His breath hitched then, as if something agitated him. “We…should not be alone.”
Wanting to soothe him in kind, Nora placed her hand over the one he held to her cheek, the softness of her gloved fingertips snagging over his coarse knuckles.
Beneath her, his shoulder lifted and fell with quickening breaths, and the warmth of his exhales brushed her skin, lightly scented of dessert flavored by port.
The staff wasn’t supposed to nip at the food, but she’d always supposed they did, and she was glad he’d had a taste.
He deserved every pleasure.
Suddenly she wanted to know more about him. “How did you know about the Marquess of Blandbury?”
“Doctor Alcott,” he said simply.
“You must see him often if you know such intimate things about his patients and swap books from his library.”
He shifted a little, as if talking about himself made him uncomfortable. “I work for him four evenings a week and every other Saturday.”
“On top of your duties here?”
He nodded.
What a keen mind he must have. She rather appreciated that. “I think it’s lovely of you to lend them to Felicity.” A smile worked its way through her prior distress, at the thought of her sister’s eyes, made unnaturally large by her spectacles, as she stared adoringly up at Titus. “I think she rather fancies you.”
He made a sound in his chest that landed somewhere between amusement and embarrassment, but he made no reply.
She laced her fingers in between his as if she needed to hold onto something in order to make her next confession. “Sometimes I have vague wisps of dreams, or maybe memories, of those days I spent with the fever.”
He tensed, and she had the impression that if her hand hadn’t held his to her cheek, he would have retracted it.
“I think you were feeding me, singing me lullabies…” Unsure of what was prompting her to behave this way, she turned her face against his skin until her lips grazed the meat of his palm. “Bathing me.”
He drew away then, his breath sawing in and out of him with true effort as he turned his back to her. “Don’t remember,” he rasped.
She couldn’t tell if he meant he didn’t remember, or if he was ordering her not to recall. But she did. Bits and pieces. She wondered sometimes, how much of it had been real. If he’d taken cooling sponges to her bare skin. If he’d lowered her naked body into baths and then tenderly arranged soft nightgowns over her.
She couldn’t help but allow her thoughts to linger on the intimacy of that.
“I didn’t ever thank you properly,” she said, pressing her hand to his shoulder. “They whisked me off so quickly to that health clinic in Switzerland, and then to finishing school after that. But… I’ve thought of you often.”
So very often.
He said nothing. Did nothing. Just breathed, or at least fought to do so.
Had he thought of her? She wanted to ask. Did she linger in his mind as he did in hers, like the sweet furloughs of the past? A reassuring memory through a miasma of distress and expectation?
“Titus,” she breathed, her own heartbeat gaining strength, pressing against her ribs. “Titus, look at me.”
His chin touched his shoulder, and she reached out to encourage him to swivel his entire body to face her on the bench.
“I want to thank you,” she said, bracketing his tense jaw with both her silk-gloved hands, searching his uniquely handsome face and finding what she hoped for.
Hope and hunger.
“Thank you for everything,” she whispered. “For then. For tonight. And…for this.” Following a reckless, unrelenting longing, she pulled his head lower so her lips could press to his.
She found his mouth harder than she’d expected.
Sweeter, too.
They sat like that for a moment, their lips locked and still, as if waiting for the night to catch its breath, because neither of them seemed to be able to.
Then, his mouth became pliant over hers, before he nudged gently forward.
Moving his lips in subtle, whispering sweeps, he took control of the kiss without even seeming to know he’d done it, drugging her with motions that were as languid as they were astonished.
As certain as they were untried.
His hands drew up her arms, but instead of taking liberties, they settled at the band of skin where the hem of her gloves ended above her elbow but below her sleeve. His thumb stroked lightly there, testing the softness, and eliciting more erotic sensation than she’d thought existed.
She’d somehow known it would be like this. That he would be like this. Something inside of her had sensed his need, not strictly by the way he looked at her. But in the way he avoided looking.
As if he didn’t allow himself to want her.
She was a woman aware of her beauty. One who was reminded of it by nearly everyone she met. Usually, selfishly, she wished it were not her defining feature.
Except now.
Because she wanted nothing so much as his desire. The nature of it called to something deep within her. Something as incontrovertible as it was primitive.
And she could do nothing but answer.
When his tongue searched the seam of her lips with a questioning lick, she tentatively opened to him, but not too far. He hovered softly, before venturing into her mouth with the flavor of sweet cream and buttery cake. Not rich like the soufflé they’d had for dessert, but no less delicious.
He didn’t stroke or demand, he merely explored and retreated before daring to do it again.
The taste of him ignited an unbearable ache deep within her that, if fed, would become dangerous for them both.
Suddenly Nora was very aware she’d been gone from her own ball for far too long. That she’d be missed, and people would come looking.
Especially since Michael would have returned and, hopefully, been frightened enough by Titus’s threat, to make his excuses and leave.
Lord, she wished she could stay here. That she could kiss him all night and all the nights after. Indeed, she couldn’t summon the strength to break away.
Seeming to sense this, he reluctantly broke the seal of their mouths, returning to soften the blow with a couple of short, soft tugs with his lips.
She emitted a sigh as he pulled back, thinking he might just be the loveliest being on this earth. A strange and silent creature, as dangerous as he was docile.
“You taste like icing,” she murmured. Feeling abruptly shy and ridiculous, she wanted to pluck the words back before they reached him.
“Cake,” he explained in that deliberate way of his. “It’s my birthday.”
“Oh! I had no idea.”
“Why would you?”
The words weren’t meant to sound like a rebuke, she knew, but she felt it all the same. Why would she know such things about someone so beneath her?
“Well, happy birthday, Titus Conleith,” she said, summoning a smile that drew his gaze to her lips. “How old are you now?”
“Seventeen.”
Her eyebrows drew up at that. As tall as he’d become, as wise as the soul behind his gaze was, it was easy to forget he remained three years her junior.
“You should get back,” he said, echoing her earlier thoughts. Releasing her, he let out a shaky breath, retrieved his gloves, and stood.
Nora felt his absence with a keen sort of ache that almost shamed her. She wasn’t a woman of such need. She didn’t form attachments, nor did she entertain impossible notions. So…what was this between them?
“I’ll go in ahead to make sure that bastard is gone,” he offered, pulling the white gloves on to hide the rough fingers he’d only just caressed her with. Ones that would offend any woman in that ballroom.
But not her.
“Of course. Thank you and… Goodnight, Titus.”
He gazed down at her a breathless moment, and she almost thought he might reach down, haul her to her feet, and kiss her wits right out of her.
&
nbsp; And perhaps more.
Instead he balled his fist at his side and strode away from her, but not before the night breeze carried his words over his shoulder.
“Goodnight… Nora.”
Sniffling, Nora looked down at the handkerchief in her hand and gasped at the initials she found embroidered there.
They were hers.
She’d offered him this very handkerchief years ago in the paddock.
He’d kept it all these years.
Cruel to be Kind
Goodnight, Nora.
He said it nearly every evening for three blissful months, and it never ceased to vibrate through her with a warm incandescence.
Titus Conleith had been not only her most lovely secret, but also a revelation.
Was it always like this, she wondered, falling in love? It was as if the world—nay—the entire cosmos had shifted to make way for the two of them to revel in each other.
And no one seemed to notice.
Or, rather, they’d been too rapt to pay heed to anyone else.
Her father had been not only furious but befuddled by the abject silence emanating from the direction of the Marquess of Blandbury, the man claimed to be inaccessible due to his health. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, the Baron had barely spoken a word to her, presumably moving on to more important matters now that Parliament had resumed session.
Nora still attended balls and soirees, fittings and functions as any dutiful debutante should, but whenever she had a moment to herself, it belonged to Titus, as well.
He’d become the groom she took to assist and accompany on her long, rollicking rides across Rotten Row in Hyde Park. They’d fly over the golden ground of the horse track, their heads low and their hearts racing in time to the hooves of their mounts.
She watched him covertly as they walked the park to cool the animals. How tall and fine he looked astride the bay steed, even among lords more turned out than he.
Titus didn’t require a brilliant suit to stand out. To stand above. He did it merely by existing. When he trotted by, men made way for him, and women turned to look at him.
More frequently to gape and admire.
He wore no top hat, as he was no gentleman, though sometimes he’d set a wool cap against the sun or inclement weather. More often, he’d comb his fingers through locks as rich as Spanish chocolate, and they’d settle in the most perfect sweep back from his forehead.
Nora always overheard a dreamy sigh or two added to hers when he thusly contained a mane tousled by a spirited ride.
Extraordinarily, he seemed to be unaware of his effect.
He never flirted with the women who would try to capture his attentions; indeed, he was invariably aloof whilst managing to remain deferential. It was as though he used his politeness to keep people at a distance whilst still retaining their good opinion.
No small skill, that.
His was an honest, uncomplicated confidence. He’d a smooth way of moving about the world in which he existed, with the ease of someone who was born with a certain sense of self-possession. He never asked for anyone’s respect or permission because he required neither.
He was who he was. He did what he must, and the rest of the time, he did what he liked.
And dared anyone to stop him. Or maybe he just realized no one would dare try.
There was something so refreshing about that. So unsophisticated and natural.
Nora basked in it. She rolled herself up in his atmosphere like it was a warm blanket, and she wished for nothing more than to stay within the shelter of his blindingly handsome smile for the rest of her days.
He escorted her on picnics, often with Pru or the twins in tow, and they’d all have impassioned discussions. She’d been delighted to discover that beneath all his solemnity he was possessed of a dry humor and a sharp wit that ignited with a quick tinder. He’d regale them about what he learned with Dr. Alcott, and she and Felicity would needle him for the gorier details, most of which he was loath to share. She loved how impassioned and animated he became when he spoke of medicine, his face alight with interest.
She loved that, in him, she had found a genuine companion. A true friend.
But most of all, she looked forward to evenings like this one, where, after his work with Dr. Alcott had finished, he’d scale the trellis to her balcony and slip into her bedroom.
Nora would leave a lantern lit and sit in wait, every hair on her body vibrating with anticipation. She’d brush out her curls until they glimmered, and smooth her skin with cream, touching a tiny bit of rose water behind her ears.
And when he would pause in the door like he did now, as if he needed a moment of stillness to take in the sight of her, she positively thrummed with feminine delight.
He didn’t need to tell her she was beautiful; she could see it in the way those golden eyes ignited with a molten flame before he came to her. Before his hands sifted through the waves of her hair, setting every nerve of her body alight with sensation.
Though he’d fiercely protected her virtue, even from himself, he was all wickedness when he touched her like this.
When their lips met, she forgot that her feelings for him were forbidden.
When his hands skimmed across her skin, the coarse fibers of his fingertips snagging on the softness of her, she allowed herself a small sense of wonder. A tiny ember of hope.
She lost herself in the discovery of the peaks and planes of his topography. And she found herself in the reflection of worship with which he touched her.
Each night he came to her unlocked a new depth of passion. At first, it’d been chaste kisses and broad smiles. Then the kisses had become wilder, the caresses bolder.
More intimate.
Her nightdress began to disappear, and so did his trousers.
She learned the shape of his need. He learned the depths of her desire. And together, with breathless astonishment, they’d discovered the pleasure of which the human body was capable.
Tonight was different, though. Something more primitive lurked beneath his caress. A base and carnal urgency that called to everything that made her a woman.
He was no longer learning. He knew.
He no longer sought. He claimed.
Nora found herself beneath him, felt her legs open so he might settle between as she stretched with a liquid, boneless languor brought on by thorough attentions.
His movements and kisses had been so entirely masculine. Fervent. Arduous.
Possessive.
This new dynamic from him had excited her with such ferocity it had almost frightened her.
Because she wanted to claim him as well.
She wanted ownership of the heart that, even now, felt as though it were locked away in some hollow place. Sometimes, when he seemed very far away, she wanted to rip him open and lay him bare. If only to understand what constantly remained out of her reach.
Was this love? This desperate, wanton need? This endless curiosity?
This relentless infatuation?
As he hovered above her, this man who was barely not a boy, she smoothed a dark forelock away from his face, and smiled as it fell right back in place.
His arms trembled. His eyes burned with need. With the question. With a flame that matched the one burning in her heart.
She wrapped her body around him, welcoming him in.
Not a word was said in the darkness, as their virtue was relinquished to the other. They communicated in sighs and hitches of breath. They spoke with their fingertips and their features, the language that was created the moment one human had ever desired another. And though there was a flash of pain, there was pleasure, too.
And Nora knew he would forever own her body, heart, and soul.
The Next Morning
Nora decided to forgo a ride in Hyde Park, as she twinged and ached in secret places. The need to see Titus was overwhelming today; not only did her physical body feel a bit raw, but so did her soul. His quiet eyes would soothe her as t
hey always did. His voice would lend her the reassurance she needed. It was silly, she knew, this desire to be certain that now that he’d had her body, his heart was still true.
She tried to find him in the stables, if only to tell him not to bother saddling her horse and to suggest a stroll, instead, to somewhere neither of them would be recognized.
They might even walk arm in arm like a true couple and discuss things that were not so idle. Like their dreams for the future.
Finding the stables empty of all but the horses, she mounted the narrow steps to his room above the mews, overlooking the hubbub of the street. Often, she would find him there poring over a medical text, and she’d have to distract him with soft kisses to his neck before convincing him to do something frivolous with her.
She knocked on his door before depressing the latch. “Titus? You’re not still sleeping, are you? I thought we might—”
“Honoria.”
That one word pinned her boots to the shabby wood floor as her father stood like a titan in the middle of the room, advertising just how small and sparce it truly was.
Glacial blue eyes speared her with such abject condemnation, her legs threatened to give way.
“So it’s true,” he spat, reading the guilt that must have splashed across her face with a fiery crimson hue. “Really, Honoria, your behavior is beyond the pale.”
“Where is he?” she gasped, taking in the empty cot and the one scarred trunk now open and devoid of all personal effects.
“He’s been thrown onto the streets like the rubbish he is.” His boots made such a terrible thunder against the rickety wooden loft floor as he moved to the window to survey Mayfair, as if to make certain Titus was not still out there.
Nora’s heart did a swan dive into her stomach as tears pricked her eyes. He was already gone? She knew that she stood on the precipice of a life-altering cataclysm, and she did her best to rein in her thoughts, which bucked and galloped like a panicked horse. Now was not the time to be irrational or overwrought. Clarence Goode did not react well to emotion or sentiment. He needed her to be logical. Amiable. Measured. Disciplined.
She took a deep breath. “Allow me to explain what is—”
Courting Trouble Page 5