Because the more he thrust inside her, the better it felt. The heat of it stunned her, made her arch up against him. And that delicious feeling along her nerves from their encounter earlier in the day had begun again, somewhat muted at first, but still there beneath the surface like an echo of pleasure in her bones.
“You feel like heaven to me,” he choked out. “An angel come to earth.”
“An angel wouldn’t . . . do this,” she couldn’t resist pointing out.
“Then, a fallen angel,” he said roughly, nuzzling her hair. “Fallen right into my arms.”
She undulated against him, and the delicious feeling became a crackling lightning in her blood, so wonderful . . . so heavenly.
Perhaps he was right—this was like heaven . . . and she was falling . . . falling so far, so fast that she couldn’t catch her breath . . . couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but hold on to him and let the rushing wind take her down . . . down into—
“I’ll catch . . . you,” he whispered as he pounded her harder and deeper with each successive thrust. “Trust me, sweetheart. Just . . . let . . . go.”
So she did. She gave herself up to the glory that was Grey inside her, and she let him tug her down with him into insanity. It was marvelous. And as she reached her release again, her body shook and quivered like an earthquake in the soul.
Only Grey could make her quake. Judging from the cry he gave as he drove deep into her and then strained against her, she was the only one who made him quake, too.
“My fallen angel,” he breathed as he spilled himself inside her, then slumped atop her. “I’ve got you now.”
He certainly had.
And when that dawned on her, to her horror, she began to cry.
Chapter Twenty
Concern gripped Grey. Had he hurt her?
He still shook from the power of his release—beyond anything he’d ever known—and it was all he could do to drag himself out of his pleasure to take care of her.
“Beatrice . . .” he murmured. “What’s wrong?”
She seemed to fight to catch her breath. “I didn’t expect it to be so . . . so . . .”
“Uncomfortable?” he prodded.
She shook her head no. “So wonderful!” she wailed.
It took him a moment to realize what she was saying. Then with relief, he rolled off her and stifled a chuckle. Propping his head up with his hand, he lay on his side to stare at her. “Sorry, sweetheart. I was afraid I’d bungled things.”
He left the bed to dig his handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, then crawled back next to her and handed it over.
She took it gratefully, blotting her eyes and blowing her nose. “I never cry, you know,” she said, her sniffling belying the claim. “Not over anything, not since Papa died. This is so embarrassing.”
“Not for me.” He frowned. “Though it’s rather sobering to make a woman cry in bed. Perhaps I should be embarrassed. Or . . . something.”
“You think this is funny,” she accused him.
“No.” He knew better than to admit that. He took the handkerchief from her and wiped away a tear she’d missed. “I’m merely humbled that the experience affected you so deeply. That’s not the usual reaction.”
She turned on her side to face him. “What is the usual reaction?”
Holy hell. He probably shouldn’t have alluded to other women.
When he said nothing, trying to figure out how to answer, she added, “You’ve had more than ‘a few’ women in your bed, haven’t you?”
He sighed. “Do you really want to know?”
Her lovely throat trembled. “I suppose not.”
Turning onto her back, she stared up at the ceiling with an unreadable gaze.
Could she be comparing herself to those other women? Because that was absurd. Next to them, she was a goddess. Even now, he couldn’t get enough of her body. Golden skin, golden-brown hair above and below, a pouty belly that made him want to lick and caress and fondle. Her body was perfect, no matter what she thought.
He’d never been one for big breasts; he preferred a big bottom, which she had. Not to mention her big wit and her big character and her big soul. Those were what he liked the most about her.
Certainly her attributes went beyond those of the carefully coiffed society ladies he knew. He liked that she was utterly natural, with her freckles and tanned skin and hair that didn’t conform to rules.
Her character that didn’t conform to rules. Because he never conformed to rules unless they made sense. It was always his choice. That’s what he loved about her. She refused to be bullied into following the rules.
Or letting her uncle make her his mistress.
Grey scowled. Damn that man. It drove him mad just to think of how her uncle Armie had tormented her. It drove him mad that she was withdrawing from him. Again. And all over some perception of how he’d lived his life.
Or perhaps because Grey hadn’t yet made the offer of marriage that he knew he must. It was the only recourse when a gentleman ruined a woman. Despite his behavior this night, he was a gentleman.
But first he’d better rid her of the perception he’d given her by alluding to his other intimate experiences, like a fool. “You needn’t worry about the women I’ve had in my bed.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Because they stopped being part of my life years ago. Once I figured out that sowing wild oats only gets you weeds, that sort of indiscriminate behavior lost its appeal.”
She eyed him uncertainly. “Years ago?”
“More or less. To be honest, I’d rather pleasure myself than go into the stews and risk theft and disease. I’ve had a couple of dalliances with merry widows, and I briefly kept a mistress, but . . .” He met her inquisitive gaze, and his tone softened. “I found such experiences eminently less satisfying than our short acquaintance has proven to be.”
He was glad he’d admitted the truth when her eyes lit up. “Really?”
“I told you—I’ve never lied to you.”
She digested that a moment. “Perhaps. But until this evening you never revealed that you thought I’d taken part in both my uncles’ murders, either.”
God save him. His sins were coming home to roost. “That was a temporary madness born of Sheridan’s discovery this afternoon that your uncles were planning to sell this place. Directly after he told me, I marched over here without stopping to think. But honestly, sweetheart, once my saner impulses asserted themselves, I knew it was absurd.”
She ran her fingers over his chest. “So you didn’t really think I could have murdered them both.”
His impulse to convince her warred with his impulse to tease her. The latter won out. “Of course I did.” When she gaped at him, he added blithely, “Your dogs will obey your every command, so you probably spent months teaching them how to drag your uncle Armie from his horse and break his neck. Then when my stepfather came along, you taught them to shove him off a bridge. It’s clear as day to me now.”
“Grey!” she cried, though she was obviously suppressing a laugh.
“You did brag to me about how well you trained them.”
She swatted his shoulder with her hand. “I didn’t train them to kill, for pity’s sake.”
“Ah. There goes that theory.”
When he grinned at her, she rolled her eyes. “You really are incorrigible.”
“You’ve got me confused with Thorn.”
“I have not.” Turning serious, she cuddled up next to him. “You may hide your tendencies better, but you and Thorn are more like each other than you will admit.”
That gave him pause. “Do you think so?”
“I do.” She stared into his eyes. “What made you separate yourself from your family for so long, anyway?”
He tensed. This was exactly what he’d been afraid of—letting someone he cared about into his inner sanctum. Letting that someone see his weaknesses. “They lived in Prussia. I lived here. That should be obvious.”
She s
earched his face. “It’s more than that.”
Damn her for being so perceptive. Why was it that the rest of his family hadn’t hit upon the truth? Why was it only her?
He couldn’t let her see his deepest fears. “You’re imagining things.”
“I don’t think so.”
Leaning over to stare down at her, he murmured, “I don’t want to talk about my family. Or yours, for that matter. If we have all night, I mean to spend it in more enjoyable pursuits. Like this.” He slid his hand down to cup her below. “I ache for you again.” God save him, but it was true. “Do you ache for me?”
She softened. “You know I do.”
This was how to keep her from guessing his shameful secrets. All he need do was keep her in bed.
A noise brought Grey awake. He was momentarily disoriented. Where was he?
Then he felt the warm body next to him and realized where. With Beatrice. In her home. Which meant he’d fallen asleep. And so had she. Judging from the light coming in the window, it was early morning. Damn, damn, damn. Long past time for him to go.
He would have leapt from the bed except that in that exact moment a sound registered in his sleep-drugged brain: that of a gun being cocked.
“Get up! Now!”
Holy hell. Grey knew that voice. And this was not going to end well.
Beatrice roused beside him. “What’s happening?”
“Your lover is about to die, my dear sister,” Wolfe said in a voice of such deadly calm it sent alarm down Grey’s spine. “You should probably bid him farewell.”
“Joshua?” Beatrice sat up in bed and clutched the covers to her breasts. Thank God that sometime in the night, they’d climbed under the bedclothes. “Joshua, put that thing away!”
Grey stifled a curse. He’d intended to be gone before now, if only to preserve her reputation in front of her brother until he could make her a legitimate offer of marriage. But the murderous glare Wolfe was giving him meant Grey would probably pay for that oversight with his life.
Wolfe ignored Beatrice. “How dare you?” he growled at Grey. “She’s my sister, for God’s sake!”
Before Grey could even muster a defense for what was indefensible, Beatrice spoke. “I chose to be with him. Why do you care? You’re not here most of the time anyway.”
Grey groaned. The last thing she should do is provoke her brother with reminders of how he’d failed her.
And Wolfe clearly felt it, for he lowered the muzzle of his rifle to Grey’s head.
“Stop that!” she said. “I wanted him here.”
Wolfe’s expression showed his uncertainty. “But Beatrice . . .”
“Go,” she told Grey in a low voice. “I’ll deal with him.”
Grey wasn’t about to allow that. Rising from the bed, he faced Wolfe down, unashamed of his nudity. “Beatrice and I are going to marry,” he said, realizing the rightness of it the minute the words left his mouth.
That took Wolfe aback. But only for a moment. “You can’t marry her.”
“The hell he can’t!” Beatrice cried.
“He’s engaged to someone else, duckie,” her brother said with a tenderness that gave Grey pause. Until the rest of his words registered.
Grey walked over to where his drawers were and drew them on. “I’m not engaged to anyone.”
Wolfe tossed a newspaper onto the bed. “No? The Times says differently.”
Picking up the paper, Grey skimmed what turned out to be an announcement of his betrothal. He swore under his breath. “This is a lie.”
“Is it?” The major glanced at his sister. “It states that your lover is engaged to marry a woman named Vanessa Pryde.”
Grey scowled at the major. “I’m not betrothed to Vanessa or anyone. She’s my cousin. I have no intention of marrying her.”
Beatrice snatched the paper from him. As she read it, her face fell. “That’s not what this says.” Lifting her heartbroken gaze to him, she wrapped the sheet around herself and left the bed.
Damn his aunt! Clearly the bloody woman had decided to take matters into her own hands, since Grey had resisted all attempts to yoke him to Vanessa.
“I swear on my father’s grave that it’s a lie,” he told Beatrice as he pulled on his clothes. “Neither Vanessa nor I wish to marry each other. But my aunt is trying to force the issue because she thinks I would never stand Vanessa up and thus destroy my cousin’s reputation. The only woman I wish to marry is you.”
“Why?” she asked. “You haven’t wished to marry me before.”
“I took your innocence,” he said matter-of-factly. “Which means I must marry you.”
He knew he’d said the wrong thing when she flinched. “How flattering.”
“Damn it, that’s not what I meant.”
She walked over to where her nightdress lay and managed somehow to don it while still protecting her modesty with the sheet. “Then what did you mean?”
“She doesn’t want you,” her brother said. “And she deserves better than you.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Grey barked as he continued to dress.
That seemed to take Wolfe aback. Then he sneered at Grey. “Is that why you’re betrothing yourself to some other woman?”
“I’m not!” He turned to Beatrice as he tied his cravat. “I need to speak with you privately, sweetheart.”
“The hell you will!” Wolfe growled.
Beatrice looked at her brother. “Let me talk to His Grace.” When Wolfe stiffened, she said in a low voice, “Come on, Grey. We should hash this out before he shoots you.”
Grey let her pull him into the hallway. But as soon as they were out of earshot of her brother, he seized her by her shoulders. “You know we must marry. I realize I’ve spent half the night acting like your uncle, but I’m unlike him in the one way that counts. I’m a gentleman.”
Clearly remembering what she’d said about her uncle’s not being a gentleman, she kept staring at him.
He went on. “The moment I came up here to bed you I knew I’d be offering marriage. I will not behave as some vile seducer who takes a respectable country girl to bed and then abandons her to her ruination. We must marry, and we will marry.”
“You don’t have to convince me.”
“Oh.” He released her to run a hand through his hair. “From the way you were behaving, I rather thought I might.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes. “What I mean is, you don’t have to convince me; you have to convince her.”
“Her who?”
“Your cousin Vanessa, you dolt!”
He let out an exasperated breath. “The Vanessa who’d rather have her tongue cut out than marry me? That Vanessa? Trust me, the only one who wants to see me and my cousin married is her mother.”
“And no wonder. Her daughter is clearly a ninny in need of husbandly guidance if she can’t see how lucky she would be to have you.”
The compliment brought him up short. Gave him hope. “Vanessa is no ninny. But then, neither are you.” Staring down into her uncertain gaze, he said, “And that is the real reason I wish to marry you.”
“You mean, it’s not because you ruined me?” she said, throwing his heedless words back in his face.
He winced. “I shouldn’t have said that. The truth is, I would feel myself fortunate to have you for a wife.” As long as she didn’t expect too much from him. But that was a conversation they’d have to have later, once he ironed out this mess with his aunt. “And I pray you can believe that.”
“I don’t know what to believe, Grey,” she whispered.
He stared down at the woman he’d only now begun to understand. “Then know this. Vanessa isn’t the one I wish to marry. You are. I mean to come back here and do whatever I must to convince you of that. But for now I must go to London at once and unravel this Gordian knot my aunt has woven.” He pulled her close. “I want to marry you, sweetheart, no matter what my aunt says and no matter what your brother says. You are the only woman for me.”
She gazed up at him, her eyes shining. “I’ll wait for you.”
The simple words struck him in the chest, in the place he’d always thought of as hollow, missing a heart. She wanted him. She was willing to wait for him, to trust him to do right by her. No one had ever trusted him like that before.
“Good,” he said, realizing that the word couldn’t possibly convey how he felt. “Good,” he repeated.
She smiled at him. “Go. And do it quick. I’ll handle Joshua.”
Grey glanced back into the room, where Wolfe was still glowering at him through the open doorway. “I don’t like to leave you alone with him, especially after we—”
“His bark is worse than his bite, believe me.” When he eyed her skeptically, thinking of what they both suspected her brother had done, she added, “He won’t hurt me, I promise. In his own gruff way, he loves me.”
That was all he needed to hear. He brushed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Then he hurried off down the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-One
As Grey left the house, without his coat or waistcoat, which were still in the kitchen, Joshua growled, “Wait, where are you going, you damned bastard!” and stomped toward the hall, with his pistol in one hand and his cane in the other.
Though Beatrice was still reeling from all that Grey had told her, she blocked the doorway. “Let him go. You don’t want to murder another duke.”
Uh-oh. She hadn’t meant to blurt out “another duke,” but it was early morning and she wasn’t thinking straight.
“Step aside, Beatrice. I mean to make sure that the scoundrel doesn’t—” He paused to stare at her. “Wait, did you say, another duke?”
Blast. “I . . . um . . . well . . . You obviously misheard me.”
“The hell I did! What duke am I supposed to have murdered?”
She winced. The cat had its paw out of the bag—she might as well pull it out the rest of the way. “Uncle Armie.”
“What?!” As if realizing he still held a pistol in his hand, practically giving her a reason to accuse him, he carefully uncocked it and set it down on a nearby table. “Why would I murder Uncle Armie? I didn’t like the man, but I had no reason to kill him.”
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