What Price Love?

by Stephanie Laurens

  Her luscious bottom to his groin. He bit back a groan, and concentrated—on her. Raising his hands to her breasts, he closed them, locked her against him as the contact made her gasp, made her momentarily more malleable.

  Pris kept her eyes closed and battled to quell the shivers coursing down her spine. She wasn’t cold, wasn’t in need of more clothes, but less.

  He kneaded her breasts, but there was no desperation in his touch, only a knowing confidence, one that screamed of how well he knew that each evocative caress sank into her mind, captured her senses, weakened her will.

  Before she could gather her wits and respond—resist, break away—one hard hand left her already aching breast. His chest shifted back. A second later, she felt the quick, deft tugs as he unpicked her laces.

  Why was he here? Why was he doing this—what did he hope to achieve?

  Her mind wasn’t sure; her heated body didn’t care.

  But she knew she should say something, do something, before—

  Her bodice gaped; the tiny off-the-shoulder sleeves weren’t designed to hold it up. Drawing her fully back against him again, he slid one hand beneath the loose silk, tugged down the gathered top of her chemise, and lifted first one breast, then the other, free.

  She sucked in a tight breath, had to lean back against him, had to grip the long muscles of his thighs as the remembered plea sure of his hands and fingers on her naked skin swept through her again. His hands sculpted and shaped. He pandered to her senses, openly, flagrantly, until her breasts were heavy, aching and swollen, firm and sensitive to every seductive touch.

  His fingers circled her ruched nipples, then closed, squeezed.

  She gasped, and he bent his head, with his lips traced the curve of her ear.

  “Open your eyes. The mirror—look.”

  It took effort, but she raised her lids, looked across the room, and saw what he saw. He was a dark male presence, clothed in black, holding trapped before him a slender siren in aqua silk, her bodice loose and lowered, revealing two creamy flushed mounds that his tanned hands possessed and caressed, as if he had the right, yes, but that wasn’t all she felt in his touch.

  Wasn’t all she saw when she raised her gaze and in the mirror searched his face.

  Soft light spilled over them, golden and flickering from the fire, muted and white from the lamp. In that gentle illumination, she both felt and saw something that made her breath catch.

  She—the siren—might be trapped and helpless, but…

  Her breath suspended, her body all his, she watched as he watched her watch him. As he caressed with a reined need that was powerfully reverent, as he worshipped her openly, without disguise.

  Every touch, every brush of his fingertips across her taut skin was a testament, a prayer. It wasn’t simply the physical but something more ephemeral, as if he valued the needs raging inside her, without question appreciated the wild passion she longed to let free…

  Her gaze had dropped to his hands; now she looked back at his face, confirmed that he did indeed worship that. The wild compulsive beat in her blood.

  No other had ever heard it, let alone responded. No other had ever appreciated it, shared it, as he did.

  That was what she read in his face.

  That was when she felt the reins of her will start to slide from her grasp.

  She dragged in a breath, tried to wrench her senses from the gentle but overpowering seduction. She licked her dry lips. “I don’t…”

  He looked down at his hands. “Want this?” His fingers found her nipples and squeezed; she closed her eyes on a hiss of plea sure, and he murmured, “Don’t lie—you do.”

  His voice was a dark rumble in her ear. His touch changed, became more flagrantly possessive. “What of this?”

  Sudden pressure—burgeoning pleasure—made her gasp.

  “Do you know…one thing I love about you is how you respond. To every touch, every brush, every caress.” He demonstrated, and her shameless body, her witless senses swooned, and proved him right.

  “Yes, that.” His breath was another caress. “But not only that. With you, with me, it’s not just your body that rises and meets mine, that aches and hungers, but your senses, your soul. You come to me, join with me, fly with me.” He shifted slightly, his strength surrounding her as one hand left her breast and reached down. “And that’s something infinitely more precious.”

  She heard her skirt rustle, felt it rise, felt the cooler touch of air as he drew the front up. Not in any rush, not bunching and crushing, but carefully sweeping it up and to the side; opening her eyes, she stared, mesmerized, as he released her other breast, draped her raised skirt in the crook of that arm, then his fingers returned to her heated skin, firming around one breast again while his other hand slid beneath the angled hem, and skimmed up one leg.

  To the curls at the apex of her thighs. He stroked them once, then reached past, sliding his fingers along the swollen folds, then caressing.

  In the mirror, he watched her face. “And this?” His fingers were slick with her arousal; he slid one into her sheath, lightly probed.

  She shuddered and closed her eyes.

  Felt his lips at her temple, felt his breath against her cheek.

  “I didn’t tell you before, but I should have…this, having you in my arms, feeling you respond to me, is one of the things I most love about you.” Between her thighs, his fingers probed; at her breast, his fingers squeezed. At her ear, his voice deepened and roughened, and drew her deeper into his thrall.

  “This.” And her body answered.

  “And this.” Her senses quaked.

  The deep rumble of his words, explicit and evocative, kept her with him, held her to him—in those heated moments, through the rising flames, showed her herself through his eyes.

  A revelation that made her ache. That made her want with a need she’d felt before but only now understood, only now saw for what it was.

  And in that, he was right. She did want him—would always want him. Would always want to give herself to him in just this way—not just to please him, but to take for herself the joy of knowing she could, that she did.

  His hands caressed, his voice ensnared, but it was her own needs that flamed within her. That drove her passion to ever wilder heights.

  And she knew. She might have the strength to deny him, but once he’d stirred her senses and given them passionate life, she didn’t possess the will to deny them.

  She couldn’t, now he’d revealed something of his fascination with her, quench the drive to know more—to take him into her body once more and experience again the connection…knowing what she now knew.

  If she could understand what that connection was, what gave it its power, she would know what to do, how to deal with it. How to conquer it.

  That, unquestionably, was what she most urgently needed to know.

  Her body started to coil, to tighten—but she needed him inside her, needed the physical joining to reveal the ephemeral.

  As if he heard her thoughts, his stroking eased, slowed.

  Eyes still closed, she sensed his hesitation before he asked, his voice gravelly with desire, “Do you want me inside you?”

  She opened her eyes, across the room met his in the mirror. “Yes.” She held his gaze for a second, then boldly asked, “How?”

  The abruptness of his response spoke volumes. His hands left her; he urged her to an armchair—a high-seated wing chair. “Kneel on that—be careful not to crush your skirt.”

  She could only just make out his words; she wasn’t the only one at the mercy of their shared passion. Lifting her skirt, she clambered up onto the seat, dropping the aqua silk over her knees.

  “Lean forward and hold on to the top.”

  His hands at her waist steadied her; when her fingers curved about the carved wooden edge, he released her and lifted the back of her skirt.

  They were at an angle to the mirror; turning her head, she watched as he flipped her skirt over h
er waist, saw his face as his hands made contact with her bare bottom, as thumbs and palms caressed, then, still engrossed, he reached blindly for the buttons at his waist.

  Two flicks, and his erection sprang free.

  She caught her breath, held it, eyes wide as he guided the thick rod between her thighs…as she felt the broad head part her slick, throbbing flesh, as she watched his face as his lids fell, as he slowly, with blatantly reined strength, eased his way inside her. Then he thrust home.

  She lost her breath on a gasp. The passion she’d held back rose and roared within her, howled and kicked as she clamped around him, embraced him, welcomed him.

  For one instant, he held still, his thighs to her bare bottom, his face etched with passion, with ravening desire—and something more. Something starker, more powerful, more elemental.

  More important.

  For that one instant, she stared, drinking in the sight, trying to fathom just what it was that held him so effortlessly.

  Then he dragged in a huge breath, withdrew, and returned. Her breath shuddered; her lids fell.

  And she gave herself over to him, to pleasing him, and pleasing herself.

  To being pleasured to oblivion.

  Thoroughly.

  Twice.

  Pris woke the next morning, and stretched languidly beneath the covers. Relaxing, she lay there, wallowing in the lingering aftermath of the glory that had, last night, coursed her veins.

  She’d missed it, missed this feeling of wonderful wholeness, of completion. Of feeling female in the most all-encompassing sense.

  Last night…he’d held her, and loved her, gently cradled her until she’d recovered enough to stand, then he’d set her bodice to rights, smoothed her skirts down, and escorted her back to the ballroom.

  No one, it seemed, had missed them. She’d had no idea how much time had elapsed, but not one grande dame directed so much as a cocked eyebrow their way. She wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but she was twenty-four, an age by which society expected ladies of her station to wed.

  And within the ton, dalliance was an accepted part of the rituals leading to the altar.

  Frowning, she drummed her fingers on the comforter. She would need to bear that in mind—that help in avoiding Dillon would likely not be all that forthcoming. She couldn’t—patently could not—rely on society to erect hurdles in his path.

  Of course, now her biggest problem was that she was no longer sure of his path. After last night…

  They’d parted in Lady Trenton’s front hall; she’d uttered not one word of warning or reproach—either would have been hypocritical, and given his temper where she was concerned, so much wasted breath.

  She hadn’t missed the honesty—the raw reality—of his desire for her. Or hers for him. However, he’d said not one word about marriage.

  So what was his direction now?

  All he’d said was that he would see her today.

  With a humph, she threw back the covers and rose. Briskly washing, then dressing, she glanced at the clock. Eleven o’clock. She stopped. Stared. Eleven?

  She glanced at the window, paused to listen to the noises about the house. “Damn!” She’d slept in.

  Grumbling, she rushed through her toilette.

  Her immediate goal where Dillon was concerned seemed obvious enough. Until she knew what he was about, she would do well to avoid him, or at least avoid situations in which they would be alone.

  Despite the forces arrayed against her, she was her own woman; she remained determined to dictate her own life. She was not going to marry any man who didn’t love her. Regardless of their beliefs, the ton would simply have to swallow that fact.

  Primed for battle, she went downstairs, wondering a little at the silence. She turned into the dining parlor—and saw Dillon seated at the table.

  Halting, she stared. She hadn’t expected any action before breakfast!

  His chair was pushed back from the table, a coffee cup by his elbow. Lowering the news sheet he’d been perusing, he smiled. “Good morning.” His gaze swept over her mint green gown. His smile deepened. “I trust you slept well.”

  She waited until his gaze returned to her face to blandly state, “I did, thank you. What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you.” He waved her to the sideboard.

  Reluctant though she was to take her eyes from him, she went. “Where are the others?”

  “They left fifteen minutes ago in Flick’s barouche. I have my curricle—we’re to meet them in the park.”

  She glanced at him; his attention had returned to the news sheet. The ham smelled wonderful; she helped herself to two slices, then returned to the table and sat opposite him. The butler appeared with a fresh pot of tea and a rack of warm toast; she thanked him, and settled to eat.

  Adult males, she knew, rarely chatted over the breakfast cups; content enough with Dillon’s silence, she applied herself to assuaging an appetite in large part due to him.

  The instant she lifted her napkin to her lips, he folded the news sheet and set it aside. “I’ll check on my horses. Come out when you’re ready.”

  She inclined her head and rose as he did. It felt strange, walking out to the hall side by side, without ceremony parting at the foot of the stairs…as she reached her bedchamber, she realized what she meant by “strange.” Domesticated. As if he and she…

  Frowning, she opened the door and went in to don her bonnet and pelisse.

  She was still frowning inwardly when she went down the front steps, ready to pounce on any uncalled-for, too-possessive action he might think to make. Instead, while their private interactions—his comments, her replies as he tooled them through the streets of Mayfair—remained at a level that attested to their intimacy, his outward actions were impossible to fault. He behaved with unwavering propriety, as a gentleman should to an unmarried lady of his class.

  She was still wondering what he was up to—not just what his direction was but what fiendishly arrogant steps he might take to steer her down it—when he guided his pair through the gates of the park. They bowled along under the trees, but then the Avenue, lined with the carriages of the fashionable, hove into sight, and he had to check his team.

  They were the same beautiful blacks she’d admired in Newmarket; Dillon held them to a slow trot as they tacked between the stationary carriages and the smaller curricles and phaetons that passed up and down the crowded stretch.

  “Flick’s carriage is royal blue. See if you can spot it.”

  She looked around. When other ladies saw her, and smiled and nodded, she responded in kind. They seemed to be attracting a significant amount of attention, but then it was her, him, and his horses all together. She glanced at him, took in his many-caped greatcoat hanging open over a coat of black superfine, a gold-and-black-striped waistcoat and tight buckskin breeches that disappeared into glossy Hessians, and had to admit, all together, they must present quite a sight. Something akin to an illustration in the Ladies Journal—“fashionable lady and gentleman driving in the park.”

  “What’s so amusing?”

  His words brought her back to the moment, to the realization she’d been smiling to herself. “Just…” He glanced at her; she met his eyes, mentally shrugged. “Just the picture we must make.” Looking ahead, she nodded at the ladies in the carriages before them. “We’re creating quite a stir.”

  Dillon merely inclined his head; inwardly, he grinned. They were creating a stir for a more potent reason than their glamorous appearance. He didn’t, however, feel any great need to explain that, not yet.

  Indeed, if ever. From the point of attaining his goal, there were some things it might be better she never learned.

  He saw a flash of blue ahead. “There they are—to the left.”

  The space beside Flick’s carriage was just wide enough for him to ease his curricle into. He’d borrowed one of Demon’s London grooms as a tiger; consigning the blacks to his care, he rounded the curricle and handed Pr
is down.

  Eugenia and Flick were settled in the carriage. As he and Pris drew near, Rus assisted Adelaide to the lawn.

  As soon as Pris had greeted Eugenia and Flick, Adelaide, all but bubbling with exuberance, said, “We’ve been waiting to stroll the lawns.”

  Pris had to smile at her eagerness. “Yes, of course. Shall we?”

  She looked at the carriage, received Eugenia’s approving nod, then turned—and found Dillon waiting to offer his arm. She hesitated for only an instant before laying her hand on his sleeve. It was only a walk in the park, after all.

  A walk she frankly enjoyed. Strolling with just Dillon, Rus, and Adelaide was relaxing; she didn’t have to be on guard socially. Although other couples and groups crossed their path, all merely exchanged greetings, swapped comments on the weather or the entertainments they expected to attend that evening, then moved on.

  Following Rus and Adelaide down the gravel path that led to the banks of the Serpentine, it was on the tip of her tongue to mention that yesterday, she’d had to fight off the gentlemen, both the eligible and the not-so-eligible, when caution, and suspicion, caught her tongue.

  She glanced at Dillon; while she might know what lurked beneath his urbanity, there was nothing in his appearance as he gazed about to declare his possessiveness. Nothing she could see that could possibly be warning other gentlemen away—off, as if he owned her.

  He sensed her gaze, turned his head, and caught her eyes. Arched a dark brow.

  She looked ahead to where the slate waters of the lake rippled beneath the breeze. “I was just thinking how pleasant it was to walk in the fresh air.” She glanced at him. “I haven’t walked this way, or so far, before. Indeed, yesterday there were so many around, I got barely ten yards from the carriage.”

  Dillon kept his smile easy and assured. “One day, a few appearances at balls, can make a big difference in the ton. Once people know who you are…”

  She tilted her head, and seemed to accept the suggestion.

  He studied her face, then looked ahead, and reiterated his earlier wisdom. There was absolutely no sense in explaining just how the good ladies and the interested gentlemen were interpreting his driving her in the park, and strolling with her over the lawns, at least not yet, not given the suspicion he’d glimpsed in her eyes.