The Danger of Desire

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Damn. She was even more beautiful than he’d imagined—skin as smooth and silky as cream, breasts like two custards topped with juicy cherries, and a jet-black thatch of hair covering what he knew from touch to be a delectable quim.

  But best of all were the loveliest full hips he’d ever seen in his life. God help him. She was a work of art.

  As she flushed under his gaze, he circled her so he could get a look at the rest of her plump arse, and the minute he saw it, he knew he was in deep, deep trouble. With her hair spilling sweetly down to frame it in raven curls, it was absolutely exquisite.

  “Bloody, bloody hell.”

  She went rigid. “What’s wrong?”

  “Not a damned thing.” He gave in to the temptation to fill his hands with those two perfect globes of flesh and took his time squeezing and molding them. “You, my dear, have the bottom of an angel.”

  The tension ebbed from her. “Do you make a practice of looking at angel bottoms, sir?”

  He was tempted to say that her arse exceeded the best of any woman he’d ever seen, but no point in reminding her of his less-than-stellar reputation. “It’s a figure of speech. And one you amply deserve.”

  “ ‘Ample’ being the operative word,” she said dryly.

  “I like ample.” Rubbing up against her, he let her feel the length of his hardening cock against that pretty bottom. “As perhaps you can tell.”

  “You like everything,” she murmured.

  “On you, I do.” He reached around to fill his hands with her bosom next. “I like these.” Continuing to knead one pert little breast, he slid his other hand down to fondle her shamelessly between the legs. “And this. You’re a feast of pleasures, dearling.”

  As he slipped one, then two fingers inside her, she gasped. “And we both know you like feasting.”

  “I definitely enjoy feasting on you.” He leaned over her shoulder to nip her ear. “One day, my sweet, I’m going to bend you over and take you from behind so I can view that lovely bottom of yours the entire time I plunge into your sweet quim.”

  She got wetter at the words, which told him that he wasn’t alone in finding the idea exciting. “No time . . . like the present.”

  That made his cock leap. “Don’t tempt me. I promised you a more conventional bedding,” he reminded her. “But I confess I can hardly breathe for wanting to take you that way.”

  “Then do it,” she said.

  That was all the encouragement he needed to walk her over to the dressing table and bend her over it, where she braced herself against the top with her hands. Then he drew back to survey how lovely she looked: her lush behind so perfectly displayed for him, her fine back so nicely arched, and her wild hair spilling over her shoulders onto the dressing table.

  “Spread your legs, dearling,” he said hoarsely, and she did. Now he could see the furrow between her thighs that he wished to plunder thoroughly. “God, you’re so damned beautiful.”

  He glanced up to meet her eyes in the mirror, that steady blue that always arrowed right to his chest. The blush was fading from her cheeks, replaced by an expression of rampant curiosity.

  How had he been so fortunate as to find a wife who seemed as interested in bed sport as he?

  “You make me randy as hell.” Sliding his hand between her legs, he caressed the pouting nether lips drenched with her arousal. “And I’m not the only one enjoying this, am I?”

  “No.” A coy smile crossed her face. Then she echoed his words, “As perhaps you can tell.”

  His cock certainly could, for it got hard enough to pound nails. “I begin to think you and I are more evenly matched than I originally believed, brat.”

  He needed to be inside her, damn it. But he was determined that she find pleasure in this, too. So he concentrated on caressing her sweet spot until he had her panting and shimmying against his hand. At the same time he bent over to reach beneath her so he could rub one of her breasts while he continued to fondle her quim from behind.

  When her eyes slid shut and she moaned, a heady satisfaction coursed through him. She was so damned responsive. It made him want her even more.

  Unable to bear the intensity of his arousal any longer, he eased himself inside her. She made an odd sound, a cross between a gasp and a moan.

  “Are you all right?” he rasped.

  Because God knew he wasn’t. He was already half-mad for his wife, who would take over his life if he allowed her the chance.

  “No,” she replied. “I’m out of my mind with wanting you.”

  Her answer spiked his need higher. “Then you shall have me. Hold on, my sweet. This may be a rough ride.”

  Then he was plunging into her, drinking up her soft cries and moans, losing himself in the hot, wet silk of her that milked his cock with every thrust. All the while he fingered her, determined not to lose control of his own arousal before she came.

  “Warren . . .” She gripped his forearm. “Oh . . . yes, my darling. Yes, yes . . . my husband!”

  The possessive words sent him beyond control. With one last hard thrust, he spilled his seed and collapsed atop her. Half a moment later she convulsed around him and cried out her own release.

  As he stood there inside her, with his body plastered against her sweet bottom, it dawned on him that until tonight he’d never lost control with a woman. Never been so obsessed with a woman that even after bedding her, he couldn’t keep his hands off her.

  Even now, as his cock softened, he couldn’t get enough of her. He wanted to kiss every inch of her sweetly bowed back, to wrap himself in her hair . . . to make her come again in as many ways as possible.

  Fighting the panic that such an impulse made him feel, he slipped out of her, then pulled her around into his arms so he could crush her to his chest and forget that he’d just taken her like a whore. His wife. Whom he wanted again.

  And again and again and—

  She kissed his cheek, and he groaned.

  God, what if he disappointed her? Because in the long run, he was bound to, the way he’d disappointed his mother, his father, his tutors, and every woman who’d come before Delia.

  Don’t be a sniveling coward, boy. Lords aren’t afraid of the dark. Buck up and be a man.

  He shivered at the thought of such words—or something like them—coming from his wife.

  That mustn’t happen. So he must take care to set the terms of this marriage very clearly. And do his damned best to abide by them. Better to give her a little bit of disappointment now than let her see the rank fear that lay at the center of his soul.

  Delia felt him withdraw from her as palpably as she’d felt him inside her. And not just physically. As he pulled away, she saw a mask come down over his face.

  She couldn’t muster a mask if her life depended on it. She couldn’t stop trembling, couldn’t stop the repeated clenching of her “quim,” as he’d called it. It had just been so . . . astonishing. She’d watched him in the mirror taking her, thrilling to the rapt expression on his face. Feeling the power of him behind her, inside her . . . conquering her.

  Conquering her? No man did that. This had just been conjugal relations.

  She stifled her snort. Right. The most amazing conjugal relations she could ever have imagined. With her husband, of all things.

  Hers. He was hers! And she would hold on to what was hers for dear life, no matter what it took.

  Even if he was staring at her now as if he regretted what they’d done. “I’d meant to have our wedding night go differently,” he said, raking his hand through his hair. “To linger over you and make soft, sweet love to you, like a husband should.”

  “I liked it,” she said gently, not willing to let him spoil things when she was still quivering from their joint pleasure. “I don’t have any clue what a husband should do, but I loved knowing that I could make you . . . insane with desire.”

  His gaze shot to her, careful, diffident. “Of course you did. You’ve been making me insane in every other way for
the past week—I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t continue the entertaining practice.”

  “Me?” she said with a lift of one brow. “You’re the one who’s been making me insane from the beginning by keeping me from my purpose. Who kept showing up at Dickson’s to torment me with fear that you’d expose me.”

  He bent close. “Let me tell you a little secret. I never had any intention of exposing you.”

  She’d already guessed as much, though she’d never let on. “You could have said something.”

  He glanced away, his mask in place once more. “That would have taken all the fun out of it.”

  “Is that all it was for you? Entertainment?” She poked a finger at his naked and quite impressive chest. “Well, that came back to slap you in the face, didn’t it, Lord High-and-Mighty? I daresay you wouldn’t have been so cavalier if you’d known you would end up forced into marrying me.”

  Having made her point, she tried to slip from between him and the dresser, but he caught her and kept her prisoner with his hands braced on either side of her.

  “Let’s settle something once and for all, my sweet.” His dark eyes bored into her. “I was not forced into marriage. After your aunt and I left for London, she gave me the choice—attempt to squelch the rumors, or marry you. I chose the latter. Because I knew it would be best for both of us.”

  That stunned her. Aunt Agatha had offered him an escape, and he hadn’t taken it? Truly?

  Just as that began to soften her, the full impact of his words hit her. “Funny how you ‘knew’ what would be best for me, without consulting me.”

  “Your aunt didn’t give me the choice of consulting you.” He caught her chin in his hand. “Tell the truth—do you regret the marriage?”

  She stared into his eyes. “No.” Not yet, anyway.

  Satisfaction lit his features before he masked it. “Then what’s done is done.” His gaze hardened on her. “So don’t ever let me hear you say again that I had no choice. You may feel as if you had none, but I damned well had a choice. And I chose you.”

  Those firm words melted some of her worry about the future. Until he added, as he released her, “This may not be a love match, but it’s a good one all the same.”

  And that was that. For him, this was nothing more than a wise union between two respectable people who needed to be married.

  As he turned away, she fought to hide the bleeding of her heart. He was only speaking a truth she would have said herself a day or so ago. But now that she’d fallen in love with him . . .

  She stifled a groan. She couldn’t have been so foolish as to fall in love with him, could she?

  But the truth hit her with staggering force. Lord. She had.

  Curse him to hell. He made her feel things, want things . . .

  It wasn’t fair! Especially since his matter-of-fact statement about this being no love match made it clear he didn’t feel the same.

  So she must keep her secret safe. The only thing worse than falling in love with a man who didn’t love you was letting him see you wear your heart on your sleeve. That made a woman look pathetic.

  As if his words had reminded him, too, that theirs was nothing more than a convenient arrangement, his mood grew even more distant. He picked up his clothes and began to dress. “I suppose it’s time I let you get some sleep.”

  The coolly spoken words sliced deeply into her, but she forced herself to ignore it. “That would be lovely, thank you,” she managed to say. “But you need sleep, too.” Stay with me. Be with me. It’s our wedding night! “You didn’t get much more rest than I did last night.”

  “Ah, but I’m used to that.” Without meeting her gaze, he gestured to a chest of drawers. “You’ll find your nightclothes in there, I believe.”

  She choked down the howling of her heart and concentrated on searching the chest for her nightdress and wrapper.

  As she donned them, he pulled his shirt on, then gathered up the rest of his clothes and headed for the door of the adjoining bedchamber.

  All her pride fled. “Warren!” she called as he reached it. “Won’t you stay with me a while longer?”

  A hint of regret crossed his face before he shuttered it. “I don’t think that’s wise. You need sleep, and I . . . have business matters to attend to. It’s not as late as it probably seems to you.”

  “Oh. Of course.” It was probably only about eight or so. “I didn’t think of that.”

  With a nod, he opened the door, and a ball of white fur flashed into the room and headed right for her.

  “Flossie!” she cried, picking up the cat, who instantly began to purr.

  “I forgot. They put her in my bedchamber. I meant to surprise you with her.”

  “And you did.”

  She nuzzled her darling pet, fighting not to let him see her tears. Not only had he kept his promise, but he’d had Flossie brought here for her arrival, which meant he cared a little, didn’t it?

  Or perhaps it just meant he was every bit the gentleman he kept insisting he was. Either way, it was lovely. “I’m so glad you’re here, dearest,” she murmured to Flossie. “I missed you so much!”

  “You see?” he said softly. “You don’t need me. You have her.”

  She glanced up just in time to see what looked like yearning on his face. But it flashed past so quickly that she must have mistaken it.

  Clutching Flossie to her breast, she stared at her husband. “You’ll come back later, right?” Lord, she sounded pathetic.

  But she couldn’t help it. It was one thing for him to leave her bed once she had fallen off to sleep, but to have him share such an incredibly erotic experience with her and do such a kind thing for her, then go off as if he was done with her . . .

  He flinched, apparently realizing how she was taking his abandoning her on their wedding night. Then he turned away. “We’ll see,” he said, in that awful, noncommittal voice of his. He gestured to the bed. “Get some rest. I’ll see you at breakfast, if not before.”

  At breakfast. Surely he couldn’t mean that. Yet he went through into his bedchamber and closed the door as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Despair seized her. She would never have guessed he would be so formal in his relations with her. Did he truly mean never to stay with her at night? To depart as soon as he’d bedded her?

  The thought of that was rather lowering, especially after their bedding had been so exciting.

  “I don’t understand him,” she told Flossie as she headed for the washbasin. “One moment, I think he’s enamored of me, and the next I fear he’s only tolerating this marriage.”

  Flossie licked her face. At least the puss understood Delia’s worries.

  Sadly, neither of them could do a thing about it. So after Delia performed her ablutions, she went to bed. What other choice did she have?

  As she pulled back the coverlet and lay down, his earlier words drifted into her mind. This was my mother’s room before she embraced the Methodist faith and began sleeping in a smaller, more sober one.

  His mother had converted. And he had obviously rebelled against his mother’s beliefs, or he wouldn’t be spending his evenings in the stews.

  What had happened between him and his mother to make him go so entirely in the opposite direction?

  Normally a question like that would have kept her awake, but she was so very tired, especially after her enthusiastic lovemaking with Warren. So only moments after she slid between the covers, she fell asleep with Flossie in her arms.

  When next she woke, she was briefly disoriented, not sure where she was. A ticking clock entered her consciousness and she sought it out by the light of the fire still burning in the hearth.

  Three a.m.

  That made sense, considering how early she’d retired. Leaving the bed, she headed for Warren’s bedchamber, but a knock at the door got no response. The handle was unlocked, and when she opened the door she was surprised to find the bedchamber empty.

  Utterly em
pty. The bed hadn’t even been slept in.

  That meant he was out wandering, as he’d put it. But where? In his study? Somewhere outside the town house? In the stews?

  He’d promised not to do that, yet the possibility nagged at her. Putting on her wrapper, she headed downstairs in hopes that she might encounter him. Instead, she startled the night footman awake.

  “Milady!” He jumped to his feet and rubbed a hand over his features. “I . . . didn’t expect . . . that is, his lordship didn’t expect—”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  She glanced about the foyer and down the hallway, neither of which she’d seen earlier. Even from here, there appeared to be a great many rooms; this must be quite a spacious town house. “I’m looking for my husband.”

  The footman turned crimson. “Of course. Well . . . that is . . . his lordship isn’t at home just now.”

  She swallowed the jealous retort that came instantly to her lips. “Do you know where he is?”

  “I don’t . . . actually. I came on duty after he’d already left.”

  Her throat tightened. “I see.”

  With a look of pity, he added, “But I daresay he’s gone to his club. St. George’s. You know. In Piccadilly.”

  She nodded absently. “I daresay he has.”

  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t warned her that he might spend his evenings at his club. But . . . on his wedding night? After bedding his bride?

  With her heart sinking, she slowly ascended the stairs and headed back to her bedchamber. Hers. Not theirs.

  Did he mean this to be one of those fashionable marriages after all?

  She clenched her fists. To hell with it if he did, because he wouldn’t get one from her. A fashionable marriage required two people, and she refused to have any part of that. But chiding him over it wouldn’t accomplish much. He didn’t seem to take well to being told how he should behave.

  Instead, she would show him that she could be more than just a bed partner—that she could be a good wife to him, an enjoyable companion, and yes, even a friend who could endure his nightmares and whatever else plagued him.