He let her play as long as he could, as long as he dared. He knew the script—she didn’t; control, his control, was vital. And with that, she wasn’t helping.
Her hands traced down; her expression plainly stated she was fascinated with his ridged abdomen. Fingers spread, she tested, explored; from beneath her lashes, she threw him a sultry glance, then returned to her avid play. His painter’s brain happily re-created the scene in his mind, titled it: Siren Exulting.
She was. The sight held him in thrall.
But when her hands eased and drifted lower, his newfound ruthlessness rose to the fore. Catching her hands, he lifted them to his shoulders, released them there; ignoring her questioning glance, he drew her back to him, back into his arms, back into a kiss expressly designed to render her witless.
To plunge her back into the sea of desire, of heady wanton passion, that had been steadily rising about them.
She went eagerly; grasping his head between her hands, she kissed him back with abandon. An abandon that only made him ache all the more, that only made it harder to do what he knew he should.
He had to break her spell, her increasingly strong grip on his senses.
Before he could change his mind—before she could further weaken his resolve—he lifted her, stood, and carried her to the window seat. She drew back from the kiss; he had to let her. From beneath her long lashes, she looked into his eyes, studied his face; he could read her thoughts easily—see the anticipation, the flare of expectation that flamed in her eyes, brilliant emerald and gold, gilded by the fires of passion.
The nursery was old, the window seat wide and liberally supplied with soft cushions; he tumbled her down onto it, and followed, trapping her half beneath him. She laughed softly, a sound of pure abandon that raked his soul, and racked his desire one notch higher. Reaching for him, she drew his head down, drew his lips to hers, parted in flagrant welcome.
He sank into her mouth, for long moments simply indulged, and wallowed in her clear encouragement, in the honest passion that was so much a part of her. He wanted that—wanted to seize—but experience warned that with her, caution and care were imperative. Steeling himself, he mentally drew back, and turned his mind to executing the strategy instinct drove him to employ.
Jacqueline sensed his attention shift; his lips remained fused with hers, a potent distraction, but then his hands were on her, roaming her body, so scantily clad she might as well have been naked.
She wished she were naked—she wanted to feel his hands on her skin, ached for the greater intimacy, wanted that hurdle crossed so there’d be fewer between her and her goal. His touch had grown harder, more demanding, each caress a blatantly sexual act, an intimate claiming.
He touched her as if she was his, sculpted her flesh as he wished, explored without reserve.
Each caress stoked the fires beneath her skin until she writhed beneath him, insensibly sure she needed even more. Exactly what, she wasn’t sure, but he responded by running his hand from her collarbone down over her breast, squeezing, swiftly kneading, tweaking the nipple to painful erectness before sweeping down, tracing the indentation of her waist, then passing over her stomach, splaying and pressing possessively, then sweeping lower still, stroking her curls, veiled by fine silk, before gliding down the long line of one thigh—to her knee and the hem of her nightgown.
He drew it up, up to her hips, then he tugged and drew it higher still, to her waist. Cool air played over her bare skin as with one knee he nudged her thighs apart; through their kiss, she gasped—she would have pulled back, broken the kiss to drag in air and steady her giddy senses, but he didn’t permit it. He held her to the kiss as the exchange turned scorching, as he set his hand to her bare knee, then ran his palm up, over her thigh, and found her.
Cupped her, then his fingers stroked and he parted her soft flesh, and slid not one but two fingers into her.
She felt the intimate penetration to her soul, felt her body arch, not in protest but in welcome. He stroked, possessive and sure; her every sense locked on the movement. On the sensations he evoked, that he drew from her, pressed on her. She had to cling to the kiss as her world spun; he held her to it, her lips beneath his, feeding her kisses laden with passion, with a desire that burned as bright as her own. More than anything else, that desire, his blatant wanting, buoyed and reassured.
She wanted him, and he wanted her. That seemed totally right.
Gradually, he eased back from the kiss; lifting his head, he looked down at her, studied her face from beneath heavy lids, then his lips quirked in smug, wholly male satisfaction. Between her thighs, his hand worked, knowingly stroking, stoking a need that was already threatening to sweep her away. She sank her fingers into his shoulders and tried to pull him back, but he moved lower, then shifted—with his free hand caught her nightgown hem and raised it higher still, then bent his head.
His mouth, hot and wet, closed over her nipple. She almost screamed, the sound only half smothered; the sensation wasn’t new, but had grown immeasurably sharper. And only swelled more as he feasted, as he made free with all she’d willingly offered. Steadily he drew her, body and senses, into deeper waters, into the hot, surging tide of passion unrestrained.
She went willingly, aware her horizons were rapidly expanding, that she’d lost touch with the world she knew, and would have to rely on him to guide her back.
Her body was no longer hers to command. Her world had reduced to the window seat; she was acutely aware of how her body, all but naked, writhed beneath his experienced caresses, how it rose, responding to every ardent touch, how the lamplight played over the valleys and hollows—how he watched, and saw, and was pleased.
Grimly pleased. She sensed that last as he lifted his head and looked down at her breasts, firm, swollen and aching, nipples tightly furled, skin flushed with desire. He moved lower still, and let his gaze wander, down over her waist, her stomach, to the damp curls one thumb idly stroked, to the junction of her thighs, to where his hand worked, constantly caressing, probing, but never quite pressing as he had once before.
Slowly, he traced his way back to her face, met her eyes, then the light of sheer conquest gleamed in his, and he bent his head.
His lips touched her navel; his tongue swirled, then probed. She shrieked, but the sound came out as a breathless squeak. She felt him chuckle, then he drew back and blew gently on her damp flesh, then touched his lips once more to her skin, and set about trailing hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses down over her stomach.
To her curls.
To—
She screamed, but she’d lost her breath entirely—no sound came out at all. She twisted, but he’d grasped her hips, anchoring her while he pleased himself, and pleasured her.
“Gerrard!” She finally managed a shocked whisper.
“Mmm?” He didn’t lift his head, barely paused in his ministrations.
Her wits had spun away; her mind was blank. “You…can’t.” She felt like she was dying, her chest so tight she couldn’t breathe, her every nerve coiled and shrieking.
“I can.”
He demonstrated, and her world shuddered. Closing her fists in the cushions beneath her, she clung for dear life. She’d thought they’d been following the usual pattern of events—the pattern as Eleanor had described it more than once. But this had never featured in Eleanor’s experience.
His hands gripped and he lifted her to him.
She felt her body react, felt the intimate surrender to her bones.
Felt the mind-numbing pleasure to her toes.
She moaned his name, closed her eyes tight. Gave up the fight to do anything other than give herself to him, to let him do with her as he wished.
And he knew.
He lavished sensation and more upon her, intimacy beyond her wildest dreams, until, quite suddenly, it was all too much. The glory built to an unbearable degree and she broke apart—flew apart in a cascade of pleasure and physical joy, and gold and silver glory.
H
eat pulsed through her, flooded her mind and her soul, buoyed her as he lapped, then laid her gently down.
Blindly, she reached for him; after an instant’s hesitation, he came to her, let her draw him to her, but then he settled beside her, his hand soothing her flushed body, gently drawing her back to earth.
Something was wrong. Her body was drowning in the languorous aftermath of the pleasure he’d brought her, yet all he did was draw her nightgown down and lift her robe over her, protecting her cooling skin. Raising her lids, heavy with satiation, she watched his face, the planes still etched with the desire he’d held back—that he was still holding back.
She waited until his eyes met hers, then simply asked, “Why?”
He couldn’t pretend not to understand. She may be a novice, yet for him to have given her such pleasure, yet taken none for himself…that wasn’t the way things should be.
For a moment, he studied her eyes, then to her surprise, he caught her hands, one in each of his, pressed them to the cushions on either side of her head and leaned over her. Leaned close—his face was inches from hers, his lips a handbreadth away.
He looked at her lips, then lifted his gaze and met her eyes. “I want you. You know I do.”
She did; his desire for her screamed, not just from his eyes, not just in the deepened, roughened tone of his voice, but from the tightly leashed tension that invested every muscle in his large lean body. If that wasn’t evidence enough, his erection rode against her hip, rampant and rigid.
Moistening her lips, she kept her eyes on his. “Why, then?”
“Because…” He searched her eyes. “You’ve offered yourself to me twice. Twice, I’ve given you the chance to step back, to retreat to safer ground.” His gaze lowered to her lips, then again returned to her eyes. “To escape me, and the demands I’ll make of you if I make you mine.”
Her body was still throbbing with the aftermath of what he’d wrought; between them, she could feel not only her own heart, but his, too, thudding. Pounding. “Do you want me to escape?”
His lips lifted, but it wasn’t in a smile. “No. I want to have you.” His head lowered, his lips brushed hers. “But what I want, what I’ll demand and take if you surrender yourself to me, might be more than you’re prepared to give.”
The words feathered over her lips, promise and warning combined.
She met his eyes again, felt herself drowning in their depths. “What, exactly, would you demand of me?”
“Everything. All of you.” He shifted, looking down; his hand brushed the side of her breast, instantly stirring her body to life. “What I’ve taken so far is much less than I want. I want every scintilla of passion you have in you, every iota of desire you have to give.” He paused, then raised his lids and again met her eyes. “I want to, and will, possess you utterly.”
About them, all was silent and still; between them, passion arced, desire burned. The predator in him was starkly evident, in the lines of his face, in the intensity of his gaze.
She knew what she wanted. She opened her mouth—
He kissed her. Kissed her with all the passion he’d held back, ravished her mouth and her senses, plundered and took, giving her a taste—just a taste—of his ravenous hunger, then he pulled back.
“Be in no doubt.” His voice grated, a sexual rumble that rasped her senses. “If you offer a third time, I’ll take, and there’ll be no going back. I won’t play the gentleman and turn you away. I want you—if you tempt me again, you’ll be mine. Every inch of you. With every gasp, every moan, every heartbeat, you’ll be mine.”
Straightening his arms, he lifted himself over her; looking down, he held her gaze. “Think about it.” His eyes searched hers. “If you decide you truly want that, I’ll be here. Waiting.”
Prowling. The energy that crackled beneath his skin was new. Something beyond his experience, as he was beyond hers.
Gerrard paced before the darkened windows of his bedroom, still aching, still driven.
One part of him, the primitive prowling part of him that now gave him no surcease, hadn’t wanted to warn her—had wanted instead to seize and be damned.
But he’d known better. The more sophisticated part of him that had evolved through the years, that had watched and seen and, it now seemed, absorbed, knew the price he was paying for warning her and letting her go—letting her go to make her own decision—was a bargain in terms of what he would gain.
Her. Committed by her own act, not swept into his arms by his more powerful libido.
He knew, to his bones, what he felt for her. Something he’d never expected to feel. He now understood what he never had before—the driven quality behind the protective possessiveness of the Cynster men, especially Devil and Vane, the two whose marriages he’d most closely observed. Devil, being Devil, was forever arrogantly blatant, while Vane was quieter, stubborn and immovable, yet the force driving their behavior was the same. He hadn’t expected to feel the same compulsion, but now he did…his approach would be more subtle.
He knew women, had interacted more closely with them than most—he knew enough to cloak his driving need, to veil his vulnerability by insisting Jacqueline make her own decision to give herself to him, to commit herself through her own, considered act.
Now he’d chosen, fought and succeeded in following that tack, when the time came, she would view the consequences of becoming his as something she’d invited, and, he hoped, accept them without complaint.
His plan was sound, well grounded. It would work.
Smothering an inclination to growl, he swung on his heel and paced across the room. His blood was still coursing too fast through his veins, desire still lashed and passion prodded—leashed, for now.
But not for long.
He was as arrogant as Devil or Vane, enough to feel confident of her decision—of what she’d choose. She’d choose to be his, and then he’d have her.
Without her knowing she’d been seized.
12
The following morning, with Gerrard in attendance, Millicent reviewed Jacqueline’s wardrobe. Jacqueline was unsurprised when her bronze silk sheath was declared most suitable for the Summer Hunt Ball; a present from her mother just before she’d died, it was her most sophisticated and revealing gown, but she’d yet to wear it—apparently, its time had come.
It was the middle of summer; in that corner of the world so distant from the capital, it was customary for the local families to entertain themselves and their youth with some event every few days. Today, Mrs. Hancock was hosting a picnic, or as she more grandly termed it, an “alfresco luncheon.”
They left the Hall at noon; by the time they reached the Hancocks’ house beyond St. Just, most of the guests had arrived.
Once again, Jacqueline found herself tensing as they emerged onto the Hancocks’ terrace and all eyes swung her way. Some of the guests had been at the Frithams’ yesterday, but there were others who had yet to assimilate their new direction. She held her head high, kept a smile of precisely the right, unconcerned degree on her lips, and followed Millicent, Gerrard and Barnaby’s leads. She was grateful for their support, especially Gerrard’s; as at the Frithams’, he remained by her side.
Somewhat to her surprise, Mrs. Elcott, the vicar’s wife, usually so severe, unbent enough to compliment her on her spring-green muslin. “I’m delighted to see that you’re not hiding yourself away. No doubt the discovery of poor Mr. Entwhistle’s body has caused you distress, but it never does to overindulge such passions. Facing forward is precisely what a young lady of your standing must do.”
Mrs. Elcott pursed her lips, as if holding back further comment, then surrendered to temptation. “Have you spoken with the Entwhistles yet?”
Jacqueline managed to look unconcerned. “Not yet.”
Gerrard smoothly cut in with a distracting remark. A minute later, he drew her away.
“She wanted to know so she could be first with the news.” She allowed him to lead her to the trestle table where
refreshments had been laid out.
Reaching for the lemonade jug, he glanced at her. “True, but it seems she’s shrewd enough not to credit the killer’s whispers—or if she has in the past, she’s now willing to run with the truth instead.”
Jacqueline accepted the glass of lemonade he’d poured for her. “To give the devil his due—or in this case the vicar’s wife her due—I’ve never heard her gossip maliciously. She’s simply addicted to being up with the latest, to understanding what’s going on.”
She could relate to the impulse. Over the rim of her glass, she glanced at Gerrard; she wished she knew what, precisely, was going on between them. Last night…once she’d returned to her bed, she’d fallen deeply asleep. She’d assumed she’d have time today to assess his proposition, his veiled ultimatum. She was certain she ought to think before she allowed her, where he was concerned, too impulsive desire to sweep her into his arms. Especially now he’d informed her the step would involve irrevocable surrender, at least on her part.
Unfortunately, it was impossible to consider him and his lionlike propensities while he was beside her, or even in the vicinity, which meant there was nothing to be gained by attempting to think of such things now; she might as well enjoy the moment, and his company.
He was the perfect escort—always there, yet never crowding her. Supporting, guiding, but not directing, he played the perfect foil in helping her project just the right image—the impression, as he’d said, of being herself.
By the time they settled on picnic rugs to sample the delicacies Mrs. Hancock’s cook had prepared, she’d relaxed enough not just to laugh, but to do so spontaneously, without reserve. As Barnaby, the inveterate storyteller, continued his tale, she sipped from the flute of champagne Gerrard had handed her, then glanced at him. He caught her eye, held her gaze for an instant, then raised his flute to hers, clinked, and sipped, too.
Suddenly a touch breathless, giddy as if the champagne had gone to her head, she looked away, at Barnaby, and drew in a tight breath. Her breasts rose above the scooped neckline of her gown; she felt Gerrard’s warm gaze sweep her exposed skin.
The Truth About Love Page 22