low, and then his mouth was again on hers.

  Caleb resumed stroking her, and she closed her eyes, feeling the delicious glide, surrendering to his expert touch that drew her higher and higher.

  She moaned into his mouth, her hips surging against his fingers of their own will. She’d never felt like this. She’d never feel like this again. As if she was about to burst into flame, and only the fire of that explosion could save her.

  Then he shifted her over to the other bench, and sank onto the carriage floor.

  “Wh-what are you… doing?” She managed to squeeze out those breathless syllables.

  “Tasting you.” With that, he buried his head between her legs.

  Claire’s hips shot up with a hiss as he kissed her—there. That most intimate place.

  He slipped his tongue within the folds, stroking her in this the most intimate of kisses.

  Claire’s eyes slid shut, and wilting in her seat, she surrendered to this forbidden act.

  He flicked his tongue over the nub shielded by those curls, and Claire bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Nay, this wasn’t forbidden. Nothing so gloriously wonderful could be wrong in any way.

  The carriage rocked back and forth, each sway of the enormous conveyance bringing her center closer to his mouth and the magic he wove.