Amara Royce

by Never Too Late

  “Please do not let me disturb you, Alex. It has just been so long since I have heard you play. You have such a gift.” His mother looked wistful, almost sad.

  “How long has it been?” Honoria could not resist asking.

  “Eight years,” he said tightly.

  Since his father’s death, then. She wasn’t the only one struggling with unruly emotions. Lady Devin blinked back tears, while he put away the cello carefully. “That was lovely, son.” And she quietly left the room.

  “We should do something . . . else.” His eyes burned into her.

  “We’re not doing that!”

  “Then we should get out of this room, perhaps even find solitary activities . . . because, at this moment, I very much want to do . . . that.”

  “A game of croquet?” she offered.

  No.

  “A swim?”

  His look spoke volumes. No, a swim would not prevent that.

  “I know! Let us go riding. I would love to see more of the grounds.”

  His expression darkened, and he blustered. This man who never misspoke suddenly stumbled over syllables. “Oh, I forgot—that is, I must—you are welcome to take one of the horses but—oh, ahem, I am sure a groom can accompany you—”

  She was having none of that.

  “A moment ago, you would have done anything to stay in my company. What happened?”

  “It is . . . the horses. I know we have beautiful horses; I visit them whenever I am here, give them treats, admire their . . . size.”

  Given his sharp discomfort, she appreciated his attempt at candor.

  “Can you not ride?”

  “Of course I can ride!” His voice turned shrill. “Every man of my stature knows how to ride a bloody horse. It is supposed to be as bred into them as tying a cravat, reading bloody Aristotle, and firing a damned pistol.” He was breathing heavily now, frustration lacing his words in a way she couldn’t interpret.

  “I can ride,” he repeated unnecessarily.

  “But you dislike it?”

  He flipped his hand in front of his face as if to swat away her question.

  “Why do you dislike it so much?”

  He didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to dredge up the embarrassment and resentment. But it was already there.

  “It was my father. He said learning to ride was essential. No surprise, but his reasoning was that sometimes you had to travel on a pack animal . . . a horse, a mule, a camel, maybe even an ostrich. He had quite a way with horses. He could calm a feisty stallion within five minutes and then make it dance his attendance within ten. I’d seen him do so. And I wanted more than anything to be like him. I did not want him to leave me behind. So I made a concerted effort to become an expert horseman.”

  He sat back in his chair, remembering.

  “I always picked the most spirited horse in the stable. If Father’s headstrong Medusa was away with him, I mounted Balthazar, a true beast from hell. I was thrown almost every day, sometimes multiple times a day. Bruised and aching, I refused to give up, even when I came to realize it was too much horse for me. Looking back, I would have learned more effectively if I had started with more amenable horses. One day, Balthazar nearly broke my neck and trampled me. I was in bed for a month. Perhaps even worse, one of his legs was broken in his frenzy. We had to put him down.”

  He stared at nothing. She wanted to go to him, comfort the child who’d been so desperate to please and so badly hurt. Yet she could not.

  “When my father returned from wherever he was,” he continued, “his disappointment hurt far worse than the physical pain. Rather than forbid me to ride, he sold our more spirited mounts, except for his own. He need not have bothered. I have not ridden anything more lively than a pack mule since then.”

  “Many horses have more amenable dispositions, you know,” she said lightly. “By the sound of it, virtually all others would be more pleasant than Balthazar.”

  “Of course, I know that. In my mind, I know it. And I have ridden some tame beasts. But when I get near any of them, my mind slips. Rationality is lost. Instead, I taste fear and have to force myself to mount. I cannot describe it sufficiently. A kind of blind panic takes over until I have alighted at my destination.”

  “What a difficult burden, considering the lands you are responsible for.”

  “That is what I have a manager for.” It was all he was willing to say to her about the subject. “Speaking of my manager, I recall that there are some pieces of business I must attend to, if you will excuse me.”

  She nodded and watched him escape swiftly.

  When she returned from her evening walk, she was not at all surprised to find him sitting in her room. But she was surprised that he was sitting in the dark and that he didn’t speak when she entered. It was improper for him to be here, of course, but they’d already broken so many bounds of propriety. His mother’s room was on the other side of the house. The servants had no purpose for being in this wing. No one would find him here. Even if they did, at this precise moment, she didn’t have the energy to care.

  “You were quiet at dinner,” she said, casting about for something to say. It was true. His mother made several attempts to engage him in conversation at the table, but he participated as little as common courtesy allowed. At one point, his mother gave Honoria a questioning look, but she could only raise her shoulders and shake her head. Something clearly wasn’t right, but she couldn’t fathom the problem.

  “I have a lot on my mind this evening.”

  Once she lit the lamp on the writing desk, she noticed his unusually serious expression. She suspected its cause and knew the decision she’d made at dinner was the right one.

  “You should know,” she began, “I’ve decided to go home to the shop tomorrow morning. There is so much to do. I’ve enjoyed this trip immensely, but now it is time for me to return to reality. Your mother has arranged for her coach to take me while she stays another week.”

  He remained silent, his expression unreadable, so she continued.

  “Your mother has been so gracious, so very kind. In such a short time, she’s become the closest thing I’ve ever had to a friend. But I’m sure that’s just her way with everyone.”

  “She likes you. She enjoys your company. You should stay.”

  “She doesn’t really know me.”

  “My mother is a perceptive judge of character. She knows you well enough.”

  “Does she know about my sham of a marriage? Does she know about us?”

  He shrugged. “Your . . . marriage . . . is not her concern. As for us, she probably suspects, as she is not blind.”

  “Do you always parade your mistresses in front of your mother?” she asked, indignant on his mother’s behalf. But he sidestepped the question.

  “So you are my mistress now?” He looked at her intently.

  “Experiential evidence points to that conclusion, doesn’t it? That’s why you’re here right now, isn’t it?”

  He shook his head slowly, looking down at his hands as he turned them over and over in front of him.

  “I do want you,” he admitted. “It seems I cannot stop wanting you.” At this, her belly fluttered in sympathetic response. “But that is not why I am here. I am, after all, fully capable of controlling my rapacious lust when needed.” He quirked his mouth and stood and, as if to prove his words to both of them, moved toward the windows, away from her and away from the bed.

  “I’ve never been good at reading minds,” she said, impatiently. “If you’re not here for that, why are you here?”

  “I am here because I . . . because I love you.”

  “Stop.” She couldn’t bear to hear. She couldn’t bear the hope stirred by his words.

  “As if I could.”

  “No, really, stop talking to me like this. Right now.” She was suddenly furious. “I told you already it’s unnecessary. And you can’t love me. You cannot. Infatuation it may be, and it will pass. It always does. But don’t
speak to me of love.”

  He strode up to her, fast and fierce. His eyes hardened like jade.

  “Why not? Why do you censor me? I love you. This is not some fleeting and immature infatuation. I love you. And I have every right to say so.”

  “It’s not real,” she whispered. “I am a nobody, and you are . . . you. This is an airy fiction built on paper and dust. It will end, and it will shatter us both. And we both have too many serious responsibilities to let this distract us.”

  “You are not a nobody. You were born to nobility. What do I need to do to convince you?”

  “There is nothing you can do to convince me. I am not nobility now. I am a shopkeeper. I earn a living, and there can be nothing between us.”

  “Marry me.”

  “No! Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “What do you mean no?”

  “No. You aren’t sincerely asking, and I couldn’t accept, even if you were. This isn’t real. It’s impossible.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “I don’t know.” After a moment, she added, “We should say our good-byes then and be done with it.”

  He walked up to her and put a finger under her chin to tilt her face up to his.

  “I will never be done with you,” he said, low and fierce. He touched his lips to hers gently. “Do you hear me? Do I have to print it in the Times?” His movements were so slow, but his intent could not be misinterpreted. He drew her into him as he worshipped her skin with his mouth.

  One last time, she promised herself. Just this once. There was no point in denying she wanted this as much as he did. Her desire for him, keen and intense and bitter, tore at her heart and tightened every nerve in her body. Just this one last time she would revel in his touch, take whatever pleasure he offered, and give herself up to this tide of bittersweet ecstasy.

  This time was different. Their previous encounters had been moments frozen in time, frenzied and near-senseless interludes where reason and logic had no place. Their first night together had been frantic and emotional, fueled by the intensity of the shop’s destruction and her overwrought nerves. Even their afternoon at the lake seemed to stand apart from her real life; they’d been transported to a temporary Eden. But this time . . . when their lips touched, when she slid her arms around his shoulders . . . this was a conscious, rational choice. What had happened between them before was like a hazy dream. This night was the one she would remember with absolute clarity. She wasn’t swept away. She wasn’t seduced. She would deliberately take what she could get and give what she could spare.

  She stretched up to meet him fully, gripping his arms. As his arms tightened around her, she slid her hands into his hair and sighed against his mouth at the intensity of openly acknowledging her desire for him and her pleasure at his touch. How had she come to this point? If someone had told her mere weeks ago she would be here, now, in this moment, she would have called a physician to have the speaker examined. How had this impossibility come to be? She was Medusa to his Perseus. How had she not consigned him to stone? And, she could not help but wonder in the deepest recesses of her heart how long it would be before he would slay her, carrying her heart instead of her head away as a trophy.

  So quickly he’d learned what pleased her. And yet, she needed just a little . . . more. As he lavished extravagant attention on her left breast, her own hand stole up to the right one. She wasn’t sure when or how her body had become so greedy. While he laved her nipple, she stroked and tweaked and rolled the other nipple between her fingers to sharpen the exquisite sensations. When he caught sight of her hand, his low laughter rumbled through her.

  “In dereliction of duty, am I?” He bit lightly on the first nipple, causing her to convulse, before shifting to the second, dislodging her hand. “Allow me.”

  He molded the now-abandoned breast with his palm while lashing the new one with his tongue. His hands gently pushed her abundant breasts closer together. He glanced at her devilishly. Surely not! Then he took both nipples into his mouth at the same time! Dear God in heaven! Such intense sensations rocketed through her that she bucked and shook. The keen sensation of his hot mouth, working in tandem on both breasts, made her gasp and thrash and moan. Words couldn’t describe the steep dual crescendo of pleasure shooting through her. She needed a new word for pleasure.

  “I knew there had to be a solution,” he said, when he finally released her breasts and laid his head on one.

  “Clever lad.” She breathed heavily.

  He raised himself up on one elbow and drawled, “Now show me what else you like.”

  “Well, I do like this.” She smiled and slid her hand down to stroke his hot, hard length.

  He moaned but took her hand and raised it to his mouth. He slipped two of her fingers between his lips, sliding his tongue between them ever so gently, and then said, “No, not yet. Show me what you like.” His inflections made his meaning clear, and his eyes held a challenge.

  Not one to back down, she answered by shifting her position for more freedom of movement and hooking one leg over his. She was well practiced in taking care of her own needs. So she put her hand in that secret place, parting her own folds, and began to rub firmly but gently. She found the sensitive nub and tried to concentrate. She closed her eyes to focus on the task at hand and was soon breathing heavily while a mild tension built in her lower abdomen. He sat up for a better view, and she bent both knees, legs spread, as much for her benefit as for his. But for all her rubbing and stroking, this time she could not bring herself to finish. She made tiny adjustments to her positions but could not come to the end. Soon, her hand tired, and she gave up, irritated. “It’s not working!”

  “Shh.” He put his hand where hers had been and slowly stroked. “Does it usually work?”

  “It always works. Every time. I just don’t think I can concentrate with an audience.”

  He chuckled wickedly. She even thought she detected smugness.

  “Since I am at fault for your bind, I must do what I can to assist you. Teach me what pleases you.” His intent disarmed her. He stoked her flames and then slid a thumb into her soft, wet folds. She hadn’t noticed before how large his thumbs were.

  “Oh!” she said, when he swirled over a particularly sensitive area.

  “Is that a good spot, then?” he asked, unnecessarily. He swirled over it a few more times for confirmation, smiling more broadly each time she bucked.

  “Hmm,” he said. “Let’s try another.” He swirled his thumb in a different direction, with milder but still positive effects. She couldn’t speak.

  “And one more test for good measure.” His thumb pushed in a little deeper and swirled against a new spot. This time, sensations radiated through her. Her back arched, hips lifting off the bed, and she cried out.

  “It would seem we have a new winner.” He set himself to targeting that spot, teasing and thrusting with his hand. He stuffed a corner of the counterpane in her mouth to stifle her and captured a nipple in his mouth as his hand continued to drive her higher and higher. She came hard, screaming into the bedclothes and shuddering endlessly.

  When she could finally breathe again, she said, “God above, what have you done to me?”

  With a devilish gleam in his eye, he covered her body with his. As the tip of his manhood nudged her warm, still-throbbing entrance, he whispered, “Oh, my dear, we are just getting started.”

  “Wait!”

  He groaned as he struggled to master his body. “Wait? I do not believe I can. For how long? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing is wrong, Alex,” she whispered as she pushed him away and wriggled from underneath him. “But I want an active role in this too.” She pushed him onto his back and began her own expedition down his body, prompting guttural moans from him with her hands and then her mouth. The more she heard, the more she wanted to push his pleasure further. When they were both panting with intense need, he leaned his head toward her and wrenched her mouth up to his.

&nbs
p; “I love you! I need you now!” he exclaimed against her lips. “Take me, damn it. Take me into you now!”

  She took the reins without hesitation, guiding him into her entrance. The novel sensation of control made her giddy, and she took him in ever so slowly, smiling at the way his breath hitched, the way his hands gripped her hips, as their bodies inched together. Not too fast. Not too soon.

  When they were fully joined—finally—she arched above him and began to rock slowly, sliding up his cock almost entirely and then inching back down, reveling in the feel of him filling her bit by bit. The sight of him, eyes closed and head thrown back, spurred her to move more forcefully, making them both pant and moan. He sat up to meet her, whispering words of love, as she rode him harder, faster, her fingers digging into his back to bring them ever closer, never close enough. As her crisis neared, she felt him grow impossibly firmer, thrust impossibly deeper, and suddenly they both exploded together—she buried her cries in his shoulder as he shouted, maybe her name.

  She would tuck this memory away, perhaps let it warm her on cold winter nights, alone in her room above the bookshop. But she would let him go.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Evans Principle 4,012: Self-preservation is sometimes indistinguishable from cowardice. Do what you must to thrive or at least to survive.

  The coach was ready. There was nothing to do but leave. She’d already said her good-byes to Lady Devin. And she didn’t want to see the face of that snake, that Judas, that devil ever again. I love you, he’d said. Marry me, he’d said. She’d known it was a fiction; she just didn’t realize it was blatant, self-serving, despicable manipulation. He hadn’t just built a fairy tale; he’d built a trap. If she saw him, she couldn’t account for her actions or for any appendages he might lose. She needed to get back to her home, back to her shop, and get her things in order. And now she needed a long, scalding bath to wash away the tainted memory of his skin against hers. She’d tried so hard to be cautious, suspicious, but he’d broken her anyway.