He didn’t know what to say—the fact that she’d known, that she’d given up the evening’s amusement to be with him. Her thoughtfulness wasn’t any sort of surprise, but still . . . His heart insisted it meant so much more.
And she was so damned beautiful. Whatever gown or costume she’d been meant to wear for the theatrical, it had been hung away again. She wore one of her simplest, everyday frocks. But her hair was still put up in careful coils and ringlets, like an artifact of the revelry she’d forfeited tonight.
He drew close and caught a lock of that lovely golden hair, wrapping it around his finger. “I’m sorry you missed the outing.”
“I’m not sorry.” She swallowed hard. “I mean, it couldn’t be helped.”
“Of course it could. You needn’t have stayed home. I know you were looking forward to seeing your sister and your friends.”
“I was mostly looking forward to you.”
He skimmed a touch down her cheek, overwhelmed—and at a loss to imagine what he’d ever done to deserve those words. To deserve this woman.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, then. Perhaps I should get some plates and—“
He pulled her into a kiss.
He was hungry, yes. Hungry for her. His soul was starved for just this.
He’d been returning to this house, to this very room, every night of his life. But this was the first time in a long time it felt like truly coming home.
She was soft and welcoming. She smelled so damned good.
He cinched an arm tight about her slender waist, trapping her arms against his bare chest. Her fingertips explored, stroked, caressed. And then slowly slid upward, until she wreathed her arms about his neck and held him tight.
They kissed and touched. He put a hand to her breast, kneading and shaping. She sighed, arching into his caress. Begging for more. He pulled her up against him, insinuating one thigh between her legs. She rewarded him with a husky moan and a deep, demanding kiss.
It was night. They were alone, and no one was going to interrupt them. In the other room, a bed beckoned. He was already half undressed. It didn’t take a fortune-teller to see where this was going.
He murmured, “If you don’t want this . . .”
He couldn’t even complete the sentence. Want this, he silently pleaded. Want this—want me, want this life we could share—as much as I want you.
“I want this,” she whispered. Her hips rolled against the firm slope of his thigh, sending streaks of raw lust through him. “Aaron, I . . . I want it so much.”
“I had a question I meant to ask you tonight.”
“I know.” Her blue eyes tipped up, meeting his gaze directly. “I came here to say yes.”
He didn’t even make a reply.
Because there was nothing left to say. If she wanted him, he was hers. Tonight, tomorrow, always.
He swept her off her feet and into his arms. Her little shriek of laughter delighted him. He’d been wanting to do that since the first.
As he laid her down, he wished he had a better bed. A plusher mattress on a hardwood frame. Softer linens and quilts. But none of these misgivings were enough to dampen his lust. Not in the least. As he slid a hand under her skirts, his cock felt like a rod of steel in his trousers. He hadn’t known this pitch of erotic desperation since he was a youth of sixteen.
Nevertheless, he resolved to take things slowly. He knew her pleasure must come first, or it wasn’t likely to happen at all.
As he fumbled with the hooks down the back of her frock, nerves swarmed him like agitated bees. He hoped to God he could make this good for her. He’d never bedded a virgin. Hell, he hadn’t been with any woman in quite some time.
He’d spent his youth working too hard to chase after girls. Eventually, a friendly widow in the next village had taken him in hand—and taken him in plenty of other ways, teaching him the lay of the female landscape. They’d had an easy friendship, but he’d broken it off when he’d started courting the schoolteacher. And after the schoolteacher had dropped him, he’d wasted a few evenings carousing in town to soothe his wounded pride.
And that was the sum of it.
Here he was, a virile, red-blooded man of seven-and-twenty, and he could count his lovers on one hand. His hand, of course, being the most familiar lover of all.
Diana’s hands were a welcome improvement. They were soft. So soft, and so wonderfully curious. As he tugged down the bodice of her frock, she skimmed inquisitive touches up his arms, across his shoulders, down the planes of his chest. Awakening his every nerve and whipping his heartbeat to a gallop.
He removed her frock and carefully laid it aside, leaving her clad in a sweet, simple chemise and stockings. Silk stockings, from the feel of them. He ran a hand up her calf, imagining the feel of her legs locked around his waist. Just the thought made him groan with anticipated pleasure.
“You like them?” she asked. “They’re my best.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t change when you decided to stay home.” He touched the edge of her ribbon garter, but he didn’t untie it.
She gave him a kittenish smile. “Oh, I did change. I put these on for you.”
Lust streaked through him, nearly cleaving him in half. Neither of them were even naked yet, and he was already primed to spill.
“God, I love you.” It wasn’t the eloquent confession she deserved. But something in him had to erupt, and words seemed the safest quantity.
She laughed and kissed him. As their tongues danced, he sent his fingers to undo the tiny buttons queued down the front of her shift. There were hundreds, it seemed.
At last he’d loosened enough of those buttons to draw the edges apart and slide his hand inside.
Sweet heaven.
He was a smith. He worked with hard, solid, unforgiving materials all day long. But this . . . Ah, this was softness.
Nothing could compare to the sensation of her breast filling his hand. Nothing. He stroked, lifted, kneaded, teased. He couldn’t get enough of touching her.
He dropped his head, trailing kisses down her neck and breastbone, wrenching the edges of her shift aside until the rest of the buttons popped free. He paused just long enough to register the color of her nipple—a pale, tawny pink—before taking it in his mouth.
She gasped and sighed. Her fingers wove tight in his hair.
With one hand, he raised the hem of her shift, taking time to savor the glide of silk before seeking the delicate folds of her sex. She parted her thighs with an eager innocence, but from there progress slowed.
She was so small, so tight. Just working a single finger into her sheath took ages. And as men went, Aaron knew he was on the larger side. His past lovers had been glad of it. But in this situation . . .
Gathering all of his patience, he stroked that single finger in and out, all the while suckling her breasts and rubbing the heel of his palm against her pearl. Her erotic, breathy moans encouraged him, as did the increasing heat.
But when he tried to add a second finger, she tensed all over.
He withdrew his touch at once, cursing his rough workman’s hands. He drew her shift down, covering her to the knees.
“I don’t want you to fear this. And I can’t bear to cause you any pain.” The words were hell to get out, but he knew he must. “Perhaps we should wait.”
Her blue eyes glistened with emotion. Her kiss-swollen lips parted, spilling the most un-Diana-Highwood words he’d ever heard her speak.
“Like the devil we should.”
Diana savored his blank look of surprise.
He wasn’t accustomed to such language from her. She wasn’t accustomed to using such language. But on this point, propriety could go hang. She wouldn’t leave any room for ambiguity.
This needed to happen. Tonight.
She struggled up on her elbow, turning onto her side so that they faced one another on the bed. “Aaron, I was attracted to you from our fir
st acquaintance. Infatuated with you not long after. But I fell in love with you because you put the reins in my hands. You trusted me to know my own mind, and you gave me the courage to follow my heart. That’s the reason I’m here tonight.”
He stroked her arm. “If you tell me you’re certain . . .”
“I’m certain. All my life I’ve kept a safe distance from my own emotions. No longer. If fear is part of this, then I want to feel fear. Pain, as well. And joy and anxiousness and need and pleasure and . . . and everything, all at once. I want to experience all of it, and I want it with you.”
A finality settled on his features. “Then you’ll have it.”
Yes. Feeling triumphant, Diana relaxed back onto the bed, stretching her limbs in a sinuous plea for his touch.
He caressed her with his eyes first, sweeping a determined gaze over her body.
“Do you understand pleasure?” His hand eased between her thighs, cupping her sex through her shift. “This will go much easier if you reach climax first.”
He asked her the question so baldly. Even hopefully. She answered with the truth. “Yes.”
“Good.” His voice was a low, dark thrum. “Good.”
She arched her back, pushing into his touch.
“Yes,” he said. “Show me what pleases you.”
Her boldness faltered. There was admission, and then there was demonstration. But she pressed her eyes closed, gathered her courage, and reached down to cover his hand with her own. She didn’t guide him under her shift but pressed his fingers to her flesh through the muslin, working the smooth, strong friction in just the right place.
Once he’d established a rhythm, she relaxed her grip and melted against the mattress. He kissed her breasts, her ears, her neck. His skillful touch and talented mouth were arousing sensations different from any she’d ever experienced. This wasn’t a moment’s gratification in the bathing tub. This was an ocean. A vast sea of pleasure, swirling around her, lifting and tossing her in ways she couldn’t control.
The only course was surrender.
Her breath grew ragged, and she writhed, uneasy, on the bed. He fitted his mouth over her nipple and drew hard, teasing the tip with wicked lashings of his tongue. The joy was so acute. A delicious urgency bloomed and spread through her whole body. She dug her heel into the mattress, rolling her hips to meet his touch.
“Yes,” he whispered, abandoning one nipple just long enough to catch the other. “That’s it.”
He removed his hand from between her legs. She whimpered at the deprivation, until he moved to cover her with the full length of his body. He still wore his trousers, but the sheer heat and weight of him were sensual gifts. The hair on his chest teased her sensitized nipples. His hips nudged her thighs wide, and then the smooth, thick column of his trapped erection settled snug in her cleft.
Yes. This. The firm, perfect pressure was just what she’d needed. He moved against her in a slow, tantalizing rhythm, and she rode his motions.
“Aaron.” She clutched at his shoulders and neck, holding on for her life as the pleasure tugged her in ten different directions.
And then it all came together in one brilliant, shattering wave of joy.
No sooner had her climax ebbed than he was backing away, yanking at the buttons on his trousers and cursing his boots as he stripped to his skin. He pushed her shift to the waist, gazing boldly on her most intimate places. But before she could think to squirm or shy from him, he’d settled atop her again.
His thighs were hard against hers, and covered with hair, much like his chest. The smooth, broad crown of his manhood prodded at her core.
He groaned. “I . . . I don’t know that I can wait much longer.”
“I think we’ve both waited long enough.”
His hips flexed, and he pushed forward.
Inside her.
She buried her face in his neck, determined not to cry out.
He cursed. “It will be better next time. I promise.”
It hurt. It hurt fiercely—so much that only the tang of blood made her aware that she’d bitten her lip.
It will be better next time, she consoled herself as a series of slow, persistent thrusts took him deeper. Brought them closer. It will be better next time.
But once she’d reconciled herself to the promise of Next time. . .
This time started to feel rather good.
She wouldn’t climax again. That wasn’t even a question. But the sublime feeling of being needed, desired, loved with such vigor and passion . . . this was a new, intoxicating pleasure all its own. She held him tight, loving the feel of his flexing, straining muscles as he buried his length deep at the heart of her, then strove to go deeper still.
His motions quickened, grew less elegant and controlled. Her breathing was labored in a way that would have alarmed her in her youth.
Not anymore.
He kept his weight balanced on his elbows, and she curled her neck to kiss him on the chest, the neck . . . anywhere she could reach. She ran her tongue along his collarbone, feeling brazen and seductive.
With a strangled groan, he slid one hand to her backside, holding her tight for a final barrage of thrusts. His face twisted into a mask of torturous pleasure.
At last, he slumped atop her, growling and shuddering with the force of completion. Filling her deep.
He remained inside her, slowly softening as his labored breath caressed her neck.
He was quiet and still for a long, long time. Because they’d earned this, too—this refuge in each other. In all her life, she’d never felt so perfectly loved and safe.
“You can’t know,” he finally whispered into her hair. “You can’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”
She turned her head, seeking his kiss. “I think I have some idea.”
CHAPTER 11
Diana slept late the next morning. She assumed everyone in the Queen’s Ruby would.
She’d been back safe in her own bed for less than an hour before the carriages had rattled into the village center. The girls had come tromping up the stairs, giggling and whispering to one another. It would seem they’d managed to have their fun without Diana’s help. She was glad of it. Part of her had been tempted to come out of her room and ask for all the details. She wanted to hear all the news of Kate and Minerva.
But she’d decided there would be time enough for those questions in the morning. Her night with Aaron had left her blissfully sapped of strength, and she was supposed to be ill.
So when Charlotte had opened her door a crack and whispered a cautious “Diana?”she hadn’t answered but pretended to be asleep. And then she’d fallen asleep in truth.
She slept hard. Her body had earned it.
When she woke, she could hear the sounds of breakfast. Her chamber was situated directly above the dining room, and she knew well that distant murmur of porcelain and cutlery, delivered on air scented of buttered toast.
She rose, washed, and dressed in her favorite frock, then clattered down the stairs.
No, not clattered.
She floated down the stairs.
She was in love. She was getting married. She would have a sweet little cottage in this village she’d come to think of as home, and she and Aaron would build a life and a family together. It might not be the future her mother had planned, but it was more happiness than Diana had ever dreamed she’d grasp.
And by the end of today, everyone would know the truth.
In the corridor, she slowed, intrigued by the sounds coming from the dining room.
“She’s coming,” someone whispered.
A roar of shushing ensued. There was a rattle of panicked flatware.
Then Diana turned the corner and entered the dining room, and everyone fell completely, eerily silent.
“My goodness,” she said. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
One of the girls set down her spoon. “See, I told you she’d know nothing about it. It couldn’t have been her.”
&nbs
p; “Hush, Fanny.” Miss Price cleared her throat and looked Diana over. “You look quite well this morning, Miss Highwood. One would never know you were ill last night.”
“Thank you.” Diana spoke slowly, not liking the suspicious tone in Miss Price’s voice. “I am feeling much improved.”
All of the ladies regarded her warily, even as they sent speaking glances to each other.
Diana’s heart began to pound.
Oh, Lord. They knew. They all knew. Someone had noticed her sneaking out to see Aaron. Or sneaking back in afterward.
“I don’t believe it of her,” one girl whispered.
“But it couldn’t have been anyone else,” another replied.
“It’s probably a compulsion. I’ve heard of it happening with some girls. They know it’s wrong, but they can’t help themselves.”
A compulsion?
No, no, no. Diana wasn’t suffering any compulsion. She was in love. She was floating. That’s what she’d wanted everyone to see today. Not sordidness.
Instead, they all looked at her sideways and whispered behind their hands.
This was ruination, she realized. Her twenty-three years of delicate refinement didn’t matter anymore. Everyone stared at her with revulsion and fear in their eyes. As though her pretty blue frock had been soiled with soot—and if they came too close, it might stain them, too.
She felt truly ill now. What would they think of her? What would this mean for Charlotte?
One thing was certain—their image of the perfect Miss Highwood was now irretrievably shattered.
Miss Price elbowed her neighbor. “Do it. Someone has to ask.”
“I’ll do it. I’m the landlady. It should be me.” Dear old Mrs. Nichols rose from her seat and clasped her hands together in an attitude of prayer. “Diana, dear,” she began gently. “Did you have anything to tell us? Anything at all, about last night?”
The rain was back. With a vengeance.
Aaron didn’t know what to do with himself. All the Queen’s Ruby ladies would surely be sleeping in today, Diana included. He couldn’t go call on her until late afternoon, and there wasn’t much sense braving this downpour to go anywhere else. He’d looked in on Mr. Maidstone early that morning, after walking Diana back to the rooming house.
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