She chewed the corner of her bottom lip. Full and lush, her mouth demanded attention, and he groaned at the sight. He leaned close, and her scent drew him nearer as if embracing him. He brushed his lips against hers then pulled back. Dazed, she stared into his eyes. Her look made him feel ten feet tall and just as powerful.
“I’d like that very much,” she muttered shyly. “But will it be appropriate? You and me together? What if someone from The Midnight Cryer sees us?”
“No one will question it. Besides, I don’t care about the scandal sheets.” Even if society might frown, he wanted this time with her alone. They’d be discreet and no one would be the wiser. He stood and held out his hand to her. She hesitated a moment as if unsure what the gesture meant. As far as he was concerned, it could mean whatever she wanted.
For him, the touch of her hand in his meant the world.
* * *
After March had changed her slippers for her sturdy half boots and a warm wool pelisse, Michael had escorted her outside for a tour of Langham Park. He’d explained the design of the formal gardens was the forethought of the second Duchess of Langham. Their destination was a grove of trees of various species deep within the park’s center.
Every ducal offspring for generations had planted trees on their tenth birthday. Michael had chosen a mighty oak, William had planted a sturdy elm, and Emma’s choice was a flashy maple. The trio of trees reigned majestically above them. The slight fog that had developed didn’t hide the magnificence of the trees and the lasting impact they had on the park.
The siblings’ trees on the grounds were a testament to the strength of the family and their heritage. It reminded March of her own history and the ties she had. As if Michael sensed the visit to the park would bring her comfort, he continued to share his family’s history and encouraged her to do the same.
After the walk, he took her to his townhouse where they had a lovely tea. The respite lifted her spirits, and he charmed her throughout the meal with tales of his childhood and shared the trials and tribulations of being the Langham ducal heir. They discussed Bennett’s future education and the possible matches her sisters’ might make this year during the official Season. However, since Parliament had been in session since November, many important social events had already taken place.
After they left Michael’s home, they had taken his carriage to her family’s townhouse. After he’d shared so much of his life, she wanted to do the same with him. She drank in the comfort of his rich voice and his nearness as they discussed everything and nothing during the day. Slowly, her melancholy disappeared, and she found herself laughing and smiling as she led him through the front door.
Once inside, they headed to her father’s library. It was her favorite room in the townhouse as they’d spent many a night there as a family. Michael made quick work of lighting a fire, and soon the room was ablaze in comforting warmth.
“Where did your father get this?” He stood beside the desk where an ornate gold inkstand rested. Engraved with the Royal Arms of Great Britain in the center, each side of the base featured the royal arms of four Continental European powers—Austria, Prussia, Russia, and Denmark.
March smiled at the memory of her father’s pride as she discussed the piece. “My father was instrumental in creating an alliance with those countries against France. He was present at the signing of the treaties and given the inkstand in appreciation for all his hard work.”
Michael’s fingers stroked the intricate scrollwork. The gesture caused a tingling to erupt in her stomach, and goose bumps raced across her arms. She fought the overwhelming urge to close the distance between them. She wanted his strong fingers caressing her in the same manner. He strolled to a drum table next to a settee and picked up several etchings. They were from her father’s travels to Italy during his grand tour. His gaze captured hers, and her heart flipped as if trained to respond to his every glance.
Suddenly, his face beamed. “How did your father get all these portraits of me?”
The rumble of his deep voice and his teasing tone made her gasp in delightful outrage at such an audacious question. Offering such a handsome smile, she was powerless to resist him and moved to stand beside him. “What portraits?”
“Look for yourself,” he offered. In his large hands were three different etchings of David by Donatello, Verrocchio, and Michelangelo. Michael studied her with that fiery heat in his gaze that always caused her cheeks to flame. “Didn’t you call me David once?” he whispered. “Tell me again which one you think I favor?”
“Did I compare you to David? I’d forgotten,” she countered.
“Well, I didn’t,” he smirked. His grin gave her a glimpse of what he must have looked like as a young boy. His expression transformed him from a powerful lord to a playful imp, one who waited to torment her with his pranks.
“Donatello’s sculpture is a youth full of himself.” As she took the etchings from Michael, their fingers touched, and she immediately felt a shock of electricity. She snatched her hand away from the contact of his warm skin against hers. “As he should be, since he slayed the giant.”
“I see that,” he murmured. “But there’s more, don’t you agree?” He traced the length of David’s leg where the decorative wing on Goliath’s helmet wrapped around the youth until it touched his genitals. “In his conquest, David appears almost provocative in a sexual sense.”
His cadence had slowed, and his voice had grown deeper. She straightened her shoulders and regarded Michael as proof to him, but more importantly to herself, that she would control this conversation. His lips spread into a wider smile as if he recognized his effect on her.
March wrinkled her nose in a weak protest. “Andrea del Verrocchio’s sculpture makes David appear cocky, sure of himself and his abilities after he slayed his foe. Goliath’s head at his feet is proof of his prowess.” She hummed low in her throat. “Definitely, you resemble him. The pride and arrogance are unmistakable.” She gazed at the last etching, the one by Michelangelo, and her fingers traced the image of the strong line of his body. Immediately, she imagined caressing Michael in the same manner.
As if he could read her traitorous thoughts, his eyes blazed. She was intensely aware of the undeniable force building between them. She couldn’t tell what magic he weaved around them, but she didn’t want it to stop. Deep inside, she never wanted to leave the townhouse since she had his undivided attention—no one to intrude or interrupt what they shared.
“Michelangelo’s David is a beautiful young warrior who knows what he’s facing. Stoic and prepared for a battle to the death against Goliath, he is sure of his path. This David will not stop until he wins.” Her words trailed to nothing. She took a moment, then tilted her head as if examining him as carefully as she studied the etchings in her hand. “David holds a place of honor in the art of Florence. So many renderings of the youth to choose from, but there is no doubt in my mind now. You remind me of the brazen and overconfident David by Verrocchio.”
He arched an eyebrow and regarded her with disbelief. Then he tapped a finger against his square jaw as if deeply contemplating her answer.
She wanted to be that finger. Instead of tapping, she’d stroke his skin and memorize every line of his face. He’d be strong like Michelangelo’s sculpture, but hot and alive instead of the cool white marble the master had carved from the quarries of Carrara.
“I remember now,” Michael whispered. His fingers traced her cheeks, and his touch caused her to catch her breath at the intimate touch. “You told me it was Michelangelo’s David.” His hand fell to her chin, and he held her captive with the intensity of his gaze. “Are you going to deny it?”
Riveted and charmed at the same time, she stared at him. What was he doing to her? As if falling through the air, she knew the inevitable outcome. She’d either crash to the hard ground or soar to the bright heavens. She had to decide if he was a risk worth taking.
She forced herself out of the haze he’d created ar
ound her. He wanted to lessen her struggle with life. That was the reason he showered her with attention. “Come. There’s something else I’d like to show you.”
Chapter Fifteen
McCalpin tried to concentrate on the rotunda ceiling and the intricate mural painting above, but the woman lying beside him on the plush carpet captured all his interest. March insisted they lay on the floor of the small but airy room on the main floor of the townhouse. Large windows surrounded them and allowed enough light to enter the room without the need for any candlelight.
“Tell me what you see.” The brightness in her voice reminded him of winsome wind chimes dancing in a breeze and betrayed her excitement.
He tilted slightly on his side so he could better comprehend what she wanted him to look at. It lent another benefit—he could watch her expressive face. Today after he’d whisked her away from Langham Hall, he’d somehow managed to tease and talk her out of her earlier mood. Her brown eyes reminded him of the deepest copper mixed with bronze. They cast such a glint of pure joy that he lost his breath for a moment. She was so glorious in her passion for life and not afraid of being herself with him. He found everything about her intoxicating.
She pointed to the center of the mural, and he followed the elegant line of her arm, the strong but feminine bones of her wrist, and the long length of her hand. When he’d reached the end of her index finger, he exhaled and gazed at the ceiling.
He’d much rather admire her form as the ceiling before him looked like utter chaos. There were roses, angels, and nautilus shells with no clear connection among them. Usually such murals featured some mythical battle between opposing gods or biblical scenes. Here there was no clear story to the artist’s work. His eyes darted to the decorative border of the mural. The design featured the Parthenon, much like the wood molding found in Bennett’s study at Lawson Court.
“You see? It’s the Fibonacci series.” The triumph in her voice had to be one of the sweetest and seductive sounds he’d ever heard.
“Fibonacci series,” he repeated, not knowing what the bloody hell she was talking about, but hoping he sounded convincing.
“It’s a mathematical sequence where each number is the sum of the two preceding numbers: zero, one, one, two, three, five, eight, and so on.” She lifted her head and turned toward him. “Some call it the Fibonacci sequence, the golden spiral, or the golden ratio. Some say da Vinci’s Divine Proportion is based upon the number sequence.”
Obviously, he hadn’t succeeded if she felt the need to explain it again. Still he didn’t understand, but he was familiar with Luca Pacioli’s book that da Vinci illustrated. “Ah, you’re referring to De Divina Proportione.”
Her eyes widened.
Secretly, he sighed in relief. He’d distracted her enough that she’d forgotten what she’d been discussing.
She lay back again and studied the ceiling. “My grandfather loved mathematics. You’ll find all sorts of hidden secrets of theorems and geometric patterns throughout Lawson Court and here.”
Silently, he groaned. Not numbers, anything but numbers. He’d not allow anything to ruin this perfect day. He lay back on the carpet and closed his eyes.
“Michael.” The whisper of his name rivaled the ardent calls of a bewitching siren.
Thankfully, he had no defense against her sweetness. As if he were the tide to her moon, he turned to her. Her eyes were like warm, dark pools welcoming him, tempting him to lose himself in their depths.
“Look at the petals of the roses. They represent the sequence, too.” She took his hand in hers and tried to point to the center petals of one flower. “See how they spiral outward in a perfect pattern?”
He intertwined their fingers together and kissed her hand. In one movement, he flipped his body until he leaned above her blocking the view of the ceiling.
She gasped and her eyes searched his.
He narrowed the distance between them until her sweet breath brushed his lips. “I’ve found a pattern, too. In petals,” he whispered, then recited his favorite poem.
Her closed eyes, like
Weapons sheadth’d,
Were seal’d in soft repose;
Her lip, still as she fragrant
Breath’d,
It richer dyed the rose;
He gently touched his nose to hers.
“‘On a Bank of Flowers’ by Robert Burns,” she whispered in awe. “How did you know he’s my favorite?”
“I didn’t. He’s my favorite.”
That was the irony of it all. He could recite sonnets and poems to her perfect nose ad nauseam in Italian, French, Spanish, Portuguese, and even Greek. Yet, he couldn’t share one algebraic formula or geometric series or theorem with her. It was as if she was talking gibberish when she discussed any of this. In order to protect his secret, not to mention his sanity, he had to take matters into his own hands. Literally.
He brushed his lips against hers. “I want to talk about the pattern I’ve found here. Two soft lips that would make a rose jealous.” He kissed her again. Only this time he demanded more. He angled his mouth over hers, and on a soft sigh, she parted her lips in invitation.
Gently, he moved his tongue alongside hers. Tentative at first, she matched his movements. With a growl, he explored every sweet inch of her mouth. Her moan vibrated against his chest and set his pulse pounding. Desperate to get closer, he pulled her tight into his embrace. In response, she twisted her fingers into his hair.
Everything within him combusted into a white-hot flame. He wanted to devour her—every inch of her. He wanted to consume her goodness. He wanted to inhale her passion. She made the most delightful frantic whimpers into his mouth. There was no denying she desired him as much as he wanted her.
He gave her no quarter as he continued to possess everything she was. His cock pulsed with need, and he threw one leg over hers as if capturing her, then ground himself into her hip.
His March didn’t shy away in shock. She turned her luscious curves toward him allowing his cock to nestle close to her center. He could feel her frantic need, one that begged him for relief. “Please,” she whispered. “I don’t know.… Tell me what to do.”
God, she was so lovely in her desire to please him. “Shh, sweetheart. Let me,” he answered. He trailed his lips up her jaw to the tender skin behind her ear where her scent was faint but still drew him near.
Her skirts had twisted around her legs, and one knee pointed to the ceiling. For a moment, he lost his breath at the sight. The pale lilac of her silk stockings rivaled the flower’s loveliness, but the shape of her leg was a masterpiece. She’d taken off her half boots earlier, revealing a high-arched foot that met a delicate ankle. “Feminine” was too bland a word to describe the vision. His gaze moved to her calf, and desire blazed until he thought it a physical burn, one that only she could soothe. Perfectly formed, the lines that defined her leg were as if a master had drawn them just for him.
“How would da Vinci have painted this perfection?” he whispered. With his hand, he caressed her ankle to her calf, the hard muscle a testament to the daily physical work she performed on the farm.
She tried to rise and pushed his hand away. “Stop. I look like—”
He silenced her with another kiss, one that possessed her and every negative thought she could summon forth. “Don’t you dare,” he growled as he pinned her down. “You’re beautiful, and I’m going to show you.”
Her sharp eyes met his with a bright disbelief.
“Trust me,” he whispered against her lips.
After a second, she nodded as if not at all certain. With every fiber of his being, he’d show her how stunning she was to him.
He slid his hand up her thigh, and he wasn’t disappointed at the firm flesh beneath his palm inviting to explore further. His heart beat like a drum calling him to battle. A battle where he’d worship every inch of her, claim her, and make her surrender the fear and insecurity that she lacked true beauty.
She moaned a
nd pushed against his cock, hard and unyielding. He swallowed her moan and prepared her for his next onslaught. He caressed her soft skin until his fingers met her springy curls. She gasped, and he grasped her hip and pulled her close. “Please let me,” he whispered.
She buried her head against his neck and nodded. Her sweet and simple gesture caused him to shudder. He petted her curls, then slipped his hand lower. Immediately, he stilled. She was drench with an arresting desire that he’d stirred. He wanted to shout to the heavens.
She whispered his name, and her divine lips against his neck almost undid him. He took a deep breath to gain control. An overwhelming need to please her took over all thought. He trailed his fingers over her slick folds until he found her swollen peak. He circled the tender center gently, and she whimpered. With his other hand, he angled her face and kissed her.
She bucked and pushed against him as he continued to please her. His March responded as if perfectly made for him. He slipped one finger inside of her and pushed until he could go no further. She moaned her approval. He slipped a second finger into her wet, tight sheath. He curled his fingers slightly and moved in and out. She squirmed until he found the spot he was looking for. He lifted his head to watch her and found his reward, a most amazing sight. She pressed her eyes closed and canted her hips as if offering herself to him. He’d give everything including his soul to take her gift and lose himself within her.
“How incredible you look,” he whispered as his lips traced the fine lines of her cheek. “Desire becomes you. I wish I had a mirror so you could witness the beauty I see beneath me.”
With his thumb, he continued to stroke her peak as he slowly continued to pump his fingers. Desperate, she pulled him by the hair and brought his mouth to hers. She thrust her tongue into his mouth as if he were her salvation. It felt perfect. She felt perfect.
They felt perfect.
Suddenly, she stilled in his arms with her muscles taunt. Her body clamped down hard on his fingers. Her face transformed, and her innocent amazement melted into pleasure.
The Luck of the Bride--The Cavensham Heiresses Page 19