Saved by Scandal's Heir

by Janice Preston

  She ran her hands along the length of his arms and kneaded his hard biceps. Benedict’s eyes glittered as his attention returned to her and a smile hovered around his lips.

  ‘You wanted danger, my sweet goddess,’ he whispered. ‘You shall have it.’

  He watched her intently as, slowly, he cupped her breast, rubbing her nipple with his thumb, then squeezing and kneading until moisture slicked between her thighs and her breath grew ragged.

  ‘My goddess,’ he whispered, his voice hoarse with need, then dipped his head to nip her aching nipple through the fine muslin of her gown, sending a lightning bolt streaking straight to her core. ‘No corsets to contain such abundance—only the purest and silkiest of fabric permitted to caress her soft, moonlit skin.’

  His arm tightened and he took her lips in a slow, drugging kiss that stole her breath. He slid his lips from hers to seek her ear.

  ‘Will you follow, me, Diana?’

  ‘Where?’ she whispered. She would follow him anywhere. She vibrated with need.

  ‘Wherever I choose,’ he said. ‘Will you follow my scent, hunt me down and slay me with the abundance and bounty of your charms?’

  He caressed her breast once more, and her nipple ached for the touch of his lips. His hand slid lower, to her stomach; lower, to stroke her thigh through the sheer muslin. One finger pressed, a firm but fleeting touch between her legs, and scorching desire seared her veins.

  ‘Yes,’ she breathed.

  He seized her lips again and then straightened, bringing her with him, holding her against the length of his hard frame until the strength returned to her legs. He stepped back then, and stared at her, a hint of a smile once again playing around his mouth. She absorbed his gaze, her blood racing. He backed away, down the steps towards the garden, one step at a time. He reached with one hand, long fingers beckoning, but when she went to take his hand, he backed down another step, always just out of reach.

  Harriet stopped, uncertain what game he was playing. Did he want her, or did he not? Had he somehow guessed it was her?

  He laughed up at her, teeth gleaming white as they caught the light from a lamp set on the terrace balustrade. ‘What about your husband, goddess of my dreams?’

  He does not know me. Emboldened, she descended another step. ‘He...is beyond caring.’ He was always beyond caring.

  ‘Then, come, Diana—huntress, goddess of the moon, temptress and siren. Follow me of your own free will and together we will taste the ambrosia of the gods.’

  He was at the base of the flight now, disappearing along a path flanked by rows of low-trimmed box. Harriet followed him, the lure of making love with Benedict—even if it turned out to be only this one time—too tempting to resist. He waited for her at a square stone-flagged area edged by taller hedges, with a raised circular pool at its centre, a place at which four paths converged.

  ‘Look,’ he whispered, glancing over his shoulder as Harriet entered the square. ‘She is beautiful, is she not? She is almost real.’

  As if in a dream, Harriet crossed the square to stand by his side and they both stared into the dark, silent pool. The moon was mirrored in the water, the surface of which was so still the image seemed unlike a reflection, but real and solid, as if it had tumbled out of the sky and into the cold water where it waited, patiently, for the time it could rise again.

  Benedict slid his palm to her cheek and nudged her to face him. He cradled her face, gazing deep into her eyes, his thumb tracing her lower lip. She felt a sigh escape her as he gathered her to him and claimed her lips, then his knees dipped and he scooped her up as though she were a baby, as though she weighed next to nothing. Eyes closed, she felt him move purposefully away from the pool. She stroked his jaw, his stubble grazing her palm as she pressed her mouth closer to his, her tongue probing at his lips, which parted at her prompt. She wound her arms around his neck as she melted into their kiss.

  Even with eyes shut Harriet knew they were now under cover, shielded from the silver gaze of the moon and prying eyes. The noise of the ball had faded to a distant drone. She kissed Benedict fervently as he bent forward at the waist, and then he was sitting with Harriet on his knee, reclining against his arm, immersed once again in his kiss whilst his free hand roamed her body, stroking and caressing and exploring.

  It wasn’t enough.

  She squirmed around, lips still locked to his, revelling in the hard length of his erection beneath her bottom. She pressed against it, trying to ease the ache that had been building deep inside her since the moment he had reappeared in her life.

  Still not enough.

  She straddled his lap—the hard surface upon which he sat unforgiving to her knees—and moulded her torso to his, cradling his face in her palms. His hands, large and hard-skinned but gentle, were beneath her skirts, skimming up her bare legs to her thighs...there. With an inner sigh, she tilted her hips to ease his access. Her need climbed.

  It still wasn’t enough.

  She eased her upper body away, grabbed at the laces that tied his waistcoat, pushing it from his shoulders. She tore her lips from his to trace urgent kisses down the column of his neck to the open neck of his shirt, swirling his coarse chest hair with her tongue. Sliding back along his thighs, she reached for the fall of his trousers.

  The buttons were the work of a few seconds, and she reached to set his erection free. Gripping his hard length, she bent her head. A loud groan reverberated in the night. Strong hands gripped her waist and lifted her, setting her on her feet, standing where she had just been kneeling.

  She gasped, clutching at his head and sending his hat flying as she threaded her fingers through his hair. She cracked open her eyelids as Benedict snapped the chain holding her quiver and arrows and flung it aside. She could just make out they were on a bench inside a plant-festooned arbour with a thatched roof. Then all thought dissolved as a hand cupped each globe of her bottom, tilting her pelvis. Her knees trembled with the effort of keeping her upright as his hot tongue explored her moist folds, returning again and again to tease the swollen bud where frantic need burgeoned until finally overwhelming her in a starburst of ecstasy.

  Her legs were made of rope. Her knees were jelly. She sank to his lap, panting, her head on his shoulder, clinging tight. But he had not finished and, as her breathing steadied and slowed, he again took hold of her by her waist and he stood up, setting her on the ground before the bench. He was bending her over, sliding her skirts up to her hips. The cool night air momentarily washed over her hot skin, then he was behind her, large hands on her hips.

  Her flailing hands found the back of the bench and she gripped as her legs were forced wide, and then he entered her slowly, pushing, pushing until he was buried to the hilt and he filled her completely. He stilled. A groan whispered into the night. She waited, holding her breath, anticipating, impatient. She twitched her hips, and then he was moving with hard, powerful strokes. She braced her arms to withstand his onslaught, relishing every inch of him as she spiralled higher, racing for the moon and the stars and beyond.

  As Harriet reached her second climax, Benedict abruptly withdrew to spill his seed. She slumped forward, panting, her head on her arms, knees propped against the bench seat, preventing them from buckling, every inch of her replete. Her thundering heart slowed and steadied as she drifted in a glorious haze of satiation.

  Oh, how wonderful he had made her feel.

  Reality intruded and Harriet’s nerves began to flutter to life once more as the enormity of her deception pricked at her conscience. Would he propose when he discovered her identity? And yet...her confidence shattered as she suddenly saw, with hopeless certainty, that the only person she had deceived was herself. The plan she had agonised over was useless. How had she failed to see the flaws? Why should any man, offered sex so overtly, feel any obligation to the woman concerned? She was no virgin, and
Benedict had even had the presence of mind to withdraw before his climax, ensuring that, this time at least, there would be no unwanted consequences.

  Benedict. Where is he?

  She peered back over her shoulder. Where had he gone? Hurriedly, she pushed herself upright and straightened her dress. Heavens, what if someone else had come and seen her there, her skirts bunched up, fully exposed? She blushed with the shame of it, and yet...there had been something gloriously wanton about the way he had taken her: controlling her and satisfying his need. But he had ensured her pleasure first—totally the opposite of the way her late husband had behaved and how he had made her feel despite, on the face of it, the acts being similar.

  Had Benedict taken his pleasure and deserted her without a second thought, or would he return? Should she wait and reveal her identity, or should she melt into the moonlight? She had abandoned any hope of teasing a proposal from him. Perhaps she had not wanted to see the flaws in her plan. Perhaps, if she was brutally honest, she had wanted an excuse to have sex with him again.

  A noise alerted her a split second before a large shape appeared, silhouetted against the moonlit gardens outside the arbour. A lurch of fear gave way to relief. Benedict took her in his arms and kissed her, his lips soothing, caressing, and hope surged again, flooding her with anticipation. Would her sudden doubts prove fruitless? Did he still harbour feelings for her? Might he...possibly...offer for her after all? Her blood raced as she kissed him back, pouring her whole heart into it.

  He lifted his lips from hers. ‘Did you miss me?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She had missed him forever.

  ‘I needed to make sure we were alone,’ he said. ‘I want to see you.’

  Her heart rose to fill her throat. She gazed up at him, then raised her hand. She traced his lips with her finger, then slid it under the lower edge of his mask. ‘And I, you.’

  He clasped her wrist with gentle fingers, removing her hand from his face. ‘Not that.’ His voice was rough. ‘Not your face. Not yet. Let us not destroy this magic yet. I want to see...’

  His voice faded as he unfastened the brooch that secured her dress at her shoulder. He withdrew the pin and the fabric slipped down her naked breasts to pool at her waist, where it was held in place by the tie at her waist. With neither shift nor corset beneath her gown, her breasts were bared to him, and she revelled in the swell of his chest as he drew breath, and the way he moistened his lips as though he longed to feast. Her nipples hardened as he raised his hands almost reverently and cupped each mound, weighing them. His head dipped and he suckled first one, then the other, a deep groan rumbling in his chest.

  Harriet stood still. Proud. Her head high.

  As he pulled at her nipple with warm lips, his hands reached for the belt tied at her waist and loosened it. Then he put his hands to her shoulders and rotated her.

  ‘Do not move,’ he whispered in her ear, touching the tip of his tongue to her lobe, and she quivered as heady anticipation near overwhelmed her. Again? Her pulse quickened; her breath shortened. The belt was swiftly drawn away and her dress fell to the ground. She stepped clear, pushing it aside with her foot. He then set to work on the ribbons that fastened her petticoat at her waist, warm lips feathering the nape of her neck. Instead of allowing it to drop to the ground, he gathered her petticoat from the hem, baring her legs and her bottom.

  ‘Lift your arms.’

  She obeyed. His fingers brushed against her skin as he lifted the garment over her head and her raised arms.

  ‘Hush. Don’t move. Keep your arms like that.’

  He reached around and cupped her breasts, squeezing, as he kissed and nibbled her neck and shoulder. Her legs trembled and the heat at the apex of her thighs flamed. Desperate need swept through her body again and she moaned.

  ‘Hush.’

  He swept his hands down the sides of her body, skimming the indent of her waist and the curve of her hips before returning to lightly settle at her waist.

  ‘Turn to me now.’

  His hands fell away. Harriet sucked in a deep breath and turned to face Benedict, her arms still above her head. She felt no shame. She felt no embarrassment. She felt...strong. His jaw was tight. His lips set in a firm line. He took his time, his hot gaze drifting over every inch of her exposed flesh, sparking trails of fiery need wherever it alighted, setting her pulse racing anew. Then he came to her, wrapped her in his embrace and kissed her, sensually and thoroughly.

  She returned his kiss eagerly but, all too soon, he lifted his lips from hers, saying, ‘I shall help you dress. You will never manage that gown by yourself.’

  She was soon fully clothed and stood silently whilst Benedict straightened her headdress, awkwardness flooding her. Ought she to reveal herself, before it was too late? She dithered, unsure if it would serve any useful purpose. It had been a foolish idea, and she had not fully thought through the consequences. And she realised belatedly that he might—quite rightly—be angry with her for tricking him.

  He did not speak, but she felt his fingers on the ribbons of her mask, and it loosened. She did not move, but she felt her muscles stiffen. He took the mask from her face and stepped back, the mask dangling from one finger.

  There was no sharp intake of breath. No sudden tensing of his lean frame. No questioning lift of his brows.

  ‘You knew,’ she said.

  ‘I did.’ He paused, then touched her chin and traced the line of her jaw with one finger. ‘And you knew, too.’ He reached up and tore his own mask off. ‘We both did.’

  Harriet licked at suddenly parched lips. What would he do now? Was there any way to encourage him to propose? Did she have the nerve?

  He leaned towards her and took her lips in a slow, thorough kiss but, other than where their mouths joined, he did not touch her. Harriet’s arms lifted of their own accord to wrap around his neck, but he caught her wrists before she even touched him and gently forced her arms down to her sides.

  He took his mouth from hers and stepped back, his eyes glinting with reflected moonlight. ‘As the goddess of my dreams, you are perfection,’ he said, his voice a deep rasp. ‘But you are a mortal being, Harriet. With a mortal’s weaknesses and desires. As am I. And we do not have the power to change the past.’

  He bowed and walked away from her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Harriet opened the letter that had just been hand delivered. It was the evening after the masquerade ball and she had neither seen nor spoken to a soul, other than her servants, since the Stantons had brought her home in the early hours. The letter bore Stanton’s seal and was addressed to Harriet in Felicity’s handwriting.

  Dearest Harriet,

  I trust your headache is much improved—I missed your company in the Park today. Eleanor and I have planned a jaunt to Richmond tomorrow! Do say you will come—it won’t be the same without you. We shall travel in our carriage and the men have agreed to escort us on horseback. We leave at ten o’clock, and will drive round to collect you unless you tell me you cannot come.

  Be forewarned, though, that I shall expect an unassailable excuse if you refuse!

  Your friend,

  Felicity Stanton

  PS: I shall arrange enough food for everyone, so there will be no need for you to bring anything.

  Harriet folded the letter and sighed. The men... Did Felicity mean just Stanton and Mr Damerel, or was Benedict included? How could she face Benedict after last night when, by the time she had followed him from the arbour and re-entered the ballroom, he had vanished? But, then again, how could she not?

  The longer she left it, the more difficult it would become.

  * * *

  They were not even halfway to Richmond Park before Harriet deeply regretted her decision to accept Felicity’s invitation. The party consisted of two carriages that conveyed th
ose ladies who chose not to ride, plus several gentlemen and ladies on horseback, Benedict amongst them. She had thought seeing Benedict in company with others would ease the awkwardness of the situation. Instead, for her, it had heightened her discomfort. She noted, however—whenever his horse ranged within sight of the carriage window—that it appeared to affect him not one jot. He had greeted her pleasantly, with not even a flicker of awareness of what so recently had passed between them, and had ridden for much of the journey in company with Barbara Barrington and one of her daughters.

  Flames of jealousy had licked through Harriet’s veins until she was on fire with the need to jump out of the carriage and confront him. But of course she could not. She would not. She must just swallow her disappointment and her hurt and continue with her life as she had always done. Then Felicity and Eleanor started to talk—again—about children. And, once again, Harriet had battened down her anguish, smiling and nodding in the appropriate places in the conversation. The journey seemed to last for six hours, let alone two.

  Servants had been sent ahead of the main party and, by the time they arrived, had set out chairs, rugs and blankets and were ready to serve refreshing drinks and snacks. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky and most of the ladies settled in the shade, under the spreading branches of three huge oaks, whilst the gentlemen dismounted, handed their horses to the care of the three grooms who had also ridden ahead, discarded their jackets in deference to the heat and threw themselves down onto blankets.