A Lady of His Own

by Stephanie Laurens

  Penny simply gave up—surrendered, resigned the battle to remain apart from him, impervious to the heat that licked around them, over them, through them—a battle she seemed forever doomed to lose. But she should have known, should have guessed that he wouldn’t simply set aside his desire. Sexual passion was an integral part of him, entrenched in every fiber of his being; she couldn’t imagine him without a sexual agenda. She shouldn’t have forgotten he would have one, no matter what else was afoot.

  Pushing her arms up, she twined them about his neck, leaned into him, met him boldly, and launched herself on his tide. Met his thrusting tongue, met his desire with her own, boldly engaged his expertise with her own brand of assurance. She’d be damned if she let him have things all his own way; she fanned the flames, let pleasure rekindle, rise and drag them both down, in, under.

  It was pointless pretending she didn’t enjoy this, that with him she demonstrably could have a sexual agenda of her own. If she wasn’t going to be able to hold him off, then she’d take what she wanted, take all her starved senses wished from what he so readily offered. As he was determined to escort her to this particular banquet, then why not savor and enjoy? She had absolutely no doubt he would be a generous lover. He was an openly generous man. A good man…

  She caught her thoughts, hauled them back from the brink. Not that way. She would enjoy all he brought her, but she wasn’t going to—didn’t need to—let her heart become involved. She might still love him, but she didn’t need to offer her heart to him, didn’t need to let him, however unwittingly, break it into pieces again.

  What lay between them, what fired that compulsive, flaring heat, was physical attraction. Deep, intense, and abiding, tinged perhaps with shared memories, shared background, with long friendship and the ease that brought. But it was simply physical; she’d learned that thirteen years ago and wouldn’t forget; but he was here again now, wanting her as he always had, and—she pulled back from the kiss, gasping, letting her head fall back as his hands claimed her breasts, as his lips traced a line of fire down her throat…she’d been cold, physically cold, for a very long time.

  Now she burned, and it was hotter, sweeter, infinitely more real than her memories. He set her alight in so many ways, with such deliciously pleasurable flames. She wallowed, distantly aware that he lifted her and sat on the chaise with her on his lap. They were supposed to be keeping watch, yet although with her senses wholly focused on the magic his hands and mouth wrought she couldn’t hear, she knew he could, and would, if there was anything beyond the cocoon of their world to react to.

  She could safely leave the outside world to him and concentrate solely on theirs.

  On the frankly amazing fact that she was lying once again in his arms, this time bared to her waist, that he’d managed to unlace her gown, open her bodice, ease her arms free, then untie her chemise and draw it down, all without raising a single qualm in her mind. Not a single impulse to protest.

  From under lids grown heavy, she looked down, watched as with mouth, lips, and tongue he pandered to her senses, caressing her breasts in ways he hadn’t all those years ago.

  She’d never permitted it, wouldn’t have even if he’d pressed; in those days, she’d had a very definite aversion to allowing him to see her naked. Doubtless a product of her conventional upbringing, that aversion had clearly withered with the years.

  Now…there was little she could imagine might be so pleasurable as lying in his arms, in the shade, with the sun bright outside and birdsong drifting on a gentle breeze, feeling the brush of that breeze over her flushed and dampened skin, a counter to his heated caresses. She slid her fingers along his skull, arched lightly when he rasped her nipple, then relaxed as, with his mouth, he soothed the sudden ache.

  She cupped his head and held him to her, very aware of the surrender and encouragement the action implied, quite sure he would recognize it, too. Quite sure. His fingers drew fiery patterns over her swollen breasts. The brush of his black hair against her white, now rosy and taut skin added another tactile sensation to the mix, one he orchestrated with a master’s touch.

  With a devotion she hadn’t seen in him before. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t rushed; he was content to spend long minutes pleasuring her, but it wasn’t simply patience he’d learned. What she glimpsed in his face as he glanced briefly up, what she felt through every caress, was a different, novel reality. He took pleasure in pleasuring her, drew pleasure from all that she felt, that he made her feel.

  That, too, was new, just as the joy welling inside her, the joy she found in this new facet of their interaction, was new, different, enticing.

  He raised his head to view the effects of his ministrations. Sliding her hands across his chest, over his shirt, she found the buttons closing it.

  Without shifting his gaze from her breasts, he closed one hand over hers. “No. Not this time.” He drew her hands away, lifted his gaze to her eyes. “This time is just for you.”

  It was too hard to frown. “Charles—”

  He raised her, kissed her.

  In seconds she’d forgotten how to think. Forgotten there was any existence outside the fire he whirled her into, a giddy waltz of desire, of flaring passion, of sudden greedy need.

  That need was hers, not his. He drew it up, evoked and provoked it, yet his desire seemed dependent on hers, subservient to hers. She didn’t understand, but couldn’t think enough to do anything other than cling to him, fingers sinking into steely muscles that flexed as he shifted her, as he drew her around…her bare breasts rode, lightly abrading, against his jacket; she suddenly wanted, burned, ached with an intensity she’d never felt before.

  On a gasp, she broke from the kiss, realized he was lifting her skirts, that the frolicking breeze was sending teasing fingers dancing along her legs.

  She wasn’t wearing stockings, just the slippers she wore in the house. His fingers touched, then his palm cruised along bare skin.

  “Charles!” Protest or demand, she wasn’t sure. Her fingertips sank deeper; she clung even more desperately as her nerves tensed and flickered, as physical longing reared like a wave and rushed through her.

  “Ssshh.” He touched even more boldly, his palm gliding in a long caress up one naked thigh. “Mon ange, let me show you heaven again.”

  The words were so deep she could barely hear them, so imbued with a longing that was the counterpart of hers they sounded like a supplicant’s plea.

  One she couldn’t refuse, didn’t have time to refuse, even had she had the strength. His lips returned to hers, but lightly, engaging yet not seizing her senses as he touched her curls, stroked, then nudged her thighs wider, slid his hand between, and cupped her.

  She felt the intimate touch to her soul. He’d touched her there before, all those years ago, but only briefly. Not as he was touching her now.

  Slowly. Exploring, caressing, stroking. Finding every pleasure point and coaxing it to life, then lavishing caresses upon it, and her.

  She shuddered, and let him. Took all he gave and held to their kiss, her anchor in a world suddenly tilting. The road he now seemed so intent on taking, on showing her, was a great deal longer than before, more involving, with so much more to experience. So much more to feel. She gave herself over to it—to simply feeling, letting the delight well and wash through her, letting the pleasure rise and sweep her senses away.

  At some level she missed his hunger, the driving need she was so used to in him. It hadn’t gone, but was veiled, there but held back so her own need could flower more strongly, so she could sense it more clearly as hers without the competing demands and distractions of his.

  She was almost floating on a tide of pleasure, no longer clinging to their kiss, barely able to breathe, aware of him murmuring endearments, aware of her body as she never had been before, of how it rose to his practiced caresses, of how it wanted. And what it wanted.

  His finger slid into her; what little breath she had tangled in her throat. Her impulse was to t
ense, but her body didn’t respond, then he stroked, and a languid wave of heat rose and washed through her.

  Sheer unadulterated pleasure.

  That built, and built, until she thought she would scream.

  Charles watched her, watched passion claim her, watched her rise to each increasingly intimate caress. Knowingly he pushed her deeper, further into the fire, into the conflagration of molten desire and greedy, hungry need.

  She was slick, hot, had been from the moment he’d touched her. She was also tight, so tight that working a second finger in alongside the first very nearly brought her, and him, undone.

  He’d slammed a dungeon door on his lust, caged it so he could achieve what was needed—what he and she both needed so they could move quickly on—yet every gasping breath she took, every eager response her body made to his increasingly flagrant caresses, made it harder to concentrate, harder to remember that this moment, this time, had to be. That he had to, should, spin the moments out as far as he could, as far as her responsiveness allowed, the better to ready her, prepare her for the next stage, their next time.

  She arched in his arms, a soft cry on her lips. His lungs seized, a vise cinching tight as he eased back, desperately tried to hold her back from the brink. Not yet. Just a little further…

  He ached. The scalding heat of her sheath, the evidence of her desire, the incredibly soft swollen flesh he repeatedly caressed, her bare breasts, peaked and rosy, riding against his chest, all called to him, urged him, whispered darkly to him at some level that was deeper, more intimate, more fundamental than any other woman had ever touched.

  Need was a spur embedded in his side, yet this was the way forward, the only way to successfully return to her bed, to join with her again, so he could rescript the past and set them on course for the future.

  He’d been right in predicting she’d lie beneath him very soon.

  There was a limit to all things, even his control, forged though it had been through thirteen long years. He was no longer naive enough to underestimate the effect she had on him, the sheer potent power of the need she and only she had always evoked in him.

  It was awake now, very much alive, a beast prowling just beneath his skin, persuaded to reluctant patience only by the promise of a greater reward later. But not much later.

  The wave within her rose again, higher still, and he couldn’t hold her back any longer. He sensed her fighting it, trying to stand against the onrushing tide, a sudden lick of distrust of the unknown flaring.

  “Let go.” He breathed the words over her swollen lips. “There’s nothing to fear—let it take you, mon ange. Go.”

  Her eyes, slivers of silver beneath her lashes, met his.

  Between her thighs, he reached deeper, probed, pressed.

  Her lids fell. And she flew.

  To the stars. He watched as she arched in his arms, her nails sinking into his shoulders, her features blanking as completion claimed her. He felt the implosion of the tension he’d stoked in her, the final unraveling of her nerves, felt the powerful rippling contractions as release swept her.

  He knew women’s bodies better than his own; he’d studied them more intensely. He knew enough to track the more subtle changes, the quivers of bright tension streaking down her nerves, the heat coalescing, then washing through her, spreading under her skin.

  Easing back, he let her slump in his arms, cradled, safe. Let his eyes drink in the smoothing of her features, the bewitching curve that came to haunt her lips.

  Glorious.

  It was a moment he’d experienced many times, but the content, the sheer pleasure he took in seeing her slide from that convulsive peak into sweet oblivion, was both deeper and more evocative than he’d expected.

  Satisfaction laced with that very real content gave him the strength to hold against the pain of a need more intense, more violent than he’d ever known, and simply hold her.

  Minutes ticked by. He looked out over the lawns, over the drive, the forecourt, the approach to the stables. All basked peaceful and undisturbed in the morning sunshine. Out there, nothing had changed.

  Within the folly, something had.

  The step he’d taken, the course he’d embarked upon, was ineradicable, at least for him. In no way did he regret it; he was more committed to this venture than to anything in life.

  Eventually, she stirred.

  To his surprise, she didn’t try to cover herself, to screen her breasts from his gaze, or to remove his hand from beneath her rucked skirts where it lay proprietorially clasped over one bare hip. She didn’t even move to flick her skirts down over her long legs, but simply lay there, relaxed and at peace—and more dangerous to him than she’d ever been.

  Her gaze traveled his face, then returned to his eyes.

  “I don’t understand you—not anymore.”

  He studied her in return, studied her stormy gray eyes that had already seen far more than any other. “You do. You know all you’ll ever need to—you just haven’t realized it yet.”

  Truth again; blessedly, with her, it was their customary currency, the one in which they always dealt. She’d seen the change in him, experienced it, but hadn’t yet consciously understood. He wasn’t, however, in any hurry to explain; she would grasp the full picture soon enough, of that he had no doubt. Time enough, then, for her to know just how much power she wielded over him; there was no need for her to learn that now, while they were stuck in the middle of an investigation and a murderer lurked in the shadows.

  He smiled at her. “It’s nearly time for luncheon. I believe, if you consult your stomach, you’ll discover you’re ravenous.”

  The look she bent on him stated clearly that she would prefer he kept his so-accurate knowledge of what she was feeling to himself. He laughed, raised her, kissed her soundly, then helped her to straighten her clothes.

  She, he was surprised but pleased to note, evinced no shyness; she accepted his help, not as she would from a maid but as she might from a lover, one who had the right to assist and sufficient knowledge of her body to make modesty redundant.

  He might have changed, but she had, too. As they strolled down to the house hand in hand, he wondered how, and in what ways, the years had laid their hand on her. What other surprises might she have in store for him?

  Luncheon was a quiet affair. Nicholas accepted his presence with nothing more than a nod; he seemed even more withdrawn, more distant—more worried but trying to hide it—than before.

  Penny was still recovering; he doubted she knew how much it showed. If Nicholas had been capable of thinking of anything beyond his troubles, he would have noticed her uncharacteristic silence and the softly glowing, telltale smile that on and off flirted about her lips.

  She didn’t, of course, feel at all compelled to make polite conversation for him, so the meal passed in a quiet, rather pleasant daze.

  At the end, she stirred and glanced at him. He watched her struggle to find acceptable words with which to ask What next?—meaning with the investigation.

  He grinned; her eyes narrowed. “I thought we could go riding. It’s a glorious day, and there are people I need to speak with in Lostwithiel.”

  Penny nodded, set her napkin down, and rose. “I’ll get changed and meet you in the stables.”

  Nicholas mumbled something about returning to the library; he barely noticed their departure. Parting from Charles, she climbed the stairs, changed into her habit, then headed for the stables.

  He was waiting under a tree outside the garden door.

  “So where are we going?” she asked as she reached him.

  He took her hand and started toward the stables. “Lostwithiel first, then I want to check at the Abbey. There wasn’t anything from London this morning, but there might be something by late afternoon.”

  She tugged him to a stop. “What about watching Nicholas?” She’d thought his suggestion of riding a ruse; she hadn’t expected to leave the estate.

  He met her gaze, grimaced. “I�
�ve suborned Norris and Canter. I told them I’m working on a final mission and Nicholas is in some way under threat—exactly how I don’t yet know. I’ve asked them to keep a close eye on him. Given the way he’s reacting, I don’t expect him to go out, but he can’t, and no one can reach him, without alerting either Norris or Canter. If he receives any message, Norris will know of it; if he leaves, Canter will set one of the grooms to follow him.”

  He glanced at the house, then back at her. “Regardless of Nicholas’s involvement, he didn’t kill Gimby. I need to learn more about our potential murderers.”

  “The five visitors?”

  He nodded. They started walking again. “The best way to learn revealing snippets is to be out and about where we can meet and talk to others, especially the people hosting those five. And it’s market day in Lostwithiel.”

  She smiled. “That should be perfect.”