by Brenda Joyce
He was halfway between her navel and her pubis when he looked up, eyes agleam, his muscular arms bulging. “No one has ever tasted you this way?”
“No,” she gasped, shuddering.
He smiled, then slid his tongue up against the heavy folds at the juncture of her thighs. Alexandra shuddered uncontrollably, falling back on the cushions, as his tongue moved slickly over her. She cried out. A moment later he had slid up her body and was pressing his length hard against her, his face set with strain.
Their gazes locked. “Hurry,” she demanded, clawing him. “Hurry!”
He smiled tightly and drove into her wet, throbbing flesh.
Alexandra was shocked by the pressure and the pleasure of feeling him within her—and then she felt him strike against her maidenhead. His gaze flew to hers, wide with shock. She was shocked, too—and beginning to whirl back into another wild explosion of rapture. “Please.”
His face hard and tight, he drove past the barrier, and Alexandra held on to him, weeping in ecstasy now, as he pounded swiftly, rhythmically, deep.
WHEN ALEXANDRA AWOKE, she lay alone on the sofa, covered by a gold throw. She gasped, briefly confused, for she was stark naked and the salon was pitch-dark. In fact, the sky outside was dark and blue-black.
Reality came flooding back. She had just spent the afternoon making love to the Duke of Clarewood. She inhaled, clutching the throw. Obviously she had fallen asleep, still naked on his couch. As she began to blush, praying no one would walk into the salon, she realized she needed to get home immediately. But she did not move, other than to cover herself more thoroughly with the throw.
Her heart burst into a wild riot of emotions she could barely identify.
They’d made love twice, without pause. He was a magnificent lover. She hadn’t realized that so much ardor could exist between two people. She hadn’t realized she herself could be so passionate, so uninhibited. They were lovers now. She was the Duke of Clarewood’s mistress.
She began to tremble, biting her lip, amazed. Happiness was growing inside her chest, like a balloon. Being with him felt so perfect, so right.
Her heart thundered, and she recalled the way he had looked at her, with so much warmth, as if he cared. But at other times he had looked into her eyes as if trying to look into her soul. She did not quite know what that searching gaze could mean, and she hugged herself. Did she dare think about him as anything other than her lover and benefactor? Did she dare think of him as a man?
She was helpless to restrain herself. He was such a paragon, handsome and wealthy and titled. He was generous. He was renowned for the charities he supported—had even founded. He was intelligent, dedicated. And he was a gentleman….
She wasn’t ashamed of what had just happened, not at all. She was thrilled.
They were lovers now.
She would not die a virgin, and she had avoided suffering Squire Denney’s touch. But there was so much more, and she trembled at the thought. They hadn’t dined. There had been so little conversation. Next time, perhaps they would share their thoughts and feelings over some wine. Next time…She smiled, dreaming about it.
In her mind’s eye she saw herself at his table—which was beautifully set, of course—wearing a stunning and expensive gown, which he had purchased for her. He sat beside her, smiling, reaching for her hand, and there was candlelight….
Smiling widely, she reached over to a small lamp sitting on the end table. She sought to turn the gas on and glanced around for her clothes.
Was she falling in love with him?
She trembled all over again, her pulse pounding. While in his arms earlier, while they were joined, it had certainly felt so much like love.
Could she have responded so passionately to him if it hadn’t been love?
She blushed. She was a sensible woman. She did not believe in love at first sight, yet it seemed to her that she had fallen in love with the Duke of Clarewood the very moment she had first laid eyes upon him.
Did it matter? For they were on a new path now….
She bit her lip, hoping to contain what felt so oddly like happiness, and saw her clothing spread across the gleaming wood floors. Her chemise was ripped almost entirely in two. She blushed, hugging the throw to her breasts.
He had been impatient, even as he’d counseled patience. Simply recalling the intimacy they’d shared made her body tighten, heat, as a distinct and pleasurable aching began to grow.
Alexandra got up and slowly dressed, thinking about every moment they had shared. Her body tingled deliciously, while her heart kept dancing, no matter how she tried to warn it to behave, reminding herself to proceed with care. It was as if he was that force of nature she’d spoken of, one she could not resist. She smiled. Hadn’t she said only a hurricane could stop her from marrying the squire? Well, she had found her hurricane, had she not? Now she anticipated walking from the room so she might speak with him for a moment before she had to go home.
Her heart raced harder, as if she could not wait to see him again.
She was fighting the buttons on the back of her dress when a light knock sounded on the door. She froze, alarmed, then called, “Do not come in!”
A woman said, “His Grace asked me to check on you, madam, to see if you need any help.”
He’d sent her a maid. More pleasure unfurled. Alexandra called for the maid to enter, and a young woman in a dark uniform came inside, closing the door behind her. “Here, let me help you with that,” she said.
Alexandra smiled gratefully at her, aware of what the other woman must be thinking. There was no possible excuse to make for being half-dressed in the duke’s salon, with her hair completely down. “Thank you. What is your name?” she asked, as the maid swiftly buttoned her dress.
“It is Bettie,” the girl said. “May I help you with your hair?”
“That would be wonderful, but we must try to find my hairpins.” She flushed as she started looking about the floor and sofa for the missing pins. When she only found three, Bettie told her that she would go and find some more for her. When the maid had left and Alexandra sat down to wait, the duke returned forcefully to her mind. His handsome image curled her toes. She wondered what he was doing, and she got up and went to the door, which Bettie had left ajar. She opened it a bit wider and peeked out into the hall.
Directly across from her, the library doors were wide-open. Clarewood was standing inside the darkened room, staring at a blazing fire, his back to her.
But before she could move, he must have felt her presence, because he turned. The lights were not on in the library, just the fire, and she could not make out his expression. But clearly he was staring.
She hesitated—she knew her hair must be a mess, and she must look like a harlot—but then she slipped into the hall and quickly approached him, smiling hesitantly. When he did not speak, when he continued to stare, she became uncomfortable and confused—this was not the reception she had expected. She faltered on the library’s threshold. “Your Grace? It is late, and I must go.” She bit her lip, wishing she could say so much more, yet at the same time uncertain of what she might say if she could speak freely. She wanted to acknowledge what had just happened, what they had shared.
“Come in, Alexandra,” he said tightly.
She flinched; his tone was so hard. She cautiously walked inside, and when she could make out his features, she saw that his eyes blazed and his face was a hard mask of controlled anger. “What is wrong?” she gasped, stunned.
“What is wrong?” he choked. Then he inhaled, and she realized he was so angry that he was trembling with his rage.
She took a step back, utterly confused. “What has happened? Have I done something?”
He crossed the few paces between them and towered over her, the effect distinctly frightening. Alexandra tensed, as if for a blow. “I do not like being deceived.”
He was enraged, but he hadn’t raised his voice. She wanted to back away, but she held her ground. “I do n
ot know what you are talking about.” But a terrible inkling began.
“You were a virgin, Miss Bolton,” he ground out.
She recoiled, too deeply in shock to think clearly. He had retreated into formality just when she expected intimacy, and it hurt.
He walked past her and slammed both doors closed with so much strength that the floor shuddered. She had turned to keep him in her sight, still shocked by his anger, and very frightened now. He had assumed the worst of her, and, admittedly, she had deliberately misled him. But she had never expected such anger. “Is that why you are so angry? Because I did not have the experience you assumed I had?” she managed.
“I am well beyond anger,” he said flatly. “You lied to me.”
His words were worse than any physical blow. “I didn’t think it important,” she tried, suddenly aghast and near tears. But in truth, hadn’t she sensed just how important it might be, why else had she let him believe the lie?
“You didn’t think it important?” He was incredulous.
“I think there has been a terrible misunderstanding,” she whispered, trembling.
He made a harsh sound, mirthless, and clapped his hands slowly together. “A laudable performance, Miss Bolton.”
She jerked. “I do not know what you mean, Stephen!” But the moment she used his given name, as he’d instructed her to do during the height of passion, though she had been unable to do so at the time, she was sure it had been a mistake.
It was. “It is ‘Your Grace,’” he said dangerously.
She backed up, still in shock, but now it was combined with absolute disbelief. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why?” He stalked her as she retreated, not allowing her to keep her distance. “I should have known that this was a game. You are very clever player, Miss Bolton.”
She stared, too appalled by his assumption to say anything.
“After all, no woman has ever rejected my advances as you have, or played hard to get, but then, you sought to whet my desire, did you not? And giving back the bracelet…I must commend you for that ploy! I know of no woman in your circumstance who would refuse such jewels.”
Alexandra was so disbelieving and so horrified that she sank into the nearest chair. But he had followed her, and he towered over her still. “There has been no ploy!” she insisted. “I could not accept such a gift.”
“I beg to differ with you. There have been nothing but ploys, my clever one, and you have led me a merry chase.” He paused, breathing hard. “This was a trap, Miss Bolton, admit it.”
She cringed. “No,” she whispered. “I do not understand what you are talking about.”
“I am not marrying you.”
She stared up at him, shocked all over again. Her befuddled mind finally managed to come to the conclusion he had jumped to earlier. “You think I meant to trap you into marriage?” she gasped.
“I know you meant to trap me into marriage.”
She clasped the chairs arms, so sick that she felt faint and dizzy. But of course he would think that a ploy, too.
“But I must applaud your scheme. Many women have pursued me in the hope of becoming my duchess. You are the first to give me her virginity.”
She choked, fighting down the bile, fighting the need to retch. Her heart was screaming at her now. He had pursued her ruthlessly, in spite of her sensibilities and morals, yet now he was accusing her of pursuing him—and of plotting to trap him into marriage. She felt so faint now. How could this be happening?
When at last she looked up, he was shoving a piece of paper at her. “Take it and get out.”
It took her moment to realize that he was holding a bank check. Without thinking, she looked down again and started to shake her head.
“Take it,” he gritted, flinging it at her. “Use it for a dowry.” Then, “My coachman will drive you home.”
He’d flung the check at her bosom, and it had fallen onto her lap. Alexandra didn’t move, she couldn’t, not even to look up into his hate-filled eyes, but his fury was so intense that she felt it anyway.
She was afraid to move, or even breathe, because if she did, she would retch or faint or start weeping. And then she heard him striding rapidly from the room. She heard the doors hit the walls as he flung them open. She did not move a single muscle, not even her eyelashes, waiting until she could not hear his footsteps anymore. And then she glanced at the check on her lap.
He’d made it out for five thousand pounds.
She gagged, falling to her knees on the floor, her heart wrenching. She fought the rising sobs, fought the spinning floor. Somehow she found the check and, still on her knees, tore it into shreds.
CHAPTER TEN
THE DRIVE BACK to Edgemont Way was endless. Alexandra refused to cry, and fought the rising bile and the need to retch. She remained in shock. Every moment of the afternoon and evening kept replaying her mind: she would recall Clarewood moving over her, smiling warmly at her, and then she would recall him flinging the check at her and telling her to use it for a dowry. It hurt so much.
But when the coachman twisted to look at her and said, “Miss? We will be at Edgemont Way in a few more moments,” she somehow snapped out of her painful reverie, forced into a harsh new reality in which she had no doubt destroyed not only her own prospects—such as they had been—but her sisters’ as well, and she stiffened.
No one must ever discover what had happened that day. She was in her own carriage, with Ebony in the traces, and the coachman had a mount tied to the back fender. She could not be seen being driven home; coming home alone at this hour was bad enough. But Edgemont would be out, as he always was, so at least she would only have to lie to her sisters. She closed her eyes, despairing. Of course lying would be a consequence of her terrible behavior.
What had she been thinking?
She had been thinking that he was a prince, her prince….
A stabbing pain went through her chest.
A few minutes later the coachman was on his way back to Clarewood and she was driving her carriage up the small, rutted driveway of her home, then halting before it. The lights were on in the parlor, and she knew her sisters were seated there, worried and waiting for her. It must, she decided, be close to ten o’clock.
As she got down and prepared to lead Ebony to the stable, the front door opened and her sisters came running outside, wrapped in shawls.
“Where have you been?” Corey demanded, her eyes huge. “We have been worried sick about you!”
“You should have sent a note,” Olivia admonished. Then, “Father is home, but he is in the library with two friends, and they are foxed.”
Alexandra stiffened. They had to get Ebony put away immediately, and then maybe she could sneak inside and he would not know she had come home so late. “Can you help me unhitch and feed the horse?”
“Of course,” Olivia said, staring. But it was dark outside, and Alexandra knew her sister had no idea of the distress she was in.
Corey led the gelding to the stables, Alexandra and Olivia following. Alexandra was grateful her sisters weren’t pestering her with questions, but she knew their silence would be short-lived.
In the interior of the small, four-box barn, Corey lit a kerosene lantern. Alexandra had already walked to the horse’s far side, so neither one of her sisters could see her face, and was unhitching the traces, ordering herself to find composure and, if possible, a disguise for her feelings.
As she led Ebony into his stall, Olivia said, “Well?”
Alexandra meant to smile, but she failed entirely.
And now, in the flickering light of the lantern, Olivia saw her and she cried out, “What did he do to you?”
Alexandra hugged herself, perilously close to tears, knowing that if she broke down, her sisters would comfort her. But they must never know what had happened. “You were right. His intentions were dishonorable, and I realized I could not lower myself to his immoral level.” She closed her eyes, thinking about just how imm
oral she had in fact been.
Olivia rushed over and hugged her. “Something happened. I can tell.”
There was no possible excuse to make. Alexandra pulled away. “I am exhausted. I am going to sleep.” She started from the barn.
Olivia followed. “You cannot return looking as you do—utterly distraught and disheveled—and then simply walk away from us!”
Alexandra hurried across the yard, and the moment she grabbed the knob on the front door, she heard boisterous male laughter. She paused, bolstering her resolve, and then walked inside.
Her father was standing in the front hall, putting on his coat, with two elderly friends. He beamed when he saw her. “So you have come back!”
She still couldn’t form a smile. “I don’t know what you mean, Father. Hello.” She nodded politely to the two gentlemen, whom she did not know.
“You missed supper. I saw the carriage come in a moment ago.” He squinted, suddenly puzzled. “Where have you been until such an hour?”
“I took a very late tea with Lady Harrington.” God, it was unbelievable how one act could lead to one lie, which then led to so many others. “I am sorry I missed supper, but Lady Blanche sets a wonderful plate at tea time. Excuse me.” Aware of her sisters staring at her and not believing a single word that she had said, Alexandra rushed upstairs, into her bedroom.
She shut and locked the door, then slumped against it. And when she opened her eyes, she found herself staring at his red roses.
They were dying now. It was so unbelievably appropriate.
“I hate you,” she said. “I do.”
She hugged herself, because hating wasn’t in her nature. But his image loomed, at once handsome and kind, his eyes warm, and then so hateful and mocking. He was not a prince, he wasn’t even a gentleman, and he was nothing like Owen.
Owen was a prince and a gentleman. He had loved her, he had wanted to marry her, and he would never have condemned her as Clarewood had done.