One Night in London

by Caroline Linden

  “You want me to scream?” he whispered against her mouth. “As I intend to make you scream?”

  “Yes,” she moaned. She clasped his backside in both hands and squeezed. He resisted her urging. He wanted to make her scream, to see her come apart in his hands. She didn’t know it, but he had already come apart in hers. He just wasn’t the sort to shout about it. He also wasn’t the sort to want to make a woman scream, even in the grip of passion, but somehow he wanted to see Francesca so enraptured she screamed out her pleasure to the heavens.

  “Then scream for me.” He devoured her face and throat with open-mouthed kisses, drunk with the taste of her. He pushed his fingers in and out of the slick tight channel of her body. His thumb circled and pressed the sensitive nub hidden in her wet nether curls until she was shaking.

  “Oh God, wait,” she begged, twisting her head away. She clutched at his shoulders. “That’s too . . . Stop—stop . . .”

  “Stop?” Edward took his hand away. Her eyes flew open, dilated with passion and shock, and he thrust deep and hard inside her. She writhed under him, her hips meeting his on each pounding stroke, until he felt her body begin to clamp around his. His ballocks drew up with impending climax, so deliciously tight it hurt. He clenched his teeth, wanting to drive her over the edge before giving in to his own release, but she was already there. She tossed her head from side to side and scored his chest with her fingernails. He felt the ripples of her orgasm pulling his out of him as she gave a high, keening cry. He plunged deep inside her one last time, and seized her in his arms as his release broke and rushed through him like a blazing inferno.

  “You cried out,” she said weakly as he rolled to one side, taking her with him, their bodies still intimately connected.

  “Did I?” It was a struggle to form the words. Edward felt a satisfaction like he had never felt before, soft and heavy and peaceful. It was more than just the lovemaking, although that was certainly part of the reason he felt so blissful. Francesca was right about him—he was too dull and colorless and quiet and restrained. Until she came along, he had never realized how much so, and he certainly never felt any urge to change. But with her, he felt like a different man, an unsettling and oddly liberating feeling. All he really knew was that he had never in all his life felt so happy that he could have shouted it to the sky.

  “You did,” she murmured, curling against him. “It was glorious to hear.” Her gleaming hair, now wildly disheveled, tickled his chest as she tucked her head under his chin. His entire body felt exposed and sensitive, as if he’d shed a tough outer skin. Perhaps it was the rigid restraint he had cultivated his entire life, the shield he’d worn against the slings and arrows of life. Perhaps it was his good judgment deserting him for good. Whatever it was, he felt damned good without it.

  His lips curved into a grin as he pressed one last kiss on her forehead. “Sleep,” he whispered. “You can wring another cry from me tomorrow.”

  Her shoulders shook gently with laughter, and then she was quiet. Edward gathered her close, settling them both more comfortably before falling with her into Morpheus’s embrace.

  Chapter 19

  Francesca woke slowly, drifting out of the deepest sleep she could recall in months. Without opening her eyes she stretched and rolled over. She felt comfortably easy in body, clear and refreshed in mind. A night of making love could do that to a woman.

  She smiled as remembered sensation flooded through her. Edward was still here, she knew, sensing his presence even before she saw him. “Good morning,” she mumbled.

  “The finest morning of my life,” he said, sounding as relaxed as she felt. She pried open her eyes and gazed up at him. He was sitting in a chair pulled up beside her bed, his elbows propped on his knees. He wore no cravat and his jacket was unbuttoned, but otherwise he was fully dressed. “You’re beautiful in your sleep,” he added with a faint smile.

  Francesca blinked in surprise. “How long have you been watching me sleep?”

  “Since the sun came up.”

  It was barely light in the room now. She gave a hesitant laugh. “You’re an early riser.”

  “Yes,” he acknowledged. In the soft dawn light his eyes were dark smoky gray. “Always have been.”

  “Hmm.” She stretched again, and tried to smother a yawn. “I much prefer to lie abed in the mornings.”

  “Indeed.” His gaze drifted down the length of her body as she arched her back. The covers had slid to her waist, and Francesca made no effort to pull them up. She liked the way her skin tingled under his scrutiny, and rather boldly hoped it might lead to a more physical study. Edward made love with a focused thoroughness that made up in intensity whatever it might lack in spontaneity—and she was happy to spark any spontaneity needed. “I was somewhat tempted to do the same myself, this morning,” he said softly.

  She gave him her most seductive smile, in spite of her sinking heart. “Then why are you already dressed?” She knew the answer, of course; he was ready to leave, not wanting anyone to see him emerging from her house in the first hours of the new day. It was a time-honored thing for a man to slip out the door like a thief in the night. She was probably fortunate he had stayed until morning.

  He met her eyes. “In case you wished me to leave.”

  She never wanted him to leave. Francesca’s mouth went dry as that thought flashed through her mind. “Why would I wish that?” She made herself laugh, making light of the moment. “I hardly thought my actions were unwelcoming thus far.”

  He didn’t smile. “Because you are a widow. Because you might wish to avoid any unpleasantness from your neighbors and from the gossips. Because you might want time to yourself, to think about . . .” He paused. “ . . . how things should proceed . . .” He cleared his throat. “ . . . between us.”

  Her lips parted in amazement. The unflappable Edward de Lacey was at a loss, picking over his words. And those words implied he wasn’t ready to leave of his own wish, but out of respect for hers. She pushed herself up against the pillows and tucked the covers under her arms. “That is very considerate.”

  “If I go now, through the kitchen, no one but the coal man would see me.” He fixed a steady look on her. “I will not be affronted if you ask me to go.”

  “To sneak out, you mean.” Francesca twisted a fold of the sheet around her finger. She wished he wouldn’t be so gentlemanly, even as her heart fluttered at his deference and solicitude for her wishes. She hadn’t prepared herself for this when she invited him in last night, but she realized that had been her mistake. She knew who Edward was and how his mind worked. He was hardly the sort of man to flaunt their affair, especially not after being subjected to vicious gossip himself.

  But she still felt there was room between flaunting and hiding, and that was the path she meant to take. “I won’t ask you to leave—unless you wish to keep it secret,” she added quickly. “I suppose you did not intend for this to happen last night, and if you prefer that no one know—”

  “Francesca,” he interrupted her, “I have nothing to hide. I’m not sorry for one moment of last night—except, perhaps, that it was over in far too few hours.”

  Her lips curved in irrepressible happiness. “Neither am I.” She leaned toward him without conscious thought. Edward closed the gap and took her face in his hands to kiss her, deeply and sweetly. Joy blossomed inside her, just to be with him and see this new side of him.

  “But I don’t want to subject you to any unpleasantness,” he said, still running his fingers through her bedraggled hair. “If you would like to make our association known to your acquaintances, before it becomes generally recognized . . .”

  He wanted to know if she wished to tell Alconbury first. Like a lightning bolt, Francesca realized it. After the way Lady Louisa had treated him, he didn’t want Alconbury, her good friend and rumored suitor, to suffer the same rude shock, nor her to be called callous or capricious. Her heart gave a little throb at his thoughtfulness, even for a man he might have vie
wed as a rival. “I’ll tell Alconbury today,” she whispered. “I never led him to believe he and I would ever be lovers or more, but he deserves to know about . . . this . . . from me.”

  “He does.” Edward smiled wryly. “Do be gentle, when you break his heart.”

  She laughed, although a part of her felt a rush of sadness. This would change her relationship with Alconbury. He had been so good to her, so good for her. She couldn’t imagine life without him dropping by for breakfast, escorting her to the theater, listening to all her woes and offering his shoulder when she needed one, making her laugh at the littlest thing. But she sensed he wouldn’t do any of that once he knew Edward was in her bed at nights. She treasured Alconbury’s friendship, and she recoiled from the thought of causing him pain.

  “Then I take it there’s no need for me to slink through the kitchen now?” He had wound her hair around his fingers and was pulling her inexorably toward him.

  “No, although if you want to go, I could not stop you.” She traced his lips with one finger. “I still can’t decide why you got dressed.”

  Edward laughed quietly as he moved from his chair to the bed. “That can be soon remedied. Or . . .” He stripped away the duvet and swept her naked body with an openly admiring, lustful gaze. “Perhaps not. We managed quite well enough with clothing last night.”

  “And without,” she reminded him.

  He clasped her hands in his and straightened his arms, stretching her out flat on the bed as he loomed over her. “Variety, my dear,” he whispered as he lowered his head to her breast. “And patience.”

  Francesca quivered as his tongue flicked over her nipple. Heat rushed through her even as her skin puckered into gooseflesh. He alternately licked and blew light puffs of air across her nipples, first one then the other, until she was twisting in his grip and begging him to go on. “More,” she gasped. Her breasts ached from his teasing.

  “Like fresh raspberries,” he muttered. “Plump and pink and ripe.” He took one nipple between his teeth and bit down lightly. Francesca gave a strangled little scream, and then moaned as he finally sucked it into his mouth.

  Edward lifted his head after a few minutes and smiled darkly at her. “You like that.”

  “Yes,” she choked. “Oh, yes. More, please . . .”

  “More?” He dipped his head to the other breast. “God, you’re sweet . . .”

  She whimpered and nodded, even though her whole body had convulsed as he suckled again with long, steady pulls and quick little nips of his teeth. She couldn’t escape; he held her in place for his torment, even though escape was the last thing on her mind. She arched her back, pressing up into his hot, sinful mouth as he tasted her. When her breasts were aching with sensation, he began working his way down, kissing the ridges of her ribs and licking the underside of her breasts, his breath hot against her skin. Slowly his fingers untangled from hers until his palms slid down the length of her arms and she was free . . . to plunge her fingers through his hair as he kissed lower and lower down her abdomen.

  Then he kissed the inside of her thigh and rose from the bed. “Stay there,” he commanded. Francesca raised her head and frowned, then blushed as she watched him walk across the room to the washbasin and wet the towel. Blessed saints. She hadn’t washed last night. She remembered him cuddling her against his chest, his arms around her, and then the next thing she knew it was morning. What a way to start their first day as lovers . . .

  Edward peeled off his jacket and dropped it on top of her discarded red gown, still lying across the chaise. “Someday I’ll have you in the large copper bathtub at Lastings. It’s nearly large enough to swim in.”

  “What is Lastings?”

  He crawled back across the bed to her. “My family’s estate in Sussex. It should be mine someday.” He held the towel over her belly and squeezed. Water dribbled onto her skin, and Francesca sucked in her breath.

  “That’s cold,” she gasped.

  “Is it?” Lazily, he trailed the wet towel over her skin. She squirmed at first as the cold drops ran down her hips and between her legs, until Edward dipped his head and began kissing again, his mouth a heated contrast to the water. By the time he swirled the towel down over the curls between her thighs, she was shaking with renewed lust, incoherently urging him on. He looked up long enough to flash her a smile that promised unspeakable things before he sealed his mouth over that delicate nub that radiated pleasure through her whole body.

  She might have screamed. She might also have fainted; it was hard to tell. The blood pounded so hard in her ears, she couldn’t hear anything else. He was—Oh, Mother of God—and his tongue—now his fingers—

  He drew the climax from her as if he had all the time in the world. Francesca fleetingly wondered how she had been so wrong about him; he was no more a restrained and dull gentleman than she was a nun. He was driving her wild, and he was still fully dressed. The inequity of it surfaced in her mind and ballooned to paramount importance. She had started this affair, and she would not relinquish . . . Good Lord, how did he know to do that? Her body drew up tighter, ready to burst into flames, and she gulped in a deep breath to stave it off. She was going to retain some element of control . . . even if it killed her . . .

  With enormous effort she dug her elbows into the mattress and wriggled away from his beautifully wicked tongue. “Take off your clothes,” she demanded in a ragged tone.

  “No.” He cupped one hand under her knee and tugged. “I want to taste you.”

  “I want to taste you,” she threw back at him. Edward paused, his eyes flying to hers. She scooted farther back, sitting up as she did. “Let me show you.”

  Unresisting, he let her pull him to his knees. Francesca unbuttoned the fall of his trousers and took him in her hands. She circled her fingers around his cock and slid up and down the length. She looked up to see him looking down at her, raw hunger burning in his face. “Close your eyes,” she whispered. He swallowed hard, but obeyed.

  Francesca whisked the discarded towel around his erection, paying him back for the cold water. Edward cursed and lurched backward, but froze as she tossed the wet towel aside and replaced it with her mouth, taking him right into the back of her throat on one stroke. His hands fisted in her hair as she drew back, then plunged forward again.

  He stopped her after a few minutes. “I always knew your mouth was made for sin,” he said, breathing heavily. “But I want to feel you . . .” He pushed her onto her back, and fitted himself against her opening. “Come for me, darling,” he said, thrusting hard inside her. “Now.”

  She melted. The cloth of his trousers rasped against her bare legs as his weight bore down on her. She gripped his waistcoat in both hands as the buttons scraped across her skin, her belly, her breasts. Their bodies moved together, against each other, inside each other. And when she came, a rich sweet rapture, he was the one who shouted.

  He washed her again, later, when the sun had come up and the room was bright with morning. Francesca was used to dressing herself in the morning, but found it was a different experience with a man in the room. Cecil had been an early riser as well but was usually already gone riding in the morning by the time she awoke. He certainly never sat and watched her choose her dress, or helped her into it. And ever since, she had been alone in the mornings.

  “It ties on the side,” she tried to explain. Edward was examining her simple morning dress and undergarments with his usual intense interest, which was making it difficult to get the dress on. “This piece just wraps around and ties there.”

  “Really,” he murmured. His hand was under the dress as if examining the construction but in reality exploring the way her body felt in clothing. His fingertips ran along the narrow band of lace edging the top of her stays, right along the swells of her breasts. “So simple. So tempting.”

  “Surely you’ve taken off a woman’s dress before.” She laughed, even though she didn’t want to think of him undressing Lady Louisa or any other woman.
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br />   “Not as many as you might think. My brother Charlie was the one who could get under a girl’s skirts before Gerard and I even knew what a petticoat was.” He spoke absently, his attention still absorbed in her undergarments. He circled behind her, still stroking his hands over the lines of her stays, her half-fastened dress hanging loosely from her shoulders. It threatened to slide off altogether as he ran his palms up her belly to cup her breasts, his thumbs rasping over the sensitive flesh exposed just above the garment. Francesca’s breath hitched in her chest as she watched his every action in the mirror before her. He glanced up, and she just caught the edge of his wicked smile as he lowered his mouth to her neck.

  “Your brother sounds like a terrible scoundrel,” she said breathlessly. “Is he?”

  “Yes.” He pulled her backward, into him, until her bottom was against his hips. For a man who had made love to her five times in the last twelve hours, he seemed remarkably vigorous.

  “Are you close with your brothers?” She wavered on her feet. It would be so easy to lean against him, give one little shrug of her shoulders and let the dress fall . . . He was playing havoc with her intention to keep her wits about her. She wanted to know more about him, but . . . oh dear . . . his fingers were so talented . . .

  He paused. “Yes,” he said in a cooler voice.

  Francesca sensed she was trespassing, but she wanted to know. Edward had heard all about her family, from Giuliana’s tangled life to Cecil’s shocking death. “Does that mean not really?”

  “No.” His hands had stilled now. “We are close . . . comparatively speaking.”

  “Compared to what?” she persisted. “I never knew my sister until she was grown, so I don’t know how it usually is with siblings.”

  His hands fell away from her breasts and he stepped away. “Neither do I.” She heard a flicker of grimness in his tone, but she couldn’t see his face in the mirror anymore.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m sure it’s vastly different, from family to family.”