Dinner was excellent, but everyone was too weary to indulge in the hotel’s attractions and so they were shown to their rooms. Matilda was not the least bit surprised to discover she had a room of her own, but took careful note that Lucian’s bedroom was at the end of the corridor on the right. She bade him goodnight without a murmur of complaint, ordered a hot bath, and smiled a little at the suspicion in his eyes when she closed the door on him.
Matilda soaked in the large copper tub provided, the scent of orange blossom filling the room as she’d added a generous amount of her favourite bath oil to the water. Wishing once more that she had something a little more seductive to wear, she put on the lace nightgown and the wrap that went with it, slid her feet into a pair of dainty satin slippers, and brushed out her hair until it shone. She pinched her cheeks and gently bit her lips until they were rosy, and regarded her reflection with satisfaction. Well, it was certainly the best she could do in the circumstances. Snuffing all but one candle, which she took with her, Matilda cracked open her bedroom door and looked down the darkened corridor. All was quiet.
Her slippers made a soft shushing sound as she padded upon the thick carpet that led to Lucian’s room. She paused for a moment outside his door, wondering if she ought to be more nervous about seducing him. No, she decided, smiling. That horse had certainly bolted. The irony of the situation did not escape her.
Lucian had been pursuing her for almost a year. The cat-and-mouse game they had played had put him firmly in the role of predator, stalking his prey. Yet now, here she was, willing to give him everything he’d wanted, and the wretched cat had turned tail. Well, it was high time she played the part of feline seducer. She’d been dubbed The Huntress, had she not? That wretched name had followed her, been whispered behind her back and flung in her face. It was well past time she embraced it. Better yet, it was beyond time to live up to it. She opened the door.
Lucian was sitting at the writing desk. He looked up as the door opened, his profile cast in gold by the single candle burning on the desk beside him. It was the kind of profile that ought to be stamped on a coin, the austere angles of his face, the straight nose and uncompromising line of his jaw that of a king or a Roman emperor. He turned to look at her, his expression revealing nothing, which told Matilda more than he could have guessed. It had not taken her long to realise that the less he showed—the harder he worked to hide any trace of emotion—the more deeply he felt.
“Ah,” he said softly. “I thought you’d acquiesced a little too easily.”
“Far too easily,” she agreed, closing the door behind her.
Matilda turned back to study him: the long, elegant fingers holding the quill, the fine white shirt open at the neck, his cravat discarded, and his sleeves rolled up to show surprisingly powerful forearms. A result of all that sword play he must practice so keenly, no doubt. No one else saw him like this, without the armour he had fashioned from his impeccable clothes, lofty title, and that frigid silver glare. Far more than others of his rank, he held the world at a distance and allowed no one close, not even his equals. No one saw beyond the façade except for her and Phoebe. Even his trusted servants only caught glimpses of what they knew to be true of him, that he was kind beneath the rigid exterior, that he was not as cold as ice, but warm and loving, and that he wanted so much to protect those he loved, to keep them safe.
He set down the quill. “I won’t do it, Matilda.”
She did not pretend to misunderstand him. “Why not, when I want it as much as you do?”
His face darkened and he turned away from her. “Do not make me spell it out. You know as well as I do.”
“Tell me, then. Tell me why I must walk away from the only man I shall ever love without knowing what it was to lie with him.”
She watched his face closely, what little she could see of it, the haughty angle of a high cheekbone, the golden sweep of thick lashes cast down, the hard set of his jaw.
“Because you were not destined to be alone, Matilda. I will do everything in my power to ensure you can still marry well, have the family you long for―”
“No!” she cried out, the idea of another taking his place too impossible, too painful to contemplate.
“Yes,” he said, and he spoke between clenched teeth. “I will not ruin you. I will not take what I cannot have without dishonouring us both.”
“No!”
That one word was cried with frustration this time as she heard his cool, reasonable tone and wanted to shake him for it. She had always wanted that, she realised, to shatter his control, to make him give in to his emotions. She’d succeeded, she supposed, up to a point. Now he was drawing a line in the sand, this far and no farther, for at that point he would betray his honour. A sob rose in her throat as she realised he would not change his mind, would not give her what she wanted. He would force her to save herself for a man that would never exist, for there was no man that could take his place in her heart, in her life. Though she knew he acted for the best, though she understood his reasoning and respected it, it did not soften the blow. Regret and a bone deep sense of loss was all she could feel.
Matilda set the candle down, her hands trembling too hard to hold it steady now. The sobs racked her body, though they were silent cries, shaking her as another corner of her heart broke free, smashing to pieces. It would all be gone before this was over, but she’d known that.
“My love, please don’t….”
As he came closer to her, she realised she’d gotten her wish. The facade had shattered, his expression betraying everything, laying open his heart, the tears in his eyes the mirror of her own. He pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her neck and breathing in deep.
“Don’t hate me,” he begged her. “Please don’t. I know you should, but I cannot bear it. Let me love you the best I can, let me give you all I can allow myself, but don’t make me hate myself for having loved you.”
Matilda gave a choked laugh. “I could never hate you.”
He took her face between his hands and looked down at her, amusement glittering in the silver.
“Little liar,” he murmured. “You hated me once.”
She laughed again, even as the tears streamed down her face and she shook her head, denying it. “I did not. I hated Montagu, I hated that damned title, and I hate it still, for it keeps us apart. I never hated you, Lucian, not from the first moment I realised who you really were.”
“I am Montagu,” he said, his words gentle but firm. “Don’t separate us, for we are inextricably twined. Two flawed halves of a whole, and wholly in love with you, God help me.”
“Yet you would see me wed another,” she said, the pain of his words still raw.
“See it?” he repeated, his voice harsh with bitterness. “No. Not that. I should die before I saw the man who had what I could not. But you will marry, because your heart is too generous not to be kind to some poor fool who falls at your feet and begs for your hand. You’ll marry and have children and, in years to come, I will be a memory that you take out from time to time and recollect like a story from a book you once read, a long, long time ago.”
She wanted to rail at him for thinking her capable of that but he took her hand and held it tight, raising it to his mouth. She gasped as his lips pressed against her pulse, knowing it must flutter under the kiss like the wings of a panicked bird.
“You wanted memories,” he murmured against her skin. “I shall give you something to remember.”
Lucian lifted her up, sweeping her into his arms, and Matilda no longer wanted to argue the point. All she wanted was that this night should not end. She put her arms about his neck as he carried her to the bed, some distance this time as the room was large and opulent. It was not poor Mr Bennet with his modest income and the best room he could afford that held her, but the Marquess of Montagu, a powerful, wealthy man who was feared and admired in equal measure: Lucian, the man who had survived the ordeal of his childhood and kept his heart intact, and had gi
ven it to her.
He laid her down on the bed, the silver in his eyes glinting in the dim light of the room. She watched as he walked away and picked up the candle she’d brought, and then set about lighting every lamp and candelabra.
“I want to see you,” he said in response to her enquiring gaze.
She ought to have blushed at that, she supposed, but she wanted to see him too. Her attention was avid as he stripped the shirt from over his head, wincing a little but moving easier that he had before.
“The wounds are healing nicely,” she observed.
Lucian glanced down. “Yes.”
“You’ll have heroic scars to bear.”
He laughed, a rather bitter sound.
“If only these little marks were the only ones.” His eyes settled on her as he reached for the buttons on the fall of his trousers. “The deepest scar will be well hidden, but you will know it’s there, love.”
Matilda nodded. “I’ll bear its twin.”
Her breath hitched as he moved towards the bed, the candlelight casting him in gold. Would she have become used to this, she wondered, if they’d had a future together? Would she have been able to look upon him one day without feeling her heart pound, her breath catch in her throat? She’d never know, but suspected it was doubtful.
“I love the way you look at me,” he said, as he lay down on his side, his head propped on one arm.
Matilda reached out and touched him, her fingers trailing through the scattering of golden hair on his chest.
“How do I look at you?” she asked.
He took her hand and raised it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. “Like I’m everything you could ever want.”
Matilda smiled. “That’s because you are.”
The smile left his eyes and he shook his head. “I’m not, but I wish that I had the chance to try.”
“Don’t speak of it,” she begged him. “Not now. Make it go away.”
She reached for him and he pulled her closer.
“I will,” he promised.
He did, turning her onto her back and stripping off her nightgown and wrap before kissing every bared inch of her. He found places that made her quiver quite unexpectedly, like the sensitive skin behind her knees, the back of her neck. She discovered the astonishing pleasure of his warm tongue trailing over the curve of her bottom, loving her with exquisite tenderness, his hands and mouth seeking and caressing, bringing her to the peak over and again until she was giddy and exhausted.
“I can’t, you wicked man,” she protested, laughing and dazed as he returned to the tender place between her legs yet again. Surely, he couldn’t command her body to respond with abandon any more than it already had. Could one die from an excess of pleasure? She must be in danger. “Lucian, I couldn’t possibly!”
Yet she sighed happily as he ignored her objections.
“Yes, you can,” he insisted, sliding a finger into the slick heat he’d stoked inside her and finding a tender spot that made her exclaim at the intense surge of bliss.
“Lucian!” she cried, clutching at the bedclothes as he licked gently at the delicate pearl of flesh that seemed to so fascinate him.
His finger returned to that magic place inside her and her breath caught as pleasure rippled through her yet again, bowing her body in a taut arc beneath him before the release took her, ever more powerful, racking her to her core and leaving her boneless and spent.
***
“So sleepy,” Matilda murmured, her frustration at that fact apparent.
She looked up at him, battling to keep her eyes open, but Lucian chuckled and nuzzled at her neck.
“Sleep, love. I’m not going anywhere.”
“No,” she protested. “I won’t waste another night.”
“I’ll wake you again in a bit, I promise. Just sleep for a little while.”
Reluctantly, she closed her eyes, her breathing deep and even in moments. God, she was magnificent, so responsive to his touch, everything he had dreamed she would be and so much more, and he had dreamed of her.
Lucian stared down at her in wonder. He had been cataloguing every moment of this night, every soft moan of pleasure, the sound of his name cried out in ecstasy, every curve of her beautiful body, so he might remember it all when she was no longer his. She sighed in her sleep and he curved his body closer about hers as though he could protect her from harm. An ache filled his chest, so powerful it stole his breath. The worst harm that had ever befallen her, that would ever befall her, was because of him and he burned with sorrow and guilt because of it. He turned his face into her neck, breathing in the scent of orange blossom and fighting the swell of emotion that rose in his chest. She was so beautiful, and she loved him. How extraordinary that was. He had never expected it, never looked for it, assuming that love was not something he could ever experience for himself. He had read about it in poems and in novels with the curiosity of someone reading of a foreign land they knew they would never see with their own eyes, never expecting to find themselves there in reality. Yet here he was, and he wondered if it was a blessing or a curse.
When his parents and Philip had died, he had been cast adrift, his well-ordered world turned on its head. Until that day, he had known precisely what had been expected of them all, of Philip as the heir, and of him and of Thomas. All at once, his parents and Philip were gone, and suddenly the staff addressed him as they’d addressed his father, and all the lessons he’d heard his father give Philip became his to learn overnight. The book his father had written, detailing everything Montagu should be, became his bible, his talisman against failure, the only thing that made the ground beneath his feet feel steady.
He remembered his father’s steward putting it into his hands the day he had received the news that his family was dead. His father was barely cold and Lucian, eleven years old, sat in the big leather chair in the study that had become his, reading of his duty with his stomach in a knot, trying vainly not to cry.
Montagu never showed emotion, and he was Montagu now.
That had been written among those first pages, with words like duty and honour underlined in thick black ink. Lucian had swallowed down his tears and made a vow to the dead, to himself, that he would make his father and Philip proud. He would not let them down. He would be everything Montagu ought to be. He would protect the title, his family, his brother….
Well, he had already failed his brother, and now this woman had shaken his world all over again. For this astonishing woman, he wanted to cast it all aside. He closed his eyes as he heard his father’s voice: the lecture on duty, on marrying to further the interests of the title, and never for any other reason. How strange that he could remember the exact timbre of his voice, the deep resonating sound of a man used to blind obedience. Lucian did not think his sire had ever uttered the word love. He wasn’t sure the man had even believed it existed. Certainly, he’d displayed no sign of it.
Lucian barely remembered his mother at all, past the fact that she’d been absurdly lovely, like a perfect china doll. She had always been a distant figure in their lives, austerely beautiful, fragile and untouchable. She detested noise or mess, and three small boys who were never anything but noisy and messy had held little appeal, so they seldom crossed paths. His father had been proud of her, Lucian remembered that much, like a fine piece of porcelain or a beautiful painting. He’d rarely seen them together, which made the fact they’d died together somewhat ironic.
It had been a typical aristocratic marriage, which had been considered a wild success by their kind: a marriage of power, money, and breeding that provided three healthy male heirs—for Thomas’s sickly nature was a closely guarded secret. As far as the ton were concerned, they had been the perfect family. No wonder his father had been so damned smug, so bloody proud.
Lucian dared allow himself—as he had never allowed himself before—to imagine Matilda as the mother of his children, and had to slam the door on the image at once as too many unwieldy emotions rose inside
of him. He drew in a shaky breath and forced the dream away before it could unravel what remained of his defences. No matter how he loved her, how worthy she was to be his wife, in the eyes of the world she would damage him, she would weaken the proud name that had stood for so many generations, and his father and Philip would turn in their graves.
Guilt clawed at his heart, weighing him down. Why could he not have this one thing—the only thing he had ever truly wanted—for himself?
He reached up to stroke Matilda’s hair, sifting the golden strands between his fingers, and the fine scar across his wrist shone white in the candlelight. Lucian made himself look at it for the first time in almost eighteen years. He hated it, hated the proof of his weakness, feeling the familiar swell of shame. He had thought to escape his duty once before, overwhelmed by loneliness and the burden of responsibility. He had thought he could go through with it, but in the end he’d not been able to betray his family, his destiny, his father’s wishes, even in the depths of despair. So Pippin had patched him up, and his uncle had never known that Lucian had almost done his work for him.
He would not let his uncle win, could not let his father and Philip down, could not let Thomas have died for nothing. There was no escape. The future of the title was both a noose about his neck and the thing he must live for.
Destiny.
He closed his eyes and breathed deep. Orange blossom, the musky scent of a lush female body, and something entirely unique to the woman in his arms enveloped him, chasing away desolation, for now at least. Her body’s perfume was a heady combination that filled his senses and made him taut with longing.
“Matilda,” he whispered, pressing his aching cock against the soft curves of her lush behind. “Matilda, wake up, love. I need you.”
To Hunt the Hunter (Girls Who Dare Book 11) Page 20