He caught the sound in his mouth, kissing her, his fingers continuing to pleasure her, even as she collapsed, panting, against the carpet.
“Clara, it’s time.” His voice was harsher that she’d ever heard it before, vibrating with need she instinctively understood. “I can’t wait any more.”
She nodded, letting him know she felt the same, that she was ready for what she only vaguely knew was about to happen, but then he withdrew his hand and rolled away from her. Surprised, she opened her eyes and turned her head, watching him as he unbuttoned his trousers, and pulled them off.
She slid her gaze down his body for her first glimpse of what she’d wanted to see earlier, but the sight was sufficiently shocking that she stared, aghast, sudden trepidation vanquishing any curiosity she might have felt.
“Rex?”
He came over her at once, and beneath him, she squeezed her eyes shut. With his body, solid and heavy on top of her, and the hard, swollen part of him pressed between her legs she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to continue.
He sensed what she felt. He must have, for he stilled, and she felt his hand cup her face. “Clara, look at me.”
She forced herself to open her eyes.
His seemed vividly blue even in the lamplight, and his voice when he spoke was strained with need. “This part is probably going to hurt you. There’s no way to avoid that, I’m sorry to say.” He paused and kissed her. “I’ll be as gentle as I can. All right?”
She nodded, and sucked in a breath. “Yes. All right.”
She felt his hand ease between their bodies, moving to push her thighs apart. “Open for me, sweetheart.”
She did, spreading her legs apart, and at once she felt him against her, hard and scorching hot. When he moved, the friction was luscious, and her earlier excitement came flooding back as the tip of his hardness pressed against her and into her.
“My God, my God,” he groaned against her neck. And then, his hips surged, and his hardness was fully within her.
The pain was even more acute than she’d expected, a deep, hard, bruising pinch that blotted out any pleasure she’d been feeling. She cried out, but he smothered it, kissing her as his body stilled on top of her.
He kissed her, a long, deep, tender kiss. Then he lifted his head. “Are you all right?”
His voice was so strangled, the words were barely understandable, telling her the strain he was under. She stirred, wriggling her hips, but the pain, thankfully, was easing. “Yes.” She nodded. “I think so, yes.”
He kissed her again, and then, he began to move within her. It hurt still, a little, but there was pleasure, too—pleasure in the hard, thick fullness of him inside her and the way he moved, and she tried to move with him.
Her efforts quickened his pace, and each time he thrust into her, it was a little harder, a little deeper, but that was all right, for her pleasure was deepening, too.
Then, without warning, the explosive sensation she’d only felt from his touch before roared up inside her, a violent, beautiful jolt that sent spasms of pleasure through her whole body. She wrapped her legs around him, her body clenching him tight, again and again.
He made a rough sound against her mouth. His arms slid beneath her back, as if he wanted to be even closer to her. Locked in this embrace, she relished it as he thrust into her again, then again, and yet again, and then, shudders rocked his body, and she knew he was feeling the same exquisite pleasure in this coupling that she’d just experienced. Three more times, he thrust into her, and then, his weight of his body settled over her. His arms still tight around her, his breathing hard and labored, he turned his head, burying his face against her neck.
Dazed, Clara stared up at the ceiling, her hands caressing the smooth, hard muscles of his back. The pain was gone now, and with his strong body heavy and solid on top of hers, part of him still joined with her, and his arms around her so strong and tight, all she felt was a sweet, singing joy and an overwhelming tenderness.
He stirred on top of her. “Does it still hurt?” he asked, pressing a kiss to her throat. “Tell me.”
She shook her head. “No. Oh, no.”
“Good.” He kissed her mouth, then he stirred again, as if to roll away, but she tightened her legs around him, reluctant to let him go.
Smiling, he lifted himself far enough to look into her face. “I’d love to stay,” he murmured, “but I can’t. I have to be back in my own room before the maids wake up.”
She nodded, knowing he was right. Her legs relaxed, opened, and he lifted his hips, slipping free of her. She grimaced, appreciating that she was still sore, more so than she’d realized. She was also sweaty and sticky, especially in her most intimate place. Lovemaking wasn’t quite as romantic afterward.
He stood up, and held out his hand to pull her to her feet as well, then he paused, smiling, his gaze drifting down over her naked body, a look that made her feel terribly shy and flustered, but pretty, too, and she changed her mind. Even afterward, there was romance in the act of love.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked, but she knew. She touched a hand to her hair, her blush deepening.
“You look delicious,” he said.
“Do I?” She gave him a wry, sideways smile. “Like shortbread, I suppose?”
“Yes, thank God.” He kissed her. “Because I adore shortbread.”
He turned away to find his clothes, and she tilted her head, studying his body, appreciating the view. He had such splendid shoulders. And also, she realized as he bent to reach for his discarded trousers, a very splendid bum.
He turned back around and caught her watching him. She tried to paste on an innocent, lamb-like stare, but he grinned, not the least bit fooled.
“Enjoying the view?” he asked and pulled on his trousers.
She made a face at him. “I was, until you put on those trousers and ruined it.”
He laughed softly as he reached down to retrieve his smoking jacket from the floor. He started to put it on, but then, he stopped, and for no reason she could think of, he bundled it into his hand instead. He went still, staring at it for a moment, then he pressed his lips together and lifted his head to look at her. His face was so grave, it startled her.
“Rex? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He smiled a little. “Try to get some sleep tonight, all right?”
Sleep? She stared at him in disbelief as he turned away to open the door. She couldn’t possibly fall sleep now. She’d never felt more awake, more alive in her entire life. She felt as if she could conquer the world. Did people truly fall asleep after such an extraordinary experience?
But before she could ask him that question, he was already gone.
Chapter 18
Perhaps it was the amazing and strenuous adventures of the night, or perhaps the fact that she’d been working so many late hours at the paper, but whatever the reason and despite her predictions on the subject, Clara succumbed to sleep the moment her head hit the pillow, and the only reason she woke was the fact that someone was moving around in her room.
Eyes closed, her senses still groggy, she wondered what Rex was still doing here. Hadn’t he gone? A vague memory of him slipping out her door came into her sleep-dazed mind, but the moment it did, any speculations about what he was doing back again vanished as she remembered the amazing things he’d done earlier.
Never, until last night, had she ever felt truly pretty. But when he’d knelt in front of her and called her lovely, when she’d heard the hushed, awestruck quality of his voice, it had made her heart sing with a joy and a confidence in her own feminine power that she’d never possessed before. When he had kissed and caressed her, she’d felt every bit as lovely as he’d deemed her, and a lifetime of gawky awkwardness, of feeling overlooked and plain had melted away under the scorching heat of his eyes and his hands and his mouth. Even now, it was still with her, that feeling, and she smiled in her sleep.
A drawer opened and closed, intruding on blissful, dream
like memories, and she decided Rex could not possibly still be in her room, for why would he be opening drawers? With an effort, she dragged her eyes open to find the gas jets lit, a bright crack of light coming through between the closed draperies, and her maid putting undergarments away in the chiffonier.
“Forrester?” she mumbled, blinking against the light. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Clara.” The maid turned, offering her an apologetic look. “You were sleeping ever so sound, I didn’t think putting away a few things would wake you.”
“It’s all right.” She rubbed the heels of her hands over her eyes, trying to come awake. “What time is it?”
“Quarter past eleven.”
“Eleven? What?” Astonished, Clara bolted upright, fully awake. “So late?”
The plump, middle-aged maid nodded. “Yes, miss. I’d have woken you, but you were sleeping ever so, and I thought it best to let you be. You’ve been working so hard and been so tired lately. I hope I haven’t done wrong?”
“No, no, of course not,” she hastened to assure. “And I suppose you’re right that I must have needed the rest. Quarter past eleven? Goodness, I never sleep so late.”
Even as she spoke, she thought of what she’d spent her night doing, and she hastily turned away before Forrester could see any hint of her thoughts in her expression. Shoving aside sheets and counterpane, she got out of bed on the opposite side from where her maid was standing and walked to the window. Pulling back the drapery a fraction, she blinked a little at the bright sunlight. “What a lovely day. What are the carriages for?” she asked, noting several broughams and landaus in the drive.
“Miss Chapman has arranged a picnic luncheon to the White Cliffs for anyone who wants to go,” Forrester said. “They’ll be luncheon here, too, of course, for anyone who chooses to stay behind, and after the picnicking party returns, there’s to be croquet and tennis.”
“Tennis?” Clara thought of Rex’s body, how splendid it had looked on the court in tennis whites. And how much more splendid he’d looked without them. She closed her eyes, picturing his naked body, his wide shoulders, the powerful muscles of his back and arms, the lean and luscious lines of his bum. She’d sensed the first time she’d ever seen him how athletic he was—more suited, she remembered, to some ancient Olympiad than to a sedate little London tea shop. Seeing his magnificent body had proved her instincts right.
What about her other instincts? she wondered suddenly. Which had been right, the ones that had deemed him a rake and a cad, or the ones that had allowed him to stay with her and lie with her? Maybe both, she realized, and she felt a sudden jolt of misgiving.
I’ve been trying to keep you safe . . . from me.
She shivered, and the question whispered through her mind of what would happen to her now.
“Do you want to go, Miss Clara?”
She jerked, startled, and opened her eyes, the curtain falling from her fingertips as she turned to her maid. “Sorry? What?”
“The picnic. If you want to go, we’d best get you dressed. The carriages are supposed to be off at twelve sharp, so Miss Chapman said.”
Clara gathered her scattered wits, pushing delectable thoughts of Rex’s magnificent body and forebodings about the future out of her mind. “I do want to go, yes,” she answered and turned from the window. “Hetty promised me an outing to the White Cliffs, for I’ve never seen them, and I don’t want to miss the chance.”
It was a mad dash to get her ready in time, but Clara soon learned that the White Cliffs might have to wait for another day. The big grandfather clock on the landing had already chimed the hour by the time she raced past it down the stairs, and when she arrived at the bottom, she found Carlotta waiting for her.
“Sorry,” she said, skidding to a halt, out of breath as she tucked her parasol under one arm and worked to button her gloves. “Am I terribly late? Is everyone waiting on me, or have they already left?”
“No, no, they haven’t gone yet, but I don’t think you’ll be wanting to join them, in any case.”
Clara frowned, puzzled, especially because Carlotta was smiling like the Cheshire Cat, and that almost never happened. “What do you mean?”
Carlotta slid her arm through Clara’s. “Let’s take a walk, my dear.”
Her bewilderment deepening, Clara allowed her sister-in-law to lead her across the foyer and out of the house. “Where are we going?” she asked as they turned in the opposite direction from the carriages in the drive.
“The rose garden is lovely, with everything in bloom,” her sister-in-law said. “I thought we might go there.”
“What about the picnic?” Clara asked as they rounded the corner of the house and started across the south lawn. The question was barely out of her mouth, however, before she saw Rex standing by the entrance to the rose garden, hat in hand, and any thoughts of the picnic or seeing the White Cliffs of Dover went straight out of her head.
Lord, he was handsome.
All the memories of last night came flooding back in a burst of pure joy, and she smiled.
He didn’t smile back.
Clara’s steps faltered, but Carlotta’s arm was still entwined with hers, impelling her forward. As she approached, his face was so grave, she immediately thought something terrible had happened. “What is it?” she asked, irrational fear striking her heart as she imagined a cable from the Continent forwarded here and conveying awful news. “What’s happened?”
She glanced at Carlotta, and her anxiety eased, derailed trains and sunken yachts fading from her imagination as quickly as they’d come. Irene, it was clear from her sister-in-law’s demeanor, was perfectly well.
She turned to Rex again. “What is this about?”
Instead of answering, he gestured to the path. “Take a turn with me?”
Carlotta’s arm slid away, and to Clara’s astonishment, her sister-in-law gave Rex a nod, turned around, and departed, leaving them. “Carlotta?” she called, but the other woman kept walking away. “Where is she going?”
“Out of earshot.” He slid his arm through hers. “Walk with me, please.”
He pulled, urging her gently into the rose garden, but even as she walked with him, she was looking back over her shoulder. “What on earth is she thinking? She can’t leave us alone out here. She’s my chaperone.”
“We’re a bit past the point of chaperones, don’t you think? Clara,” he went on before she could reply, “I asked Lady David to arrange a private meeting between us, and when I explained my reasons, she consented.”
Reasons? There was only one reason a man would make such a request of a chaperone.
With that thought, a torrent of emotions surged through her all at once. Disbelief, dismay, jubilation, trepidation, joy, hope—in a flood, they came, simultaneous yet distinct, each one powerful enough to overwhelm her. She stopped walking, unable to take another step, and yanked her arm out of his hold.
He stopped as well, turning to face her. “Surely you can guess what my reason is?”
One emotion nudged upward past all the others, rising above the tide, threatening to carry her utterly away. It was hope.
And yet, hope of what? Not happy matrimony, because he wasn’t the marrying sort, and she’d always known that. Just as important, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to marry him, for she’d never contemplated it, not once until this very moment. So, why was hope rising inside her, wrapping around her heart, squeezing her chest with such dizzying excitement? What was she hoping for? She honestly didn’t know.
She looked down, staring at the gravel path under their feet, trying to set aside any romantic notions and remind herself of realities. This was Rex, which meant the idea of marriage was absurd anyway, so—
He reached for her hands, interrupting this chaotic stream of thought, and she watched as he clasped them in his, his bare fingers entwining with her gloved ones, turning her toward him. “Clara, we have to get married.”
Not so absurd a
fter all.
And yet, oddly enough, it wasn’t quite a proposal.
“Have to?” she echoed, trying to make light of it, striving to think. “Heavens, that’s quite a definitive statement from a man who doesn’t believe in marriage and openly advocates free love.”
“Don’t tease, Clara. This is hard enough.”
It shouldn’t be hard at all, should it?
“You can’t possibly want to marry me,” she said.
“Yes, I do.”
“Don’t!” she ordered fiercely, lifting her head, yanking her hands free of his, every instinct she possessed telling her he didn’t mean that. “Don’t lie, Rex, for God’s sake.”
He inhaled sharply and looked away, confirming that at least in this case her instincts about him were sound.
“Very well,” he said after a moment. “Since you are demanding precise language of me, let me give it. What I want, Clara, is you. I have wanted you ever since you gave me cheek on that ballroom floor. I still want you.”
Now that, she thought with a delicious thrill and hint of relief, was more like what she’d been hoping for.
“And if we were anywhere private,” he went on, “I’d ravish you quick as lightning, whatever the risk, right here, right now, if you let me.”
Laughter bubbled up and came spilling out. “I fear if we were somewhere private, you wouldn’t be the only one doing the ravishing.”
He didn’t seem pleased to hear it. “That’s why we have to marry. You’re not the sort of woman a man can ravish and leave.”
She stiffened, any tendency to laugh vanishing as quickly as it had come. “Are there such women?”
“I think you know there are,” he said, “so please don’t go all prickly on me, Clara. There are mistresses, courtesans—”
“Widows,” she cut in. “Lady Dina Throckmorton, for example. Your friend Lionel seems to think she’s that sort of woman. Is she?”
“Let’s not get into the weeds by talking about Dina and Lionel, all right? Let’s leave them to sort out their own affairs while we sort out ours.”
“But you seem to think that she and I are different, that we deserve different consideration from our lovers,” Clara persisted. “I want to know why you think so.”
The Trouble with True Love (Dear Lady Truelove #2) Page 27