by Barton, Anne
“That may be overstating things,” he said dryly. “I don’t recommend having a hole shot in your leg.”
“Joke all you like. But you know deep inside that I’m right.” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “You don’t want to let me or anyone try to help you. And do you know why? It’s because as long as you’re in pain, you don’t have to let anyone get close to you. Your cynicism and bitterness might as well be tower walls and a moat. They keep everybody away so that you can wallow to your heart’s content. So you never have to risk losing someone again.”
She clamped her lips shut immediately after. But the words had already been spoken.
Worst of all, they rang true.
They stood glued to the floor, neither of them speaking, but they were so close that he could feel her breath coming in quick little puffs; he could see the individual lashes on her eyelids.
And the air between them seemed to crackle.
“You may have a point,” he admitted.
“You may have one, too.” She gave a weak smile. “What are we going to do?”
“Well,” he said slowly, “we’ll need to come up with a new plan. We’ll figure it out together and see it all the way through. Together. There will be no running away from scandal on your part, nor alienating people on mine. Are you game?”
She inhaled deeply. “I think so.”
“You think so?”
“Yes.”
Thank God. “Would you like to hear the first step of this new plan?”
“I would.”
“We kiss.”
Her face split into a blinding smile that soothed the stinging welts left by their exchange. She circled her arms around his neck, banishing all memory of pain. “I like this plan.”
He pulled her against him, and his blood heated instantly. “Wait ’til you hear step two.” Slowly, tenderly, he tasted her, lightly sucking the plump flesh of her lower lip. Their mouths melded perfectly, as though each had been specially formed to complement the other. Her breath became his, and vice versa, and Ben knew that if he lived to be one hundred, he would never, ever tire of kissing her, of being near her. Her beauty transcended the visible realm. It was a tangible thing, palpable in every kind word and every thoughtful gesture.
Being near her made him want to be better—worthy of her love.
Not that he ever could be. But he couldn’t help wanting her for himself. Forever.
He cradled the back of her head in his palm and trailed kisses down the column of her neck. “Did you ever think that maybe we were meant to be together?”
She pulled back slightly to look at him, her eyelids heavy with passion. “What do you mean?”
“I have the portrait on the sapphire chaise. If not for that twist of fate, I would never have confronted you, asking you to stay away from Hugh.”
“Thanks for reminding me of that.” A smile played about her lips.
“That connection led to you asking for my help in finding the second portrait.”
“Why, my lord,” she said teasingly, “that is a most romantic view. It almost sounds as though you believe divine intervention led us both to this moment in time.”
Hardly. “I don’t believe in that sort of thing.”
She narrowed her eyes. “No?”
“I’ve seen too much pain and suffering to believe in a benevolent supreme being.”
She nodded, and he was relieved that she didn’t immediately denounce him as the heathen that he was. “It’s the question that great philosophers throughout the ages have struggled with. I don’t suppose I’ll be able to change your mind tonight.”
Maybe not. But if anyone could convince him otherwise, it was she.
“Consider this,” she continued. “There is good to balance out the bad. And being here with you feels very good. Even though we’re being rather wicked.”
If she knew a fraction of the wicked thoughts running through his mind, she’d faint on the spot. He wanted her. Badly. But he didn’t want her to make love with him out of gratitude or, worse, a sense of indebtedness.
“I’m going to help you get the portrait from Charlton or Hallows or whoever the hell has it regardless of what happens—or doesn’t happen—between us tonight. It’s a foregone conclusion.” He would get the portrait for her or die trying.
“I believe you.” She nodded solemnly.
“But let me tell you what I would like to happen tonight. What I’ve dreamed about in the weeks since I’ve met you.”
She swirled her fingers in the short hair at his nape. “I’m listening.”
He pulled her back to the window seat and propped several pillows behind her before she sat. “I want to hold you and kiss you until you’re dizzy with desire.”
“I like the sound of that.”
He traced the demure neckline of her gown, his finger gliding over the smooth skin of her chest. “And then I want to remove this dress and your chemise, and every other stitch of clothing you happen to be wearing.”
“Oh? And what next?” Her sultry tone heated his blood even more.
“I would kiss every inch of your skin. Here.” He drew an X on the curve of her shoulder. “Here.” He marked the valley between her breasts. “And here,” he said, caressing the curve of her hip. “Only then, after I’d explored to my heart’s content, would we make love.”
“I see,” she said a little breathlessly. “And how would that go?”
“Very slowly at first. But then we would both want more.” He outlined the heart of her face with his hands. “And it would grow more and more powerful until we were both consumed by it.”
Her eyes widened. “Just then, you sounded almost… romantic.”
“I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret, Daphne. I care about you too much to hurt you.”
“I made up my mind on the day I came to your bedchamber, maybe even earlier, that I wanted to be with you. We have already connected in so many ways—through pain, fear, longing, and hope—that I can’t imagine being with anyone else. Not in this way.”
Her words sobered him.
Not because he doubted that he loved her.
But because he did love her.
“I cannot make any promises about us,” he warned. “I only know that I want you to be happy and would do anything to ensure your happiness.”
“I’m happy right now,” she purred.
A slow smile spread across Ben’s lips. “Bet I can think of a few things that would make you even happier.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Stroke: (1) The movement of an artist’s paintbrush across a canvas. (2) An affectionate caress that often results in a delicious—if unsettling—sort of tingling throughout one’s body.
Ben held Daphne’s face between his palms and kissed her thoroughly, thrusting his tongue into her mouth until her limbs grew heavy and loose. He speared his hands through her hair, and the light pressure of his fingertips on her scalp aroused her, waking her senses from a deep slumber.
And then she knew. She loved him.
She was fairly certain he loved her, too. Every lingering kiss on her lips, every leisurely stroke upon her skin spoke volumes. The heat in his gaze was tempered with a tenderness that made her heart squeeze. If he hadn’t yet spoken the actual words, that didn’t matter—he would in time.
He brushed his hand up her side, beneath the swell of her breast, and gazed at her like he was committing every inch of her to memory. She hadn’t worn a corset—just thrown the plain, rust-colored gown over her chemise before sneaking out of her room earlier. In retrospect, she wished she’d thought to wear something prettier, more feminine. Ben didn’t seem to mind her old dress, though. His hands skimmed the soft, worn fabric, blazing a path over her hips, bottom, and breasts. She squirmed closer to his broad chest, wishing she could shed the wretched layers that separated her skin from his palms.
“I’ve wanted you since the day I met you, but I never dreamed I’d have you.” He stared at her mouth
like he wanted to kiss her again, stoking the fire in her belly.
Enough talking. Eager to taste him, she shifted on the window seat cushions and lifted her face to his.
He drew back, his face suddenly serious. “Are you absolutely sure, Daph? Because what we’re about to do can’t be undone.”
She thought about the first time she met him at Anabelle’s dinner party and the intense feelings he’d stirred in her even then. With one look, he’d made her insides melt like chocolate. She’d never experienced that kind of desire—the kind that made her want to shed every stitch of clothing and strip Ben of his as well.
But Daphne understood what he was asking. If she gave herself to him, there would be consequences.
In St. Giles, girls routinely fell into bed with men—for love, curiosity, money, or protection. Most of her friends who’d married were already with child on their wedding day, and they’d all teased Daph for her seemingly prudish ways. But Mama had taught her that sex was something to be saved and shared with the man she married—and the belief was deeply ingrained. Any gentleman would expect his bride to be a virgin, of course. Which meant this one night of passion with Ben would prevent her from ever marrying. A frightening thought. No husband, no children, no future. Only decades of growing old… alone.
Ben caressed her arms, making small circles with his thumbs. “You could leave. I’d understand.”
She swallowed, more sure than she’d ever been. “I’m not going to leave.”
He let out a long, steady breath. “Come here.”
He slid his hand up and cupped her breast, gently tweaking her nipple with his thumb. Heat gathered between her legs, and she moaned softly.
Ben reached around to the back of her dress and undid the laces there. She got goose bumps when cooler air tickled her shoulder blades. He tugged at her dress, finally showing a smidgen of the impatience she felt, and in a matter of seconds he’d freed her from restricting seams and made her forget years of cautionary tales. He tossed the gown over his shoulder onto the arm of the wingback chair.
Clad only in her chemise, Daphne shivered. The thin lawn clung to her breasts, which felt ripe and heavy. Her nipples tightened beneath the intensity of his gaze.
He kept his eyes trained on her as he shrugged off his jacket—as though she might disappear if he glanced away. He hadn’t bothered with a neckcloth or a waistcoat for their rendezvous, just a plain-fronted cambric shirt. Where the tie at his neck was already loosened, she peeked at the muscled contours of his chest. Her breath caught as he crawled over her, his arms braced on either side.
“You’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever laid eyes upon, Daph.” His voice was thick with emotion. “Even now, in the dark, you radiate goodness and light. Everything that’s been missing from my life.”
Her eyes burned and her nose stung. He must love her. “Well, I’m here now.” She arched her back toward him, and he eagerly dipped his head toward her breast, capturing a peak in his mouth. The thin lawn of her chemise was a barrier, but not much of one. His wicked tongue soon saturated the fabric and when he moved to her other breast, the cool air kissed her damp nipple like a second lover; her loins pulsed with desire.
She slipped a hand inside his shirt and skimmed the flat, hard plane of his abdomen and the broad expanse of his chest. With every subtle shift of his body, he exuded power, strength, control. For tonight at least, he belonged to her.
He suckled her, nipping lightly at times, until she was writhing beneath him, desperate for something more. As if he knew, he shifted himself so that he lay beside her, and as he stared into her eyes, he slid a warm hand beneath the hem of her chemise. He stroked the sensitive skin behind her knee, then traveled up the inside of her thigh. She resisted the urge to squeeze her legs together and instead let her body respond to him. Her toes curled and her skin flushed; her heart pounded.
He drew small, tantalizing circles on the soft skin of her thighs. When he touched the curls at her entrance, heat flooded her neck and face; she tingled deliciously. His heavy-lidded gaze was still trained upon her, as though he was measuring her reaction to every caress. As though his sole purpose in life was to bring her endless, blissful pleasure.
It was very wanton of her to let him take such liberties, but she trusted him. His sure, skillful touch filled her with a sweet, burning longing. As he tenderly explored the sensitive folds of her flesh, he whispered titillating things in her ear, driving her mad with desire.
“I want to see all of you. Taste all of you. The chemise has to go.”
She sat up, and he peeled it off of her in one smooth motion, leaving her skin exposed to the air and to his appreciative gaze. Any embarrassment she felt melted away when he pulled his shirt off as well, exposing the sinewy muscles in his arms and a torso that tapered to narrow hips.
He was beautiful and scarred and masculine in every respect. Downy hair covered his lower belly, and she reached out to touch the patch just above his waistband to see if it was as soft as it looked.
It was.
“God, Daphne.”
Her hand froze. “Is this all right?”
“Yes. Jesus, yes.”
Before she knew what he was doing, he pushed her back, the silky pillows cradling her head and neck.
He seemed to be making good on his promise to kiss every inch of her. She should have known he would be very, very thorough.
He did not miss the spot behind her ear. He turned her over in order to attend to the indent at the small of her back and worked his way up her spine to her nape before easing her onto her back once more. Slowly, he kissed a path across her collarbone, between her breasts, down to her navel, and… lower. Her breath caught in her throat, but she opened herself to him.
Instead of moving on as he had with all the other spots, Ben lingered. His dark head nestled between her legs, his soft hair tickling her inner thighs. He flicked his tongue over the most sensitive part of her, teasing her closer and closer to some precipice. A small cry escaped her throat and the muscles of her stomach grew taut. Gradually, he increased the pressure of his tongue, setting up a hypnotic rhythm, until the pulsing down there spread into her ears and… and…
Exploded sweetly. Liquid heat radiated from her core, through her limbs, and out of each finger and toe. She bit her lip to keep from crying out as the tremors blossomed and slowly faded, leaving her sated, sleepy, and limp with contentment.
Through half-closed eyes, she watched him rise and retrieve her shawl from the chair. He sat beside her and pulled her against his warm, musky chest before covering her with the shawl. She idly fingered the fringe on the edge and waited.
For her heartbeat to return to normal.
For Ben to say something.
Or kiss her.
He chose the latter. This time, their tongues joined with a purpose. Each thrust and parry brought them closer to the inevitable conclusion of that night. She would belong to him.
Daphne had no promises from Ben and held no expectation of a proposal.
In spite of her doubts, she was giving herself to him freely because no matter what he felt or did after tonight, there would never be anyone for her but him.
She fumbled with his trousers, he wrestled with his boots, and they both laughed when he almost kicked over the lantern. But he sobered when he removed his trousers, exposing his leg. He turned to face her, and she could see in his face what it had cost him to reveal his mangled thigh—the part of him that he considered hideous. His biggest weakness.
Frankly, she was too preoccupied with another part of his anatomy to pay much attention.
He must have misinterpreted the look on her face. “Would you like me to put my trousers back on, at least partially? You shouldn’t have to look at it or even feel it.”
“Come here.”
He lay beside her, taking care to keep the injured leg away from her.
“Do you know what I like best about being with you?” she asked.
“My diplomacy
and charm?”
“That there are no secrets between us. I don’t have to hide anything from you, and you don’t have to hide anything from me.”
“This is different,” he said seriously.
“You’re right. It’s not a character flaw. It’s a scar, and I hate it if you want to know the truth.”
He recoiled slightly.
“Not for the reasons you think. I hate it because it represents the suffering you went through and still endure, and because it reminds you of the day you lost your friend, and because it makes you feel inferior when nothing could be farther from the truth.” She reached behind him and skimmed her hand over a taut cheek of his buttocks and down over the twisted muscle and ridges that marred his thigh. He tensed but allowed her to continue stroking his leg, and before long, he seemed to relax.
“I have a confession,” she said.
“There’s a third portrait? And you’re completely naked in it?”
“Very funny. No. I didn’t notice your leg earlier, because I was too distracted by your…”
He propped himself on an elbow and grinned. “By my what?”
“You know.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ll have to be more specific.”
She cast her gaze down—at it—and then quickly looked away. Good Lord. Fine. She’d take the challenge. Steeling her resolve, she looked directly into his icy blue eyes and ignored the heat that flooded her face. “I was talking about your, ah… manhood.”
“You mean my cock.”
“Er, yes.”
He leaned closer and rasped in her ear, “Why don’t you say it? For me.” He kissed her neck and the pulsing between her legs began again; she grew damp with wanting. “Say you were staring at my cock.”
“I was”—she gulped—“rather enthralled with your… your…”
He licked his finger and lightly rubbed the tip of an erect nipple. “Say it.”
“… cock.” She exhaled shakily.
“That’s a very good start. I’ll have you talking like a sailor in no time.”