She had told him she loved him, that he had stolen her heart forever, and he had believed her. He had supposed she was true, that every word, touch, look, was genuine.
Those days had been the best fortnight of his life. Until word had reached him of Gervase’s riding accident. The news had been dire, his brother on his deathbed, and Graham had been forced to leave without telling her goodbye, leaving her a note instead. He had still been at his brother’s side in Surrey when word had reached him of Hannah’s sudden nuptials to Fawkesbury.
The news had devastated him. They had parted as lovers, without a true farewell. And he had believed her loyal and steadfast. He had wanted no other as his bride, and he would have done anything to make her his.
As if the wounds were new, the sharp sting of her betrayal sliced through him all over again, reminding him why he must never again trust the beautiful, passionate creature coming to life in his arms. He could not believe her. Did not dare open himself for a new betrayal all over again.
Yet, he could not keep himself from wanting her. On that desperate realization, he tugged down her bodice. Her breasts sprang free of her bodice and stays. In the moonlight, he was treated to the incredibly erotic sight of two full, creamy breasts tipped with pale-pink nipples that were hard from need as well as from the cold.
He would warm them.
He bowed his head like a supplicant, like a man at the altar of a goddess who owned him, and sucked a beaded tip into his mouth. She moaned, tugging at his hair. The reserved widow he had seen in the ballroom was gone, and in her place was the wild girl she had been.
The wild girl who had stolen his heart with a simple look the first time he had met her. His friend’s sister. Someone he should never desire. An innocent. A lady. The daughter of a duke. He had been a second son then, few prospects aside from taking up the parliamentary cudgels in the House of Commons. She had been the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld.
She still was.
And she still responded to him as if her body came to life beneath his touch.
Some things did not change.
He sucked her other nipple, and she thrust her breast deeper into his mouth on a keening cry. All the desperation he felt inside himself was reflected in the husky reverberation of her voice. It echoed in the night, like the cry of a bird scared from her nest. The years did not matter now. He had not forgotten the way she liked to be touched or the actions that gave her the most pleasure.
He gently bit her nipple, then tugged.
“Oh, Graham, please,” she begged.
And he knew what she pleaded for. It was the same thing he wanted. There was nothing that could stop him from lifting her skirts, opening the fall of his breeches, and plunging his rigid cock inside her. He knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He knew without removing his gloves, without touching her cunny, that she desired him. That she would be wet, so wet, for him, as she had always been.
He sucked her nipple, a growl of appreciation rumbling from him.
But then the door opened, bringing with it the loud hum of revelers talking, a tittering laugh, the strains of a country reel just beginning. And also with it came a realization of where they were, who they were, and why he could not mindlessly make love to her in a darkened corner of a winter garden.
They were not alone. Far from it. At least a hundred others danced and made merry within the massive ballroom, beneath the brilliance of the chandeliers. That was not all, however. He was looking for a bride, by God. His chances of finding a suitable lady would vanish should he be caught making love to the widowed Lady Fawkesbury in the moonlit gardens of Abingdon Hall.
He released her nipple, tearing his mouth away. The action required every bit of will he possessed. Because all he wanted to do was to have her, here and now. With shaking hands, he restored her bodice, lifting it back into place.
The faint sounds of another couple chattering reached them.
Her eyes were wide on his as she, too, realized the dangerous implications of what they were about. They had precious little time. Seconds, mayhap.
“Let me come to you,” he whispered. “Tonight.”
He would find her chamber. They could end this. Douse the flames with the only antidote: one more time in each other’s arms.
She shook her head, eyes wide, expression stricken in the moonlight. “No.”
Footsteps neared. The voices grew closer. They were running out of time before he had to escape deeper into the holly hedges, leaving behind the impression she had been greeting the cool air all alone.
“Yes,” he pressed. “This is not over between us, Han. Surely you must recognize that.”
“It has been over for five long years, Lord Haven,” she bit out with more harshness than he would have thought possible after such a fiery kiss.
Before he could protest again, she swept away, leaving him to shrink into the holly maze and the cold darkness of the night.
Alone as ever.
Chapter Four
Then
It was a beautiful day to go for a walk.
Autumn tinged the air at Falwyck Abbey. Berkshire at this time of year always filled Hannah with a sense of marvel. The approach of winter showed gloriously in the change of leaves, the rich scents so different from summer.
As she walked beneath an apple tree, a fruit fell directly before her, landing in the grass with a thud. How odd. Hannah paused and glanced up.
That was when she saw him, presiding over her from a thick lower branch of the wizened old tree. Leave it to him to go climbing about and hiding in the leaves.
“Lord Graham!” She could not keep the delight from her voice. “What are you doing up there?”
Thank heavens he was joining them for this country house party. They had spent the last few weeks of the Season on a merry dance. But she still did not know precisely where she stood with him. He had not asked for her hand.
“What is any gentleman doing when he climbs a tree?” he called back, grinning that effortless smile she loved so well. “Picking apples, of course.”
“You nearly knocked me in the head with that apple, you know,” she groused without heat.
“I would never do you injury, Lady Hannah. This I swear.” He held a hand over his heart. “And my aim is impeccable.”
She believed him. There was nothing at which Lord Graham Dowling did not excel. He had made her fall in love with him without any effort. But she did not dare tell him that just yet.
Mayhap not ever.
“You are incorrigible, sir.” Hannah raised a brow, eying him there in the leafy boughs. “I do believe I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen a gentleman hiding in a tree.”
He simply smiled down at her, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world for a lady to be craning her neck to speak to a man high above her in the branches. “How many others have there been aside from me?”
“You are the only one,” she admitted. In so many ways. Again, a sentiment she dared not voice. “Why are you climbing trees to pick apples, my lord?”
It hardly seemed a lordly act. Though Lord Graham was indisputably athletic of form, and strong, she had not supposed him the sort of gentleman to spend his time picking apples when the rest of the men in their assemblage were off on the hunt.
“Would you believe it was to impress a lady whose eye I cannot seem to catch?”
His query was so soft, she thought she must have misheard him. It was only the sudden intensity in Lord Graham’s mien that suggested otherwise. He could hardly be speaking of Hannah, could he?
Her heart gave a pang at the notion. “Am I acquainted with the lady in question?”
Though she struggled to keep her tone nonchalant, she feared she gave herself away. Lord Graham watched her, his smile fading, his gaze never wavering from hers.
“You know her exceedingly well,” he said.
If he was speaking of a bosom bow of hers, she would never recover.
&nbs
p; “Why do you suppose climbing a tree would impress her?” she asked instead, playing this little game of his for as long as she could.
“In truth, I was attempting to surprise her by picking her some apples as I know the fruit is her favorite.”
Thump, thump, thump went her heart, faster than ever before. It was impossible to believe he was speaking of her. That the dances, lingering looks, and moments they had shared over the last few weeks had been everything she had hoped and more.
“Apples are my favorite,” she managed to say past a tongue that felt as if it had been tied in knots.
Lord Graham merely smiled again. “Catch.”
She reacted without thought, the apple he tossed to her landing perfectly in her cupped hands. The fruit was red and shiny, perfectly round. Nary a hint of a worm hole to be found. Of course, he would have found her the best apple in the tree. He was Lord Graham Dowling.
“Thank you for the apple,” she told him, more confused than ever. “I suppose I must carry on with my walk now. It would hardly do for us to be caught here alone together.”
Although the strict rules of Town were often relaxed in the country, Hannah’s father was a rigid adherer to propriety. If she were caught alone with Lord Graham, even with her on earth and him in the tree above her, she had no doubt there would be a severe price to pay. As much as she wanted Lord Graham to be hers, she had no wish to entrap him. She would marry him because it was his most fervent desire, or she would not marry him at all.
“Do not go just yet,” Lord Graham said, halting her before she could even make her first step. “You have yet to tell me if I succeeded.”
“If you succeeded?” Her gaze was pinned upon him once more, searching, seeking.
He inclined his head. “At impressing the lady whose eye I cannot seem to catch.”
If he was speaking of herself, he had caught her eye long ago. For years. Since before her presentation at court. “I cannot fathom you failing to catch the eye of any lady, my lord.”
“Do you trust me, Lady Hannah?” he asked, his voice low and laden with intent.
It was a strange question, she thought, but one for which she had a ready response. “Yes. Of course I do, my lord. Surely you must know that.”
He moved with effortless grace, lowering his body to the branch of the apple tree nearest to the ground, and held out his hand toward her. “Come here.”
Still clutching the apple he had tossed her, she did as he asked, moving toward him. Her skirts rustled in the grasses. A bee buzzed lazily past. A breeze rose, making the leaves of the tree sing, sending a tendril of hair over her cheek. She dashed it away and stopped at the base of the tree, her senses heightened to potent awareness.
What game was he playing now?
More importantly, did she risk playing it with him?
“What are you about, my lord?” she asked, hating herself for the huskiness of her voice.
She sounded as if she were affected by his nearness. Because she was. So much for guarding her heart. For proceeding with caution. But if Lord Graham was inviting her to have a cozy tête-à-tête with him concerning the lady who truly had his affections, she would never recover from the blow.
“Take my hand, Han.”
Han.
It was the first time he had called her by the sobriquet her family used. The lack of formality slid over her like a caress. She was helpless to resist. She would do anything he asked in this moment, even jump from a cliff.
Hannah placed her hand in his. Her feet left the ground. For a wild moment, she feared she had imagined the sensation until she realized Lord Graham was lifting her. Lifting her with ease, as if she weighed scarcely anything more than a feather.
A gasp tore from her. She dropped the apple as he hauled her into the tree with him. “My lord,” she protested. “What are you doing?”
“What do you suppose I am doing?”
There was scarcely any strain in his voice as he lifted her higher, then clamped his other hand on her waist. Tightening his hold on her, he pulled her onto the branch alongside him.
“Oh!” she cried out, pleasure and fear mingling. Her skirts and feet dangled over the grass below.
She was in the tree. With Lord Graham.
A giggle escaped her. It was so silly, so unexpected. She turned to face him and her giggle fled. He was close. His arm was yet wrapped around her waist, she realized, securing her to him, keeping her steady.
She swallowed past a swiftly rising lump in her throat. “You have lifted me into the tree, my lord.”
“Indeed,” he said tenderly, his bright-blue gaze lingering on her lips like a touch. “I have.”
“Ladies do not climb trees,” she felt compelled by her dignity to protest. And also because she was horridly flustered by his nearness and the suggestion underlying his every word and deed.
Part of her wished he would simply say what he meant.
The other part of her was terrified it would not be what she wanted to hear.
“You did not climb,” he corrected her, a smile once more flirting with the corners of his lips. “I lifted you. Therefore, this cannot count as a black mark upon your honor.”
The fingers at her waist gave a gentle, affectionate squeeze. No one had ever touched her with such familiarity, including Lord Graham. Especially Lord Graham. What was happening?
If she leaned into him, their mouths would be near enough to touch. The thought sent a shock through her. Longing, hunger, and love collided within her. She did not know where to look. What to do. She would settle for attempting conversation.
Was there safety in words? She was certain there was not safety in anything as far as this man was concerned.
“Shall I thank you then?” she ventured. “For lifting me here? I am not certain I wished to be stuck in a tree with you, my lord.”
That was a blatant lie. She would be happy to be stuck with him anywhere.
Forever.
“Thank me if you like,” he said slowly, his gaze searing hers. “As you like.”
Oh.
That seemed an invitation. Did it not? Was the height of her perch on the branch making her giddy? Or was it merely Lord Graham?
Her mouth went dry. Her heart thumped and thudded and carried on. “How would you prefer me to express my gratitude, Lord Graham?”
“Graham,” he corrected her, reaching out to brush the stray curl which had returned to her cheek.
It must have somehow gotten loose as he pulled her to the branch. How grateful she was to that errant tendril of hair. His fingertips grazed her skin, and she did not think any touch had ever felt finer.
“Graham,” she repeated, pleased with the intimacy of foregoing formality. “How would you have me thank you?”
“In such circumstances, since I have rescued you from the desperate danger of the grass below, I can only think of one way.” His tone was teasing and light. Flirtatious. Maddening. “With a kiss.”
With a kiss, he had said. Three small words. Three words that changed her world and stole her breath. Could she do it? Did she dare? And in a tree, of all places? Her position was precarious in more ways than one.
She had never before kissed another gentleman. But she had longed to kiss him. Had spent so many restless nights, lying awake in her bed and thinking of his lips, his eyes, his dazzling smile. Dreaming of the day when he would notice her.
He was noticing her now.
But he was also frowning. “Unless I have paid you insult in the request, my lady. I would never dream of—”
She silenced the remainder of his words with her mouth on his. A quick press of her lips. She knew a moment of bursting warmth, and then she was aflame. Like dry kindling waiting for the strike of flint. Terrified by her reaction to him, and also fearful she may tumble from the tree in her wild response, she ended the kiss before it had even begun.
“Hannah,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.
He blinked, looking as shocked by the
brief connection they had just shared as she felt. “I beg your pardon?”
“If I am to call you Graham,” she explained painstakingly, “then you must call me Hannah.”
He studied her so intently her cheeks flushed. “Only when we are alone. Otherwise, the damage to your reputation would be far too great.”
Hannah gave a jerky nod. “Of course.”
Was it wrong of her to hope they were alone together as often as possible? For her to long for more kisses? Endless kisses…
“Hannah,” he said tenderly, his gaze sweeping over her face.
“Graham,” she returned.
It was the perfect moment. Too perfect to be real.
And then a bee buzzed between their faces, flying about Hannah’s bonnet in determined swoops. She shrieked, madly waving at the overzealous creature. And promptly lost her balance.
A gasp tore from her throat. She was going to fall.
Fear lanced her.
Her stomach upended.
But then, a strong, reassuring arm slid around her waist, hauling her toward Graham’s solid chest. She threw her arms around his neck, holding on tightly. The bee was gone, thank heavens. And he had saved her.
“Terrible little fellow,” Graham said softly, “mistaking you for a blossom. Could he not see you are far lovelier than a mere flower could ever be?”
“Thank you for saving me.” Here was her moment to release him. To observe propriety. To remove herself from his arms and this tree both.
But when had what she ought to do ever been what she wanted to do?
“You owe me a debt of gratitude anew,” he teased, his gaze dipping to her lips once more.
Yes, she did. And she knew precisely how she wanted him to claim his reward.
She licked her suddenly dry lips, the bee altogether forgotten. “How would you have me repay you this time?”
Wooed in Winter Page 3