“Stop me, then,” he breathed against her mouth. “Stop me. Show me why you thought it safe to play your little game.”
For a moment insult and fear warred with desire. But then she felt it—the tremble in his hold, the hard crash of his heart against her chest, the quickened breath against her skin. He was struggling as she was.
She had promised herself she would not wait and hope, but she’d never promised not to take a chance. “I played . . . because I knew you would win.”
His grip tightened, his eyes went black as night, and then his mouth slanted over hers again.
There was no time for her to sink gently into the heat as she had in Scotland, no chance for her to find her way into the moment. She was pulled instantly, and willingly, into a battle of teeth and tongue and lips.
He shifted, sliding a knee between her legs. She heard herself moan in pleasure and press forward in a wordless plea to be closer. Her fingers flexed and un-flexed beneath his grip, needing to reach for him. But Gideon didn’t relent; he kept her trapped and immobile against the wall.
The ache became a need as he dragged his mouth away to taste the line of her jaw, the lobe of her ear, and the column of her throat. She felt the rough scrape of his teeth and the soothing flick of his tongue. He nipped lightly at the sensitive spot between her neck and shoulder, and she gasped at the startling sensation.
He went still at the sound, his weight pinning her, the ragged catch and release of his breath hot against her skin. Slowly, his hands loosened and slid from her wrists, and for one terrible moment, she feared he would let her go completely.
He didn’t. In a sudden change of mood, he slipped an arm around her waist and gently pulled her away from the wall. Then he was kissing her softly, languidly, as if he could spend hours just tasting her. His hands no longer sought to trap or take but to arouse through her gown with long, slow strokes and light, feathery brushes. As if he had suddenly decided to take care. More—that he wanted to take care.
Her last rational thought was that this is what she wanted. To feel needed and cherished, and loved.
Gideon had stopped thinking altogether. He reacted on feeling and instinct alone. His mind was blank but for thoughts of the woman in his arms. There was no ship, no battle, and no responsibility. There was no more anger or the wild need to brand what was his. There was only Winnefred . . . The feel of her fingers in his hair, the weight of her soft body against his, the sweet taste of her mouth, and the faint scent of lavender on her skin.
She overwhelmed him, drowned his every sense, and washed away all but the need to sink further into the feel and taste and scent of her. Almost of their own accord, his fingers began to work the row of buttons down the back of her gown. The material slipped from her shoulders. He nudged it further, down her slender arms and waist until it pooled on the floor in a circle at her feet. Firelight danced behind her, outlining her form through the thin white chemise and lighting her upswept curls.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, reaching up to pull the pins from her hair. She was so beautiful.
He undressed them both in stages, stopping to touch each inch of her skin as it was exposed, and giving her a chance to do the same. She was both tentative and tenacious in her explorations, letting her fingers investigate his bare chest and arms, and her hands brush over his hips and waist. She hesitated when he removed his trousers, but only briefly.
His eyes closed on a groan when her small hand sought out the proof of his desire. He stilled, allowing them both the pleasure of her discovery, until that pleasure grew too keen. Keeping an arm firmly around her waist, he drew her hand away and walked her backward to the bed.
He followed her down to the counterpane and started the process of exploration all over again. She was a study in contradictions. So small, he thought, so fragile, but there was strength in her arms, and he felt the long, lean muscles of her legs as they moved against his. He dipped his head, tasting her neck, her collarbone, her breast. Her skin was impossibly soft, terrifyingly delicate, and yet he could feel the reminders of her calluses as she ran her palms across his back. She was both pale and flushed with passion. She was helpless and in command of his every thought, his every move, his every desire.
That desire grew sharp and ruthless as he watched her sigh and moan and arch beneath him. The need to take her clawed at him, and still he held off. He wanted her blind with need, lost to the demands of her body.
He took a nipple in his mouth, teasing it into a hard point with his tongue and teeth. He ran a hand down her side, over the subtle flair of her hip, and across the silken skin of her thigh to reach the softness between her legs.
She nearly came off the bed. “Gideon, please.”
His name from her lips was more than he could stand against. He settled himself over her, struggling to be gentle, to take care as he pressed forward into the wet heat of her. She draped her arms over his shoulders and tilted her hips in encouragement . . . until he met the barrier that marked her as an innocent and, hoping faster might be better, pushed past it with a single determined thrust.
She tensed and swore. “Oh. Ouch.”
He grit his teeth until the blinding pleasure of being inside her dimmed just enough for him to bend his head and kiss her brow. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
“This is . . .” She stared at him in shock and swallowed audibly. “This is not what I thought—”
“I know.” He took her mouth in a long, deep kiss, only releasing her when he felt her nails recede a bit from his back and heard the breath she was holding flow out in a long sigh.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “Give it a minute more. Can you do that?”
She nodded and even managed a hesitant smile.
He wasn’t sure he could do it. Every second, every heartbeat felt like an eternity. She felt like heaven, and every muscle in his body screamed at him to move, to sink into her again and again, until the need that had been clawing at him for so long was satisfied. He refused to listen. Keeping a tight leash on his own desire, he set about rekindling Winnefred’s passion, his hands seeking out the places that had made her gasp and sigh before.
When she began to gasp and sigh again, he carefully withdrew and sank back into her, gauging her reaction. He groaned in relief when she met his thrust with a cautious movement of her own.
“Yes. Sweetheart.” He thrust again, a long, deep stroke that drew a moan from her lips. “That’s it . . .”
He loosened the leash then, letting instinct and desire take over. He lost track of time and place, of everything but the sweet sound of Winnefred’s cries growing faster and higher in pitch and the biting pleasure that came from drawing out the moment of his release, waiting for Winnefred to find her own.
When she did, when her legs banded around his waist and she bucked and cried out in his arms, he plunged deep one last time, then pulled himself free with a ragged groan and spent his passion on the white linen of Winnefred’s bed.
Chapter 33
Gideon stood in the library and scowled at nothing in particular. He didn’t want to be in the library. He didn’t want to be scowling, particularly, either. What he wanted was to go back upstairs, slip into bed with Winnefred, and pretend everything was fine, everything was as it should be. That’s how he’d woken—with his limbs entangled with hers and the soft brush of her breath against his neck. For a few blissful moments, he had lain awake, steeped in the warmth of her and the memory of their lovemaking.
But all too soon, the reality of what he had done began to creep in, and with it came worry, remorse, and recriminations.
Naturally, he would have to marry Winnefred as soon as possible. It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. And a part of him nearly crowed at the idea of it—at the knowledge that she was his now and that she would always be his. But the other part of him, the part that had driven him to leave Winnefred sleeping in her bed, berated him for his shortsighted selfishness.
&
nbsp; It wasn’t a simple matter of having her. It was a matter of being responsible for her . . . And for any children they might have.
An image came into his mind of a small girl with amber eyes and light brown hair with golden streaks. She’d have his sense of humor, he thought, and her mother’s laugh. He could almost hear that laugh.
The image faded away, only to be replaced by a likeness of Jimmy. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, armless Jimmy.
He dragged an unsteady hand through his hair.
There would be no children.
There would be no guarantees either, unless he meant to take a vow of abstinence—and he wasn’t so damn shortsighted he could fool himself into believing that a feasible plan—but there were steps a man could take to lessen the likelihood of a pregnancy, and he meant to follow them. He didn’t have a choice.
Winnefred might not care for it, but she was a reasonable sort . . . Well, no, she wasn’t always. But she was practical. She would understand. She would have to. She bloody well didn’t have a choice either.
Winnefred didn’t understand. She could not, upon waking, immediately puzzle through why she had fallen asleep to the sound of Gideon’s breathing and woken to silence. Not complete silence, she amended, for she could hear the muted sound of voices downstairs and the soft shuffling of footsteps in the hall.
She turned over and looked at the window. Thin streams of sunlight snuck into the room around the edges of the drapes.
It was morning, she realized groggily. Late morning, by the looks and sounds of it. The servants must be up, clearing away the remnants of last night’s ball. And Gideon had left because he’d not want it discovered he had spent the night in her bed.
Memories of that night came flooding back, accompanied by a warm wash of pleasure. Suddenly very much awake, she rolled out of bed and began to wash and dress.
Her mind raced with a thousand questions. What came next, a declaration of undying love and eternal devotion? That sounded a bit theatrical . . . It also sounded rather lovely. And closer to the truth of how she’d felt for some time now but hadn’t been able to admit.
She loved Gideon.
She loved his dark eyes, his handsome face, his sense of the absurd, and his thoughtfulness and generosity. She loved the feel of his hands on her skin and his mouth against hers. She loved everything about him . . . Well, not his misplaced sense of guilt so much, but the rest, certainly.
Was she to confess that love to him now? Would he confess his back? And what came after? It wouldn’t be marriage. He’d made himself perfectly clear on that issue, and she wasn’t foolish enough to think he had changed his mind over the course of a few hours. Perhaps, over time, he would grow amendable to the idea. He was clearly capable of changing his mind. After all, he’d chosen to put his guilt before her . . . Until last night.
But what to do in the meantime? Were they to have a clandestine affair? They certainly couldn’t have an open one. Lilly would never forgive her.
She spent some time trying to figure the problem out before giving up the notion of doing it alone. She’d just have to ask Gideon, she decided, and headed for her door. She couldn’t very well plan their future without him, anyway.
After learning from a maid that Gideon was to be found in the study next to the front parlor, Winnefred made her way downstairs. She knocked softly on the study door as the sound of Lilly and Lord Engsly’s mingled laughter floated from the dining room across the front hall.
Rather than wait for a response, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. Gideon was seated behind the desk again, but he didn’t appear to be working on anything. There were no papers before him and no pen in his hand. What she saw instead was the same clothes Gideon had been wearing the night before, the shadows under his eyes, and the fact that he wasn’t smiling when he said, “Good, you’re awake. Have a seat, Winnefred.”
A sliver of unease ran up her spine. She stepped up to one of the chairs in front of the desk but didn’t sit. “Is something the matter?”
There shouldn’t be anything the matter, she thought. Not this morning.
“Nothing the matter,” he assured her. “I merely wish to discuss the arrangements of our marriage.”
Winnefred sank slowly into her chair, caught somewhere between stunned, elated, and wary. Could he really have changed his mind overnight? It didn’t seem possible. It certainly didn’t seem logical.
“You told me you would never marry.”
“Obviously, circumstances have changed. I’ll see to it the banns are posted. My aunt will assist you in selecting an appropriate wedding gown and—”
“Wait.” She held up a hand for silence and took in the set of his jaw and his hard, unsmiling mouth. And she came to the only reasonable, and heartbreaking, conclusion. “You don’t want to do this.”
He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk. When he spoke, his tone was gentle. But the words cut like knives. “It is true, I had not planned to take a wife, but this is no longer a matter of what was planned. I am bound by duty and honor to do what is right.”
Bound by duty and honor.
She felt like a fool. A blind, lovesick fool. Of course Gideon would feel obligated to offer marriage. And of course he would view that marriage, and her, as a burden. He had not changed his mind overnight, only his objectives.
She breathed past a suffocating pain in her chest.
“Your offer”—such as it was—“is appreciated. But I must decline.”
He straightened again, looking genuinely stunned by her response. “Decline? Why?”
“I should think that fairly obvious,” she returned with as much composure as she could muster. It was hard to remain composed when the whole of her wanted to shake. “You do not wish to marry me, and I do not wish to marry you. We—”
“You don’t?”
“Want to marry you?” Not like this. “No. I’ve no interest in sacrificing my freedom on the altar of marriage.”
“I don’t know it would be as bad as all that,” he grumbled.
“Yes, it would.” But it wasn’t the loss of freedom that would make marriage to Gideon a nightmare. She was willing to relinquish some of her independence if it meant spending the rest of her life with the man she loved. But she had no desire to marry a man who did not love her in return—a man who viewed her as a yoke about his neck. And she’d be damned if she spent every day of her life wondering when he would find a way to break free of that yoke and forget her.
Tears pressed against the back of her eyes. She fought them back. “My personal feelings toward wedlock aren’t pertinent at the moment. The simple fact of the matter is—You do not want a wife and I do not need a husband. There is no good reason for us to marry.”
“There is ample reason.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “I stole your virtue, Winnefred.”
If he leaned just a little closer, she thought darkly, she could reach out and strangle him.
Stole your virtue, indeed. As if she’d been some helpless maiden he’d ravished in the night and left a broken piece of rubbish in the morning.
She leaned in a little closer herself. If he wanted to be offensive, she could be offensive. “I have a great many virtues, Gideon. None of which have ever resided between my—”
“Don’t.”
She sat back again and gathered her anger around her like a cloak. It was so much better than the hurt. “How easily you forget who I am. How quickly you would turn me into one of your pampered, incompetent, feeble-minded ladies of the ton.”
“I’ve done no such thing.”
“Haven’t you? Why propose, then?” Without love. Without even a token of affection. “Why demand a marriage I’ve not asked for, if it’s not to save me from myself?”
“Because that is the cost,” he bit off.
Oh, yes, she could cheerfully murder him. “I decline payment.”
He swore under his breath. “There are consequences, Winnefred. Things we must consider.
You may be with child.”
“I have bred Giddy,” she reminded him coldly. “I know how new life is created. The differences between our species can’t possibly be so dramatic as to allow a pregnancy without the male seed.”
“The likelihood is decreased, but it is not a guarantee.”
Even the armor of fury couldn’t hold out the heartache now. A child with Gideon. It ought to be a beautiful vision of their future—the two of them smiling and laughing and arguing over who got to teach their son to fish. Instead, she saw only misery—a husband who felt trapped into marriage and forced into fatherhood.
It was unthinkable. And the fact she hadn’t known a pregnancy could result even with measures taken to avoid it only served to illuminate how very blind she had been.
If she had managed to avoid the catastrophe of bringing a child unwanted by his father into the world, then she would thank her lucky stars, and make certain, absolutely certain, it never happened again.
“I see no reason to borrow trouble,” she said eventually. “If I find—”
“It is not borrowing trouble to plan ahead.”
“Then I shall plan ahead to revisit the matter if it becomes necessary.” Why was he arguing with her? Why wasn’t he accepting her refusal gratefully and allowing the excruciating scene to come to an end?
“Be reasonable, Winnefred. We—”
“I am being reasonable,” she cut in. It had to end.
“You’re being obstinate. We cannot, in good conscience—”
“The answer is no!” The murmur of voices across the hall ceased abruptly, but she was too furious to notice and too heartbroken to care. She stood from her chair. She couldn’t stand it a minute longer. “Oh, what a hypocrite you are, with your grand speeches of finding the humor, the pleasure in every situation. And yet when you are handed something good and beautiful, you turn it into this . . . this revolting pile of onus and obligation and—”
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