What a Lady Craves

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  Personal worth. She tried to thrust that thought aside as mere hurt and consider the broader implications, but the faceless image of Marianne kept intruding. She couldn’t ask him to clarify his meaning, however. Not unless she wanted to risk learning his exact feelings for his wife. Good Lord, would she ever be ready to face the worst of those possibilities?

  “Do you see my dilemma?” Alexander went on.

  “No, I can’t say that I do.”

  “I ought to leave, you see. If whoever is behind the deaths of Marianne and her father has followed me from India, I need to lead them away from my family. But how can I do that to my girls when they’ve been permanently separated from their mother? How can I put them through that? But I’ll have to, won’t I? There are too many people in this house I care for. My daughters, and now my mother and sister have turned up. Even my aunt.” A pause. “And then there’s you.”

  That revelation struck her like a blow. Her knees buckled, and she staggered back, her rump striking a hard wooden board. The foot of his bed. “Me?”

  “Do you not know what it would do to me if you were hurt—again—because of me?”

  She could not credit the anguish that lay behind that statement, but did she want to know the answer to his question? Part of her—a cruel piece of her spirit, perhaps the very piece that led her to take the position with Lady Epperley in the first place—perked up its ears. The rest of her stood firm.

  “I could not bear it. I could not live with myself.” In one stride, he closed the distance between them, and gripped her upper arms, his touch warming her far more than anything else since they’d entered this room. “I’ve put you through too much already.”

  The force behind his words reached directly into her chest, took hold of her heart, and squeezed like a vise. She ought to raise opposition, ought to duck out of his near-embrace, away from him, and out the door, but her feet were rooted to the spot.

  “Please, let us not speak of it again.” Her voice rang weakly in her ears. “There’s no sense in going over the past once more, when you cannot tell me everything. And I should go. It would not do for anyone to find me alone with you in your bedchamber.” She hitched her shoulders, but his grip held.

  “Wait. Stay this once.” Utter, utter temptation.

  Good Lord, how could she resist? But she must. “You cannot be—”

  “I swear I will not touch you. In the morning, I will remove the danger from you, from the rest of my family, by departing. I will leave my daughters to my mother’s care, and they’ll be safe. You all will. It’s the only way. I would ask these two services of you: Explain to my girls why I had to go, and stay with me now.”

  Her instincts told her to flee to her chamber and lock the door behind her. She owed Alexander none of this. She might manage to make his daughters understand, but with his second condition, he asked too much. “The first I can do. But why, for the love of God’s green earth, ought I remain here with you?”

  “Because it’s the chance we never had eight years ago. It’s a chance we should have had. And perhaps, in the few hours left to us, we might come to an understanding.”

  Understanding. They’d had that once. A perfect complicity of mind and body and heart. In the years since, she’d never found the like again. A keen pang thrummed in her chest, a sort of desire, but not for the mere physical. She yearned for Alexander—all of him, the way she remembered it.

  But perhaps she hungered for a past that had long since slipped beyond her grasp. Should she try to recapture it, or was she opening herself up to more pain when he left again? Her fear vied with the hunger inside, but dear Lord, she remembered the joy, the buoyancy, the soaring sensation that accompanied her every movement when she thought herself in love.

  And if she could relive that, just for a few hours …

  She shouldn’t wish for such a thing, but the devil knew she’d always had difficulty saying no where Alexander Sanford was concerned. And so she said nothing, but remained where she stood, trapped between him and the bed, and waited for his next move.

  The night settled about them in silence. Henrietta tried to pierce the darkness with her eyes, but failed. With both the fireplace and window behind her, the blackness was too absolute, the hours before morning endless. But the lack of sight heightened her other senses. She was all too aware of the steady rhythm of Alexander’s breathing. In, out, slow and steady and dependable.

  If she didn’t have to look at him, she could almost pretend … What? That the past eight years hadn’t occurred? That they’d stolen off from some ball for a little time alone to act on their feelings? That they were still in love—or at least that she still loved him?

  Perhaps she still did, even now, and that was why she could not bring herself to leave. Without the evidence of his sins before her face, she couldn’t call a single one to mind. Not now. For what was he guilty of? Wanting to help his family so that he had no choice but to go to India? Not a sin there.

  All his actions since that time had emanated from that single point. So, yes, he’d become a father to children he clearly loved, children whose mother was gone. Children she’d grown to care for, as well. His girls had worked their way into her heart, each in her own unique way—Francesca through her boundless joy and Helena through her quiet hurt. But that hurt would heal, and she’d grow into a strong, beautiful woman. How Henrietta wanted to witness that process.

  Stop. She had to stop thinking along these lines. Until he declared himself, there were no guarantees of any future between her and Alexander once the danger had passed.

  “You’ve grown quiet.” Alexander’s voice rumbled out of the darkness. “What are you thinking?”

  Lord knew she could ask him his feelings straight out, but she’d done that once. If he had not answered that question yet, well, that was as good as a clear reply. “What is there to do, but wait?”

  “We could find something to pass the time.” The heady scent of brandy enveloped her. He shifted, and ran his hands the length of her arms, up, down, leaving a glowing tingle in their passing. “We could talk, as friends. Without the battle between us.”

  “What have we to say that hasn’t already been said?” Besides the matter of his proposal, but she knew it was useless to probe there. His dead wife was like an elephant in the room—she took up all the space, but courtesy dictated no one mention the obvious.

  “What made you decide to become a paid companion?”

  If she thought he could see her expression, she would have glared. “No one else offered to marry me. I should think that much was clear.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?”

  Good Lord, what was his problem? And he voiced the question as if the response weren’t completely obvious. “Why would they?”

  “You’re asking me that in all sincerity when you completely captivated me at eighteen?”

  “Apparently, you were alone in that regard. And I clearly did not captivate you enough, if you could run off to India and forget me within a year of your arrival.”

  He shifted again, hovered closer. His hand slipped down her arm, encountered hers, and his fingers twined about hers. “Whatever else happened, you must believe me when I tell you I never once forgot you. Never.”

  So fervent, those words. He must believe them. For some reason the thought caused her throat to tighten. “Even when you were in bed with your wife?”

  There, she’d said it, and made the challenge as ugly as she could. He would retreat now. He had to. If he managed to find the words to counter that accusation, her heart just might break all over again.

  But his fingers did not untwine from hers. They tightened, rather, as if he were loath to let her go. “Even then.”

  She’d expected an argument. She’d expected excuses. When a man wished to lie, after all, he tried to bury it under a mountain of words. This was no lie. It was the stark truth.

  She tugged at her hand, but he refused to release her. “Don’t.”

  �
��Don’t what?”

  “Don’t make it worse. I lived through the heartache once. I cannot bear to live through it again.” She hated the wobble in her voice.

  “Why should you have to live through more heartache?”

  “Because you are not really offering me anything, are you? You’re just reminding me of what might have been, and it’s gone now.”

  “Who says it’s gone?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Damn it all, I loved you once.” Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she swiped at them with her free hand. “I cannot let that happen again.”

  “And if your feelings were returned?”

  A wild urge rose in her to laugh in his face. “You never loved me. If you had, you wouldn’t have married another. You wouldn’t have left in the first place!”

  The vehemence with which that last accusation erupted shocked even her. She’d known at the time why he’d left. She’d understood. She’d assured him of that much. Why should such resentment come bubbling forth now of all times?

  “I’m sorry,” she said into the darkness, willing her heart to stop pounding so damned hard. “I shouldn’t have said that. I know very well why you had to leave. We ought to face the fact that we simply weren’t meant to wed, and leave it at that.”

  “I refuse to leave it at that.” He spat the words with as much vehemence as she, enough to steal her breath. “I refuse, because we have unfinished business between us. And it’s this.”

  Despite his promise, he swooped on her, crushed his lips against hers, and for a moment, she floundered like a naïve schoolgirl confronted with her first rake. She had no idea what to do with her hands, with her mouth, with the devil-cursed feelings he aroused in her. He pressed his advantage, and she had no choice but to open to him. His tongue thrust into her mouth, bringing with it the lingering taste of brandy, and a moan rose unbidden to her throat. She ought to hold him to his word; she ought to fight him, but her body demanded satiation.

  So she put her hands on his shoulders, pulled him closer, and returned his kiss.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Alexander could barely believe the response he was getting. Henrietta was like a dam bursting. Hungry, needy, urgent, her kiss was all that and more. Her tongue met his stroke for stroke. Her hands grappled at his lapels. She pressed against him, pliant, sweet, and demanding.

  Her fingers tore at his cravat, pulling at the silk until she’d untied the knot, and moved on to the buttons of his waistcoat. His shirt. She worked the fastenings at the collar from their moorings, and yanked the tails free of his trousers.

  Desperate to help her, he jerked at the sleeves of his topcoat and shed the garment. It dropped to the bare floor with a clatter of brass buttons. His waistcoat followed. Then he set his hands on her shoulders, his fingers splayed across the soft skin of her neck in what he hoped was a soothing caress. He had to slow her down before he pushed her onto the floor and lifted her skirts waist-high.

  Such a lack of finesse would be undignified when she was still a virgin. Somehow he was certain of this, in spite of her boldness, in spite of her seeming to know what would transpire between them. She’d withdrawn from society. Until last night, she’d lived in ignorance of her own body’s potential. He couldn’t imagine her having taken a lover. Not after what he’d put her through.

  No, she was still innocent, yet determined. She knew what she wanted, and right now, beyond all hope, she wanted him. Her unique combination of purity and unabashed need inflamed him further than her hand on his bare cock.

  Lowering his lips to the angle of her jaw, he slipped his hand to the fastenings of her bodice and worked them loose. He palmed her breasts, still covered by her chemise and stays, and she arched into the touch. Her head tilted back, as she offered herself.

  Yes, oh, yes. God, after he’d married another, he never expected to have Henrietta under his hands again, willing, giving, eager.

  And she was eager. She slipped her hands beneath his shirt, and ran them over his chest. God, she could probably feel his heart pounding. Her firm touch sent more blood rushing to his groin, when he was already impossibly hard. The sweet ache made him groan.

  Those bold fingers continued their quest to map his skin, so determined and sure. So sensual. How he wished he might clearly see her face right now. He imagined her, cheeks flushed, plump lips parted, eyes wide, hair falling about her shoulders. And he imagined her reaction when at last he pushed into her softness and heat, her lids fluttering closed, the color on her cheeks spreading to her breasts, her breath coming shorter and shorter until she cried out for him. Until she clenched around him in rhythmic pulses. Tight, wet heaven.

  His cock gave a demanding twitch. Now. It wanted paradise now. A shudder passed through his entire body. How would he survive the time it took to ensure she was prepared for him?

  Her hands crept lower to play at the waistband of his trousers. Teasing fingers made forays beneath the fabric. The light touch inflamed. Now. He ripped the braces from his shoulders, tore the buttons of his falls free, and let her curl her fingers about him as she had last night. Up, down. From base to tip and back, each stroke enticing him to unleash his passion.

  Shite, if she was so brazen tonight, what might he coax her to do once she’d gained some experience? The temptation rose in him to present himself to her lips, to see if she’d be curious enough, brave enough to taste, to lick the purling drop of liquid from the head of his cock before taking more and more of him into her throat. Now. His bollocks tightened at the mere thought—or perhaps it was her grip so tight and perfect about his shaft, relentless in its push down to the base and back. Now, now, now.

  He took her by the wrist. “You’ll have me spill.”

  “I want you to spill.”

  Yes.

  At the sound of that purr, he clenched his teeth and held back a shudder. Damn, how could her innocent touch have him so close, so soon? “Not this way.”

  “But I want—”

  He cut her off with a brief, frenzied kiss that did nothing to rein in his urge to possess. “I know you want. I know what you want. God help me, I know.” Through her skirt, he formed his fingers to the contour her thigh, longing for the naked flesh beneath. “We go together.”

  She eased her shoulders back, her arms braced against the foot of the bed, and her hips slid toward him in languid surrender. “Together,” she murmured.

  Hellfire. He couldn’t get her on that mattress fast enough. Unable to summon any sort of finesse, he half hauled her around the end of the bed and pushed her onto her back. He groped for her hem and hiked her skirts. “Someday, we will do this without clothes. Naked. Your skin sliding against mine. All of it.”

  His fingers found her core and parted her, and she let out a long moan.

  “God, you’re wet for me already.” As quickly as they were moving, he’d no idea how she could be. He pressed a finger into her.

  “Please.”

  “I know.”

  He stroked, trying to draw out her pleasure, but she grabbed for him. “You said together.”

  “You’re not ready.” As much as he’d love to rush to the inevitable, pleasurable climax, he must make certain.

  Henrietta had other ideas. She grasped him by the flanks, at the same time lifting her hips, trying to fit her body to his. The head of his cock brushed through slickened curls, and his breath hissed from his lungs.

  “Do it. Now.”

  Now.

  She sounded so desperate, he adjusted the angle, took himself in hand, and inserted the head. Just that far, but her tightness and velvety heat had him panting, and his body screamed for more. For nothing less than full penetration. She raised her legs and clamped them about his waist, pulling, pulling.

  Dear God in heaven. He braced his arms, hovered above her, tried to lean in for a kiss, but his body couldn’t resist the call of hers any longer. Clenching his teeth, he thrust.

  She let out a
cry, half pleasure and half surprise, and he froze, heart hammering, while her softness closed about him, hot and wet and impossibly tight. Halfway home and already the fit was more perfect than any he’d ever known—but then, he’d always suspected it would be.

  Beneath him, she shifted her weight, her legs clinging, her chest heaving, and he slipped another inch toward paradise.

  “Are you all right?” Somehow he managed to get the words past a rapidly constricting throat.

  “Yes, I think so.” She was panting herself, but he couldn’t tell whether it was from pleasure or pain. “This is … strange.”

  God help him if she asked him to withdraw now. He’d do it—he’d have to—but he didn’t think he’d survive the experience. “Do you want to stop?”

  Tentatively, she placed her hands on his chest. To brace herself or push him away, he didn’t know. “You said together.”

  “I did.”

  “Then together it is.”

  He dipped his head and placed a gentle kiss on her lips. “Easy, then.”

  Slowly, he withdrew and pressed forward. “Is it still strange?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then we’d best try again.” Another thrust, as slow and smooth as he could make it. His body clamored for more, demanded he take his pleasure and be done, but he wouldn’t do such a thing to Henrietta. Not this first time. Not ever. She was far more important than a momentary state of bliss. “You’ll tell me when it stops being strange.”

  He pushed in again, farther. Nearly there.

  She gasped. Beneath him, her back arched. “It’s stopped.”

  “Good. Now we find the right rhythm.” He pressed another kiss to her lips, longer and deeper this time, the same as his stroke within her. “The right angle, the right speed.”

  Again, he thrust, and she raised her hips to meet him. She grasped two handfuls of his shirt, and clenched the fabric into her fists. On and on, he plunged, while she moved with him, her legs tight about his waist, her body tight around him. He gritted his teeth and forged ahead, ignoring an insistent demand for release, holding off the burning at the base of his spine that proclaimed his imminent crisis.