Lord Will & Her Grace

by Sophia Nash

  Or perhaps it was just pure deviltry. She would not put it past him to have wagered that he would have her, and to make a game of it. It was much more likely.

  But one did not deceive the person one loved. She would never fully understand the devious machinations of the members of the beau monde. But why the trickery?

  He was so handsome, titled and supremely eligible. He could have his choice of almost any lady.

  Sophie shivered.

  She was going to have to go away again. She was going to have to write a letter to Aunt Rutledge and tell her that she was returning to Porthcall. She had put it off long enough. She was never going to be able to return to London. And, really, she didn't care about that silly wager she had made with his lordship. She would leave without a word, to avoid listening to his boasts at having her forfeit the bet.

  It was not that he didn't like her, but simply that his amused affection for her would torment her if she stayed since her sensibilities ran so much deeper. He obviously had nothing better to do, lolling about the countryside and taking pleasure in ridiculous games to fill his time frivolously. Well, she would not go along.

  The hair on the back of her head prickled. She sensed someone's presence. Sophie swung around from the bench and saw no one. All at once, she spied a man's shadow at the open glass doors leading to the terrace.

  Sophie held her breath and rose from her seat.

  She stared at the dark profile. A hand rose to the face and the bright orange tip of a cheroot glowed.

  It was he.

  "You are a liar, chérie," he said, quietly. He stirred from his hiding place in the shadows of the doorway. "You play well."

  "What are you doing here? This is highly improper."

  "I was hoping you would be more original," he said dryly.

  Lord Will slowly strode into full view at the doorframe, throwing the cheroot into the pea gravel walk behind.

  "I'm sorry to disappoint, but you must leave. I can't be found alone with you."

  He walked through the music room to the door leading to the hallway and turned the key.

  Sophie shivered and stroked her arms when she heard the loud click of the lock engaging.

  "So much for your fears, chérie." Lord Will came toward her, his heels clicking on the parquet floor. He moved next to her on the bench, casually flicking his coat tails behind him as he sat next to her and posed his hands above the keys.

  "You almost had it right. Only the last part was ill played," he said.

  Sophie scooted to the other end of the bench, her skin scorched by the contact of his large thigh and arm brushing hers. She watched his beautiful hands poised over the instrument and her heart constricted.

  He began to play the music with a level of expertise Sophie had rarely, if ever, witnessed. Perhaps there might have been some soloist at a musicale in London who rivaled his talent, but she doubted it.

  He was a master.

  He built from the light, joyful beginning to a crescendo of intense magnitude. The music then became mournful and haunting in the finale. It spoke of longing and seemed to end with a question. His hands dropped from the keys.

  She stared at him. This was the dishonest dandified fop of a man who cared only for frivolity and games? There had to be something more, only a man of strong, real emotions and vast intelligence could have composed and played music such as this. Oh yes, there was a good deal more.

  He sat, his eyes closed, his head dropped forward, in deep thought. He opened his eyes and looked at her. For just the slightest moment she beheld an expression of such profound intensity that the revealed emotion and veiled vulnerability was almost painful to witness. And then it was gone, replaced by his usual expression. He reassumed the aristocratic tilt to his head, half closed his eyes and smiled.

  "Alors, I've pleased you with this serenade, chérie?"

  He leaned toward her and brushed a gentle kiss on her cheek, then moved closer. "Have I won your respect? Perhaps it is enough to have earned your much promised lesson?" he asked.

  "Why are you here, my lord?" Sophie whispered. She turned her attention to the piano keys and gently rubbed one.

  He paused in his reply. "Why, I told you I would return—bearing gifts no less." He inched closer again, the heat of him tantalizing her senses. She felt suspended in time as she watched him pull an object from his breast pocket. It glittered in the candlelight.

  "Sophie, I daresay I went about it all wrong yesterday. And so, I'm asking you to reconsider, my darling. I apologize for deceiving you. And yes, I freely admit I was a complete oaf in all my actions. But I must also declare that I am falling, rather amazingly I must add, in love with you and I desire to make you my wife. I'm determined to make you mine."

  Sophie could not say a word. She looked at the beautiful sapphire and diamond ring he held before her in his long, elegant fingers.

  "This was my mother's ring, given to her by my father on the occasion of their betrothal. Will you accept it? I promise to make your happiness my mission in life," he continued. "Let us give all the gossipmongers of London the juiciest tidbit of their lives to chew over. They'll say the daughter of a Welsh vicar has finally tamed the notorious rogue using her natural goodness and honesty to enslave him. Undoubtedly, we'll be doing a good turn for all the other bachelors in town as chits will then attempt to employ your novel methods."

  He paused to sweep behind her ear a lock of hair that had fallen. "Darling, I find myself rambling along here, hoping you will look at me at some point so I can see in your eyes if you plan to make me the happiest of men tonight."

  She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. She finally looked at him.

  "Oh, my love. No, don't…" he said gently. "There's no need for tears. If you intend to reject me, I would much rather face your wrath. I am no good at tears."

  She tried to hold back, but felt one tear escape down the hot flesh of her face.

  "Sophie, for God's sake, say something. Do you want me to leave? I shall if you insist. Darling… I'm so sorry I hurt you. I've never been much good at exposing my heart and the rest as I suppose I didn't see much goodness until you, my sweet Sophie. I promise I shall never hurt you ever again. And I pledge a most glorious life together." He finally pulled her into his arms and forced her head to rest on his wide chest.

  He smelled of night air, and tobacco, and that wonderful masculine scent that was him. She couldn't resist. It, he, everything was surreal and intoxicating.

  She loved him.

  And he loved her.

  She was sure.

  She would not let pride stand in her way. She had never really had much pride anyway. There had been little use for it in her life in Porthcall. Only the rich could afford pride.

  She pulled away from him and opened her clenched hands. Blood rushed back into the aching palms where her nails had bitten into her flesh.

  "I accept your offer," she said softly, offering her hand. "I should be happy to marry you and I shall promise to forget our unfortunate beginning."

  "My darling, I will make every effort to measure up to your standards of the best of husbands."

  Her heart surged with indefinable joy. She could not fully accept it. He loved her after all. Oh, perhaps it had started out as a game to him, but it had ended differently than he had most likely envisioned.

  She was her father's daughter, and forgiveness was her forte. She would forget his silly trickery, and remember only the laughter, and growing tenderness they had shared.

  She looked at his expression and saw devotion.

  And then he was embracing her. He kissed her cheeks, then her nose, her eyelids and finally the sensitive corner of her lips. Sophie tried to regulate her breathing, and failed.

  He brushed his mouth against hers once, twice, three times and then enveloped her lips with his own. She was aware of the heated inner flesh of his mouth and opened herself to him.

  His tongue brushed against hers and she felt as if she was fa
lling, falling. The taste of brandy, and cheroots and of him entered into the maelstrom playing havoc with her senses. Sophie could barely control the feeling coursing through her as he left a trail of kisses from her mouth to her neck, to the edges of her gown.

  She breathed deeply as he nudged the lace fichu at her neckline aside and ran his hand over the curve of her breast.

  For a moment, sanity almost returned and she thought about the necessity of putting an end to this. It occurred when he readjusted their seating. But it was only the briefest instant. He swept her onto his lap in one powerful motion. And then she was lost again in a sea of the most potent longing she had ever known.

  Sophie tried to stop the trembling of her body but could not. She was unable to resist the sensations he released each time he was alone with her.

  "Stop me," he whispered. "For God's sake, Sophie, stop me."

  She shivered. There was such intensity in his command. But his poignant expression begged for just the opposite.

  She shook her head slowly.

  She would give of herself to him because of the intense need she read in his gaze. And so she overcame her shyness and did not resist her innate desire to soothe those who suffered. She had never seen such a raw ache as she glimpsed deep in the loneliness of his soul.

  What had happened to him? What had put that pain and piercing cynicism in his true spirit, the one beyond the jaded aristocratic façade? Sophie responded to his anguish the only way she knew, by offering comfort and love.

  Again, he passed his hand over the low bodice of her gown, this time easing the corner buttons from the hollows of her shoulders. The front flap of the gown opened and he brushed away the chemise. Sophie watched as he took the rosy tip of her breast between his full lips.

  Oh, his mouth was so warm, and wet, and he was making a pulling sensation and doing something with his tongue and teeth that made her want to faint.

  His dark hair slipped through her fingers as her head dropped back in mute acquiescence. He kissed and caressed her breasts in ways too sinful to contemplate. All the while, the coarseness of his whiskers teased her sensitive skin.

  Sitting in his lap, she slowly became conscious of a thickness jutting from him. With deep embarrassment, she sensed dampness and an ache between her limbs. What was happening to her?

  When she dared to reopen her eyes, it had become so dark in the room. All but one candle had guttered on the wall sconce beside her.

  He abruptly lifted his lips and gently blew on the tip of her breast, sending tingling sensations throughout her body. His hands caressed her as gently as newly unfurled butterfly's wings.

  He raised his eyes to hers and looked at her for a long moment, appearing starkly coherent, and deadly serious. A searing tension filled the air between them, pulling her inexorably closer to him.

  She could not look away. She stared back at him, drinking in the sight of his impossibly handsome and mysterious face.

  He looked as if he was about to say something, but at the last minute, he said nothing at all. Instead he continued to stare at her while he began a more intimate exploration of her body.

  Sophie felt the large warm imprint of one of his large calloused hands on her ankle. He was gathering the fabric of her gown in bunches to her lap. His hand touched the underside of her knee, then her thigh, raising gooseflesh along the way.

  She felt her grip on the reality of the moment loosen as he lightly, oh so lightly, caressed the top of her thigh and lowered his lips to her own, finally, once again.

  Sophie was lost.

  Chapter Seven

  WILLIAM was lost. Perhaps he could have stopped himself if he had not looked at her wide gray-green eyes every few moments. He felt drunk, looking at the depths of feelings he found reflected there.

  He knew without a doubt they were sharing a moment out of time. A moment they would never forget the rest of their lives—when they had both let down the last of their defenses to find an equally shared joy in their passion for one another. This was not an encounter sexual in nature. It was entirely more intimate and unnerving.

  He had come home. She was his home, now and forever more. The one he had lost as a young boy—for home was not a place, but a feeling.

  He pushed aside the thin white shift fabric with his palm to caress her inner thigh one last time. Then he gently, tenderly slid his hand forward to the place that was sure to drive them both to madness.

  She made the smallest sound in her throat and trembled. "Sophie, you must stop me now. I cannot do this to you. I don't want to hurt you, my love."

  "No, my—my dearest William. It is I who do this to you." She whispered it so quietly he had to dip his head to catch her words.

  The sound of his name broke him. He gathered her tightly to his chest and stood up. His glance swept the room, searching for a place for them. In five long strides he found himself before a long, brown velvet chaise lounge where upon he placed his Sophie.

  She was so beautiful, the creamy expanse of her breasts, her long, slender legs, the dreamy, loving expression on her face. She reached her hand out to him, looking every inch like Venus reincarnate.

  There was a certain desperate nature to his wanting her. Gone from his mind were all the subtle seduction techniques he had used with much success over the years. A primal need to possess her surged through his body, refusing to allow his mind to function in its steady, methodical manner.

  He fumbled with his buttoned flap, a curse under his breath. He lay between her long, slender thighs and rested his forehead against her shoulder, gulping a great lungful of air.

  His hand sought the entrance to her and he stroked her, gliding along the folds and finally pressing his palm firmly against her. He gently entered her with one long finger and felt her inner muscles clench against him. Moving rhythmically, and slowly inside of her, he listened to her sighs.

  And suddenly a sort of cold calm invaded his body. He kissed her, and raised his head to look down at her. "My Sophie, I am about to take possession of you, you know that, don't you?"

  "That is what we have both been doing to each other all along, isn't it?" Her voice, so innocent and yet womanly did not waver for a moment. "Come to me, my love. Let me hold you."

  She touched him then, urging him to take her. Her fingers, timid and unsure, were more erotic than any skilled courtesan's and his manhood had never felt so swollen with need. He squeezed his eyes shut and didn't move. His size often overwhelmed women and he had never dared to lie with a virgin. He hated the idea of hurting her.

  William felt a warm, constant pressure on his back and the backs of his legs and finally understood that it was Sophie's long arms and legs urging him to mount her.

  He raised himself to meet her and instinctively placed just the tip of himself inside her. He felt heat and wetness, and his groin tightened to a pressure unknown in its intensity.

  Yet he could not make himself move.

  Again, he felt the pressure of Sophie's arms and legs, and heard soft cooing in his ear.

  He pushed just the slightest fraction of an inch more inside of her and realized he was having great difficulty breathing. His heart raced and he couldn't speak to her, comfort her, tell her all the sentiments he should.

  She was not only his love, she was everything he had forgotten about in his thirty-five years.

  Her soft sounds of encouragement stopped and her breaths came in short gasps. He had placed too much weight on her. Oh, everything was going all wrong. He was hurting her. She was so moist and warm, yet his size was much too large for her untried passage. He forced himself to speak. "Sophie, my love, I'm so sorry."

  Her response was to pull him tighter toward her, deeper within her. There was an awful sensation of slow tearing while his length forged its way past her maidenhead to the very core of her.

  He suddenly felt very much like crying for the only time in his life.

  "I am yours, William. Now and forever," she whispered into his ear.

/>   His seed burst from him in an endless, long series of spasms. It felt like a transferal of part of the essence of his spirit.

  It had not been remotely like any encounter he had ever had with a female. For a few fleeting seconds he had removed the iron curtain he used to cover his true self. And he revolted against the idea of revealing any part of himself to anyone. That involved trust, a certain vulnerable weakness he had discarded early in life. No, this had not been pleasant.

  The times he had had carnal relations with women in the past had been slow, sensual, pleasurable, mutually satisfying, invigorating. He had explored and exceeded every delight that could be performed on the body. He had mindlessly pleasured his bed partners and they had eagerly pleasured him in return, filling him with an ill-gotten sort of satisfaction. Fornication, in short.

  But, this had been a release. It had liberated him from his past connections and it bound him to a future unlike anything he had imagined.

  Yet, he had hurt her. He had not taken her innocence in the proper, least painful way. He should have touched her, tasted her, massaged her for many, many long minutes. Instead it had been she who had comforted him. He felt indebted to her— an uncomfortable, weak sensibility.

  When the long pulses of his body stopped, he gathered her in his arms and rested against her. She smelled faintly of roses.

  She was gliding her palms up and down the length of the back of his coat. Good God, he hadn't even removed an article of his clothing. She quietly said his name, and a stream of soothing words spoke of loving devotion.

  It was so tight and inviting inside of her, he could not stop his arousal from hardening again into a need more familiar than before. He grasped her hand and moved it to his lips, kissing it and noticing the deep fire of the sapphire now resting on her finger.

  His took his first full, long stroke within her and felt her quick intake of breath. This would be all for her.

  His mind had returned and he used every last skill he knew to bring her to the brink of pleasure. He touched her with his deft fingers, and his mouth, always stroking into her slowly, expertly, for a very long time until he knew, without doubt, that she would find her release.