Could it?
Struck by the power of the realisation, determined to avoid examining it further, she was almost relieved when she heard footsteps on the stairs. It had to be Cecile, asking if there was anything she needed—her curiosity would have outweighed her desire to be professional, by now. But the footsteps were heavier than Cecile’s usual tread; was it one of the footmen? Oh, she didn’t want to see anyone in her current state…
… A shadow appeared on the wall outside the half-open door. A shadow she recognised.
Henry. Henry, his eyes downcast, standing unnaturally straight. He looked even more wild than he had looked when she had bid him goodbye, his hands clenched into fists. She had never seen a person with so much fiercely contained energy.
What was she meant to do? All of her usual polite blandishments had failed her—she wasn’t even sure if she remembered how to curtsey. Henry didn’t bow, either—they stared at one another, the tension building in the room to a near-unbearable degree.
‘I came through the servant’s entrance.’ Henry spoke quickly, as if the words had been caught in his throat. ‘A young man was asleep on a chair. Should I have woken him?’
‘N—no. Samuel has troubles enough—his sister has been taken ill.’ Why was she providing a polite explanation for her wish that the footman stay asleep? She didn’t want anyone to disturb Henry and herself, and that was that. ‘You were right to let him sleep.’
‘Good. Was I right to come?’
‘... Yes.’
‘Good. I came to apologise to you. To…to be here for you.’
He was here. He had come for her. A perfect storm of sentiment, of shock and delight and sheer embarrassment, crashed over Margaret like a wave.
‘Forgive me.’ He bowed. ‘You don’t have to forgive them, but forgive me.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive you for.’
‘My lack of action. My–my paralysis.’
‘And what were you supposed to do? Supposed to say?’
‘Something. Anything. Even if I couldn’t have said or done what I want to do now.’
‘What you want to do now?’
‘Take you in my arms. Hold you.’ Henry’s face was so serious as he said it, he made the act sound sacred. ‘I couldn’t have done that there.’
‘You… you can do that here.’ She had already lost so much this evening—her last scrap of dignity was easy to discard. Pride was nothing when placed against need.
‘Do you want me to?’
‘Yes.’ It took effort to nod. To surrender. ‘Please.’
How divine she felt in his arms. As if they had grown to make one another whole. She sighed as he gathered her to him, a soft, abandoned sigh as if she’d laid down a burden, and Henry took comfort in her relief. She was glad he was here, even if he’d failed in protecting her at dinner, and he could build on that. He could make castles from the smallest grain of sand, as long as the sand was real and true.
‘Thank you.’ She still sounded faintly ashamed of needing something as basic as human touch. ‘Forgive me.’
‘It is I who must be forgiven. Not you.’
‘You did nothing wrong.’
‘I’m so sorry for what they said.’ Henry murmured the words into her hair, the agony so great in him that it felt like his very bones hurt. ‘I should have shouted at them all. I should have thrown plates.’
‘They were more polite than many people would have been about that poor girl. And I’m glad you didn’t throw plates.’
‘The only reason I didn’t throw them is because you were there, and I couldn’t bear to have you more upset than you already were.’
‘How did you know that I was upset?’
‘I know you. I know your face.’
‘But we–we barely know each other, Mr. Duke, and I–’
‘It’s Henry. And I don’t take very long at all to know things. No time at all. So I know you as completely as I can.’ Henry held her tight, praying that she believed him. He’d never knew anything so strongly. ‘I know you. I knew you were sad. And I came here as soon as I decently could, because I couldn’t bear to think of you being sad alone.’
Margaret was silent. Not the silence of fear, or even uncertainty. A deep, honest silence of such raw sentiment, such deep understanding, that Henry almost felt as if he was in church.
Then, with sudden fierceness, she kissed him.
Oh, what a kiss. A vivid, dark version of what they’d shared in the reptile house, full of the same passion that Henry felt deep within his own body. A hungry, needful kiss, almost angry in its intensity, with Margaret’s body pressed tighter still to his as she murmured half-sentences, words muffled by kisses and sighs. ‘I’m–I’m sorry, I couldn’t… I… oh, I need this…’
She needed this. It was necessary to her. Henry, his eyes closed and hands gripping Margaret’s waist, leaned drunkenly against the wall as they took full possession of one another’s mouths. One another’s souls, as each kiss led unstoppably to a deeper one, a longer one. And to think he had never imagined being any good at kissing–it wasn’t technique, he could see that now. It all depended on the person one was kissing, and how much they wanted to be kissed.
‘Don’t make me stop.’ The stridency of Margaret’s murmur thrilled through his body; his cock hardened against his thigh, alive at her words. ‘Don’t go.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Then kiss me again. And–and–’
‘And what?’
‘And… and don’t stop touching me.’ Margaret’s whisper was alive with shame and pleasure at the same time. ‘Please. I’ll teach you where I like to be touched.’
She couldn’t think. If she thought at all about what they were doing, even the slightest aspect, the entire edifice would come crashing down around her without the slightest warning. Here with an unmarried man alone, late at night, with any prospective chaperone asleep–it was unconscionable. Ridiculous. But Henry was here, she was in his arms, and even the most outlandish fantasies now seemed true and solid in a way that she had never previously imagined.
If she couldn’t think, she could only feel. Feel the swift, delicious rush of ecstasy spiralling through her every extremity as he kissed her more deeply, exploring her with his tongue as she matched every overture he made. Feel the growing want at the meeting of her thighs, at the hardening tips of her breasts, that had come so very rarely when entertaining gentlemen at the pleasure house. To feel it come so strongly, so spontaneously at the feel of a mere kiss, made her feel as if she were inches away from a long, delirious fall.
He had to touch her. It was the only thing that would save her. She would teach him every stroke, every kiss, and it would be absolution in a world where all she could do was conceal her true self.
‘Here.’ She gently placed her palm over one of his own, bringing his hand up to rest brazenly against one of her breasts. An unthinkably scandalous act with anyone else, but this was Henry–he didn’t give a damn about scandal, and that meant she didn’t have to either. Not for this brief, strange interlude outside of their normal lives. ‘Like this.’
‘Not exactly like this.’
‘Are you already arguing with me?’
‘No.’ Henry leaned down, kissing the curve of her breast at the top of her bodice. Margaret shivered with pleasure, astonished at the confidence of his tongue. ‘In all the books I’ve read, the woman is never entirely clothed when they’re in private.’
‘How many books have you read on this subject, Mr. Duke?’
‘Henry.’
‘How–how many books have you read, Henry?’
‘Most of the canon, I believe. At least thirty, if one counts the Italian postures. Which I do.’ Henry’s hand tightened around her breast, his thumb stroking gently but firmly over her nipple. Margaret bit her lip to keep from whimpering. ‘Is that an acceptable amount of study?’
‘I—oh, yes.’ She couldn’t hide her pleasure as he unlaced her bodice, fre
eing her from everything but her shift. Her thin linen shift that would conceal nothing from him. ‘Most acceptable. But practice can’t be bettered with books.’
‘Then I’ll balance my learning here and now.’ Henry pulled Margaret’s shift away from her body with infinite gentleness; Margaret lifted her arms to help him, impatient for him to look at her. His eyes on her skin made her feel holy, somehow–as if she’d been cleansed of every unworthy thought she’d ever had. ‘If you let me.’
‘I beg you.’
‘You never need to beg me.’ Henry slowly touched her bare breasts; Margaret quivered, her skin alive under his touch. Her swollen nipples pressed against his palms, aching for relief. ‘I–oh, how good you feel.’
She couldn’t answer. When she opened her mouth to thank him, to ask for more, Henry began to stroke her. To run his fingers over her breasts with such evident appreciation, such ardency, that all she could do was gasp. When his thumbs found her nipples, gently teasing the stiff peaks to an almost unbearable level of sensation, it was all she could do not to cry out and wake the servants.
‘Oh, Lord.’ She buried her face in his shoulder, biting her lip hard. ‘Like that.’
‘And perhaps like this.’ Henry brought his hand to his mouth, licking the tip of his thumb. When he moved back to her breast, the dampness of his finger against her nipple made the pleasure violently stronger. ‘Yes?’
‘Yes!’
‘Good.’ More stroking, harder this time, learning her limits. ‘And just my mouth?’
‘I–yes. Please.’
‘I thought you were going to teach me.’ The humour in Henry’s voice brought a smile to her own lips. ‘You’re not teaching me very much.’
‘All right. Bring your mouth to my breasts and kiss them as you did my lips. More than that–harder than that. Please.’ If he wanted orders, she didn’t know how to give them more firmly than that. ‘Please.’
Just as she had hoped, Henry could follow orders to the letter. Not only the letter–the spirit of everything she had asked for as well, building upon it, making it new. His mouth on her breasts, his tongue coaxing her stiff nipples to even more savage heights of pleasure–it made speech useless, clothing useless.
With hasty, frantic movements they did away with one another’s clothes, Margaret hurriedly locking the door with a burst of scandalised laughter as Henry tugged away the last of her shift. No time to look, no time to think again, to regret–and then their hands were where they shouldn’t be, Margaret’s fingers light and questioning against Henry’s cock, Henry’s hand between her thighs and stroking her, one exploratory finger moving over her wet, quivering centre as if he belonged there.
‘May I say something that I’m not supposed to say?’
‘Anything.’
‘I want to be inside you. I–I want it very much.’ Henry gently wrapped a curl of Margaret’ hair around his unoccupied finger, his eyes fraught with sentiment. His cock twitched under her hand as she stroked his shaft. ‘More than anything else in the world.’
‘We–’
‘We can’t. I know we can’t. But I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t told you.’
‘I–I wasn’t going to say that we can’t. We can.’ Every ounce of restraint she possessed had long slipped away. ‘But you can’t–’
‘Finish. I know.’ Henry smiled crookedly. ‘I want that too. I want everything.’
Everything was impossible. Everything was dangerous. But here in Henry’s arms, aflame and trembling, it was also the most tempting thing in the world. Tempting enough to think unwise thoughts… do unwise things.
‘Lie down with me.’
‘What are we–’
‘Please. Lie down.’
Her dress made for a makeshift bed on the Turkish rug. The fire warmed her bare skin as she lay, not caring how she looked, needing nothing but Henry. When he came to her, his golden skin resting against her own pale flesh, sparks of pure need flickered through every inch of her.
‘Like this.’ She was convincing herself as well as showing him. ‘If we… oh, yes, like that. Stroking but not–not inside.’
It had never felt quite this good. Quite this spectacular. Teasing him, his cock so close to entering her.
‘Ohh.’ Henry’s slow, reverent sigh of pleasure only heightened her own need. ‘You–’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re meant to be like this.’
‘Yes.’ She couldn’t disagree with something so self-evidently true. Every long, maddening stroke of his cock against her centre made it more of an unassailable fact. ‘Yes.’
‘But I–’
‘I know.’
‘Can we?’
It couldn’t be that much of a risk. Just a single moment of something that she wanted so very, very much. ‘Please.’
‘Yes.’ Henry shifted his hips; the head of his cock was snug against her entrance, rigid, potent. ‘Just… just a taste.’
Just a taste. Just the tip. Just… oh, Lord. Just the deepest, fullest pleasure of her life as he slowly thrust his hips forward, stretching her, filling her. Just the feel of welcoming him, urging him deeper, her thighs tensing as she mutely begged for more of him.
Just a taste would never be enough. Not with him. Not even this deep, powerful thrust, his body so snugly against hers that she couldn’t tell where she ended and she began.
‘No.’ She clung to him, biting her lip in frustration as he began to pull away. ‘Don’t–don’t stop.’
‘I’m not stopping.’ Henry’s hands gripped her hips as he thrust again, harder, deeper. No awkwardness here, no caution–he was in control. ‘I’m here.’
Later she lay quiet, her head resting against Henry’s shoulder. She watched the embers of the fire in the grate, reflecting on the unusual nature of the bliss she felt.
It wasn’t only the ecstasy of release. The swift, sharp climax that had her clinging to him, biting his shoulder as a deep moan came from her core, as the heat of him splashed across the base of her stomach. It was the trembling, slow series of aftershocks that came afterwards as he didn’t pull away from her, didn’t stop kissing her, didn’t stop coaxing every last ounce of pleasure from her. He held her, his arms strong and warm and safe, utterly safe, until she was completely sated.
It was the warm, quiet pleasure that came when they were both lying on the floor, their clothes a makeshift bed as the fire burned low. The sweet bliss that came from Henry’s kisses on her neck, her shoulders, his face full of unreserved surprise at having found someone so marvellous.
If she could stay like this forever, pressed tightly to him with her arms around his neck, she would be alright. She would be protected from the world.
‘I’m sorry.’ She murmured into his ear, tears threatening to fall. ‘I’m sorry I forgot myself at dinner.’
‘You don’t ever need to apologise to me. Not ever. I thought you knew that.’
‘We don’t know one another well enough.’
‘We do. If you stop being scared, you’ll see that you know me better than anyone else in the world.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I’m scared, too. I’m scared of how I feel when I look at you, or think of you.’ Henry paused. ‘But when I move beyond that fear, I know.’
Margaret knew, too. She knew that she would never feel quite this good again–quite this fulfilled again. As if the world had briefly righted itself, leaving her in a place that was her own rather than one she had been forced to carve out from that of others.
But if she married Henry, and her past came out… it would destroy his family. Destroy the people he cared about. Destroy him.
She had to make it clear to him. If only she could make it clear to herself—make it less horrible to think about, to say.
‘This encounter has proved my–my worst fears.’ She moved away from him, gathering her gown to her as she covered herself. ‘I am sorry to say it.’
Henry’s face fell. �
��If my conduct has been displeasing, you must tell me. I–I tried my best.’
‘Not that. Not your conduct–mine.’ Margaret took a deep breath. What she was going to say was right, she knew it, but–but it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel right at all. ‘This has proved that if we were to continue in this vein, I would only ruin your life.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘My past, Henry. I know you don’t care about anything I’ve done, but the ton will. The world will. If we marry, I will be put under scrutiny–and who knows which of my secrets will be revealed? Something that will not only subject you to ridicule–’
‘How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t give a damn about ridicule?’
‘I know you don’t! But you are not the only person in this world, and neither am I!’ Margaret turned away from him, trying to control the frustration in her tone. ‘I am thinking of your brothers, of Anne, Charlotte, Dorothea—their reputations will be damaged by any revelations concerning my former life!’
‘I know I behave as if I’m the only person in the world. I’m aware that I do it far too much. But you, Margaret, pretend that everyone else in the world exists and you do not! You serve others constantly, in public and in private—even in your own mind, you don’t put yourself first.’
‘That is a woman’s lot in life. It sounds bleak, but I find it the most accurate maxim by which to conduct my life.’
‘Then you will conduct your life without me?’
‘I… I have to. I will prepare a list of suitable ladies for you at the Winterson ball, and I shall leave you to choose from them. You shall marry one of them, and have—have a perfectly happy life.’
‘How dare you loftily decide that I shall be happy without you! I will never stop loving you. Never.’
‘I know that. I know that and… and I feel it too.’ She couldn’t say the words, but she felt the truth of them deep within her. This was love; no other sentiment brought such agony. ‘Believe me. But that doesn’t change the reality of things.’
‘Love is a reality all its own.’
‘Leave me, Henry. Please.’ Margaret turned away, closing her eyes. She couldn’t bear the hurt on his face; the look of betrayal. She had betrayed him—and worse, she had betrayed her own self. ‘Please.’
Ravished in Rose: The Brothers Duke: Book Four Page 6