by Liz Carlyle
She had won. He would do anything she asked.
Anything, right or wrong.
He sat down on the bed and stared up at her, his expression as open and encouraging as he could make it. “What do you wish to know?”
Chapter Twelve
Semper Veritas
“How a man and a woman best please each other,” she swiftly answered, lifting her hand to brush the hair from his eyes. “I wish... I wish to know where to touch you. Where you like to touch me. And the positions in which—” She jerked to a halt, blushing all the way down to her breasts. “The positions in which a man and a woman can have sexual inter—”
“Make love, Cecilia,” David interjected. Swiftly, he snared her about the waist, angling his head to kiss the swell of her belly. “We make love, you and I. We don’t have intercourse. We don’t copulate.” He punctuated his words with kisses across her abdomen. “Nor do we do any of those other impersonal euphemisms. Do you understand the difference?”
“Do you?” she softly challenged, cradling his head against her stomach. “Or are those pretty words meant to make me feel better?”
David lifted his head to stare up at her, feeling her fingers entwined behind his head. “Oh, Cecilia,” he said softly. “I can assure you that I know the difference. I know all too well.”
Silently, he stood to strip off his remaining clothing, and then he drew back the covers, motioning her into bed. Already, he could feel the stirrings of desire. It would not be long. He let his eyes slide down her naked body as she lay stretched across his bed.
Her breasts were heavy, swollen with passion, her head tipped back into the softness of his pillow. No, not long at all. Cecilia made him feel as if he were again one-and-twenty, and possessed of all the vigor of his youth.
David slid into bed beside her, the mattress creaking under his weight. Propping himself up on one elbow, he let his fingertips brush over her breasts. He loved the contrast, his dark hands skimming over her luminescent flesh. “Cecilia,” he said softly. “I’ve a better idea. Why don’t you tell me where to touch you?”
“Umm...” Cecilia’s head tipped back, and she swallowed hard. “Yes.”
David continued, barely touching her. “Do you like this?” he whispered, lightly grazing the swell of her belly, feeling her tremble beneath his touch.
Urgently, Cecilia moaned, squeezing her eyes shut. “Yes, please...”
“Let’s go slowly,” he murmured, dipping his head so that his lips could skim the curve of her ear. Lightly, he ran his tongue around the inner edge. “What about this, hmm?”
“Oh!” was her breathless response.
David circled the shell of her ear, then plunged inside. He was barely touching her. And yet Cecilia felt desire surge through her like nothing she had ever known. He withdrew, sucked the lobe between his teeth, and gently nipped.
The quick, sharp pain was wildly arousing. Instinctively, Cecilia’s hips bucked against the mattress, the surge of desire growing, heating, flooding her stomach, her womb, and then drawing at her, hot and hungry between her legs. Cecilia thought she might die of the pleasure.
His finger skimmed through her cleft, and she gasped. “Yes, Cecilia,” he whispered. “Just a little bit at a time, I’ll discover all your sweet, secret places. But slowly, love. So slowly.”
Cecilia felt her hands fist into the bedsheets. She opened her mouth to plead with him but could make no sound. And then, he touched her more surely, drawing two fingers between her thighs, sliding them up through the wetness, delicately tormenting her. Sharply, she drew in her breath, a whisper in the darkness.
Again, David stroked. Over and over, sweet and perfect. She lost herself to the pleasure. It was frightening. Exhilarating. Until at last, his touch tore at her like a rip tide, snatching her from the moorings of sanity and hurtling her through the stars, casting her far away, into the warm waves of rapture.
Tenderly, David curled himself about Cecilia as her trembling slowly subsided. Good Lord. He’d never seen a woman come so easily. He found it both gratifying and frightening. Not to mention erotic beyond belief. Already, he was half hard, pressing greedily against her thigh.
At last, Cecilia’s eyes flew open. “Oh,” she said simply. “Oh, my.”
David slid down her length, gently urging her legs apart with his body. “No,” she whimpered. “I can’t... I can’t bear it!”
“Shush, love,” he whispered, his mouth pressed against the swell of her belly. “Just let me taste you.”
David spread his hand over her upper thighs, opening her wide. Gently, he soothed her with his tongue, nibbling first at the tender flesh of her mound, savoring her sweetness. He wanted to bring her pleasure again. To make her feel as if she had been made love to. By someone who loved her.
And he did.
All about them, the room was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the mantel clock and the quiet hiss of the coal in the grate. When he sensed that Cecilia was ready—when he knew that his touch would not overwhelm her—David lightly traced his tongue to the folds of her flesh. But at the scent of her, it was his own need which spiked, suddenly pooling hot and heavy in his groin.
He felt his cock begin to throb, hot and insistent. Ruthlessly, David dragged in a breath and forced his attention back to her, stroking across the sweet, hard nub until he heard a sound—a soft cry of surrender—catch in the back of Cecilia’s throat.
As he sensed her breath begin to quicken, he lifted his head. “I want my fingers inside you now,” he said, his voice surprisingly thick. “I need to feel you come again. The contractions—I want to share your pleasure.”
“Yes—” Cecilia felt the word tear from her on a sob. She felt the trembling begin again, deep in the pit of her belly. She was afraid. Afraid of drowning in the pleasure. Of never finding herself again. She now understood just what he was capable of. Why women flocked to him. And the temptation was beyond her.
His fingers slipped inside, and at once, her hand lashed out to grab a fistful of bedsheet. “Oh, God!” she cried, her eyes flying open. His gaze locked with hers, his eyes dark with desire. She called out his name—or tried to—pleading for release as she moved urgently against his hand. And all the while, David gazed at her through eyes which were sultry yet brilliant. “Ah—ah—David—!”
He felt the first surge of her climax hard against his fingers. Cecilia’s body went rigid, her lush hips coming fully off the mattress, her mouth opening in a silent cry. Unable to resist, he dragged himself up her length and mounted her roughly. “Inside, Cecilia,” he growled, spreading her flesh as he took his cock in hand. “Please,” he whispered, plunging himself into her in one smooth stroke.
Cecilia rose up to meet him, dragging herself against him, pulling David into her. Her gentle eagerness left him wild, primal. She gave him herself, in a way no other woman ever had. And he wanted her; his body cried out for her, with a longing he’d never before felt.
How he loved her. Always before, though, he’d held something back. But this time, the torment tore through him, ripping out his soul, and spilling it into her. All of him. He pumped himself into her in hard, hot bursts of lust and love and need.
No, he could not win this struggle.
Not against Cecilia.
At last, David collapsed against her, waiting for body and spirit to reunite. And wondering if they ever would. It felt as if some essential part of him had flown to her now, to be forever united in a bond which could not be undone.
———
Cecilia awoke to the muted sounds of the watch calling three o’clock in the street below David’s bedchamber. Awkwardly, she levered up onto her elbows and looked about the room. The fire was burning low, and one of the lamps had already gone out, but the sweet scent of wine and passion still lingered in the air.
Cecilia looked down at the sleeping man beside her and knew a sharp and sudden yearning that defied all logic. Not a yearning for physical release but something far deeper, le
ss tangible. The need to touch, to smell, to embrace. The need to stay.
She put up a hand and dragged the tumble of hair back off her face. Good Lord. It was time to go home. Past time, in truth. Afraid to return to sleep, she slid away from David’s warm, lanky length and forced herself out of his bed. Her feet hit the floor, but, unable to resist, Cecilia looked back. David was even more handsome than when awake, for in sleep, he appeared relaxed. Almost innocent. Well, save for the dark shadow of beard which made him look a little bit like a pirate. She cocked her head. Or perhaps it was a highwayman.
Still, he was a charmer of the worst sort. Sleepily, she stretched, touched her toes, and considered what he might have looked like as a child. Beautiful, no doubt. She wondered fleetingly if his mother had spoiled him. Certainly, Cecilia would have done.
Trying hard not to wake him, she drifted through the room, her bare feet padding silently across the wool carpet. Near the hearth, she paused to stare at the portrait which hung above it. In an elegant Queen Anne chair, a white-haired lady sat ramrod stiff, her hands resting along the curving arms. But for all the imperiousness in her grip and posture, one could see that a certain amount of frailty already showed in the lines about her mouth. Still, her expression was implacable, her eyes wide-set and nearly black.
David’s mother. There was no doubt, for though their coloring was vastly different, the likeness in the bones of the face was there. They shared that same arrogant tilt of the chin and that steely look of purpose in their gaze. And Lady Delacourt certainly did not look like the sort of woman who had ever spoiled anyone.
Cecilia left the hearth and crossed the room. On the opposite wall hung a beautiful oil painting of a huge country house set in a landscaped park. His Derbyshire seat, perhaps? Or one of his lesser properties? Either way, it was an impressive display of wealth.
Cecilia turned from the painting and yawned, once again tempted to return to the warmth of the bed. But if she did, she mightn’t wake again before dawn. In an effort to occupy herself, she moved on to David’s desk, pausing to toy with his old-fashioned pounce box, his mechanical pen, and then a palm-sized miniature of a delicate, dark-eyed girl.
Curious, she flipped it over. “Miss Branthwaite, 1794” was boldly inscribed on the reverse. His sister Charlotte! Cecilia smiled. David was far more sentimental than he let on. She set down the miniature, and suddenly, her gaze caught on a tiny porcelain dish—more of a covered jar, really—which sat next to it.
With a collector’s eye, Cecilia bent down. Even in the sparse light, the jar appeared to be beautifully painted. Wishing to examine the seating of the lid, Cecilia picked it up. She was surprised to see that the dish was lined with velvet. Curious, she poked her finger into it.
A ring—a very heavy, masculine ring, by the feel of it—was nestled inside.
Unable to resist, she drew it out and crossed back to the hearth to examine it. The metal felt incredibly cold to the touch. She knelt down and held it to the light. Certainly, it was nothing she’d ever seen David wear. It nearly filled her palm, an ancient, crested piece, heavily carved on both the top and the band. Old-fashioned cabochon rubies were set deep into the gold on either side of the crest.
Tilting it a little nearer to the fire, Cecilia could see its design: an outstretched falcon’s claw clutching a Scottish thistle. The inscription was in Latin. Semper veritas.
Always truth. How oddly familiar...
Abruptly, Cecilia stood, dropping the ring onto the floor. It bounced once on the carpet, then landed on the hearth with a clunk! Cecilia sucked in her breath, her gaze flying to the bed. But David still snored softly. Cecilia knelt down, seized the ring, and returned it to the dish. This piece of jewelry was not meant for prying eyes. She was certain, because it bore the crest of the earldom of Kildermore. Cecilia had seen it a dozen times, emblazoned on the doors of the elegant black coach which occasionally delivered the Reverend Mr. Amherst to the mission.
The ring must have been a gift from the Countess of Kildermore. But when? And why? Obviously, the ring meant something to David, or he would not have kept it in such a place of honor. Indeed, it was a deeply personal gift, the sort of thing Jonet Amherst might have given a lover or the man she hoped to marry.
But her husband did not have it. David did. Had there been some truth to the old rumors about them after all? Perhaps that explained David’s deep-seated anger, his mild antagonism toward Amherst. The thought made Cecilia poignantly sad, but there was no point in pretending that she was the first woman in David’s life. Slowly, she crept back to bed and curled herself about David, tucking her pelvis against his bare buttocks and sliding one arm over to hold herself against him.
Still, he did not stir. She almost wished he would. She wanted to ask him about the ring. But that would be deeply intrusive. And how would one explain having snooped through another person’s belongings? Unfortunately, her discovery of the ring in no way affected her feelings for David. Whatever people thought him—rake, rogue, arrogant aristocrat—Cecilia loved him, because at last she had seen the man behind the myth and rumor. She had even seen things which he had not, perhaps, wished anyone else to see. And what she felt for him now was a woman’s love, one which transcended all her confused, youthful emotions.
She was certainly not the first woman to share his bed, but on some level, she was beginning to believe that David loved her. Still, he was scared, he had said. But of what, precisely? Of commitment? No, she no longer believed it was that. Something deeper, then. Something he was struggling to come to terms with. And he would. Of that much, Cecilia was confident. She was also very patient. She would wait for him. She owed him that, at the very least.
Gently, she bent her head to kiss his cheek. It was time to go. She must wake him and ask that he see her safely home, lest her servants realize she’d stayed out all night. As it was, she could expect to endure a harsh ribbing from Etta, especially after her asinine behavior over the lost stocking. The girl was no fool. She would put two and two together and get a ribald laugh out of it.
But despite her kisses, David did not stir. Very tenderly, she sucked his earlobe between her teeth and nibbled ever so gently. At that, his eyes fluttered open, and beneath the sheet, he rolled into her embrace. Blinking, he stared up at her. Then, almost immediately, his face broke into a beautiful, drowsy smile. “You are so beautiful, Peaches,” he whispered, his voice still thick with sleep.
Playfully, she jabbed him lightly in the ribs with one finger. “You are such a flatterer,” she complained as he jerked away.
“Oh, no,” he said, suddenly serious. “I may be a great many wicked things, Cecilia, but not that. I will never lie to you.”
Oh, yes. Semper veritas, she thought dryly—almost wishing he would lie to her. Wishing he would say, I love you, Cecilia, as I have never loved anyone. But that might not be precisely true, she feared.
Just then, an uncomfortable expression clouded his face. “And since I’ve promised you total honesty, my dear, there is just this one little thing,” he said rather awkwardly, lifting his eyes to hers. “Something I think I must tell you. About the porcelain box.”
Cecilia assumed at once he’d seen her examine the ring. “No,” she swiftly interjected. “I really wish you wouldn’t. Don’t... please just don’t spoil this, David.”
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her nearer. “But I must be completely truthful with you,” he urgently persisted. “It is only right that I should explain precisely how I came by them—especially the roof tile.”
The roof tile? Cecilia felt her body sag with relief. “Oh. Of course.”
David paused, looking as uncertain as a young boy. “It’s just that I didn’t pick it out. My... er, my valet did. Picked them all out, truth be told. But I believe he has rather good taste in such things.”
Cecilia wanted to laugh, but she didn’t. “So... the roof tile was just dumb luck?”
Ruefully, David nodded. “I fear so.”
“Oh,
well!” With an impish smile, Cecilia shrugged. “There goes the romance of the thing!”
“Romance?” he growled, dragging her deep into the bedcovers and crawling atop her with the full force of his weight. “By God, I’ll show you romance, you lusty little wench. Real romance. And it doesn’t come in a crate tied up with bows and ribbons.”
Chapter Thirteen
In Which Lord Robin Sweetly Sings
David found himself unable to drift back to sleep upon his return from Park Crescent. Oh, he was tired—bone-weary, in fact—and dawn was some time distant. But Cecilia’s scent on his tousled sheets made it impossible to consider crawling back into the warmth of the covers alone. So, instead, he lay on top, staring up at his ceiling while absently pondering just how vast his bed was in relation to the modestly sized room.
Really, had he any need for a bed half so large, particularly when he always slept alone? Despite his audacity in bringing Cecilia here last night, it had been the first time he’d ever entertained a woman in Curzon Street. But then, never before had his desire drawn him to his own hearth and home. Why was that, he wondered? His mother and Charlotte were often away. Still, it always seemed less complicated, somehow less personal, simply to pay for the privilege of venting his lust elsewhere.
David crawled from bed again, silently resolving to get rid of it and replace it with something smaller if... well, if he could not convince Cecilia to fall in love with him. And that was what he wanted, was it not? He wanted her not just in lust, as she was now, but in love. It seemed a serious challenge. Last night at her house, he had been driven to the edge of declaring his undying devotion to her, and loving her tonight had damned near pushed him over and into that black, unknowable void below.