A Secret Desire

by Lane, Charlie

  She kissed him again.

  The kiss tasted sweeter this time, as if a year’s worth of bitterness and hurt had been stripped away. He tightened his arms around her, nothing—not a misunderstanding or a lie or a duke’s heiress—between them.

  She wanted what they had never had a year ago—a consummation. Her body had been waiting for this, and it refused to wait any longer.

  Surely, he felt the same. His hands roamed everywhere, pushing her bodice down and pulling her hemline up. She ripped at his cravat. She needed to feel, to experience, every inch of him. He pushed against her more fervently, and she matched him. Then they fell backward and clothing fell to the floor. Soon, skin remained the only barrier between them, and the intimate contact seemed to still their bodies. They lay skin to skin, his weight resting heavily atop her, a delicious pressure. The air grew heavy with their pants, and she found herself unable to look away from the brown eyes peering intently down at her.

  Then the heat from his body grew too intense, the yearning inside her too potent. She wriggled against him, and he gasped. “Henrietta, be still.” He laughed. “We must go slow.” With a giant breath, he rolled off her and onto his back.

  She rolled, too, reaching for him, for the hard, wide planes of his chest, his corded arms, the line of golden hair trailing down, down, down.

  He playfully swatted her hands and held them loosely in his own. “Are you sure? Entirely sure?” She’d never seen his eyes so serious. No, she had. The day he’d learned of his brother’s death.

  She closed her eyes, thinking. Did she want this? Unequivocally, yes. She stroked a finger across his collarbone, traced the bunched muscle over his shoulder, and followed the contours down his arm and to the flat expanse of his palm. He did not have the fingers of a gentleman. They were short and rough. She liked them very much indeed. She kissed them one at a time. “I’m very sure,” she said between kisses.

  He leaned forward, placing a warm, lingering kiss on her forehead. “But we must go slowly, love.”

  His hands may not mark him a gentleman, but his mind didn’t know that. In every way that mattered, he was good and kind, gentle. “What do you want to do, Grayson?”

  “It’s right we—”

  “No, not what is right to do. What do you want to do? Right now? With me?”

  He groaned and barely ground out. “Everything.”

  “Slowly?”

  He growled this time. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She knew pain. The entire last year, even the grand parts where she’d opened a London shop, had been shadowed in it. So, she knew this, what they were about to do, would not bring her pain. Besides, they had missed time to make up for.

  “You won’t hurt me. Besides, we’ve waited an entire year, Grayson.”

  “We have time to make up for it.”

  She shook her head. She couldn’t quite believe there would be more time, that this was the start of their future and not an anomaly, a beautiful but singular moment in a story where they could never be together.

  His serious eyes considered her another moment, considered the question of pace a few seconds longer, then he grinned. “Why don’t we do both. Slow and fast.”

  His wolfish smile stole her breath, and she answered breathily, “A good compromise.”

  He tugged his hand free from hers and pulled her body flush with his. He placed his lips on her neck near her ear. “First, we go slow.”

  She shivered.

  “I’ll kiss you everywhere until you’re trembling off the bed.”

  Part of her wanted to laugh, but the heat on her neck, his deep voice low in her ear, they prompted other reactions. She had no time for laughter, anyway, because true to his word, his lips began their work, alighting everywhere, tasting every inch of skin and covering her body with scalding impressions, brands, until she gasped, her hips arching off the bed.

  He’d lowered his lips to her nipple. First his tongue darted out, circling. When he gently nipped the impossibly tight bud, she closed her eyes, throwing her head back and bucking her hips again. But this time, they met his as he moved his body over hers. She pressed her hips into his once more.

  “Still slowly, Hen,” he chided.

  No. The urge to move flooded her. She needed to touch him. So, she did. She could explore him slowly as well. She wished the contours of his body were well known to her by now, but she’d missed a year of getting to know them. However, she did delight in new adventures, exploring new territory. She let her hands join the visual feast she’d enjoyed since he’d disrobed, and they grew drunk on hard muscle and velvet skin. She flatted her palms against him, roaming over his shoulder, down his taut back and curving over his even tauter… what to call it? Rump? She giggled.

  He nipped her earlobe.

  Back to business. She excelled at focusing on business. She marched her fingers down the hill of his rump and contemplated its golden color. “I knew you swam regularly,” she breathed, “but I did not know you did so nude.”

  “Nude and hard. From thinking of you.”

  “Sounds uncomfortable.” She traced a hand over the side of his hip and toward the apex of his body, the part of him she made so hard certainly stiffened now. She hesitated, for a moment only, before sliding her hand between their bodies and grasping the appendage in question. “Do you need a swim now?”

  “I can think of better ways to solve the problem.” He rolled them until she sat astride him, straddling his hips, and the sudden rush of air on her skin prickled all over.

  He grasped her hips and his eyes drank her in.

  Their bodies stilled, and she blushed under his perusal.

  Mercy, his gaze roaming over her breasts, her belly, her hips felt delicious. Her belly wound tighter and tighter, waves of electricity coursing through her body. She thrummed with the need for movement, so she leaned over him and opened his mouth with a kiss. “Fast now?” she breathed.

  He pulled her down to him, spooning her back against his front. His hand stroked the outline of her body from breast to hip then snuck around the top of her hip to cup the curls at her center. “Not yet,” he panted. His fingers parted her curls and played—stroking, circling, diving deep.

  She squirmed. Her heart raced. Surely, what he did, touching her so intimately, was wrong. Did she care? No. She’d only ever cared about propriety as long as it furthered her own goals and plans. She desired at this moment only to feel everything he could make her feel, propriety be damned. “Mercy,” she hissed, pressing her backside into his front. “Now?”

  “Now.”

  She turned in his arms, pressing against him and cupping his jaw in her hands to drink from his lips.

  When he pressed his shaft to her center, she nearly popped off the bed in pleasure. But when he eased carefully into her, she stilled.

  “Gray,” she breathed, wincing at the tightness between her legs. This wasn’t the tightly-wound ball of pleasure he’d been stroking within her for the last several minutes. This felt distinctly uncomfortable.

  He stopped his forward push. “It hurts?” His words were ragged.

  “A bit.”

  He teased her nipple with his fingers. He dipped down and coaxed her lips with his own.

  She relaxed with his ministrations, and discomfort gave way to other, more pleasurable sensations. “Better,” she breathed.

  He sank into her fully. He rocked slowly, every inch of him working to bring her pleasure.

  She rocked with him, letting her palms roam where they wished, through his hair, over his shoulders, down his delicious back and over his backside. She shivered. Touching him there gave her almost as much pleasure as when he touched her there. He couldn’t do that at the moment, pressed as her backside was to the mattress, but perhaps there were other ways of coupling that would allow him access. She’d enjoyed, briefly, sitting atop him—“Oh!”

  A delightful friction pulsed through her as he increased the pace. A tension built inside her with e
very push forward and draw back.

  “Faster,” she gasped. She needed to see what happened to the tension when, well, who knew. “Faster,” she breathed, pushing into his thrusts.

  Together, they set a frantic pace that surely shook the house itself until the world of bright sensation between them exploded into a sea of calm.

  Chapter 17

  Henrietta lay sweaty and sated beside Grayson. She’d certainly discovered what happened when the tension drew too taut. Something very good, indeed. In fact, the most good ever. They’d moved together like separate parts of a roller printing machine, working in harmony to create something new and beautiful, a tapestry of brilliant colors and shapes, the movements of each printed onto the body of the other.

  But the recognition did not bring her pure pleasure. The compatibility of their bodies served to remind her of the incompatibility of their stations.

  She shook it away. She wouldn’t acknowledge any of it right now. She drowned out the anxious thought by turning into his chest and inhaling his scent. He smelled like lake water. She chuckled. “I’m glad we didn’t do that last year. I’d have gone mad without it, I think. For a full year?” She exhaled her disbelief.

  He pressed a kiss to her temple and pulled her closer. “You’d like to do it again, then, I take it?”

  Would she have the opportunity? She curled more tightly against him, nodding her eagerness into his chest, despite her doubt, and murmured sleepily, “Thank God we’re in an abandoned wing.”

  He sat up, pulling her with him, and peeked behind the headboard. “Do you think we damaged the bed? Or the wall?”

  Henrietta couldn’t bring herself to care about the wall or the bed. She clung to him, attempting to banish rising doubts.

  Grayson also had little to say, but the steady heartbeat beneath her ear suggested his silence was not a troubled one. Time slowed quietly around them until Henrietta lost count of their breaths and heartbeats, until she had almost silenced her own troubles.

  “Hen?”

  “Hm?”

  “I’ve been thinking. Wondering.”

  She groaned. “Must we think?”

  He nudged her gently and kissed the top of her head. “You’ll excuse me if I insist. I’d like to make sure no more misunderstandings plague us. I’d rather nothing get in the way of this.” He nodded to their intertwined bodies and pulled her onto his lap.

  Misunderstandings. Tobias had lied. Her body tensed, and he nuzzled her shoulder until she relaxed.

  “I’m baffled,” she revealed. Baffled. Enraged, too. “Why did Tobias lie to you? True, he’s a natural-born rake, but he is your friend.”

  His lips moved against her hair. “I don’t know. I don’t care.”

  Wasn’t he angry? Anger felt natural, familiar to Henrietta. It had been a faithful friend over the last year. “How can you forgive so quickly? How can you forget? Are you not angry? With me for getting engaged so soon? With Tobias for lying to you?”

  “But you were never engaged,” he chuckled.

  “I’m serious, Grayson.”

  “Yes, I was infuriated. And”—he exhaled a guttural sigh and ran his fingers through his hair—“I could, quite frankly, tear your brother limb from limb. It wasn’t funny, his little prank.”

  Cruel, more like. “I may very well still tear him limb from limb.”

  “Be my guest. You were quite angry with me for letting you leave.”

  She let silence be her answer.

  “Are you still?”

  Truthfully, she wasn’t entirely sure. But she felt enough good toward him that she could certainly imagine all anger dissolving entirely. Soon. Especially if they repeated their recent intimate activities often enough.

  “You looked happy,” he sighed. “With that other man. And your happiness is all I ever wanted. If being a duchess would make you miserable”—he swallowed—“I couldn’t ask it of you.”

  The anger rushed out of her. How could she retain a furious state when he said things like that? How could she retain her righteous anger when he stroked circles into her skin, trailing fingertips from shoulder to inner wrist, then crossing her midsection to circle lazily around her belly button?

  “But it’s too easy, Grayson.” She forced herself to concentrate. “How can one day’s revelations see you throw over a courtship you’ve spent months on?” She couldn’t say Lady Willow’s name. Simply thinking it sent guilt slinking through her.

  “Lady Willow is lovely. She’ll make a splendid wife for another man. But she and I, we don’t suit.” He stared up at the ceiling, a frown forming.

  “And are you sure Lady Willow is not upset?”

  “No, I do not think so. But I will make sure she is all right.” He rolled back onto his side, placing a palm on Henrietta’s shoulder. “But I have not been all right without you. I’ve felt trapped. I’ve tried so hard to be exactly as my father has asked me to be, a better heir, at least, than my brother, one more aware of the duties and obligations owed to the estate and its tenants. I thought being exactly who my father wished me to be, doing as he wished me to do, would better enable my goal. But now I know it wouldn’t. I can’t be a good duke if I’m a miserable one. And I’m miserable without you, Henrietta.”

  She leaned in and placed a kiss on his chest, right above his heart.

  “And your business?” he asked. “Do you think Lady Willow will still be able to help your shop?”

  Henrietta nuzzled close to his chest and he tightened his arms around her. “Not in her unwed state, I’m afraid. Her mother would never allow it. But I’m not worried.” She’d believe it if she said it with enough bravado and confidence. “Others will support me. A Blake gown doesn’t need anything other than its own fine quality to sell it. And I could not do business with Lady Willow were she married to you.” Knowing she dressed Lady Willow to please a man Henrietta herself loved would have been intolerable. “I would have found it difficult being so near you before I learned you still want me. After knowing the truth, it would have been impossible. It’s why I wanted to deliver the list to you myself. I needed to tell you I could no longer offer my help finding the necklace. I couldn’t help you marry another woman, even if it resulted in more business for my shop.”

  He stroked a hand through her hair.

  “Oh!” Henrietta sat bolt upright in bed. “The necklace! You still need to find it.”

  He laughed, pulling her back down. “It’s gone, Hen. And no matter. There’s—”

  A knock on the door turned both their heads. Her heart, so happy, so sated a moment ago, froze in fear.

  Grayson bolted upright, his body tense. “What the hell?” He cast a worried scowl at the door. “It’s likely my valet,” he mused. “I’m not sure how, but Willems always knows where I am and what I’m doing.”

  Henrietta breathed again. Better his valet know about this afternoon’s activities than anyone else.

  As Grayson threw a shirt over his head and cracked the door open, Henrietta slid to the floor and searched for her clothes. They rested, it seemed, on every surface.

  Her chemise on top of the wardrobe. She had to jump to get that.

  Her stockings on the windowsill. Hopefully no one had seen them land there.

  Her slippers under the bed. With a huff, she bent to retrieve the shoes and saw something glinting in the dark. She reached, and her fingers closed around a thin, cold chain. Could it be? She pulled gently, and the item slid easily out from the behind the wall and bedpost where it had been lodged. In the dusty light of day, the necklace looked older and plainer than she remembered it.

  What a homely object to be so significant to so many noble women. The duchesses likely had closets full of priceless jewels, but this beaten heirloom held more importance than them all.

  “Grayson,” she said, bolting upright, a smile spread wide across her lips. “Look.”

  He didn’t look, and indistinct mumblings at the door grew into undignified shouts. “This, you see, is
why I pay the household staff wherever I go. It’s wise to have eyes everywhere.”

  Henrietta’s smile vanished. Was that? It couldn’t be. Oh, but it was—the Duchess of Valingford.

  Henrietta dropped to the floor, putting the bulk of the bed, not to mention Grayson and a mostly closed door, between her and the angry woman in the hallway. Mercy, mercy, mercy! The Duchess?! How had she known? Eyes everywhere, indeed.

  Henrietta and Grayson had given those eyes multiple opportunities to witness scandal. Last night in the dark hallways, twice in gardens, behind the stables, beside the lake this afternoon. Mercy! Her pulse rose, and her chest constricted. The room felt warmer than before. She clutched the necklace to her chest and pressed her back against the bed, trying to keep her breathing as quiet as possible. What should she do? Hide? Climb out the window?

  “I don’t care who your whore is,” the duchess sneered.

  “Careful, madam.” Grayson’s voice rang cold as steel.

  The duchess hardly noticed. “But I know who she is—a nobody. Her father’s in trade.” She spat out the last word.

  Henrietta burned with indignity. She shot to her feet, wishing for a burning sword to run the duchess through with.

  As if he sensed Henrietta’s intentions, Grayson pushed the duchess into the hallway and closed the door behind them, leaving Henrietta alone in the room. The empty air buzzed around her, pressing in through her ears, shaking her body. She should do something—climb out the window or smash a vase over the duchess’s skull. She should most certainly be breathing. She concentrated on forcing air in and out of her lungs. She’d be able to think once she stopped shaking.

  The first thud barely registered. The second thud, which shook the walls around her, shot her toward the door, but then she paused, her hand hovering over the handle. She couldn’t go out there. The duchess assumed Henrietta cowered in this room. The assumption would be enough to cast aspersions on Henrietta’s character. Should she step into the hall and turn assumption into truth, everything she’d worked for—gone with the turn of a door’s handle.