by Liz Carlyle
He missed Grace, missed her with an ache that was unfathomable given how short a time they had known one another. He had made love to her twice—in the same night, no less—and already he knew the rhythm of her breathing when she slept. The scent of her skin. The way she wriggled into the middle of the bed to tuck herself against him.
Upstairs, he did not hesitate, but instead, driven by a force he did not understand, opened the door to Grace’s room. The light underdrapes were closed, but the velvet curtains were drawn wide, allowing a nearly full moon to cast the room with a faint sheen. Grace lay in the middle of her bed, one fist thrown back into the pillow, her face turned toward the milky light.
He locked the door behind and settled himself on the edge of the bed. Apprehension drained away the moment he set his hand to her cheek. All was well. His dream had been just a dream, such as any man might have.
She stirred and rolled fully onto her back, turning her face against his hand to nuzzle his palm.
“Grace?” he whispered.
Her eyes flared wide. “Adrian?” Grace rolled up onto her elbows, her heavy blond hair spilling over one shoulder. “Adrian, what—? The boys?”
“No, I just…I had a strange dream.” He felt suddenly foolish.
The eyes relented, softened, and a drowsy smile curved her mouth. “Was it a good dream?”
“No, a bad dream,” he said.
She waited, still propped on her elbows, but her gaze had drifted down to his mouth.
“I have been thinking, Grace,” he said, feeling awkward as a schoolboy.
“Well, you are in my bedchamber,” she remarked, her eyes trailing up again. “I should hope you gave that some thought.”
“Dashed little,” he muttered. But beyond that, he had no words.
“Hmm,” she said. “Have you been thinking, I wonder, about that question I asked you?”
He set his hand round the turn of her cheek. He knew what she meant. “Grace, where are you going when all this is over?”
“To Paris,” she said quietly. “I had a letter from my uncle yesterday. He thinks he has found a cottage for me.”
“To Paris,” he echoed, dropping his hand. It was what he had expected, of course.
She struggled up to a sitting position, her cotton nightgown tied at the throat, her eyes wide and a little anguished in the gloom. “Adrian, I have been thinking,” she whispered. “I think perhaps I should go soon. I can’t bear just waiting here in England with Napier’s sword hanging over my head. If he has grounds, let him arrest me at the ferry.”
“Grace, why go?”
She looked away. “The boys need a proper tutor, and I…well, I do not have a life here.”
But you could have, he wanted to say.
He could marry her, of course. If he were honest, however, about who and what he was, she would likely think him insane, or—if she believed it—she would not want him. But driven by something—he told himself it was the urge to protect her—he opened his mouth.
“Grace, don’t go,” he whispered. “I could give you a life here. I could m—”
Her hand came up, her fingertips going to his lips. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Oh, don’t, Adrian. Please.”
He lifted her hand away. “Why?” he said. “Grace, the protection of my name would—”
“No.” She cut him off, her voice low and hollow. “If nothing else, think how that would look to the police. My second wealthy employer, my second betrothal? And the truth is—” Here, she looked at him plaintively, “—the truth is, Adrian, I do not know you. You hold a part of yourself away from me. Will you deny it?”
It was his turn to look away. “No.”
“And perhaps you do not know me,” she softly added. She laid a hand on his thigh, but there was nothing save comfort in her touch. “In a different time, and a different place, perhaps things could have been otherwise between us. But the here is all we have now. And I do desire you. I do admire you, and I am grateful to you. I believe we must content ourselves with that.”
“That part about desire does soothe the sting.” He managed a sideways smile.
But more and more he realized that he was falling in love with her, with her quiet grace and her kindness.
So often when she was not looking, he watched her with the boys, sometimes as she read to them in the late afternoons, or as they romped in the gardens after luncheon. But as with most of life, he watched through that ever-present pane of glass—sometimes literally. And it was in those moments, with his hand pressed almost longingly to the window, that he realized what a lucky man Ethan Holding had been to have had even a hope of a happy marriage with her.
He did not have that hope. But he did have tonight.
“I want you so much, Grace,” he whispered. “Even now, stone-cold sober, I still want you. Whatever I am, whatever I was in the past, in that little piece of here that we have now, I burn for you.”
Grace tossed back one corner of the covers and slid over. She was asking him, Ruthveyn knew, to make love to her—in the here and now, with no expectation of a tomorrow. Because she admired him, and desired him, and because he needed, with her, to step beyond that pane of glass. He was going to accept her offer and be grateful. So he slipped into bed beside her and eased one arm beneath her, drawing her fully against him.
She set her cheek against his shoulder and brushed a light kiss over the turn of his jaw. “Did you lock the door?” she whispered.
“Yes. Might the boys come in?”
“Tom did once,” she said.
He threaded one hand through her hair. “Ah, then it will be the wardrobe for me, will it not, my Grace?”
She gave a quiet laugh. “With those shoulders? I think you’d best try the draperies.”
Burning with sudden impatience, he sat up against the pillows, scooped her into his arms, and dragged her across his lap. He kissed her once, lightly, then drew away, sliding his hand into the loose, warm hair at her temple, turning her face to the moonlight. Grace looked back at him, her expression honest, her eyes warm with the stirring of desire.
Ruthveyn lowered his mouth to take her lips and felt her tremble. He kissed her slowly, gradually stoking the passion in her as he plumbed and thrust and tasted her thoroughly. It was the greatest of luxuries to him, this ability to open his mind, and even a part of his heart, as normal men did.
Yes, he was going to make love to Grace one more time and take what was not his. With his mind clear, he was going to kiss her and thrust himself inside her until he was blinded by the sweet rush of his release, and the blessed letting go that only Grace could give him. He was going to leave himself with something—heartbreak, most likely—to remember her by when all this was over, and she was gone. And he was going to give to her a part of him to take away. He would give her what was left of his heart.
He had spent the last three days trying to convince himself that never to touch her again was the wisest course for both of them. But fate, again unseen, had played him false. Fate had led him here, and now he wanted Grace with a fire and a desperation that shut away all logic. Like a starving man, he kissed her, driving her head back against the crook of his elbow as his other arm bound her tight.
Grace returned his kisses with equal fervor, the girlish uncertainty of her touch gone. She entwined her tongue with his, her hand skimming lightly down his ribs. Ruthveyn wanted to touch her until he drowned in the wanting, thrilling to her body, which was obviously naked beneath the cotton nightgown.
So often as he had watched her, he had imagined touching her like this, peeling away the somber half-mourning, the crinolines and petticoats. Unfastening the stays that bound her breasts. His fantasies were endless. Yet now he held her all but undressed in his arms, and she was returning his kisses stroke for stroke.
He lifted his lips and looked down. Grace’s chest was rising visibly, her breath already fast and shallow, her nipples hard beneath the fabric. Lust coursing through him, Ruthveyn bent his he
ad and captured one sweet nub between his lips, making her gasp into the night. Through the nightgown he suckled heedlessly until the wet fabric clung.
He ran his tongue round her dark areola one last time, then turned his attention to the other breast. Grace’s hand speared into his hair. “Mon dieu,” she whispered, the words catching in her throat.
Impatience ratcheting up, he swiftly unfastened the ties, catching one nearly into a knot.
“Here,” she said, her clever fingers making short work of it.
The nightgown sagged off her shoulder, and Ruthveyn returned his mouth to her breast, laving and suckling until she writhed a little in his embrace. Her derriere rubbed against his cock, now swollen hard, and lust shot through him like a living thing, seizing at his bollocks. A little roughly, he drew her left nipple into his mouth and bit until she gasped. Then he soothed it lightly with the tip of his tongue until she began to beg him with soft whispers to lay her down and take her.
Too much, too fast, his conscience warned. She was all but a virgin. And yet Grace seemed as caught up in the passion as he. He eased her onto the bed, her nightgown gaping open. Unable to resist, he leaned across the night table and lit the lamp, turning the wick low, then he sat back and willed himself to slow.
In the flickering lamplight, he let his hungry gaze sweep over her, taking in her swollen lips, her taut, pink nipples still wet from his mouth, and her just-tumbled hair. Good Lord he wanted to spend himself inside her this instant—wasn’t even sure, truth be told, he’d last that long. It was a humbling thought.
But lighting the lamp had been, perhaps, a mistake. Grace’s face was warming with embarrassment. Leaning over her, he kissed her again. “Don’t be uneasy, Grace,” he murmured, lightly lifting his lips. “You are a passionate creature.”
Her laugh was thready. “I feel…so naked,” she whispered. “So hungry for you, and yet…so wicked, I suppose, is the word.”
He let his hand slide down to cup her feminine heat through the nightgown. “I should have said you’re not nearly naked enough.”
Impatiently, he stood, unfastened the tie of his robe, and let the silk slither to the floor. His manhood sprang free, and he watched her eyes widen. “It’s all right, love,” he crooned, setting one knee to the bed.
Tentatively, she touched him, stroking her warm fingers down his length, causing his breath to catch. Her gaze flicked up at him. “Adrian?”
“Enough of that, perhaps,” he rasped, drawing back. His eyes went to the hem of her nightgown, which was now gathered about her knees to reveal a pair of perfect calves and dainty feet. “Take it off, Grace,” he whispered. “Let me see you.”
Obediently, she rose onto her knees, caught the hem, and drew the garment slowly up and over her narrow shoulders. The lamplight bathed her in warm light as her breasts rose with the effort, her nipples still hard and sheened with damp.
His mouth going dry, Ruthveyn willed himself to slow. To savor her. To take in her every delight before he lost himself in the rush. Grace’s belly was softly rounded, with a navel that turned inward. Her hips were slender, her last ribs lightly visible above the turn of her waist. Her small, perfectly formed breasts were high and tempting.
He wondered, fleetingly, what she would look like with those small breasts growing round and her belly swelling with his child. Then the sadness of it almost unmanned him.
That he could never ask—nor suffer through again.
The pain made him gruff. “Lie down, Grace.”
Her eyes wide, she did so, her golden hair dragging over her pillow as she scooted lower.
Again, he set one knee to the bed and eased a hand down his erection. He wanted, suddenly, to shove her legs wide and push himself at once inside her. To rut with her like a beast. The feminine in her seemed to stir something deep and animalistic in him.
It was the strain of wanting, perhaps—or better put, the conflict of wanting too much, for unlike Angela Timmonds and all the other women in recent memory, he could not see a time when throwing her off would come easy to him.
But it would not matter. Grace would be the one to leave him.
“Do you want me, Grace?” he whispered.
“Yes.” Her voice was small.
He lay down beside her, desperate to feel her bare flesh against his, and took Grace into his arms. He kissed her again—never, he thought, would he tire of it—then kissed his way down her breasts, her belly, slowly dragging lower. Setting his hands against the soft flesh of her inner thighs, he pressed gently, then kissed her there, too.
Grace gasped again, a sweet, uncertain sound. “Adrian?”
“Lie still, sweet,” he said, “and let me please you.”
He watched the muscles of her throat work up and down, then he dipped his head and stroked his tongue lightly through her feminine heat as she quivered instinctively beneath him. He teased her with short, sweet strokes until her breath came fast, and her hands twisted at the sheets to either side of her hips.
“Oh!” she sighed. “Oh, I can’t—I can’t—”
But she could. She did. And the vision was sweet to him. Her thighs went rigid, and her breathing ratcheted up to sweet gasps of need. And then he felt the pleasure coursing through her—his own moment of triumph.
While she was still sated and languid, Ruthveyn drew himself up and eased his cock into the warm, wet valley of her thighs. He couldn’t wait. Couldn’t find the words to ask. Her hands came round his neck, but her eyes were still closed, her breathing still audible in the quiet of the room. The scent of feminine arousal and the faint heat of lovemaking was erotic beyond anything he’d ever experienced, and when he pushed himself inside her, it was without hesitation.
She cried out softly at the intrusion, her hands going to his shoulders again as if to hold him back. Ruthveyn could feel the sheen of sweat on his upper lip as he stilled himself.
“Adrian—?” His name was a thin, breathless whisper.
“You’ll grow accustomed, love,” he rasped. “Hold…ah, yes, hold still.”
Sliding his hands beneath her hips, he lifted and tilted her slightly. He felt her breathing ease, and yet it took all of his self-control not to drive deep and spend himself inside her.
But good God, he was a better, more skilled lover than that, surely? In recent memory, never had he left a bedmate disappointed. Grace was inexperienced, yes, but she was passion personified, and if he tutored her—if he took his time and let her learn the siren’s song of her own body—he might bring her to that height yet again.
A part of it was purely selfish; he wanted to enslave her to him if it was humanly possible. But a part of it was knowing what real lovemaking was, and it had been a long time since he had joined his body with a beautiful woman for the slow and graceful thing the sexual act should be.
Perhaps it was time he steeled himself and found the discipline he knew he possessed. Perhaps it was time he sought something other than a quick release and instead opened himself and took what came. Bracing himself, he pushed deeper, causing Grace’s eyes to widen. Good God, he didn’t want to hurt her. He was a generously made man, in almost every physical way, but for an instant, he felt almost brutish. And then he moved back and forth inside her, his cock tugging sweetly at her feminine core, and he felt Grace sigh and relax beneath him.
Slowly—oh, so slowly—he stoked the passion inside her, thrusting all the way in, then drawing out with exquisite slowness at what he hoped was the perfect angle. Again. And again. Holding himself ruthlessly in check, he moved inside her, bringing his body fully against hers and lifting her hips against him.
“Adrian—?” she said again, with an edge of urgency in her voice.
That was good. Torment was very good.
“Be still, sweet,” he cautioned, never flagging in his exquisitely slow, painstaking rhythm.
“Adrian…” Her breath was soft against his cheek. “I want…”
“Patience, love.” Opening his mouth against the tur
n of her throat, he drank in their mingled scents and raked his teeth lightly down her neck. “Lovemaking can be slow, Grace. It can be a prolonged, worshipful act. We could find divine ecstasy together, perhaps. We have all night.”
But they did not, in fact, have all night. These were stolen moments, and in another few hours, the servants would stir. And yet Ruthveyn yearned to share something deeper with Grace, ill tutored as he was in the old ways of lovemaking.
Her breathing, however, had begun to roughen again. “Adrian,” she whispered, shifting restlessly beneath him.
“Will you trust me, love?” He kissed the turn of her jaw. “Will you let the journey be your pleasure?”
“But I—” She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. “I want…”
He knew what she wanted. And eventually, he meant her to have it. But this was what he had been born for—for her, and for this slow, exquisite bliss—and now, with his body fully under his command at last, he yearned to draw out their pleasure as long as he could. He wanted to drink her in, wanted to become her, and feel the life force surge between them. He rode her slowly, focusing on her every sigh and on every breath that they drew.
He took her mouth and kissed her again, slowly and deeply, thrusting his tongue in rhythm with his cock. He let himself absorb her passion and returned it to her tenfold, until she moved beneath him, arching up hard against his body. Never had he felt such power over a woman. Never had he felt such need. And yet he savored every moment of self-control.
“Just…don’t stop,” she begged. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t, but…” Then, spreading one hand wide between her shoulder blades, he sat up, rocking back onto his heels and carrying her with up him, until he knelt with Grace astraddle him.
“Oh!” she cried, grabbing on to him.
“Grace,” he whispered, holding her perfectly steady. “Grace, open your eyes.”
She did so only gradually, her eyes wide in the lamplight as she clutched him by the shoulders. “Adrian—?”
“Relax, love, I have you.” He somehow managed to straighten his legs as he held her against him. He kept one arm banded about her waist, his shaft buried deep. “Keep your eyes open and wrap your legs round my waist. We are heart to heart now, Grace. Relax, and let the tension inside you go.”