With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

“Unless”—he reached out, brushing his fingers over the suddenly frantic pulse at her throat, and found the chain that held the miniature—“you find yourself unwilling to betray the man you still love?”

  The words were said without rancor, jealousy, or anger. It was simply an honest question, with none of the emotion she knew he must feel, attached.

  And Juliet felt terrible. In that moment she realized he had not been sleeping in the coach when she’d examined the miniature with such detached and puzzled longing. He had seen her take it out, caress it with her thumb, and talk softly to the man whose image it held. Shame and mortification blazed through her.

  “You saw,” she said, red-faced with guilt.

  “I saw. But I do not condemn. I told you I would give you all the time you need, Juliet. I shall never, ever push you.”

  “I know you won’t, but Gareth, although I like you, am very, very fond of you, I … I may never be able to love any man the way I loved Charles, and that is unfair to you.”

  “Juliet.” He smiled with gentle tolerance, his hand caressing the side of her face. “My dearest Juliet. I knew when I asked you to marry me that you still loved him. I knew where your heart lay, where your thoughts lingered. I have always known, and I do not suffer any delusions that you may ever come to think of me in the same way that you did Charles. I accept that. Do you not see?”

  “Oh, Gareth.” She shook her head, guilt twisting her heart. “What about you? What about how you feel about me?”

  “My dear,” he said gently, “I should think that that is painfully obvious.”

  She gulped and looked away, unable to face the blatant love in his eyes. How guilty she felt at her inability to admit as much to him. And yet, how she wanted him, ached for him, lusted after him, like a budding rose straining toward a spring sun. How could she feel so torn?

  And as she stood there in that small, spartan room with this man who had so selflessly married her despite the fact that she might never love him as strongly as she had his brother, her choices were suddenly clear: she could retreat back into her prison of sadness, or make a thrilling leap out into the liberation she had tasted earlier—a liberation that could open the doors to a loving, shining future for both herself and Charlotte.

  She seized what courage still fired her and made her decision.

  “Make me feel, then, Gareth.” She pressed close to him, her eyes almost pleading. “Open my heart again, so we can have something of a life together.”

  He lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against each knuckle, studying the myriad of pain and hope and confusion that moved across her face.

  “Are you certain that is what you want, Juliet?”

  “How can I know if it’s what I want unless I muster the courage to find out? I hurt so badly inside, Gareth. I hurt because on the one hand I still feel loyal to Charles—but on the other, I find myself having wifely thoughts about you. Not him, you.” Her eyes pleaded for understanding and forgiveness. “Can you make me forget him, Gareth? Can you?”

  “I honestly don’t know.” And then he smiled, slowly. “But I can promise you this; I shall enjoy trying.”

  She nodded and shut her eyes, trembling with sudden anticipation. Measuring each long, loud breath that went into, and back out of, her lungs. And now, his tongue was probing each pad of flesh at the base of her fingers, his breath whispering over the back of her hand, and Juliet, her heart pounding furiously, was as stiff as a sapling after an ice storm.

  “Juliet?”

  “Yes?”

  “I am trying,” he murmured playfully.

  She opened her eyes. He was silently laughing at her, his eyes twinkling. And in that moment, Juliet’s trepidation faded because it was awfully hard to take yourself seriously when someone you trusted, someone you knew cared about you, probably even loved you, was teasing you so.

  “Oh, Gareth!” she said with a little laugh.

  “Oh, Gareth!” he mimicked, grinning. And then, gazing down at her, he raised her hand to his face and painted his cheek with her fingers. “Touch me, Juliet.”

  Shyly, she pulled free of his grasp and let her hand move over his face. His cheek was slightly rough beneath her fingers, his skin warm against her own. Everything inside her began to heat up, and she suddenly found it hard to breathe. She ran her hand down the side of his neck and then out over his shoulder, feeling the shape of his body beneath his clothes: the bulges of his upper arm and then the solid breadth of his chest, the bumps that were each rib, the flat, taut belly beneath the loose, white shirt. She shut her eyes, trembling, knowing that she had to be the initiator if only to prove to herself that she was not afraid of letting go of the past, if only to prove to herself that she was indeed capable of loving another man. Her hand dipped, lower. He tensed and caught his breath. And now her fingers were hesitating at the waistband of his breeches as she fought both flight and desire. And then, bashfully, Juliet touched him through the cloth.

  He sucked in his breath and went rigid.

  And Juliet bent her head against his chest and looked down at where her hand was.

  “Is this all right?” she said. What a foolish thing to say to one’s husband.

  “I am enjoying it.”

  “A lot?”

  “Mmmm. Yes.”

  Her hand shaking, she ran her fingers over him once again. He was hard beneath her touch, and she could feel every throbbing inch of him through the flimsy barrier of his breeches. Heat suffused her blood, her face, broke out all over her skin. She had forgotten how very large a man actually was, and the knowledge both excited and emboldened her. She wanted more.

  Much more.

  She wanted him inside her. Not Charles, not a fantasy that Gareth was Charles, but Gareth himself.

  Her husband.

  As lightly as a butterfly, she ran her fingernails over the warm, cloth-covered bulge and looked up at him. He gave her a satisfied smile, inspiring her confidence. She bore down harder upon him. His breathing changed and his eyes drifted shut, almost on a grimace. He took a step backward, leaning against the wall behind him. “Oh oh, Juliet.”

  Charlotte was still in the nearby chair.

  “Put the baby over there on the sofa,” he said in a strained voice as she continued to stroke him. “Put her where she won’t be able to see us.”

  “She’s asleep, Gareth.”

  “Regardless I don’t want her to wake up and see I—”

  And now she was laughing at him, amused by his modesty. She left him only long enough to do as he asked, then returned, picking up where she’d left off.

  “That’s better,” he breathed, his eyes half-closed, his hand running up and down her arm, and the back of his head resting against the wall as she touched and explored and caressed him through his breeches. He had not so much as even kissed her, but already he was making her forget, simply by allowing himself to be seduced by her femininity—a femininity that held him hostage in her hand and brought a singing excitement to Juliet’s slowly awakening heart. She had forgotten how wonderful it felt to seduce a man. She had forgotten this hot, blood-to-the-cheeks sensation of growing arousal. She felt strange and shaky and not herself, her skin afire where her clothes lay against it. A tendril of hair fell from its pins to cling damply to her neck. And now she could not help herself. Could not stop herself from running her hand all over and around him, cupping the twin sacs that lay between his legs, palming the swollen, straining bulge that pushed to break free of the breeches.

  She sank to her knees and kissed him through the warm fabric.

  “By God!” he gasped, nearly collapsing against the wall behind him. His hands were on her head, stroking her crown, pulling the other pins free until her silken tresses tumbled down her neck, her nape, her back. She rubbed her cheek against him. She shaped the hard contour of his thighs and buttocks with her hands and kissed and nibbled the length of him through his breeches, until he was groaning with pleasure. Then, her fingers shaking, Julie
t began to work on the flap of his breeches, pushing the buttons through their holes one by one until the fabric fell loose and he sprang out against her cheek, huge and hot and engorged with desire. She took him in her hands, rubbed the warm length of him against first one cheek, then the other, and began planting gentle kisses up and down his rigidity.

  “Juliet oh, God! I I am sorry I don’t know if this is … is a good idea I mean, I want to make it last.”

  She parted her lips and touched him lightly with her tongue.

  “Oh! Juliet, please!”

  But as she took the swollen head into her mouth, he gasped, braced himself against the wall and began making helpless sounds of defeat. His hand clenched a thick swatch of her hair with a despair that almost pained her as she licked and sucked and pulled at him. He stood it for only so long, before finally hooking his hand around her damp neck and urging her back to her feet. She slid her hands up beneath his shirt as she rose, thrilling to the hard-muscled feel of his torso, the warmth of his skin, the splendor of his physique. His mouth, fierce with passion, crashed down on hers, his tongue thrusting between her teeth. And now he was pushing her steadily backward, his breath pulsing against her cheek as he kissed her, her fingers still stroking the hard, hard muscles of his inner thighs, the rigid tumescence between his legs.

  “Juliet by God, Juliet, you are driving me beyond wild.”

  Yes, she had done the right thing. She would never regret this, not ever, not in a million years. Her lips clung to his, her hips grinding helplessly against his swollen shaft. Her hand, closed around him, was crushed between their bodies as he curved an arm around her waist and bent her nearly double over it, still kissing her, still driving his tongue against hers. He broke the kiss, breathing hard, and she gasped as his lips grazed her exposed throat, his fingers smoothing the silken skin of her neck, her chest, and finally dipping beneath the lace-edged neckline of her chemise.

  “Oh, Gareth.”

  His hand was big and hot and wonderful against her skin. He pulled down both chemise and bodice, cupping one plump breast in his hand and popping it free. His thumb flicked over the nipple, and then his mouth was against the soft white swell, suckling her, nipping around her nipple, licking, kissing and loving her.

  Juliet gasped as she felt the first violent waves of climax building within her. She moaned and pushed herself against him, wantonly grinding her hips against his, even as her lips blindly sought his mouth, and her fingers slid up the back of his nape and into the soft waves of his hair.

  “Oh, Juliet.” He was cupping her breast, feverishly kissing it. “You are so beautiful so very, very beautiful.”

  She moaned, lost in the haze of mounting passion.

  “Say my name, dearest,” he whispered hoarsely, his mouth moving to the other breast even as he slid his hands beneath her skirts and began to pull them up, “say my name so that I can hear it on your lips and know that I am the one who fires you.”

  “Gareth!”

  He laughed.

  “Gareth, Gareth, Gareth!”

  This last came out as something of a breathless cry, for his hands had framed her outer thighs, clasping and lifting her straight off the ground. Caught by surprise, her feet dangling, she grabbed at his shoulders to brace herself as he held her, poised, just above his stabbing hardness. His fingers kneaded her bottom, cool air swept up between her open legs to kiss her most intimate flesh. She looped her arms around his neck and kissed his brow, his temples, even the loose hair that clung to them. Kissed his lashes, the bridge of his nose, his slightly roughened cheeks, his hard, demanding mouth, even as she opened her legs as wide as she could, instinctively seeking him, desperately wanting him. And then there was only the hot, probing head of his manhood, poised at her entrance.

  She tensed.

  He went still, refusing, as was his word, to coerce her into doing anything she didn’t wish to do.

  And then Juliet, aching for him, wanting all of him inside her with an intensity that threatened to blow her apart, dropped her lips against the top of his head and squirmed toward him.

  “Oh, Gareth—please!.”

  It was all the encouragement he needed. Holding her effortlessly, he slowly lowered her onto himself, his engorged shaft completely filling her, spreading her, touching upon wet, intimate walls and moving deeper and deeper inside of her. He was huge. He was wonderful. Her head fell back in mindless ecstasy. A last pin tumbled from her hair and tinkled to the floor, the heavy mass of mahogany hair rippling down her neck, down her back, swinging sensuously against his hands. Still clasping her at the hips, he lowered her until she fully sheathed him, her legs resting atop his hard thighs, her feet dangling; then, when she thought she might explode from the exquisite torture of it, he slowly lifted her up, sliding her up and off each long, delicious inch of himself.

  “Oh, Gareth!”

  Back down he slid her. Her head fell forward, her fingertips driving into the rock hardness of his shoulders as she fought to delay the brilliant shards of feeling that were already whirling her up and into their spinning vortex. Her breasts were level with his mouth now, and she cried out as he took first one, then the other, into that hot wetness, to be kissed and loved even as he began to slide her back up his rigid length once more.

  Back down.

  Back up.

  Faster now, their breathing growing hoarse and ragged and strained, his breeches falling farther and farther down his legs, and her skirts and hair lashing her back, her bottom, with each savage, mighty thrust.

  “Oh, Gareth Gareth!”

  He whirled her around and they fell across a table behind them. Hard wood behind, hard body above, her hair hanging over the edge and her husband pounding into her. His mouth hot and hungry on hers, his hands everywhere, the table squeaking and shaking and bumping with every thrust. Juliet felt climax rushing toward her as each savage thrust sent her body inching down the table’s smooth surface, cried out as her name burst from his lips and his seed burst from him, exploding into her and sending her spinning out over the edges of reality. She bucked and arched, climaxing not once but twice, three times, tears of joy and fulfillment running down her face as the fierce, rapturous waves rocked through her.

  Presently, their breathing returned to normal. They realized they were lying on a bare table, he atop her with his weight on his arms, she with her legs spread open and her feet dangling over the sides—and, spontaneously, both of them began to laugh at the total ridiculousness of their positions.

  For Juliet, everything inside of her still rang like air around a reverberating bell, free and joyful and alive. And everything inside of her knew that her carefree, loving, rakehell of a husband had finally banished the ghost that had claimed the last year of her life.

  “Gareth?”

  “Yes, dearest?”

  “I think that there may be hope for us after all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  From his brother’s friends, the Duke of Blackheath learned that Gareth had not been seen since parting company outside the church in which he’d been married. From Lavinia Bottomley, he learned that he owed several hundred pounds for damages incurred to her establishment when Gareth had felled London’s reigning boxing champion. And from the Plough Inn, which sold tickets to the stagecoach, he learned that a man answering Gareth’s description, along with a woman and child, had bought tickets and appeared to be heading vaguely north.

  So, then, Gareth had failed after all, and was slinking home, just as Lucien had feared.

  And, predicted.

  His face bitter with disappointment, Lucien turned Armageddon north, his faithful informer galloping beside him.

  Juliet woke to the sound of Charlotte whimpering for her breakfast. She opened her eyes, stretching lazily and blinking against the bright sunshine that streamed through the windows. A chaffinch was singing just outside, and a breeze pushed at the dingy old curtains that had been left in the dower house by the previous occupant. Yawning, sh
e reached for the man in whose arms she had just spent the night.

  The bed was empty. She turned over.

  “Gareth?”

  No answer. She sat up.

  “Gareth?” she called again.

  Nothing but Charlotte’s increasingly impatient whimpers.

  Rubbing her eyes, she swung her legs from the bed. A small shelf clock was on the mantle, and she gasped as she saw the time. It was almost half past nine! She had never slept so late before!

  But then, she thought, blushing, she had never spent the night in a man’s arms before, either. Her time with Charles had been brief and intense, consisting of stolen moments behind her stepfather’s woodshed or clandestine meetings with her dashing British officer dressed as a civilian farmer so as not to arouse suspicion. But she had never spent a night with him. Had never lain her head atop his chest and fallen asleep while he stroked her hair and told her stories about his childhood, never dreamed in the protective circle of his embrace, never laughed until the tears rolled helplessly down her cheeks—as she had done last night when Gareth had told her what he and the Den of Debauchery members had done to a certain statue back in Ravenscombe.

  She laughed just thinking about it. Purple parts, indeed!

  She was still giggling as she crawled out of bed and stretched. It was then that she saw the note propped on the table beside the bed:

  Dearest Juliet,

  I have gone off to begin my work for Snelling; I do not know what time I will be home, but it may be late. Please do not wait up for me if this should be the case.

  With love and kisses,

  Gareth

  P.S. I miss you already. More love and kisses.

  Happiness flooded her heart and she cradled the note to her breast for a long moment, filled with a strange longing, an inner peace. I miss you already.

  She touched the note to her lips. I miss you too.

  Charlotte’s cries were getting louder, more demanding. Carefully setting the note back on the table, Juliet crossed to the wooden cradle that stood near the hearth and lifted her daughter out. Gareth, bless him, had gone into Abingdon the night before and found the cradle, trading it for a fencing lesson that he promised to give the baker’s son later in the week.