by Lucy Ashford
She dashed that tear aside with her own hand and said flatly, ‘My mother died when I was two. My father never forgave me for Edward’s accident.’
Adam sighed. He was holding both her hands in his; they felt small and cold. ‘Oh, Belle. None of us are blessed with everything we want in our lives, but you deserve so much more than you have. Than you allow yourself to have.’
Her face flew up to his, her expression one of surprise and almost fear. ‘No! You are just saying this, because of the accident to poor little Tom. I am really quite happy with my life and my shop...’
His arm was round her shoulder, warming her. He affected her—oh, that touch!—in a way she would not have believed possible. And it simply would not do, because she knew that in Adam Davenant’s life everyone and everything had a purpose—including her. He was using her to keep the husband-hunters at bay and was making her pay sorely for her brother’s debts and her own insults.
He despised her, of course. Yet as his long, lean fingers fondled her shoulders through the thin fabric of her gown, she could scarcely breathe for the pleasure of it.
He was murmuring, ‘So stubborn. So determined to exclude yourself from the kind of life most women long for. Yet you were wonderful with those children today. Belle, why didn’t you have children of your own?’
She paused, gathering her thoughts. ‘I was told I could not have them. I did hope to become a doting aunt to my brother’s children, but Charlotte—she...’ Her throat was suddenly too tight to speak.
‘Charlotte’s baby has just died,’ he put in quietly. ‘Belle. Tell me. Why didn’t you marry again? You surely must have had suitors...’
He saw her stricken expression and stopped. He went on, even more softly, ‘Did you love your husband so very much?’
‘There has been no one else,’ she whispered. ‘No one.’ Until now...
Then she rose to her feet and smoothed down her skirts, making a desperate attempt to pull herself together. ‘To exist on one’s own,’ she declared, ‘is perfectly feasible, as you so often declare, Adam. Families tend to be over-rated, don’t you think? Though yours—gracious me, your brother and his family are quite delightful, as one might expect!’ Another tear was rolling down her cheek; again she dashed it away. ‘You’ll forgive me for my slight exasperation, I hope, you—you wretchedly perfect man! Does nothing ever go wrong for you?’ She was fumbling for a handkerchief; more tears were brimming over her dark eyelashes.
Suddenly Adam was on his feet, too. He strode across to her and was holding her. She lifted her hand in some half-hearted gesture of resistance, but that was actually worse than useless, because he caught her fingers and pressed a kiss to the delicate skin of her inner wrist that sent shivers pulsing through her. Gathering her remorselessly into his powerfully muscled arms, he lowered his head to hers and kissed her.
The sweetness of his tongue slipping between her parted lips, silkily tasting and touching, made her feel quite faint with desire. She was aware of his arousal now, throbbing darkly against her abdomen; her hands had instinctively twined around his powerful shoulders.
A physical reaction, her pleasure-besieged brain told her. Nothing more. Nothing at all more. That was why she didn’t stop him when his strong hand moved to gently caress her breast. That was why, at the juncture of her thighs, she felt an ache of sheer, sweet longing that was almost a pain...
Yes, it was wrong, all wrong. But, oh God, she wanted this man. So badly.
* * *
Adam’s emotions, too, were in roiling tumult. He was taking advantage of her and he hadn’t damn well meant to. As his lips possessed hers, as his tongue explored the satin recesses of her exquisite mouth, he fought to stop a great surge of desire pushing reason out of the window.
Lowell had been right, he’d been wrong. For all these years she’d been faithfully grieving her lost husband. He’d exploited that grief. He’d also exploited, just now, her remembrance of childhood horrors for which she unfairly blamed herself.
He knew he ought to take his hands off her, now. But he wanted her. He wanted her with an urgency he couldn’t ever remember feeling in his entire life, and that big bed was too damned close...
He forced himself away. ‘Tell me to stop, for God’s sake,’ he gritted. ‘Damn it, Belle, tell me to stop now, for I swear if we carry on much longer, I will not be able to do so.’
‘You mean—this is real?’ she breathed. ‘You actually find me desirable?’
What in hell was she talking about? He gave a harsh, incredulous laugh. ‘Can’t you tell?’ He was brushing his lips along her cheek and throat, his arousal nudging hard at his breeches.
‘Adam—we’d agreed there would be no intimacy!’
There was an edge of panic to her voice that made him freeze. Cupping her face with his hands, he gazed down at her. His blood was pounding, his loins thudding just from her being near, this beautiful woman whose full, tremulous lips he longed to kiss again.
‘Belle,’ he said quietly. ‘You loved your husband very much, I realise that—’
He broke off, feeling her tremble in his arms. ‘But it’s five years since he died,’ he went on, ‘and I want to kiss you, Belle. I want to do more than kiss you—I think you want it, too. And if you don’t want me to take this further, then say so, now. Say, Adam, I want you to leave.’
A soft sound—a moan, a plea—escaped from her throat. Once more she was lifting her sweet face to his, her full lips parted with desire. Adam found that his strong hands were shaking more than a little as he slid the shoulders of her cherry-pink gown almost reverently down her slender arms, then bent his head to trail kisses from her throat down to the sweet curve of her breasts. She wrapped her hands round his waist, gasping as he cupped one creamy globe with his hand and took its peak very gently into his mouth.
Belle shuddered as his warm lips enclosed her coral nipple, his strong tongue sweeping to and fro across its taut crest. Her body was hot and alive, throbbing to his touch, and the most sensitive part of her was aching for more. His mouth had gone to her other breast, then he kissed her again. That bed beckoned. Adam stepped backwards to swing her up in his arms and carry her towards it...
‘Damn!’ The back of his head had encountered something hard and unyielding.
‘Adam?’ Her lips were swollen from his kiss, her voice hazy.
Still holding her, he moved away from the wall. ‘It’s all right. That blasted Egyptian thing—I knocked my head against it.’
She gave a hiccup of laughter and tightened her arms around him, glancing quickly at the black Egyptian throne she’d insisted on buying, with its overhanging wooden canopy. ‘I hate it, too,’ she breathed.
‘Good God. You mean...’
‘I loathe it. I—I only said I wanted it, to annoy you.’
‘You hussy,’ he murmured. ‘You wicked, delightful hussy.’ And to Belle’s joy, he strode on towards the bed, where he laid her down.
Belle was blind to everything except this man’s ardent caresses and her own desperate need. All she wanted was for him to join with her, fulfil her. Adam lifted one hand to carefully sweep her hair back so he could lean forwards and kiss the sensitive skin below her ear. She was breathing rapidly, scarcely able to bear the glorious sensations he was creating as he ran his cool palm along her thigh, stroking up it towards the most sensitive part of her being, seeking the throbbing core of her arousal, until...
‘Adam.’ His name burst from her lips as his fingers caressed her pulsing centre, the pleasure tearing through her. She reared against him, her own clothes in an impossible tangle, her emotions haywire as his faintly stubbled jaw brushed her breast while he tongued her taut nipples. Her whole body tingled with the impossibly delicious sensations shooting out from where he stroked her.
For a moment he went perfectly still, taking his weight on his strong arms, gazing down at her with dark hunger gleaming in his hooded eyes. Then he made his move, all masculine power and grace. He’d slid his bre
eches down; she could see the flatness of his taut belly, the dark silken line of hair leading down to his pulsing manhood; she felt her lips part in an involuntary cry at the sight of that silken, steely shaft, but he stopped her cry with his kiss, his tongue thrusting deep. She clung to him, her body shaking.
‘Belle,’ he murmured thickly, lifting his mouth from hers. ‘My beautiful Belle.’
The endearment rocked her. Her hands were clutching at his muscled back beneath his shirt, her slender thighs falling helplessly apart to welcome his intimate possession. Needing his possession, as she’d needed nothing before.
She cried his name again in soft joy as he slid his lean hips forwards and she felt his hard shaft sliding smoothly inside her. A wave of rapture engulfed her and she clutched his shoulders, then lifted her hips urgently, welcoming him deeper still. He paused a moment, leaving her taut with anguish, then he began to move again, steadily, strongly driving his length deep into her. She clung to him, clasping him with her thighs, flying higher and higher, while her own breathing came in shallow, moaning gasps. His hand had slid downwards again to touch her there, to urge on her pleasure, and suddenly her back arched, her inner muscles clutched tight round his hardness and her world exploded into a rapturous vortex of sensation.
Moments later, she heard Adam’s harsh breathing as he stormed his way towards his own climax and spilled his seed deep within her. Joy pulsed again in splintering ripples at the core of her being as he enfolded her in his arms and she lay with her head against his broad, warm shoulder.
She thought she could hear his steady heartbeat. His eyes were closed; she tried to move a little, but his arm tightened round her. A disturbing surge of exhilaration swept through her from her toes to her fingertips as she gazed silently at his perfectly sculpted features.
It was swiftly followed by anguish. This was wrong. She wasn’t supposed to feel like this—safe, and warm, and vibrantly alive. As if the most wonderful man in the world had just made incredibly powerful, incredibly tender love to her...
Love?
The cynical words he had spoken long ago echoed through her reeling mind. It’s rumoured, Mrs Marchmain, that I don’t possess a heart.
She’d been an utter fool to let this happen. How could she have allowed her already vulnerable defences slip so badly?
* * *
Adam didn’t want to move. He wanted to hold her and remember the cries of ecstasy rippling from her throat; to relive the exquisite sensuality of her sweet body as she enfolded him... What was he thinking?
Conscious of her starting to draw away from him, he pulled her back into his arms. No doubt she could feel him hardening anew, for she gave a little gasp as he eased his aroused body against hers. Hell, he wanted her again, badly. His hand was sliding down gently to touch her hip; her flesh there was smooth, delicately rounded...
He’d sworn not to do this. He’d vowed that whatever else his agreement with Jarvis led him into, he would not seduce her. I will expect nothing of you that you’re not prepared to give, Mrs Marchmain.
Had she offered herself to him? The point was debatable, the result beyond doubt. He had damned well broken his word and he was furious with himself.
Sighing he raised himself on one arm and gently brushed a lock of hair back from her cheek. ‘Belle. This doesn’t really make things between us so very different, though we have to talk, to get everything clear...’
Belle froze. Not different? To have shared such rapture with him, such intimacy—and he was saying—nothing had changed?
She lay very still in the crook of his muscular arm. The afterglow of her orgasm was still glimmering inside her, spreading a wondrous sense of fulfilment through every fibre of her being. His lean, muscled body still warmed her; her slender legs were still twined with his...
Not different? She sat up and smiled brightly at him. What a silly fool he would think her, were she to try to play the love-struck innocent. Her, a widow, twenty-seven years old. ‘Goodness me, Adam,’ she said. ‘We’re mature people, both of us. And the world assumes we’re lovers anyway.’
He looked at her. ‘So are you suggesting that we continue to enjoy intimacy—as we just have done—for the duration of our betrothal?’ He’d leaned back against the pillows again, his muscled torso gloriously bare, and was reaching to pull her back into his arms, with an expression of pure desire that simply scorched her.
Belle felt something stop in her throat. She had to survive this. Had to be strong, even though she was melting already at his nearness, at his husky voice. ‘Gracious,’ she said lightly. ‘Why not? It was a pleasurable experience, no denying.’
‘Then let’s repeat it,’ he said calmly.
And to that Belle could give no reply. With his indomitable strength he pulled her down beside him, his hands already roving her breasts, his lips brushing her cheek. He made love to her again, darkly, passionately, absorbing her husky cries as she shattered into a thousand pieces in his arms.
Afterwards he settled her head against his shoulder, drifting his fingers along her ribs, soothing her until her breathing returned to normal. He knew the moment she fell asleep. But Adam didn’t sleep.
Jarvis had expressed doubt as to whether Adam had actually bedded her. Well, he’d done it. And damn it, he could still hear the cries of ecstasy that had rippled from her slender throat. He still reeled from the sheer sensuality of her sweet body as she shook with pleasure in his arms.
But his bargain with Jarvis wasn’t completed yet. Next, he had to break with her. Publicly, Jarvis had said, with maximum humiliation. And then, by God, Belle Marchmain could feel free to hate him for the rest of her life.
Chapter Thirteen
A week later Adam called for her in the evening at seven. They’d been invited to a charity ball at Lord Horwich’s grand house in Eaton Square; Adam wore a coat of dark-blue superfine that was designed and cut by Weston of Old Bond Street and bore all the quiet perfection that was the prestigious tailor’s hallmark.
But Belle, now—she took great pleasure in defying convention. With a half-smile curving his strong mouth, Adam watched her coming down the stairs of the house in Bruton Street.
Her ballgown was some frothy concoction in shimmering yellow and blue. But he wasn’t really seeing her clothes. He was seeing—Belle. The way she moved, he was marvelling. So innately graceful, yet somehow so sensual. Everything about her made his pulse kick in sudden warning. Made his physical desire for her throb into life. Careful.
Yes, indeed. Careful. Or he would be gathering her in his arms, sweeping her up to her bedroom and making delicious love to her, as he had every night for the past week. Her passion amazed him; aroused him anew time and time again, as if both of them were storing this up, for when...
For when it was over.
Adam’s mistresses had always been sophisticated women who could arouse and satisfy him. But he’d never before been with someone who caused sheer desire to surge through his veins every time he damned well saw her. Learn to cope with it, you fool. Yet the way she was gazing at him now made something tighten warningly in his chest because she looked vulnerable and almost afraid.
Afraid of him, if she’d any sense.
She treated their relationship lightly in public, just touching his arm now and then, teasing him or bestowing a mischievous smile. But it was as if she was two people, for in bed at night she was tender, giving and wildly passionate. Sometimes at moments like that he felt as if he saw her soul laid bare.
Now he must have frightened her with just his look, because that natural joy had fled from her eyes and her usual sweet smile was uncertain as she declared, ‘Gracious, Mr D., how you stare! Is my gown too much for you tonight?’ She was coming towards him, hips swaying enchantingly beneath her full skirts.
He shook himself mentally. ‘It’s dazzling enough to frighten my horses.... No. I’m jesting,’ he teased her gently. ‘It’s absolutely perfect. As always, Belle.’
He was always stunn
ed by just how ravishing she was, with her curling black hair and tip-tilted nose and full, rosy mouth. Was amazed as ever by her startling raiment—this time a jonquil-yellow ballgown tiered with layers of gauze and trimmed with turquoise-blue satin. It made him blink, step back then think: Yes. I’ve never seen such an outfit before—but she has got it perfectly right.
‘Are you sure it’s suitable?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘I don’t want to look stupid or showy. I don’t want the ton to laugh at me, Adam.’
He drew her into his arms and kissed the tip of her perfect nose. ‘They won’t laugh,’ he said steadily. ‘Firstly, because you’ll be with me. And secondly, because your taste is unusual but faultless. Everyone’s aware that your shop also caters for those with quieter tastes—but what disappointment there would be if Mrs Belle Marchmain didn’t wear something spectacular to a grand ball!’ He pressed his finger to her soft lips. ‘Don’t be nervous. You look beautiful.’
Her smile wavered a fraction. ‘You are always so calm at these society affairs. They all look up to you.’
‘Money talks amongst these people.’ There was a trace of harshness around his mobile mouth now. ‘But just remember you’re as worthy as any of them, Belle. You are, after all, the—’
‘Great-niece to a duke,’ they chorused together and laughed. He fought the urge to put his arm round her—fought the demands of his body, and the overwhelming impulse not to go out anywhere, but lead her upstairs and take off her clothes piece by piece, and...
‘My carriage is waiting outside,’ he said softly. ‘Will you accompany me to the ball, Mrs Marchmain?’
She made him an elegant curtsy. ‘With the greatest of pleasure, Mr Davenant.’
* * *
As his carriage took them the short distance to Eaton Square, a shadow of premonition was stealing through Belle’s veins. Careful. Guard yourself.