by Candace Camp
Constance wanted him to take the fleshy nub into his mouth; she remembered the pull of him, hot and wet, around it, each tug of his mouth tweaking a cord that ran straight down through her into her abdomen. With each little lick of his tongue, she wanted his mouth more. She yearned for it, ached for it, unconsciously digging in her heels and rising up.
She raked her nails lightly down his back and dug her fingers into the flesh of his buttocks. He let out a groan, giving in at last and taking her nipple into his mouth. He suckled as she kneaded his flesh. Her breath was almost sobbing in her throat, and the heat was building in her loins again, so pleasurable, so intense that it was almost a pain.
Constance whispered his name, turning her head to press her lips to his arm, propped beside her on the blanket. She kissed him, nipping at his skin as the pleasure turned ever more intense.
When she thought that she could bear it no more, that she would explode from the build-up of pleasure, he released her nipple. He hung his head for a moment, his breath harsh, his muscles clenched. After a moment he pressed a kiss between her breasts and then fastened his mouth around her other nipple.
Constance groaned, arching up against him. Desire throbbed between her legs, turning her wet and aching. His hand came down, slipping into the slick folds. She had thought that her yearning could grow no more intense, but now it did, burgeoning under the matched strokes of mouth and finger. She moved her hips against him and heard the ragged groan from his throat that signaled his last tenuous grasp on his control.
He moved, lowering himself, moving her legs farther apart. She felt the probing tip of him against her center, the pressure, the fullness. Constance moaned, parting her legs farther and lifting up to take him in. There was a startling flash of pain, and she let out a stifled cry. He paused, his body rigid and trembling with the effort. But she did not care about the pain, could not bear the waiting, and she stroked her hands down his sides and onto his hips, urging him on.
Dominic thrust inside her, and she gasped, amazed and delighted. He filled her, stretching her to her limits, and it was wonderful, as if some emptiness inside her had at last been filled. Yet at the same time, she wanted more. She wanted to take him deeper inside her, to possess him and be possessed by him.
He began to move within her, and this, she realized, was exactly what she wanted. He pulled back slowly, and she almost protested at his leaving her, but he did not; instead he thrust back into her, harder and deeper. She let out a little hiccup of sound, part moan, part laughter, at the sheer pleasure of his movements. He stroked within her, moving in a steady rhythm, growing harder, faster….
And she moved with him, matching her movements to his, feeling the pleasure build and build within her, a huge hot ball of pleasure, with each stroke turning tighter and more intense. She dug her fingers into the blanket beneath her, gripping the cloth as though to keep from flying away.
This time the feeling ratcheting up in her was familiar, and knowing how the passion would burst inside her only made her want it more. Except that now the building pleasure was even stronger, even wilder, filled as she was with him, joined to him in this long, driving dance of hunger.
Then, at last, it came…the pleasure ripping through her, white-hot at the center and exploding outward to every inch of her body. She cried out, arching against him as he thrust deeply into her, his own hoarse cry joining hers.
Constance wrapped her arms around him, their bodies clamped together, melded into one in the mindless storm of passion.
Dominic relaxed against her, his face against her neck. Constance could hear his breathing gradually slow, feel his body lose its former tension. She hadn’t the energy or the will to act or speak; indeed, she could scarcely bring enough thoughts together to form a coherent sentence, much less say it.
He pressed a kiss where her neck joined her shoulder, then rolled his weight from her, his arm going beneath her neck and around her shoulders, cuddling her to him. Constance found that her head fit quite perfectly in the curve of his shoulder. She stretched her arm across him, her fingers idly stroking his skin, threading through the hairs on his chest. She felt filled and used and slightly sore…and utterly content.
This, she thought, was what it was to love a man. She had never really known before—and how could she? She had never before felt the full extent of love—the way the heart and soul and body wrapped around another person, threaded through him, touched him in every way. It was raw, and it was beautiful. It was not nearly so sweet or ideal as everyone made it out to be. Yet it was a thousand times more wonderful—shocking, sweaty, intense and achingly real.
She knew that everything had become infinitely more complicated, but she would not think about that now. Right now, she wanted only to revel in this moment, to soak up every last bit of contentment and joy.
Dominic turned his head and kissed her forehead. He stroked his hand down her arm and twined his fingers through hers, lifting her hand to his mouth and kissing each finger.
“You are the most beautiful woman in the world.”
She giggled, knowing he was foolish to think so and extremely glad that he was. He went on to enumerate each detail of her loveliness, until she had to kiss him, laughing, to stop him. And then some minutes passed before either even thought about saying anything else.
“Constance,” he said at last, and she heard the hint of finality in his voice, the tone of thought and reason. She was quite certain that she did not want to hear what he was about to say.
“No,” she told him quickly, rising up on her elbow and putting a silencing finger across his lips. She bent and kissed his cheek, then laid her face against his and whispered, “Let’s not talk about it now. Later will be time enough.”
“We have to go back.”
“I know.”
It took enormous effort to pull away from him, but she did, careful not to look at him, knowing that to do so would weaken her. She stood and gathered her undergarments, which had wound up perilously close to the fire. At least they were close to dry now, and she quickly put them on. The riding habit, spread across the chair, was, unfortunately, still quite d& for the thick material had absorbed a great deal of water. Still, there was nothing for it but to don the skirt and bodice again.
The fire had died, but after he dressed, Dominic stirred and poked through it to make sure no errant sparks were left. Constance watched him as she combed through her hair and did her best to twist it up into a simple knot and re-pin it. There was too much hair and too few pins left, and the lack of a mirror made it even more difficult. She finally managed to get all her hair pinned, though she could only hope it would stay that way.
She still looked a mess, she supposed—her clothes damp and wrinkled and streaked with mud where she had fallen, her hair loosely pinned and, for all she knew, askew. But she could not bring herself to care. She was too filled with the rosy afterglow of their lovemaking.
Dominic turned from the fire at last, and their eyes met. His mouth softened, his eyes darkening, and he took a step forward, saying huskily, “Constance.”
He reached for her, and she went to him without hesitation, raising her face to his. He kissed her, pulling her tightly against him, and her arms closed around his neck. He lifted his head from hers at last and drew a long breath, resting his forehead against her head.
“We must go,” he said without conviction.
“I know.”
“I can think of nothing I want to do less.”
Constance smiled, her heart filling with pleasure at his reluctance to leave. “But we must.” She stepped back from him, taking his hand. “They will be waiting.”
He sighed. “You are right.” He bent and kissed her, hard and brief, then walked with her out of the house.
Dominic got their horses from the shed, and they started down the hill, leading the horses by their reins. It was quiet and peaceful, the air smelling sweetly of rain. The clouds had lifted, and the sun was setting, casting a mut
ed golden glow across the landscape.
They held hands as they walked, turning now and then to look at one another. It felt, Constance thought, as if they were the only people in the world. Everything would change when they rejoined the others, she knew, but she refused to think about it, holding on fast to this sweet moment.
When they reached the place where they had left Margaret, Calandra and the others, they found no one there. It was not surprising, given the downpour in which they had been caught. Doubtless they had ridden back to the summer house to take shelter.
Frankly, Constance was happy to find them gone. It would give her a few more minutes alone with Dominic, she thought as they mounted their horses for the rest of the return journey. When they rounded the curve a few minutes later and saw the white summer house in the distance, she was aware of a distinct sense of disappointment.
The brief interlude was over. She and Dominic would have to return to their normal lives. Unconsciously, she let out a sigh.
“I know,” he said, glancing over at her. “I don’t want to return.”
Constance smiled, pleased to hear him say it, but her spirits were sinking rapidly. She was remembering all the reasons why Dominic would never marry her. Could never marry her. Soon they would return to London and this would all be over. Even before that, when they rejoined the other guests, they would have to watch how they looked and acted. He could not take her hand or pull her into his arms. She could not look at him with her heart in her eyes. Even an engaged couple’s movements were restricted, and as to a man and woman who were not betrothed…well, they simply could not show a decided partiality for each other, let alone do something so scandalous as to touch in any but the most formal way.
As they drew nearer to the summer house, Constance saw that everyone else in their party was standing on the steps, watching them approach. Her stomach fell to her feet. She cast an anxious glance at Dominic. He was watching the group on the steps, and his face was stony.
Constance realized suddenly that they were in an even worse position than she had realized. She and Dominic were teetering on the edge of scandal. They could not help that it had rained, of course, nor that they had had to take shelter. But there was no getting around the fact that they had spent at least two hours alone together, half of that shut up in the privacy of a cottage.
It would not have been as bad, in all likelihood, if Calandra and Margaret and the others had remained at the place where they had left them. For one thing, they would not have been alone together quite as long. But more than that, they would have been able to ride with them back to the summer house, and if Calandra, Margaret and the two men had not revealed that Dominic and Constance had left the group, they could have kept that fact hidden altogether. That was, of course, a big if, but given that Margaret was her cousin and therefore had a vested interest in protecting their good name, and that Calandra was a nice person and a friend to Francesca and Dominic, Constance thought it would have been a likely possibility.
As it was now, there was no hiding the fact that they had been alone.
What little hope she might have kept that a storm of scandal might not erupt was squelched when she saw Muriel marching down the steps toward them, her face coldly furious.
“Bloody hell,” Dominic muttered under his breath as he swung down from his saddle. He did not glance at Muriel as he moved around to help Constance down from her horse.
After a moment Muriel, unable to contain herself, asked shrilly, “Where have you been?”
Dominic stepped forward, putting himself between Constance and Muriel. His eyebrows lifted in an expression of aristocratic hauteur. “The storm caught us by surprise, I fear.”
“Yes, I can see,” Muriel retorted, looking expressively at Constance.
Constance flushed, one hand going instinctively to her hair. She was very aware of everyone’s eyes on her. She was also aware of the unfortunate state of her garments—muddied and damp——and of the untidy mess of her hair. She was even hatless, since the wind had blown her hat clean off her head.
“I am sure that you were worried about Constance and me,” Dominic went on, looking levelly at Muriel. “I apologize.”
“Yes, we were afraid that something dreadful might have happened to you,” Francesca said quickly, hurrying down the steps to join them. “I am so glad you are both all right.” She reached out and hugged Constance. “Poor dear, you must have had a terrible time.”
Constance’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude. Francesca was clearly wrapping the mantle of her approval around Constance. If such a one as Lady Haughston found nothing wrong with what had happened, if she still clearly liked Constance, then who were the others to talk?
“We were quite drenched,” Dominic agreed. “But we were lucky enough to find shelter from the worst of it.”
“Shelter?” Muriel repeated, looking puzzled, but then a flash of understanding crossed her face, and her eyes sparked fire. “That cottage? On the way to the promontory? You were alone together in that cottage?”
“Muriel, hush,” Francesca murmured.
But Muriel was beyond stopping now, apparently. A smile of wicked triumph lit her face. She whirled toward Constance, declaring in ringing tones, “You were with Lord Leighton alone in a cottage for hours! Your reputation, Miss Woodley, is in ruins.”
Constance stiffened. Behind Muriel she heard the low murmurs of the other guests. Her first instinct was to bark back that nothing had happened in that cottage, but, of course, that would not be the truth. If she said it, would everyone see the lie in her face?
“Muriel, be quiet,” Francesca snapped. “They were caught in a thunderstorm. What would you have had them do? Stand out in the rain the whole time?”
“A woman who was careful of her good name would not have ventured up there alone with a man,” Muriel sneered. “And they were gone rather longer than the storm, were they not? Who knows what might have happened in all that time?”
Constance was aware of everyone’s eyes upon her. She flushed with embarrassment. Muriel was obviously intent upon Constance’s public humiliation.
She looked straight at Constance, her eyes glittering maliciously, her voice gleeful as she went on. “Your name is besmirched now. Your reputation is in rags. No one would think of mar—”
“Lady Muriel!” Dominic’s voice lashed out, hard and cold, stopping even Muriel in the midst of her rant. “I am sure that if you but think over the matter, you will realize that there is no harm whatsoever to Miss Woodley’s reputation just because she took shelter from a storm with the man to whom she is betrothed.”
A shocked hush fell over the crowd. Francesca and Constance both turned to gape at Dominic. Muriel simply stared at him, the blood draining from her face as she realized what she had just done.
“No, Dominic…” she breathed, her voice barely audible.
He gazed at her calmly, his eyebrows faintly raised, then turned toward Constance. “Sorry, my dear, to announce it so informally. But, as you must realize, I could not allow anyone to get the wrong idea.”
He swung back toward the guests assembled behind Muriel, his hard gaze sweeping over them. Their faces ranged in expression from shock to avid curiosity, but at Dominic’s steely stare, they all quickly settled into the sort of courteously blank face that was the cornerstone of polite British behavior.
It was Calandra who broke the frozen moment, saying, “What delightful news! Francesca, you sly thing, you did not let the slightest indication slip.”
“I could not,” Francesca replied easily. “I was sworn to secrecy.”
“Congratulations, Dominic,” Calandra went on, coming down the steps to join them. “And, Constance, I am delighted that you will be living close to us in the future. The neighborhood is already brighter.”
She took Constance’s shoulders and leaned in to lay her cheek against Constance’s, murmuring, “Are you all right?”
Constance nodded, saying, “Thank you.”
It was a trifle difficult to speak past the lump in her throat. Bless Calandra and Francesca for their aplomb and kind natures. They had eased the awkward situation and, perhaps, even lent some air of truth to Dominic’s words.
“Dominic, don’t be a fool!” Muriel snapped, her voice strained.
Francesca turned to her, her smile grim. “I am sure you are as surprised as everyone else, Muriel, at this good news.”
She walked over to Muriel, gripping her arm and turning her aside. In a low voice underlaid with iron, Francesca told her, “Pray, do not make yourself look any more foolish than you already have. You have managed with your maneuvering to bring about the last thing you really wanted. I suggest that you close your mouth before you do any more damage to yourself or your family.”
Francesca’s smile never wavered as she looked meaningfully into Muriel’s eyes. Muriel jerked her arm away, her face etched with anger. She shot a look of pure venom at Constance, then turned on her heel and strode over to her horse. She jerked its reins from the hand of the astonished groom who was holding it. He recovered quickly enough to give her a leg up into the saddle, and Muriel thundered off without a backward glance.
“I suppose it is time we all went back to the house,” Francesca said calmly, turning toward the other guests, as if Muriel’s behavior was perfectly ordinary.
“You must ride with me, Constance,” Calandra said. “I want to hear all about the wedding plans.”
Francesca and Calandra flanked Constance the entire ride home. Despite Calandra’s words, they did not in fact speak about the supposed wedding or engagement. In fact, beyond an inquiry or two into whether Constance felt chilled in her damp clothes, the two women said very little.