“A muirnín,” he repeated, and returned his attentions to her hand.
The old language had never sounded so enchantingly beautiful. He had said it perfectly, which, being he was at a disadvantage--his musical, well-bred drawl did have its limits--was rather impressive.
He kissed her again, this time on the inside of her elbow, and a rush of warmth claimed her entire arm, ending in a delicate trickle of tingles up her neck.
“My beautiful girl,” he murmured, and Sara responded with a quiet, “Mo chailín álainn.”
He repeated it, his breath hot and ragged against her sensitive skin. Lazily his lips roamed up her arm, and with each covered inch, the last was left wanting.
“I feel,” he whispered, gently, slowly sliding the sleeve of her gown off her shoulder, “deeply …” He pressed a kiss there, and a new wave of warmth crawled up her neck, her ears, all the way to her scalp. “For you.”
Dear God. He was seducing her.
“Tá cion agam ort.” His lips began a slow, seductive trail from her shoulder to her neck.
“Deeply.” He kissed the delicate slope of her jaw.
She moaned. “Domhain.”
“Mmmm.”
She felt his tongue slip beneath the hollow of her ear, and her skin prickled, chilled. Then, turned almost unbearably hot. Every part of her burned for this, for him. She wanted nothing more than to crawl inside him, to revel in his warmth, to keep this incredible, high sensation forever.
He traced the curve of her ear with the tip of his tongue, and she caught her lip between her teeth; he nipped at her earlobe, and she moaned.
She didn’t know it could be this way. That love could feel so incredible. That her body could want what she couldn’t understand; what she couldn’t even begin to explain.
But she’d lost all thought, all care. And her body, it ached in places she’d never imagined could ache. Places that suddenly felt empty. Wanton. Desperate for fulfillment.
Heavens above, what was happening to her?
“Justin.” His name passed through her lips as a plea. “Please, please,” she begged, though what she was begging for, she hadn’t a clue. Her insides felt twined and twisted. And though she wore no stays, no chemise, nothing but her possibly-ruined dress, drawers and stockings, the clothes on her body seemed more annoying than necessary.
As if to soothe whatever this was inside her, this foreign, wanton spirit, he murmured her name, kissed her throat, murmured her name again. He hooked a finger inside her other sleeve, and slid it slowly, down, down over her shoulder, the gauzy muslin barely resting below the gentle swell of her breasts. His body stilled, mouth lingering so close to her neck his lips brushed her pulse when he spoke.
“You’re trembling.” Gently, he squeezed her shoulder. “No need to be afraid, sweetheart, I promise. Nothing will happen you do not permit. Just relax.”
I trust you. Her uneven breathing wouldn’t allow the words passage.
One of his arms came around her, almost possessively, and before she knew it, he had lowered her to the ground. His shoulders loomed over her, blocking almost all sunlight save for the few rays illuminating his thick lashes. He caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, his eyes following the movement all the way down her neck to the slope of her shoulder.
The slow, appreciative drift of his gaze, the reverence of his touch, made her feel curvy, desirable, so utterly ... female. So very different from him. Where he was all hard mass, muscle and sinew, she was soft and pliable. Her body melted against his as if she had no choice in the matter.
She closed her eyes, and felt his hand mold over her shoulder, then slip lower. Lower still. His thumb hooked inside the neckline of her dress. He gave it one firm tug, and Sara gasped at the sensation of skin exposed to open, cool air.
A groan, more an animalistic growl, stirred from somewhere deep in his throat, and he muttered something. Perhaps it was a curse. She couldn’t hear for the ocean pounding in her ears.
He caressed her then, and sweet heavens, it felt wonderful. The weight of his hand, the warmth of his palm, the light brush of his thumb, skating across her breast with a deftness that made her entire body shake, made her want to cry and laugh at the same time. He bent his head, kissed her throat, and she gripped his arms for purchase.
She loved him.
Loved him. More than she’d ever loved anyone or anything. She rolled her head back, loving the gentle, squeezing caress of his hand, the feel of his lips on her skin.
I love you. I love you.
“Tá grá agam duit,” she said, breathing the words she longed to confess.
He raised his head; she opened her eyes.
His lips curved into a wobbly smile. “I seemed to have missed that one.”
She slid her fingers to the back of his neck. “Nothing,” she whispered, and pulled him down to her. “Just kiss me. Please, kiss me.”
NINETEEN
Kissing her hadn’t been part of the plan.
Well.
Maybe a small part.
But not like this. Not when they were in an inexcusably compromising position, lying down on a thin coverlet in the middle of a beech forest. On a bed of bluebells, he without his jacket or cravat; she without her pelisse.
Come to think, she might have even removed her slippers some time ago.
Never mind she was near bare to the waist, and, he admitted with a bit of primal male relish, had the most beautiful, well-rounded, supple breasts he’d ever had the pleasure of feeling beneath his hands.
A gentleman, he was, but even a gentleman only had so much self-control.
And hearing her, with that beautiful, melodic voice he’d come to adore, whisper for him to kiss her had been the final straw. Gentleman, marquess, heir of Tethersal, whomever he was, he’d reached his breaking point. None of those titles of grandeur mattered anymore.
He was a man.
And she was a woman.
He pressed his lips to hers with reckless abandon, and nearly swore in the process. He’d kissed her before--library, garden, bedchamber, for that’s how they were imbedded in his mind--and each time was far more intoxicating than the last. More, on all three of those occasions, she’d kissed him back, even in Liverpool when she knew nothing about him.
But when she kissed him back this time, those previous kisses gained trivial status. As if those fleeting instances of their brief (very well, non-existent) courtship were mere practice sessions for this moment.
She wasn’t timid anymore, his innocent Irish lass. Her tongue met his with a tenacious fervor that sent a jolt of pleasure through his entire body.
Hand shaking awkwardly, he held her face steady, and gave her mouth the full attention, the complete exploration it deserved. He captured her upper lip, and her lower, and allowed her to do the same, creating a primitive mating dance that made his blood boil and his groin tight. And then, bringing the dance to an exquisite climax, he swept his tongue inside, and was instantly gratified when she met him, stroke for stroke, pleasure for pleasure.
This is how it would be between them, he thought hazily as he moved his hand to cup her breast, surprised he still had the ability to produce a single, coherent thought for the elation coursing through his veins. They would learn, find what fit, and they’d be happy. Or, in the very least, content in their union.
And he would love her, and hope. Hope that someday she might return that love.
It might have been an epiphany, if he believed in such things, which he didn’t. But it was a realization all the same, knowing he could never let her go.
Heart charged with renewed urgency, he allowed his lips a slow, antagonizing journey down her throat. She rose, arched against him. Tangled her fingers in his hair. Soft, indecipherable mewls drifted from her parted lips, and when he, finally arriving at his intended destination, took her into his mouth, she gasped.
“Oh!” And then, when he meant to raise his head, “No!”
“Shall I stop?” He flicked his tong
ue over her puckered nipple. It was dusky pink, lovely against her creamy skin.
He did it again, and this time she moaned.
“Sara?”
“N-no ...” Her throat worked into a spasmodic swallow. “Don’t stop.”
It was all he needed to hear.
Tentatively he took her breast again, closed his mouth around one tip while using his palm to caress and shape the other. All previous thought cleared from his mind, save for what he was doing. And what she did to him. Moaning her encouragement, whispering his name over and over as he made love to her with his mouth.
He had to make this good for her.
At some point in her life, she’d look back on this moment and wonder if he’d been gentle, affectionate, mindful of more than just his own needs. Which, he accepted, would go unfulfilled today.
But he could damn well satisfy her.
He moved his hand to her leg, stole beneath her dress to smooth over her calf. Up to her knee he cautiously slid, pausing for the most fleeting moment, waiting for that first sign of protest.
She didn’t protest.
She arched into him like a cat, begging to be touched, stroked. He slid his fingers to the bare skin above her stocking. Squeezed gently, circled against her skin with his thumb.
“Justin,” she breathed.
He moved his hand farther, farther still, to the soft, delicate skin of her inner thigh. She shifted and squirmed, but didn’t object, so he inched up, found the lace trim of her drawers. Heat emanated from her core, and he pressed his forehead to her chest to gain composure.
He had to stay in control. Had to stay focused.
“Justin,” she moaned, “please. Please, do something. I ache so.”
Foreign though it must have been to a young woman with her lack of experience, Justin knew enough about the art of seduction to realize what was happening.
He bent his head, kissed her, and when he touched her--dear God, but she was so soft ... so silky, warm, wet--she practically leapt off the coverlet.
“Easy.” He used the hand he had wedged beneath her back to keep her steady. Brushed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, another to her cheek. “I won’t hurt you. Relax.”
Little by little, he felt her body give way, and when he touched her again, her legs parted slowly, willingly.
“There, love.” He slipped past the frilly seam of her dampened undergarment. “Let me touch you. Let me ...”
His finger slid inside with ease, and he caught her gasp with his mouth, kissing her and kissing her until, once again, her body fell limp beneath his. No one had ever told him how patient he’d have to be if ever this situation arose. Which, until recently, he’d never expected it to.
But he was glad now. Glad that it was him, Justin, pleasuring her, and not some other man who may or may not--ah, damnation, but he hated to even think it when he’d already admitted, albeit to himself, that he loved her.
Deftly he allowed his fingers to take on an ancient rhythm, a driving cadence he, even for his years, knew better than his own name. And when her body rose timidly to move against his hand, his mind went pitch with desire.
He needed her. Needed her to need him, and right then she did. She needed him for release, for purchase, he didn’t care. Later, he could deal with the logical breakdown of this day.
But not now.
Now was not the time to analyze why, after several failed relationships, he had fallen in love with his own fiancée. Moreover, why he felt he couldn’t breathe without her. And so he kissed her passionately, vowing with all he had that his very soul poured straight into her, into this kiss, this moment when he would bring her to that delicious pinnacle, and into euphoric bliss thereafter.
“Justin,” she panted against his mouth.
He swore he’d never tire of hearing her say his name.
She bucked against his exhorting fingers. All at once, with an ardent cry that intensified his passion some hundred-fold, it happened. Her body shuddered, her legs shook. The tight, swollen flesh enveloping his fingers clenched and throbbed.
He stilled himself for several seconds, taking her in, how heart-wrenchingly lovely she looked, gasping for air. And then she bit her lower lip, aptly swollen from his kisses, and he couldn’t refrain from dipping his head to kiss her again.
Pain, he thought dimly.
She was visibly enraptured, eyes glazed over, a wily little smile on her dewy face, and he was--he was in pain.
Good God. Whose idea was this?
He let his head fall into the crook of her neck, wondering if it was possible for a man to die from too much pleasure. Or, in his case, the lack thereof.
“That was ...” He heard her whisper, raised his head to see she was still smiling, lips wet as if she’d just licked them.
Acceptable, he hoped.
“Heavenly.” Her eyes met his.
Better than acceptable.
“’Tis only the beginning.”
Barely holding his emotions in check, for he wanted nothing more than to unbutton his breeches and finish this as it ought to be done, Justin pulled away. He pushed her dress back down, smoothed it with his hand.
She touched his arm. “But you didn’t ...”
He raised his brows. Did she have any idea what she was asking? Certainly she didn’t expect him to enter into a conversation like this when, indeed, he hadn’t … well.
“That is ...” The slim line of her neck worked in a swallow. “You didn’t. You know.”
Warmed by her concern, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Today was about you, sweetheart. My time will come soon enough.”
He felt her brow crinkle beneath his lips. “But, shouldn’t you …?”
Intrigued, he propped himself up on his hand. “Shouldn’t I ... what?”
She rose to her elbows. Boldly held his gaze. “I once heard the maids talking about--well, they said that when a man and a woman ... you know.”
“Are we discussing intercourse now?”
Her mouth formed a tiny o, and then clamped shut.
“Because I’d rather we didn’t right at the moment. Given my current state, you see.” He cast a casual glance downward, and then, looking back at her, discovered she was no longer interested in his eyes, but in his breeches.
Or rather, he assumed, the evidence of desire straining beneath.
Instantly there was that urge, that burning want to take what would soon be his.
She was curious. He could see it in her eyes, which were, he noticed upon looking closer, near black for the irises dilated inside like full, twin moons.
His mind raced, dwindled into a few simple yet true realizations: She belonged to him, yes. She was unbearably beautiful--heavens above, yes, yes. She’d given him something neither of them would ever forget, yes, yes.
But she would never forgive him if he took her now, when they weren’t properly wed.
Or would she?
No, she wouldn’t.
“We should return,” she said, drawing up her bodice. Righting her caplet-style sleeves. “People will begin to worry.”
“By people, you mean Mrs. Brennan.” He stood, and aided her to her feet.
“Naturally.” She brushed her skirts. “Lana did not approve to start.”
“As well she shouldn’t have.” He helped her into her pelisse, held her hair as she straightened her collar. “I imagine she’d have my head if she knew …” He stopped, swallowed.
Talking about it certainly did not help. But then how could he not? He’d touched her, kissed her, imagined kissing her in far more places than her upper body. This afternoon would haunt his every waking thought.
Bloody hell. How was he supposed to sleep at night?
“Justin.”
“We need to go.” His voice was thick, even to his ears. “Before it begins to rain and your dress becomes even more ruined.”
“I think my dress is beyond repair, rain or no.”
“Even so.” He placed his hat atop
his head, slipped into his jacket, picked a tiny lilac bud from his lapel--it was, relatively speaking, a bit ridiculous for her hair to have been decorated as if she were attending a ball instead of an afternoon in the country. “Shall we, then? We’ll return to the orphanage, retrieve the curricle …”
“I do not regret it.”
Caught off guard, and he was never caught off guard, Justin managed a feeble, “Wha--” before deciding he couldn’t think of what to say.
“I don’t,” she said. “I won’t.”
“Well, which is it?”
“Don’t.”
“Ah.”
“You do not regret it, do you?”
Was she kidding?
“Of course I have no regrets, Sara,” he said, “but I cannot allow it to go any further until we are properly wed.” Felt as if he were telling himself, for pity’s sake, not her. Maybe he was telling both of them. Someone had to say it. God only knew what she might have allowed him to do if he hadn’t stopped. But for good measure: “I just can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” She smiled playfully.
She would be the death of him. A smile like that, in a ballroom full of Britain’s finest, he’d be staving off besotted fools left and right.
“Won’t,” he said firmly, and vowed he’d punch the first imbecile who dared so much as to slip a suggestive glance in her direction.
Her smile demure, for all the world as if she were a courtesan with years of womanly experience, Sara gave him an even, “Very well,” before whirling about and marching toward the horses.
Justin clenched his hands into fists and followed, and he was still clenching, his whole body one big knot, after they’d retrieved the curricle and were on their way back to Worcester Hall.
Evening stirred, chilled the air. The symphonic sound of crickets and bullfrogs, turtle doves and a handful of other birds Justin recognized as native to this particular side of England, drifted all around them.
He tried to make polite conversation, asking her this and that in a meager attempt to suppress the thought of her naked and beneath him. But even the rolling, smooth sound of her elegant Brogue was more than palatable to his ears. It was hypnotic. Justin shifted uneasily, as Sara continued telling him about celebrating St. Michael’s Day in Dublin Square.
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