He was so different from what she’d expected of a man of his rank. Blessed with wealth, position, and incredible good looks, rather than inspire envy, he wore his largess as one deserving of such gifts, benevolently bestowed rather than entitled. The good humor that she’d admired from their first inauspicious meeting had not waned, but rather seemed to permeate every corner of his character.
And this amazing man was courting her: singling her out at the weekly assembly balls, attending the same small soirées as she, calling at Kington House every day. Everyone knew. Though only a few knew just how intently. She was floating on air. How could anyone be this happy? It was perfect. He was perfect. There was an ease of conversation with him that she’d never experienced with another man, not even her brothers. It felt as though she’d known him her entire life.
As promised, he’d called the very afternoon of their first “chance” meeting along the footpath of the castle’s park. Even her parents, initially hesitant because it had taken him so long to call, had begun to consider the possibilities.
With Lizzie and Fanny’s assistance (it hadn’t taken long for the sixteen-year-old girls to become fast friends), there had been many more chance meetings on the country lanes of Thornbury. The girls delighted in the romantic intrigue and they fancied themselves quite the matchmaking mamas. Even now, the two little scamps were off “foraging berries” (out of season no less), while Genie fished and Hastings relaxed in the sun.
She’d never had so much fun; the clandestine meetings only heightened the excitement. Yet a twinge of uncertainty niggled her conscience. Being alone with him was highly improper. Her parents would be horrified. But, she reminded herself, she and Hastings weren’t doing anything wrong. Hastings was the perfect gentleman. He’d never even attempted to kiss her, though she knew he wanted to. But Genie had never done anything that might cause her parents displeasure before, and the guilt chafed uncomfortably at times. It was all for a good cause, she reminded herself. Soon he would ask for her and her conscience would be blissfully unburdened.
The sun beat down on his fair head, his discarded hat and cutaway coat strewn in a heap along with her gloves, bonnet, and spencer. He lay stretched out on a blanket amongst the remains of their picnic. He’d rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing tanned, muscular forearms covered by a thin layer of fine golden hair.
She never tired of looking at him, memorizing every detail no matter how infinitesimal. Savoring each day as if it could be the last. He looked so peaceful, so young and handsome, basking in the unexpected warmth of a sun-drenched day.
Despite the unusual patch of dry weather, the days were getting shorter. Summer’s last hurrah was upon them, and Genie desperately wished she could halt its determined march. She never wanted this dreamlike existence to end. Too soon, the cold gray rain would descend, and there would be no more picnics along the bucolic banks of the river Severn.
“Hmm.” She put her finger to her chin and tapped, contemplating his question. “Since your parents are hosting a soirée tomorrow evening for your house party, it must be a quick walk about the park. I shall need time to prepare; I want to make a favorable impression.”
“They’ll be enchanted,” he said softly, his eyes lingering on her face. “What’s not to love?”
Genie’s heart jumped to her throat. She tried not to show how affected she was by his careless use of the sentiment that she felt so strongly. Like a moth to the flame, she was irresistibly drawn to this vibrant man. But the deeper her attachment grew, the more she worried about their difference in rank. “Your brother does not approve of me.”
Hastings frowned, something that did not occur very often. “That’s not true. Henry is just reserved and so damnably serious. He feels the pressure of being heir.” He shrugged. “He merely envies my freedom.”
Genie remained unconvinced. It was more than that. The somber viscount, so like his brother in looks if not in temperament, looked at her strangely, like he pitied her. It made her distinctly uncomfortable.
“After Oxford we should have had our Grand Tour, but with the war…” He stopped. “There has not been much time to… how shall I say… enjoy the foibles of youth. Much is expected of him, he will be responsible for the ducal holdings. I’ll have the lands from my mother, but it’s not the same.”
As the second son, Hastings was more or less free to choose his own path. He often spoke of the lands that would come to him from his mother’s family, the plans he had for developing the land in an effort to make it more productive. Genie could see herself running the household surrounded by adoring children and reveling in the attention of a loving husband.
How could this be happening so fast? How could she have fallen in love so quickly?
In many ways, Genie and Hastings seemed destined for each other. Both romantics at heart, they were the perfect complement: his natural charm and good humor, her tender heart and trusting nature. With him, Genie knew she would have the security of a loving home. She felt it deep in her gut.
Though the hurdle of their difference in station concerned her, it did not seem insurmountable. He was the second son after all, not the heir. “It was kind of your parents to invite my family.”
“Not kindness, your father is the rector.” He held her gaze. “Besides, I think they are interested to discover why I have spent so much time at Kington House.”
“And why have you spent so much time at Kington House, my lord?” she asked with wide-eyed innocence.
He grinned—that heart-stopping, crooked, dimpled grin that sent butterflies fluttering in her stomach.
“Because I’ve been bewitched by a beautiful princess who’s cast a spell on me.”
Genie giggled. “I think you’ve listened to one too many of my fairy tales.”
He laughed, resting his head on his arms crossed behind his neck. After a minute, his eyes closed. Thick, long lashes curled against his cheek, shimmering in the sun like the tips had been dipped in gold dust.
A gentle breeze ruffled her skirts and tossed a few flaxen ringlets across her nose. Pushing them aside, she turned her gaze from the dozing Hastings back to the water in time to notice her line sway then dip. The fishing pole jerked in her hands.
“I think I’ve caught something,” she said excitedly.
Hastings popped up, a bit groggy at first then jumped to his feet, pulling on the taut line.
“It feels like a big one. Can you handle him?”
She nodded, her arms already straining against the pull. “I think so.” Despite the pain surging through her hands and forearms, she grinned. This was the biggest fish she’d ever hooked.
Finding strength she did not realize she had, Genie battled for a good ten minutes, fighting to control her line. Hastings watched anxiously from her side. Not used to such exertion, her arms started to shake. “I can’t hold it much longer…”
“Here, let me help.” He started to reach for her pole when the line suddenly went slack.
“Oh no!” she moaned. She’d lost him.
Genie collapsed back on the blanket in utter exhaustion and burst into laughter. “Devil take it. After all that, I can’t believe the blasted thing got away.” Her hand covered her mouth in horror. She’d hooked one big fish and now she cursed like a sailor.
Hastings appeared not to notice her colorful vocabulary, he leaned over her prone figure, studying her flushed face with particular intensity. “You still have me.”
Still laughing, she stared into his eyes. Something shifted in his expression, causing her giggling to stop and her chest to squeeze with longing. His gaze flickered to the rise and fall of her chest then back to her face. His eyes burned with unbridled desire, raw and hungry. Genie glimpsed a sliver of steel behind the lighthearted exterior that she’d never seen before.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice rough and solemn, devoid of its usual teasing lilt. “Like an angel.”
So was he. His handsome face poised above hers, dark blo
nd hair slumped forward across the chiseled lines of his cheeks and jaw, blue eyes stormy as the sea.
With one finger, he gently traced the side of her face. Genie’s heart thumped wildly in her chest. Wordlessly, she watched him, eyes wide, waiting. She knew what he was going to do; she’d yearned for it from almost the first moment they’d met. The pad of his thumb ran across her bottom lip. Her breath caught high in her chest. She couldn’t move.
Finally, his head dipped and his lips touched hers, so achingly tentative it almost hurt. Shocked by the unfamiliar sensation, she froze, not sure what to do. She should push him away and feign offense that he would take such liberties, but she couldn’t. She wanted this; she would not deny it. Part of her was actually relieved. She’d worried that he might never kiss her. That he might never show her that he desired her as a man does a woman.
His lips were soft and gentle, brushing over hers like the wisps of a feather. Genie felt helpless, drunk with an unfamiliar emotion that had been unleashed by the simple touch of his mouth to hers. Excitement and anticipation fluttered high in her chest. She could go on like this forever, luxuriating in the sensation of being worshipped by his adoring mouth.
But the feather-soft kisses stopped. He raised his head and peered deep into her eyes. Whatever sign he sought there he must have found because his head dipped again and this time he kissed her harder, much harder. The change from tentative and worshiping to hot and furious both surprised and emboldened her. Stripped of civility and decorum, this was a side of Hastings that Genie had never seen. A serious side. A commanding side. A dangerous side. Here was a man who boldly captured her lips with fierce determination and wouldn’t let her go.
She’d never been more aware of him as a man. She could feel the smoothness of his skin marred only by the faintest hint of stubble as his mouth moved over hers, the soft wave of his hair tickling her cheek. Deftly, he pried her lips apart and deepened the kiss. Her body felt unfamiliar, buzzing with the exquisite sensations he aroused in her. She wanted to devour him, the sweet, heady combination of wine, spice, and molten desire.
Her eyes fluttered closed and she relaxed, awash in sensation. He’d been holding himself off of her, but slowly his chest lowered. The hard plane of his muscled chest pressed against the softness of her breasts, so close she could feel the excited pounding of his heart against hers. He was so much larger, she should have felt crushed, but she loved the closeness, reveled in the power of his weight on her. She’d never felt so feminine, so protected.
“God, you taste so good, Genie. Like those sweet cakes you love,” he moaned against her mouth.
Self-conscious about her own lack of experience, she desperately wanted to please him. “Show me what to do,” she whispered, circling his neck with her hands, raking her fingers through the soft silk of his hair.
He groaned, wrapping her in his arms as though he would never let her go. Pressed against the muscled, hard length of him, she felt the evidence of his arousal pulse against her thigh. Indeed, he wanted her; and Genie was getting an inkling of just how badly. A warm flood of desire spread over her and pooled low in her belly. Genie didn’t know what was happening to her, but she knew that she desperately craved something more.
She craved his touch.
Of its own accord, her body stirred against him, shifting in innocent frustrated silence.
He pressed himself more firmly against her, steadying her, allowing her to grow accustomed to the magnificent power of his body. Gently, he settled his hips against hers, moving the thickness she’d felt on her thigh into the crevice between her legs. The sheer sensuality of the positioning sent a bolt of desire shooting through her. She wanted to rock her hips against him, to increase the pressure of his body on hers until they melted together.
Reading her mind, his hips circled against hers, driving the thick head of his staff against the top of her mound. Rubbing against her until the lips of her sex swelled with desire for…
At once she understood her part.
Before she could process the thought, his mouth slanted over hers again, forcing it open. She gasped when his tongue stroked the inside of her mouth. Her heart fluttered. His lips and tongue brooked no argument, demanding her cooperation with his sinful kiss. Cautiously, she met the thrust of his tongue with her own. He growled his approval as his mouth continued its ravaged assault.
As he stroked her mouth with his tongue, inciting a wicked dance with her own, his hand moved to cup her breast. Too far gone, no longer heeding propriety, Genie only knew how good it felt. His hands stroked her body, claiming her with a possession that made her weak. She burned where he touched; her skin warm and sensitive. Every nerve ending in her body screamed for release from the wicked teasing dance. Kneading her breast with his hand, his thumb circled her nipple through the thin muslin of her gown and fine linen of her chemise, teasing it to a tight point.
They were both breathing hard, the fervor of youthful passion a conflagration that was quickly burning out of control. She knew it was too fast, too dangerous. But she was powerless to deny him—or herself. His movements at first slow and confident had turned frantic and less controlled. He lowered his head to her bodice, his warm breath and hot kisses peppered her tingling skin.
Startled by the impropriety of his kiss, a coherent thought broke through the madness. This was wrong. She should stop. The virtue she’d been taught to treasure above all else hung by a tenuous thread. She would be ruined if anyone discovered them.
“Wait, we have to stop,” she murmured against his mouth.
A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his brow as his face contorted in pain. He looked ready to explode as he fought for control. “No, we don’t, sweetheart. I love you too much, Genie,” he said tightly. “I want you to be mine forever. I need to make you mine forever. Do you understand?”
She nodded. He loved her! He wanted to marry her! A wave of euphoria spread over her at his declaration, stoking the fires in her still-smoldering body.
“Then trust me,” he rasped, his jaw clenched with the exertion of reining in his passion. “It will all work out fine, I promise.”
Trust me. Of course, she trusted him. He wanted to marry her. How could she deny him? But still, she knew it was wrong.
He read her hesitance. “Do you love me, Genie?”
“Yes,” she said shyly. “I love you very much.”
Clearly in agony, a half smile crossed his tortured face. “Then there is nothing to fear.”
“But—”
“No buts. Let me show you. Oh God, Genie, please let me show you.” His whispered wooing turned into a soft, pleading kiss. Something primitive in his voice called out to her deepest desires, making her yearn to please him. She loved him and her body cried out to prove how much.
Reading acceptance in her expression, he kissed her again, quickly rousing her passion as if there had never been a momentary lapse. Genie forced the doubts aside, refusing to heed the warning in her head that told her she was making a horrible, irreparable mistake.
A mistake as old as sin.
The lessons of a lifetime dissolved in an instant. She couldn’t explain it, but this felt right. Why attempt to justify actions that could never be justified? She was young and in love—nothing else mattered. Only the moment.
His mouth plundered hers as his hands caressed her body. Losing patience, his movements lost some of their finesse, becoming enchantingly fumbling. She could tell that they were swiftly moving beyond the realm of his expertise. Had he done this before? If so, he had yet to perfect his movements as he had his kissing. The realization thrilled her; they were experiencing the wonder of passion together.
When his hand settled over her breast again, Genie ventured a tentative exploration beyond his hair and neck. Given the intimacy of what they were doing, it seemed odd that he still wore his high starched cravat and white waistcoat. Her hands roamed over the fine linen of his shirt, following the curve of his wide shoulders down the long muscle
s of his arms. He flexed at her touch, the long cords of his muscles played under her fingertips.
He’d managed to lift her skirts and chemise. She tried to question him, but he covered her mouth with a kiss. His hand brushed the length of her thigh above her silk stockings and garter to come to rest between her legs. Shocked, she thought to protest, but when his finger entered her she lost the ability for coherent thought. Perhaps sensing her shock, he slowed his movements, allowing her a moment to grow accustomed to his hand in the most intimate of places.
“Close your eyes, my sweet,” he murmured in her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “Don’t think, just feel. Feel my finger touching you, making you wet for me.”
Gently, he stroked her, his finger dipping inside her as the palm of his hand rubbed against her mound. Unconsciously, her hips lifted against his palm seeking the sweet pressure that made her tingle with sensation. He drove her to the edge of oblivion then inexplicably removed his sinful hand. Her head rolled back and forth on the blanket, frustrated with the agony of burgeoning desire.
He fumbled with his breeches, releasing his manhood from the tight constriction of his breeches. She was too embarrassed to look—even to satisfy her bold curiosity.
“I wish we had more time, but they might return at any moment. It will only hurt this once,” he promised through clenched teeth. His shoulders shook with tension, perilously close to losing control. Beneath his shirt Genie felt the dampness of his skin. He moved over her, positioning his hands on either side of her shoulders and wedging the thick tip of his shaft between her legs.
Reality hit her then. But it was too late. In one swift motion he sheathed himself in her, cleaving her in two, and smothering her bloodcurdling scream with his mouth.
She froze, stiffening with pain.
He cupped her face with one hand, running his thumb across her cheek to smooth a tear. “I’m sorry, love. The first time can be painful for a woman, but the worst is over. From this point on there will only be pleasure. I promise.”
The Unthinkable Page 5