Realized her fingers had speared through his black locks and she was holding him to her, arching in his arms.
He accepted her wanton invitation, caressing her with lips and tongue, following some slow, orchestrated score that ran in counterpoint to the fiery compulsion that seemed to hover about them, enfolding them yet not infusing, not driving them.
Not yet.
This was new, at least to her. She knew in her bones he’d traveled this road so often he knew every inch of the way. Yet last time he hadn’t known this, hadn’t known to linger as he was, stirring her in ways she’d never experienced, never even imagined.
From beneath his lashes, Charles watched her, watched passion swirl through her stormy eyes and draw her lids down, watched desire fraction by fraction lay seige to her features, watched it color her delicate skin a soft rose.
If she’d returned to her bed, he would have stayed in the chair and pretended to sleep, but she hadn’t. She’d argued, and the fastest way to resolve the looming battle in his favor had been to kiss her. It was also the perfect opportunity to take the next step in his personal pursuit of her, a pursuit that with every night that passed took on a keener, hungrier edge.
Pressing the halves of her nightgown wide, he languidly feasted, let his senses drink their fill, let his eyes see, his hands possess, his mouth and tongue claim. As he’d imagined doing for years; triumph lent a subtle edge to his exploration, a hint of possessiveness creeping in to tinge his ministrations.
He was not so much surprised as reassured by her responsiveness. On this plane, she’d always been his equal no matter how little she knew it. He’d always known, an instinctive knowledge, one that had fired his ardor all those years ago; it still smoldered, unquenched.
One thing the passage of the years had taught him was a greater, more educated appreciation. The heated silk of her skin was a wonder, the dusky rose peaks of her swollen breasts a temptation he couldn’t resist. Dampening one, he rasped it with his tongue, then gently drew it into his mouth.
He suckled, lightly, then more powerfully. Her breathing fractured; with a strangled cry she arched in his arms, fingers tightening on his skull, tangling in his hair. He released her, caught a glimpse of her eyes, beaten silver beneath her lashes, took in her parted lips, her harried breathing, the rise and fall of those beautiful breasts—blew gently over the ruched peak and heard her sigh.
Lips curving, he transferred his attention to her other breast. She made no attempt to distract or divert him. Her breathing fractured further; skillfully he tightened the tension that held her, notch by notch, until she was quivering.
He had her complete and focused attention. If Nicholas had chosen that moment to walk in, he doubted she would have noticed. He would have; he’d long ago mastered the knack of leaving a part of his mind on watch while otherwise devoting himself to the woman in his arms.
This time, with her, his absorption ran fathoms deep; more than with any other, he wanted, needed, to learn, to explore. To know not only in the biblical sense, but in every imaginable way. To understand and be sure. His concentration was enough to block the ache in his loins, strong enough for him to set his own needs aside, wholly to one side. This time with her he had to get everything right—fate had handed him a second chance; he had no faith he’d be granted a third.
Having her as his—seizing that second chance he’d always craved—was now too important to risk.
She’d grown restless, urgent under his experienced touch—to his mind flying too high too fast, but she’d always been impatient. And, perhaps, given where they presently stood, not yet where he wanted them to be, a quick, uncomplicated end would serve them best.
Relinquishing her breasts, he raised his head, found her lips, and covered them with his. Plunged into her mouth, intending to harness what little consciousness she still possessed and draw her back to earth—instead, he discovered she had her own demands to make, her own agenda.
Her tongue surged against his; her hands slid from his head to his chest, swept, lightly exploring, over the heavy muscles, then slid lower—and made him shudder.
Her unexpected boldness shook him, distracted him, and left him momentarily disoriented. He was the one in charge—in this arena, he always had been, always would be; he knew much more than she. Yet…for long, heated moments, he followed her script, just to see where it led.
Unwise, but he realized too late—realized that while his control had been forged over the years, hers hadn’t. She was still his implusive ange; her reckless play had only tightened the tension gripping her to an unbearable degree.
He heard the truth in her shaky gasp as she pulled back from a kiss that had plunged into desperation. Read confirmation in the tremors racking her, in the frantic pressure of her nails on his skin.
She’d journeyed too close to the edge.
Her nightgown opened to below her waist; pushing the halves wide, he bent his head to the furled peak of one breast, simultaneously slid his palm down, over her taut belly to the fine thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs. Brushing through them, he found and circled her slick, swollen flesh, with one fingertip caressed until she sobbed.
Drawing her tightly furled nipple deep, he suckled powerfully, at the same time stroked lightly, then increasingly firmly.
She shattered.
With a choked cry, she fell from the peak she’d so intently yet unexpectedly, he suspected unintentionally, climbed.
Cupping her mons, he felt completion sweep her, draining away the almost painful tension, blunting desire’s spurs.
She sighed, and the last of passion’s fury left her, and she relaxed, boneless, in his arms.
He blew lightly, soothingly, over her breast, then lifted his head, reluctantly withdrew his hand, leaning back in the chair the better to support her. He ached, yet all he wanted at that moment was to study her face, faintly limned by the moonlight; he’d never seen it as it now was, peaceful and serene in aftermath.
Long-buried memory intruded; he pushed it aside, only to have the thought that some other man must have seen her like this fill the void.
It was his thought, yet a faint frown tangled her brows; slowly, she lifted her lids and looked at him.
Puzzled. For an instant, he thought he couldn’t have read her look aright, but then she put up a hand to push back the fine curtain of her hair, and said, “That was…strange.”
Her voice shivered, quivered. She looked at him. This time her look was clear—she expected him to explain.
He stared at her. Disorientation wasn’t the half of what he felt; she was the one who’d climaxed—he was the one who felt giddy. But he had to know. “How many men have you been with since…before?” Since before when he’d botched things so thoroughly.
Outrage flowed into her face; she stared at him, then struggled to sit up, but she really was boneless. “None, of course! What a stupid question.”
Not stupid at all. He bit his tongue. She was an attractive, twenty-nine-year-old nonvirgin who he knew had more than her fair share of sexual need—what was he supposed to think?
Suddenly, he wasn’t sure at all.
Hands on his chest, lips setting, she tried again to sit up and push away. He held her easily. “Stop wriggling.”
She knew enough to freeze at his growl.
She frowned at him warily, but he simply drew her closer, settled her more comfortably in his arms. “Just lie there and go to sleep.”
Cradled in his arms, she stared up at him. Opened her lips.
“Shut up, lie there, and go to sleep.”
Her eyes narrowed, but after a moment, she shifted carefully and settled her head against his chest. The last of her fight went out of her. She muttered, “I’ll never be able to fall asleep like this.”
She did, of course, leaving him painfully aroused, yet content enough. Content that she was sleeping sated in his arms. He hadn’t planned the interlude, yet was more than satisfied that it had occurred.
&n
bsp; Bringing her to her first climax was another role he’d never thought would fall to him, not after what had happened thirteen years ago. Yet it had.
Which left him wondering why it had.
As the moonlight faded and the shadows closed in, he changed his mind and did what he’d told her he didn’t want to do. He revisited their past, and tried to fill in the gaps to her present.
Penny awoke the next morning, warm and relaxed, snuggled in her bed. She remained where she was, eyes closed, deeply, oddly blissfully comfortable. The brightness beyond her lids informed her the sun was shining. It was another lovely day…
She remembered. She sat bolt upright and stared across the room.
Charles wasn’t in the chair.
She searched, but could see not a single sign that he ever had been.
But she hadn’t dreamed it; he’d been there—he had, they had…
She glanced down. Her nightgown gaped to her waist.
Muttering a curse, she yanked the halves together. Doing up the buttons, she tried not to blush as memories crowded in. She would have liked to lay the entire incident at his door, but, unfortunately, remembered all too well that she had, somehow, succumbed, and been a more-than-willing partner.
It was because it had all been so different—in many ways novel, the sensations so very pleasant and prolonged. Long, slow, sweet caresses—and he’d let her touch him, explore and indulge her own desires, too. So unlike that long-ago grappling in the barn—rushed, heated, frantic, and rather painful.
Last night, she’d enjoyed and consequently encouraged him far beyond what was wise; she couldn’t now blame him for how much further than a kiss the engagement had gone. She was loweringly aware that he could have taken matters much further, but hadn’t. Instead…
Her breasts tingled; remembered delight glowed, then flowed through her veins.
She’d never in her life felt like that—so desperate, and then so blessed. So amazingly alive.
And then he’d asked…
With another muttered curse, she kicked the covers aside, got down from the bed, and stalked across the room to ring for Ellie.
By the time she’d washed and dressed, she’d compiled a long list of questions she ought to have asked last night. Such as where had Charles changed? He couldn’t have gone home, so who else knew he’d remained at Wallingham overnight? Where were his curricle and pair—he had driven himself over, hadn’t he? How had he got back into the house? How had he left again, and when?
Most important of all, just what was he thinking? He’d insisted she leave his house so he wouldn’t succumb to his baser instincts and seduce her—and yet here he was, insisting on sharing her bedchamber.
She wasn’t naive enough to suppose that his baser instincts ran any less strongly at Wallingham than they did at the Abbey.
Sweeping down the stairs, she turned toward the breakfast parlor—and heard their voices. Nicholas’s and Charles’s. She slowed, considering, then picked up her pace and glided into the room.
They saw her; both made to stand—she waved them back. Nicholas murmured a greeting, to which she replied. She nodded vaguely in Charles’s direction; he responded with a polite “Good morning.” Going to the sideboard, she helped herself to ham and toast, conscious of the silence behind her.
When she turned to the table, Charles rose and held the chair beside his. As she sat, he murmured, “Did you sleep well?”
She’d fallen asleep in his arms. “Indeed.” She glanced at him as he resumed his seat; he must have carried her to her bed and tucked her in. “And you?”
He met her eyes. “Not, perhaps, as well as I might have.”
With a light, ostensibly commiserating smile, she gave her attention to her plate; she wasn’t going to comment.
Charles turned to Nicholas. “As I was saying, I haven’t been out on the waves since I returned last September, but I’m sure the Gallants would be happy to take you out sometime.”
Nicholas waved his fork. “It was just a thought—a passing fancy. Purely hypothetical. Why”—he paused, drew breath—“I’m not even sure for how much longer I’ll be here.”
Penny glanced up, startled not so much by the words as the undercurrent rippling beneath them. Nicholas sounded rattled, not his usual coolly distant self. Indeed, now she looked, he appeared even more tense than he had the previous evening, and distinctly more ashen. Of the three of them, he looked to be having the greatest trouble sleeping.
“Is your room quite comfortable?” The question was out before she’d thought.
Nicholas stared at her blankly. “Yes—that is…” He gathered himself. “Yes, thank you. Perfectly comfortable.”
Grasping the opening she’d unwittingly created, she looked at him encouragingly. “It’s just that you seem rather under the weather.”
Nicholas’s eyes flicked to Charles, apparently engrossed with ham and sausages, then returned to her face. “It’s just…I have a lot to do, and there’ve been more details to attend to here than I’d foreseen.”
“Oh? If I can help, please ask. I used to run the estate, so I’m acquainted with most of the arrangements.”
He looked uncomfortable. “It’s not so much any difficulty, as the pressure of what I need to attend to back in London.”
She brightened. “Elaine mentioned you were with the Foreign Office. Have you been there long?”
He stilled. “Ten years.” His tone was hollow, his expression grim and grave, his gaze fastened on some point beyond her.
She stared, then recollected herself and gave her attention to her toast.
Nicholas said no more; after a moment, he resumed eating.
Charles said nothing at all, but when he sat back and reached for his coffee cup, he caught her eye.
Interpreting that look with ease, she kept her tongue between her teeth. They finished the meal in silence. Rising together, they parted in the hall. She announced she would speak with Figgs about the menus. Nicholas inclined his head and declared his intention of returning to the library.
Charles halted beside her, waited until they heard the library door shut. “I’m going to the folly—come up when you’re finished with Figgs.” He caught her gaze. “Whatever you do, don’t say anything more to Nicholas. I’ll explain later.”
He raised her hand to his lips, kissed it, and, with an arrogant nod, left her.
She let out an exasperated breath. Obviously, she’d missed something. What had he done?
The fastest way to find out was to finish her household duties; turning on her heel, she marched off to find Figgs.
An hour and a half later, she toiled up the grassed slope of the long sweep of man-made bank on which the folly stood.
She knew why Charles had chosen to lurk there; she’d often wondered what had prompted her great-great-grandfather to create the bank and the folly itself, screened by trees from the house—any part of the house—yet commanding unrestricted views over both the front drive and forecourt as well as the stable yard and the area between it and the house.
If one wanted to keep an unobtrusive watch on all arrivals and departures, the folly was the place from which to do it.
In true folly style, it was fanciful in appearance, designed to look like a carousel. The rear was actually set into the escarpment behind it, but viewed from the front it was all graceful, ornate arches and delicately worked pillars, the roof rising to a point like a conical hat with a gilded ball atop it. In white-painted wood on a stone foundation, the structure exuded a fairy-tale lightness but was in fact quite solid, with a scrollwork balustrade filling in the arches, forming a deep semicircular porch, open but protected from the elements. Beyond the porch was a room created by glass panes set between the slender columns that, had it been a carousel, would have supported seats for riders.
The inner room, big enough to accommodate a chaise and two chairs with a low table between, was well lit, courtesy of a ring of windows set into the folly roof.
F
rom their earliest years, she and Charles had taken refuge in the folly often. Memories circled as she climbed the wide steps and stepped onto the tiled floor.
As she’d expected, he was sitting in his usual masculine sprawl on one of the wicker chaises on the porch. It was where people most often sat; the inner room was used only in inclement weather.
The day was fine, the faint breeze off the Channel barely ruffling his black locks as she walked toward him. His gaze flicked to her, but then he returned to his contemplation of the house’s approaches.
He was frowning, brooding. As she sat beside him, grateful that he shifted and gave her more space, she read enough in his face, his pose, to know he was brooding over something to do with his investigation.
Not to do with her.
That, she decided, was a very good thing. Instead of learning from experience and steeling themselves against him, against the effects of his nearness, her witless senses were doing the opposite. Now she’d fallen asleep in his arms and survived—more, had been unexpectedly entertained—her defenses against him seemed to be melting away, fading like ghosts into the woodwork as if convinced she had nothing to fear from him—and even more, everything to gain. To look forward to…
Jerking her wits from that dangerous track, one she remained determined to avoid, she forced her mind to focus. “What upset Nicholas?”
Charles’s gaze remained fixed on the view. “I mentioned, by way of passing on local news, that a young fisherman, apparently a friend of Granville’s, had been found foully murdered.”
“How did Nicholas react?”
“He turned green.”
She frowned. “He was shocked?”
Charles hesitated, then said, “Yes, and no. That’s what’s bothering me. I’d take an oath he didn’t know Gimby was dead. I still don’t think he’d met Gimby—I don’t think he knew his name. But he wasn’t surprised to learn Granville had a fisherman as a close associate. Gimby’s existence didn’t surprise Nicholas, but the news of the lad’s demise and the manner of it shook him badly.” After a moment, he added, “If I had to define the primary emotion the news evoked in Nicholas, I’d say it was fear.”
A Lady of His Own bc-3 Page 19