Holding her gaze, he slipped his hand beneath the silk, nudging the cloth aside until the first tiny scar—a small white mark above her breast—became visible. Dipping his head, he kissed it.
Camilla felt the rush of heat from his mouth, the stroke of his tongue over one scar and then another as he slowly traveled over her skin, seeking out the imperfections, and making them seem not quite so shameful.
He lowered himself to his knees as his lips followed the path of her scars to her stomach. She looked down on his dark hair as he gave his tender ministrations to each of the unsightly marks.
How did he manage with a look, with a touch to wipe away her shame?
He'd built her confidence one letter at a time, one word after another, until she'd dared to share this final secret with him, and he was erasing its significance one loving kiss at a time.
Bending over slightly, she pressed her cheek to the top of his head. How was it possible that this man could be as giving as he was when he demanded so much?
Complete surrender. Total surrender. Secrets bared. Imperfections accepted. Nothing held back. Everything revealed, so it could be measured and understood, so its significance could be weighed, its importance determined, and in the end, it seemed all that truly mattered to him was her. All the things she'd feared him discovering allowed him to care for her more. Gave him reasons to love her, gave her the freedom to accept that love.
Love. He loved her. She who had always thought herself unworthy of such a tender emotion was now the recipient of it, and she was left to wonder why she'd ever felt the need to hide. Just as when she'd been a girl and had pretended to know how to read and the pretending had prevented her from learning to read… so again had she almost repeated her mistake. By pretending not to care, she'd almost lost the chance to be loved.
She tried to hold him close, but he was not yet done. As her gown and robe slipped along her skin and pooled on the floor, he found a scar on her thigh, one on her hip. So many, too many to count, and yet he ignored not a one.
When each one had received the brush of his lips, he stood, lifted her into his arms, and carried her to the bed. The notion of protesting his actions slipped into her mind and slipped out, and she realized that in his arms, in his bed was where she truly wanted to be. Those desires were what had prompted her to unbutton her nightgown to begin with. Perhaps they were what had truly sent her to his room, book in hand.
He laid her down gently as though he feared she might break, but after all the humiliations she'd experienced in her life, she wasn't going to break now. Not when gentleness and love surrounded her.
With uncharacteristic boldness—because she'd never been the aggressor when it came to what passed between a man and a woman—she tugged on the sash of his robe. He removed the covering, and she experienced a moment of panic as he stood fully revealed. Without joining her on the bed, he reached over and cradled her cheek. She lifted her gaze to his eyes, eyes which she'd long ago come to cherish.
"I won't hurt you," he said.
Honesty. He'd always claimed to want honesty between them, and this moment called for it as no other did.
"I don't think you'll have a choice. He wasn't nearly as…" How to explain? Obviously not all aspects of the family had been passed down from generation to generation. She finally decided on, "as magnificent. I'm fairly certain that it is quite likely that you won't… fit."
A corner of his mouth hitched up into a warm, yet cocky grin, filled with masculinity and pride. "Oh, I'll fit. Have no fear of that."
Have no fear? No she didn't fear this man. He'd uncovered all her secrets, accepted them all. How could one fear acceptance? And if she disappointed him in bed… she didn't think it possible. He was a man who expected no more of her than he did of himself. He did what no one else had ever done. He accepted her for herself. She lifted her arms, spreading them wide, opening herself and her heart to him.
He came to her like the gentleness of night. Slowly. One moment it was but a promise, the next it had arrived.
And so did he, laying himself over her.
As he took her mouth, he nestled himself between her thighs. Not inside her. Just near her. The warmth of his body radiating between her, over her.
Oh, he was so lean, so fit, it seemed he was per-fection, like the many sculptures that adorned this house. Muscles knotted, tense. But unlike the cold marble, his were hot and quivering.
His tongue waltzed with hers, his mouth greedily devoured. She did with him what she'd done with no other. She touched him. His hair, his face, his neck, his shoulders, his back. She wanted to know the varying textures of all of him. She wanted to touch every glorious inch, down to his toes. But she couldn't reach his feet and didn't want his mouth to leave hers so that she could.
She'd never known that a kiss could last so long, could shift and change, and bring forth a rising tide of passion. No, no, not only the kiss, because he was doing more than kissing her. His hands stroked and caressed. He filled a palm with her breast and teased her nipple with his thumb.
Then his hand was gliding along her skin, lower, lower, along her thigh, then up, across her hip, between her thighs. Breaking off the kiss, he lifted himself, his eyes burning with yearning such as she'd never seen.
She'd never felt this wanted, this desired. He threaded the fingers of one hand through her hair while the other cupped her intimately. She felt the first stroke of his finger, watched as he closed his eyes and moaned low as though the pleasure that speared her had also shot through him.
Was that the essence of love? That pleasure given was pleasure received?
It was a concept she'd never considered, and with his next caress everything faded away except for the sensations. His harsh breaths echoed around her. The pleasure pitched and roiled. She grabbed his shoulders, anything to keep her anchored.
"I'll fit," he growled, as though challenging them both to call him a liar.
He pushed. She tensed.
"Am I hurting you?" he asked.
The desperation voiced in his question momentarily brought her back from the brink of pleasure along with the startling realization that the pain she'd always felt wasn't there. Oh, she certainly was aware of the pressure, but it was a pleasant sensation, not a prelude to conquering, but an overture for sharing.
"No," she whispered, answering him at last. "There's no pain."
The glorious pressure increased as he pushed deeper, stretching her, stretching her until he accomplished exactly what he'd promised. The fullness of him as he buried himself to the hilt filled her with satisfaction such as she'd never known. To have him fully, completely nestled inside her was as satisfying to her as she thought it might be to him.
She wrapped her legs around him, pressed her thighs against him. He opened his eyes, and she saw his look of triumph… and rejoiced in it. His power was hers. His strength hers. They were equal, yet different. Partners. Sharing. Giving. Receiving.
He dipped his head to kiss her as he began to rock against her, sliding his body over hers, in hers. Passion took hold with a fury. She thought she might come off the bed. Wanted to. Wanted to stay.
She matched his rhythm. Giving and taking.
Pleasure coiled deep within her belly, radiated outward to the farthest tips of her limbs. She pushed on him, pulled on him, tightened her thighs around him. He growled. Pumped harder, faster.
The pleasure unfurled, arching her back. She cried out, heard his guttural cry, felt his final thrust, then the quivering of his body as he buried his face in the curve of her shoulder.
She wanted to laugh. She wanted to weep. She wanted to shout, to whisper.
In the end, she simply smiled and drifted off to sleep.
He'd known,, of course, that she'd never experienced full sexual satisfaction. Allowing one's body to give in to all the wondrous sensations required a good bit of trust, and trust like pleasure was something she was only just beginning to experience.
But like reading, now th
at she'd had a sampling of it, she wanted to experience it fully. And he was more than happy to oblige.
Every night, when it was exceedingly late and the majority of the servants were already abed, she would make an appearance in his room, dressed in her nightclothes, holding a book pressed to her chest.
"I thought we would read together."
He'd grin with knowledge of the truth and anticipation of the journey. "If you like."
"In bed."
Humoring her with the pretense, he'd pull back the covers, plump up the pillows. They seldom got beyond a sentence or two before he was nibbling on her bare shoulder, her collarbone, her breasts. He took great pains never to cause her any discomfort, was never rough, was always gentle.
He strove not to allow their secret to detract from their enjoyment, but he couldn't help but resent a little that she gave no indication in front of others that she favored him… and she had made it perfectly clear to him that he wasn't to give any indication that he favored her. He still needed a wife who could give him an heir, and she still had her goal of acquiring a duke.
Understanding her driving need to be a duchess didn't make it any more palatable. She'd considered herself nothing, unworthy of even herself. Rank was an easy fix. If that was what she wanted, he wished for her to have it.
"Why so sad?" she asked.
They were stretched out on his bed, her back against a mound of pillows, he at her feet. He gave his gaze the freedom to travel up the naked length of her until it came to rest on her eyes. It seemed these days that they spent more time with their clothes off than on. "I was simply wondering if you'd still come to see me when our guests are here."
She puckered her brow. "I don't know. We'd have to be ever so careful, so discreet. I think the servants are beginning to suspect, but I don't want the duke to think, to know…" She rubbed her hand up and down his calf where it rested against the side of her chest.
"You're not married to him yet," Arch pointed out, rather practically he thought when he would have preferred to growl it. "It's not as though you're being unfaithful."
"What of Lady Alice? You don't want to give her the impression your attentions are elsewhere."
He ran his tongue along the sole of her foot. Her toes curled. He didn't care what Lady Alice or Lady Anne or Lady Jane thought. Still, he understood that when the aristocracy was about games needed to be played. "I suppose it would be best if we kept our distance."
"Pretend we're just taking a holiday from each other." Her voice sounded breathless and when next his gaze traveled the length of her, it was to find her eyes closed.
"I don't much like pretense."
She opened an eye. "You seemed to like it well enough last night when you were pretending to be a stallion."
He grinned, cockily, quite full of himself. "And you humored me by being my mare." He stopped grinning, considered her for a moment, remembering the excitement and something else. "You didn't much like me coming at you from behind, though, did you?"
She lifted a shoulder. "I don't recall complaining."
He scowled. "Be honest with me, Cammie. I never want us to do anything with which you're not comfortable or don't enjoy fully."
"I enjoyed it. Of course, I did. You always make sure I do. You're so comfortable with every aspect of two people coming together for pleasure. I want to be like that, I truly do. But it's all new to me, Arch. That's all. Sometimes I don't know what to expect. I'm not quite clear as to what you have in mind, but you never disappoint."
"If you didn't like something, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"
"Of course."
"No more secrets between us." He knew he had to qualify the statement because there were secrets around them, secrets they kept from the servants and others: her lessons in reading, her lessons in bed. But he didn't want her having secrets that he didn't know about.
She nodded. "I promise."
"Good." He cupped her foot between his hands and kissed her arch, swirled his tongue over her sole, between her toes.
"That seems terribly wicked," she murmured with a sigh.
"Oh, my darling, I plan to get a good deal more wicked before we're finished tonight."
He carried through on his promise in ways that Camilla had never imagined, certainly had never envisioned. And with anyone except him, she thought she might have felt exceedingly uncomfortable. He kissed his way up one leg, licked his way up the other. The heat started at her toes and shimmered up to her hair, only to rush back down to her heels.
He kissed her hip, her navel, her hip again.
Then he settled his face between her thighs, kissing, licking, stroking with his tongue. She released a tiny gasp, clutching the sheets. She pressed her feet against his sides. "Arch!"
He lifted his head. "You don't like it."
She nodded. "I do. I shouldn't but I do."
"Then relax and enjoy."
Relax? How could she relax when her body was humming with sensations. Each stroke of his tongue carried her higher. She became lost in the pleasure, spiraling ever higher. Oh, no secrets between them, but they would certainly have secrets. She'd never tell a soul about this.
She released a tiny screech and as the world shattered around her, he was plunging deeply inside her, carrying her farther over the edge even as he carried himself. Together their bodies jerked and clutched, and in that moment, she realized there would never be another person in the entire world that she trusted more than she did him.
* * *
Chapter 17
They arrived on a Wednesday in every sort of conveyance available. Fifty of London's elite.
They came with their personal valets, ladies' maids, drivers, footmen, horses, gowns, luggage, laughter, gossip, and expectations.
Arch didn't know how Camilla managed it all, but she did so—flawlessly. She welcomed them, introducing them to him with little hints to help him remember them.
"My lord, you remember Lady Priscilla Norwood, the Earl of Blythemoore's daughter… you danced with her at the Duke of Kimburton's ball."
Good God! How had she remembered all that, because he certainly didn't. Still he responded as expected, "Of course. A delight to have you visit us."
And so it went all morning. Greeting people he couldn't remember. Watching in amazement as Camilla made them feel welcome, acquainted them with the servant who would see to their needs, had them shown to their rooms, their luggage carted up. He didn't know how she kept track of it all.
Lillian stood nearby with lists of things she was checking off, but Camilla never referred to them, and he knew that although she'd made great progress in her reading, she wasn't yet skilled enough that she'd be able to use the lists without stumbling over something.
So she didn't use the lists. Everything was from memory.
Remarkable. Absolutely remarkable.
At one point he'd asked her if he could scrawl each person's name on a scrap of paper and pin it to his or her chest. She'd laughed at that.
"Relax, Archie. It's not that difficult to remember everyone's names. Pretend they're your students."
"With my students I had a seating chart. I could cheat to figure out who was who."
Her eyes had sparkled. "Splendid idea. I'll have Lillian give you the seating arrangements for the meals that I've worked out. You can use it to cheat."
There was a moment of panic when the Duchess of Lynchbrooke wasn't pleased with her accommodations and a lady of lesser rank had to be shuffled around until the older was satisfied.
Arch thought he'd have no trouble remembering who the duchess was, and he made a mental note to avoid her as much as possible.
A moment of disappointment followed when a missive arrived from the Prince of Wales indicating that he'd be unable to attend and sending his regrets.
Then the Duke and Duchess of Harrington arrived, and Arch couldn't have been more pleased.
"Familiar faces at last," he said, as he greeted them.
They were a
handsome couple, he with his black hair and gray eyes, she with striking violet eyes and hair spun from moonbeams.
"It seems you're to have quite a gathering," the duke said.
Rhys Rhodes had only recently come into the titles, following his older brother's death. Arch had felt an immediate kinship with the man because, like him, he'd not expected to be titled.
"It's been utter madness," Arch confessed. "I don't know how the aristocracy does it."
The duchess smiled with pure joy. "This is my first country party. I'm overjoyed to be here."
Her voice was soft and carried a musical drawl. She'd arrived from Texas only a few months before, and, unlike him, was enamored with the etiquette and protocol. Still, she was no snob, and he enjoyed Lydia's company very much.
"I believe Camilla has a good many activities arranged." He leaned near and lowered his voice. "At least I'm hoping so as I haven't a clue how to talk with all these people. I shall no doubt bumble it all."
She squeezed his arm reassuringly. "If I can manage, you'll do fine."
"Perhaps you could lend him your books," Rhys said. Then he looked at Arch. "She has an abundance of books on etiquette. One she wrote herself. I've told her she should see about getting it published."
"I'd be the first to purchase a copy," Arch said.
"Camilla seems in her element," Rhys said, looking over to where she was greeting some other recent arrivals.
"She astounds me with all she manages," Arch confessed. "I couldn't do it."
"I have no desire to do it," Rhys said.
"I, on the other hand, plan to take notes," Lydia said, "so I'll know what to do when we entertain at Harrington."
Smiling with confidence, Camilla strolled over. "Well, I do believe everyone is here and situated. We need to change for luncheon, my dear," she said to Lydia. "Do let me know if there is anything you need advice on."
As an Earl Desires Page 17