by Wilde, Tanya
He took another step closer until mere inches separated them again and she had to crane back her lovely neck to meet his eyes, exposing the soft flesh where her collarbones joined in the process.
His eyes dropped to her pulse, ticking against the pale slope of her arched neck and he let his tongue flick across his lower lip. Dipping his head until his lips were pressed softly against hers, he brought his finger to rest on her vein. Her breath was caught between his lips the same moment her pulse quickened beneath his finger, causing him to growl in approval.
When she leaned into him, it was all the invitation he needed. He deepened the kiss and slid his hand to caress the skin of her exposed leg. A gasp met his touch and his hand traveled up her leg until he cupped her buttocks. She groaned against his lips and he pressed his manhood against the flatness of her midriff while his tongue made love to her mouth, showing her just how much he wanted her.
In one swift motion, Simon lifted her up and gently laid her on the grass, half covering her with his body. He kneaded the soft swell of her breast as his tongue danced with hers, a sudden urgency driving him hard.
A harsh breath escaped him as she arched into him, a soft whimpering sigh leaving her. His hand dipped lower to her hip before it ventured to bunch her nightgown in his fists.
Somewhere in the back of his mind sanity returned, albeit on a thin thread. “Belle,” he murmured against the hollow of her neck, before lifting his head to rest his forehead on hers. “Tell me to stop.” Because he sure as hell would not break away from her on his own. He needed to hear her say the words.
Those beautiful all-knowing eyes flitted open, staring at him with such emotion, such trust, that he almost howled up at the moon. In answer, and to his complete astonishment, her hands wandered up to his chest and around the back of his neck before she pulled him down to her.
“Hell,” he muttered before his lips crushed against hers again. His body demanded he feel her flesh against his. She wanted him, and he did not possess the strength to walk away from her. Not now, not when his body was aflame with desire. Never again would she say that his kiss lacked passion. And if this was the only chance he’d receive with her, then he’d damn well make it unforgettable.
He tore his mouth away from her, the hard evidence of his desire pressing up against her. “Belle, if we do not stop now, I won’t be able to.”
Her tongue darted out to taste the bare skin of his chest and he groaned. His resolve slipped. She seemed to know exactly what she wanted from him and he would not refuse her.
“I don’t want you to stop,” she murmured with her eyes still shut, “Simon.”
At the soft purr of his name, his control broke, a possessive fire flaring to life inside of him. Simon was far past thinking clearly. Her fingers were stroking circles on his chest and it wreaked havoc with his senses. He studied the best way rid of her of the offensive material clinging to her body.
As if sensing his thoughts she gave a throaty chuckle and with a few tugs the garment fell open, exposing her ample breasts and the jagged the scar that marred her beautiful skin.
He inhaled sharply.
Oh, sweetheart.
Dipping his head, he ran soft kisses along the scar’s ragged lines, cherishing her all the more for it. His head moved upward, to her breasts and he delighted in teasing her delicate buds. Damn, he would not be able to hold out much longer.
Within moments he rid himself of his breaches, still pleasuring her with his tongue. He nudged her knees apart with his and she answered by arching into him. He nearly spilled his seed at the contact.
He roamed the length of her body with his one hand, committing the feel of her skin to memory. Though he wanted nothing more to trail kisses all over her body, he did not dare, for he’d most certainly embarrass himself.
His hand found her womanhood and Simon was satisfied at her whimper of pleasure as he inserted one finger into her.
“Saints, you’re so ready, sweetheart.”
With a swift motion, he replaced his finger with his throbbing manhood, probing at her entrance. Sweat formed on his brow. Unable to wait any longer, certain he would expire, Simon plunged into her with a single deep thrust, freezing when a whimper of pain reached his ears.
Simon froze, staring down at Belle in horror. It had been her whimper, her pain—at his intrusion of her body.
Her eyes flickered open, beautiful against her flushed skin.
Still, disbelief held him immobile.
“Why have you stopped?”
Why had he stopped?
Why had he stopped?
“Is something amiss?”
Yes, something was terribly amiss. “What the hell have you done?” he snapped.
Her brows drew together in confusion, which only served to further his ire.
“I would have thought it rather obvious,” she said with a dry voice, bringing to mind the first time he’d kissed her. He’d said those exact words to her.
“Damnation! You are a virgin!”
“Was, and should I have been something else?”
He blanched at the sudden suspicion in her tone. “That is not how I meant it.”
Her lips had parted in shock and Simon flinched. “You thought me unchaste.”
“That is not what I meant.” Wasn’t it? Why else had he been so surprised?
“Perhaps not what you meant, but certainly what you believed,” she snapped, struggling beneath him. “Get off of me, this instant!”
Simon glimpsed fury and disappointment flash across her eyes before humiliation finally settled in. His heart sank.
“Belle.”
“Do not ‘Belle’ me.” She pushed at him and this time, he relented, watching wearily as she tugged her nightgown with jerking movements into place.
“The way I see it, Simon, is that you thought my virtue had been disposed of, giving you the perfect opportunity to lay with me guilt free.”
“That is not true,” he growled. “It just it happened so fast. I lost control and…this should have been better for you—”
“That’s your fault.”
“Naturally, I will do the right thing by you.”
Belle held up a hand. “Please do not even say it. I will scream if you say it.”
His jaw clenched. “It is my duty.”
“Stuff your wretched duty! I will never marry the likes of you!”
“Belle...”
“And do not call me by my Christian name again. You have lost the privilege.” She scrambled from the ground and stood, glaring down at him. “Not another word on the matter. I have sorely misjudged you, but rest assured, I will not again.”
“We must talk about this, please.”
“There is nothing to talk about.” She inhaled a ragged breath before she twisted the knife, which he knew he deserved. “I cannot believe you’d think me so shallow. I’m not some harlot, falling into bed with any gentleman who knocks on my door.”
With quick jerking movements, he dressed, sending her a pleading look. “I have never thought you shallow…or of easy virtue. Please, let me make this right.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“This is not how a lady should walk away from her first time, especially because the man was a dim-witted fool. Let me make this right.”
“I doubt you can.”
Simon wanted to kick himself. Why did she not shout at him or pummel him with her fists? He’d take anything but this dejected response. He cursed his lack of foresight. Of course, she was a virgin. He just hadn’t wanted to give it much thought; afraid his honor would come in the way of sharing her bed.
He was such a bloody idiot.
He watched, as she, without another word, turned her back and stalked away from him toward the house, her spine rigid and her movements stiff.
“Dammit!” he cursed.
How the hell was he going to make this right?
It was impossible to tell the extent of the damage he’d done.
Yet he knew the world he’d known had been shattered tonight. He could no more let her go than he could stop breathing. With a heavy heart, he moved to follow her, if only to make sure she did not leave the house.
Somehow, he’d make it up to her, even if it took his entire lifetime to do so.
Chapter 9
The act of flirtation, Belle had come to learn, came much easier than the act of avoidance. Perhaps, she reflected on a sour note, because she was much better at one than the other. The act of avoidance, if one gave it some thought, required constant awareness, sneakiness and, at times, deviant forms of action. Flirtation on the other hand only required an easy smile, a wink of an eye and the soft sway of a hip.
Belle much preferred sticking to her strengths. Unfortunately, Westfield would not be ignored with her old enemy breathing his slimy breath down her neck.
“Double botheration,” she muttered as she poked at her breakfast.
She had lost her virtue in the garden at midnight with potential enemies lurking in the shadows. How utterly adventurous…if not for the unfortunate way the evening had ended.
The merging of two people in the act of intimacy inspired scandals, forbidden love and, in the past, even wars. Romantics wax poems of its carnal attachment, write songs of its dangers and declare mutiny in its name.
One would imagine that with such a reputation, the act itself would at least be pleasurable. Ugh. Her merging had only amounted to pain and horror. The horror being Westfield’s immediate grimace.
Should she not feel a touch of magic at the loss of something society held so high on a pedestal? But no. Belle did not feel any different. Perhaps it was not the act itself that had been disappointing, but Westfield’s priggishness. Neither Evelyn nor Jo had ever mentioned lovemaking to be lame. In fact, they enjoyed the act of love, even encouraged her to embark on an affair to experience it.
Perhaps that was the problem. She did not love Westfield, nor did he love her. Nothing about it had been magical, well, except maybe for the prelude. The sensation of him inside of her, filling her, had been nice enough. Yet he’d believed her to be a woman of easy virtue.
Deuced devil.
The problem with this blasted century was not a political or religious one. No, it lay solely with the men and their belief that they had a right to everything. Heaven forbid they did not receive what they imagined is in their right to possess. They’d retire into a fit of pique.
The most disturbing part was that Belle had never before felt such fire in a kiss, nor such immediate spark at a single touch. He was able to bring forth such an intense fire in her, it had set her ablaze. But with the single thrust of his hip, he managed to extinguish the glorious flames.
Such a pity.
“Perhaps I should put it to the test,” she muttered on an exhale as Charlemagne came trotting to her side. She patted the hound’s head.
It was preposterous of course, but once the idea formed it would not be pushed aside. What would the harm be in kissing another gentleman? If for nothing other than confirming her suspicions, Belle could see no wrong in testing the possibility.
She smiled for the first time that morning, glancing down at her beloved dog. “At the very least, my little experiment will show Westfield just what I think of his sudden duty-bound declaration of marriage. It may even prove some distraction from this other ghastly business. What say you, Charlemagne?”
The greyhound licked her outstretched hand and Belle took that as an agreement.
“And I know just the gentleman to test my experiment on.”
The deliciously handsome Earl of Craven.
The very same Craven they wagered Jo to entice a kiss from. He exuded power and was the embodiment of perfect male masculinity—handsome, virile, dangerous and with just the right amount of redeeming qualities to spark a lady’s imagination. Indeed, he possessed the unerring ingredients to set a woman’s blood on fire.
However, Craven was no fool. Luckily for her, he rarely passed up the opportunity to stir up some trouble.
With her plan in mind, Belle took a bite of her toast, pausing when she noted Charlemagne’s eyes following her movements with bated expectation.
“Oh fine, here you go,” she flicked her toast to the dog with a sigh. “You know, most hounds prefer rabbits, yet your favorite morning meal consists of buttered toast.”
Later that evening
Gold was the chosen color of the night. It shimmered in the light of the myriad of candles that were lit all across the room, highlighting her honey blond hair, and bringing out the vivid hue of blue in her eyes. As usual, her bun was loosely pinned to the side of her head and her lips have been painted the color of cherry red. Quite unsurprisingly, she demanded the attention of every man she passed, rake and gentleman alike. But her priority was to find one man in particular and avoid another.
She’d also broken Westfield’s rule to be escorted at all times, but to hell with the oaf and his stuffy rules. If De Roux wanted to finish what he’d started all those years ago, he’d have done so already. As it were, he enjoyed to sport with his victims first and until he made his move, Belle would not cower in fear.
No one even bothered to bat an eye at the fact that she’d arrived unescorted. Being a self-proclaimed spinster had its perks and while she’d always been able to catch the eye of gentlemen, they remained the distance at which she held them. All except Westfield, that was. And he could sink down to Hades as far as she was concerned.
She spied her prey leaning against the French doors across the ballroom, watching the happenings with a detached boredom and ignoring the giggling misses who stole glances at him.
Perfect.
Craven was a tall man, taller even than Westfield, darkly handsome, deliciously built and right where she required him. With purposeful gait, she waded through the crowd, smiling coyly at a gentleman here and there.
She noticed the exact moment Craven spotted her in the crowd and knew the second he realized she was heading straight his way. His lips turned upward in a small, yet tight, smile. Icy blue eyes that held nothing but suspicion stared back at her.
“Lady Belle,” he murmured when she at last reached him. “You look exquisite this evening. The color compliments you.”
“Craven, I see your charm has not dwindled with your age.”
His lips spread into an amused smile. “You have a sassy mouth on you, my lady. I believe it gets you into trouble more often than not.”
“Naturally.”
She swept a glance over their audience, noting how the young giggling misses regarded her with avid interest. Probably waiting for the moment she burst into flames for daring to approach the likes of Craven.
He noticed her perusal, as well. “Please do not tell me you are dragging me to the dance floor. My feet could not bear it.”
Belle snorted a laugh. More like his reputation. He was such an incorrigible rogue. Dangerous, too. That was why mamas steered their young away from him and gentleman avoided him—he was the rake with an infamous reputation and dark wit. But to those few who were better acquainted with him, his company was, at times, rather enjoyable.
“Heavens no, what would people say? I only wished a reprieve from this stuffy ballroom when I spotted you. Your company is far more passable than that of another gentleman.”
He inclined his head, his eyes still watchful. “By all means Lady Belle, let us take a stroll in the gardens. It would hardly be gentlemanly of me to allow you to expire in such a beautiful gown.”
It was hardly gentlemanly of him to escort her for a stroll in the gardens, but Belle refrained from pointing it out. She did not desire for him to behave with honor.
Placing her hand on his offered arm, she allowed him to guide her through the doors, the wicked glint of mischief in his eyes infectious.
Belle waited for the shiver of awareness to ripple down her spine, as it always did with Westfield.
Nothing.
Yet.
> “Dangerous men lurk in the shadows,” Belle murmured on a whisper, more to herself than to him, aware that once again she was venturing into the darkness where De Roux may yet lurk about. A whiff of doubt slivered into her mind, but she pushed it aside. Craven might be a rake, but he would not let any harm come to her. Of that she was certain.
“I take it there is a reason you sought me out, Lady Belle.”
Her gaze shot to his, but he was staring straight ahead. While his statement had been casual, Belle wasn’t fooled. Craven was no halfwit.
“I daresay you already have your suspicions.”
“The Earl of Westfield.”
Belle was impressed. She’d heard of his deduction capabilities, but never experienced it herself. Craven was as perceptive as he was handsome. “I am not attempting to make him seethe with jealousy if that had been your presumption.”
He nodded. “You are a beautiful lady, but you are independent. Now a gentleman has set his sights on you and you do not know what to do. Is that about correct?”
Too perceptive, Belle mused. “We should find you a wife, Craven. It is disturbing how much you know about everyone else.”
“I would not know what to do with one,” he confessed.
Belle chuckled. “I know a few things you could do.”
Craven joined in on her laughter. “You are a wicked woman, indeed.”
They continued to stroll further into the gardens in silence, each drawing on their own thoughts. It seemed rather pointless to have imagined this little test of hers would have worked. It was clear, just by being in Craven’s presence, that he would not ignite the same passion as Westfield.
“I have a confession, my lord.”
He spared her a glance, one eyebrow raised. “I’m all ears.”
“I came to entice a kiss from you.”
That earned her a dark laugh. “I take it you have changed your mind?”
She nodded curtly. “A terrible idea.”
“And why is that?”
“I’ve clearly lost my marbles, even though the idea did seem promising at the time.”