The Beloved One

by Danelle Harmon

  "An impossible pursuit, I think, given the circumstances," he murmured, with a little smile. He had his far leg drawn up, the near one outstretched in front of him, and now he took her hand and rested it on the hard thigh of the latter, covering it with his own. Amy caught her breath, but his expression was kind, even a little teasing. He looked down at himself, and at her hand, imprisoned beneath his and resting so near to his arousal, and raised one brow ever so slightly, as though he wasn't sure whether to be amused or concerned about his very noticeable reaction to her. "Hmmm. I recall that we have acted out this scene before," he mused.

  "I'm sorry," she breathed, trying to pull away.

  "Are you? I'm not." He kept her hand where it was, resting solidly atop his thigh, and stroked the back of her knuckles with his thumb. "I daresay I was rather enjoying that."

  "You were talking in your sleep. Dreaming, I think, about that night you asked me to wipe the soap from your skin."

  "Ah, yes. I remember that night well, Amy." His head still resting against the wall behind him, he turned it ever so slightly and looked at her, his down-tilted, sleepy eyes romantic in the scattered moonlight, in any light. "Do you?"

  She smiled, her face suddenly warm. "Of course."

  "And do you remember all those nights we used to sit up and talk together, long after everyone went to bed?"

  "I do."

  "And the way you coerced me into eating that broth when I wouldn't dine in front of others for fear of making a fool of myself?"

  "How could I forget?"

  He smiled and gazed once more at her hand, still caught beneath his, resting oh-so-close to that ever-growing bulge beneath his white leather breeches.

  "Amy," he said softly.

  "Charles?"

  "That talk we had earlier . . . I have been thinking. Thinking about what you said, as compared to my own standards of perfection, my own belief that if something isn't done correctly, it isn't worth doing at all."

  "Yes?"

  "Well, I beg your forgiveness for what I am about to ask, that is, for what I am about to suggest . . . and this, out here in a rather damp winter stable, certainly not the most comfortable of settings, certainly not perfect by anyone's stretch of the imagination, least of all mine —"

  "Charles, what are you trying to say?" she chided with a little laugh, though everything inside her tensed with expectation, with hope, with desperate, fervent longing —

  "What I am trying to say, Amy, it that I would like to make love to you."

  Chapter 22

  He added, almost apologetically, "It will not be perfect, of course . . . I would far prefer to lay you down in a soft mattress . . . to have a candle by the bedside so that I could see your face, your lovely, tawny skin . . . a damp stable is not quite what I envisioned, but —"

  "But it will be all the more wonderful for what it is, not what it isn't," she said, and reaching out, touched his cheek.

  Her hand was shaking.

  She saw his slow smile. He had once admitted that he was not a worldly man when it came to bedplay, that he had been betrothed since birth and thus, had never seen a reason to stray — but was he as nervous as Amy suddenly felt? Her own experience was limited by what he had taught her, and what her womanly instincts bade her to do. He was relaxed, yes — she could see that — but was he also, given his strident sense of perfection, worried that this wouldn't be done right?

  "You're trembling, Amy."

  She blushed. "I'm a bit nervous, suddenly . . ."

  "Why?"

  "Why?" She gave a little laugh. "Because for nearly two years I've dreamed of this moment — of having you in my arms, all to myself. Now that I do, I . . . I just don't know what to do!"

  "You could start by touching me, if you like."

  "Yes — I think I'd like that."

  "You see, I am a bit nervous, as well."

  "Are you?"

  "Well, tense. I could do with being touched." He smiled, still lying totally relaxed with one leg drawn up, his shoulders and head propped against the wall behind him. He looked devastatingly attractive. A little bit wicked. "I like to be touched, Amy."

  She touched him. First the soft, wavy hair that swept back from his brow, then his temple, then his cheek, slightly rough beneath her palm, a man's cheek. His skin was warm, the faint light making his hair seem darker than it really was. He was splendid. Unbearably handsome. Beautiful in a very masculine sort of way. Oh, Lord Gareth with his good looks and easy charm, he was handsome, too. Lord Andrew with his defiant eyes and warm russet coloring — he would turn any woman's head. And Lucien, the duke — enigmatic, fascinating, everything about him emanating danger, power, omniscience — there was no word to describe him. But Charles . . . none of them, as far as Amy was concerned, held a candle to The Beloved One.

  "And I like touching you, Charles," she breathed, her fingers grazing his mouth, which now curving up in the faintest of smiles.

  "You weren't just teasing me, were you?"

  "About what?"

  "About your having wanted to do this for nearly two years?"

  She paused, her fingertips still against his lips, and gazed into his eyes. "No, I wasn't just teasing you. I once told you that I've always loved you, Charles. But I would never, ever have acted on that. Not with you betrothed to Juliet."

  "And how do you feel about me now that I am a free man?"

  "I still love you. Of course."

  "Would you marry me if I asked you?"

  "I . . . I don't know, Charles. You were born to something I will never know, can never be. I'm afraid that I could never fit into your world. That you would, eventually, come to resent me."

  "Juliet was not of my world either. Do you think I would have resented her?"

  "Yes, but for different reasons."

  "Well then, do you think that Gareth will come to resent her?"

  "I don't know," she said honestly. And then, in a little voice: "Are you asking me to marry you?"

  "I . . . I am asking myself if I am ready to ask you to marry me. Does that make sense, Amy? With all my heart, I want you as my wife, as my lifelong companion, as my best friend forevermore — but I am so afraid, after all that has happened to me, that I will let you down. That I am not worthy of you. You think you don't deserve me, because of the differences in our backgrounds. Well, I don't think I deserve you, because I'm but a mere shell of the man I once was, and you are entitled to far more than that."

  "Charles —"

  "No, please. Hear me out. When I feel confident in my abilities again, when I am once again the man I was before that fateful day in April, then . . . then, Amy, I will feel worthy of you. Then I will ask you to be my wife, and by God, you had better accept."

  She shook her head and gazed at him with a mixture of love, frustration, and affection. "Oh, Charles."

  "What?"

  "You're doing it again. Being the perfectionist, all or nothing."

  "I know." He grinned. "But you're doing it again, too."

  "Doing what?"

  "Belittling yourself."

  He gazed up at her through his long, down-tilted lashes, one brow raised, a little smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. She grinned back at him; then, laughing, she playfully swatted his chest with a handful of hay. "Very well then, you've made your point!" she said, her body responding to the deliciously seductive picture he made, reposing so carelessly in the straw. "Now take off your frock, then lie back and close your eyes."

  He lifted a brow, but did as she asked.

  "Amy, my dear, what are you doing?"

  She slid her hands beneath his open waistcoat. "I'm taking your clothes off."

  He opened his eyes. "I say, I'm supposed to be undressing you —"

  "You'll get your turn in a moment. Now how does one untie this thing?" She leaned over his chest, her heart beating with erratic, fragile little pulses of growing excitement, and fumbled with his cravat, the only concession he'd made in his humble American clothi
ng toward high style. "I'm glad that we women don't have to find ourselves choked by one of these things!"

  "Oh, but it is far preferable to the stays and hoops that you have to wear," he said, grinning as she finally got the knot loosened. Holding it by one end, she pulled the expensive length of lace from his neck, then slid her hands beneath his shirt and found the bare, warm skin of his chest. Beneath it, the muscles were tense and hard, his heart almost pounding, and as she began to caress the ridges and valleys of bone, muscle, and sinew with her palms and fingertips, he lowered his lashes and gave a soft moan of delight.

  "Relax," she said.

  "I am relaxed."

  "No you're not, you're hard as a slab of marble."

  "Am I?"

  "You are," she laughed, bending her head to place her lips against his warm skin.

  "Well, I have never been seduced before," he said pensively. "I don't quite know what to expect!"

  "And I have never before seduced anyone," she murmured against his throat, "so I don't quite know what to do. But isn't that half the fun?"

  For answer, he only curved an arm around her neck, then ran his hand down her shoulders, her back, and out over her bottom. Oh, it felt good, that broad, warm, hand of his against her body, even if her petticoats still separated it from her skin. No, it felt better than good; it felt delicious. Oh, more. More!

  His hand explored the curve of her bottom. She kissed the base of his throat, where his pulse was beginning to beat quite rapidly now. She was not unaffected herself. She heard her own heartbeat in her ears. Felt a strange shortness of breath, and a feverish glow kindling her blood, making her skin feel warm, making all her nerve endings tingle, making the heretofore chilly air feel blessedly cool against her skin.

  "Charles?"

  "Yes?"

  "Do you mind that I'm doing this?"

  "No, it is rather . . . novel."

  "And do you mind if I touch you all over?"

  His voice was deep, a little husky. "You may touch me wherever you please, Amy."

  "Wherever?"

  He smiled up at her. "Wherever."

  She drew back and looked at him lying there, watching her every move from beneath lazy, half-lowered lashes. His left arm rested across his abdomen; she picked it up and, raising his fist, undid the buttons of his sleeve while he watched her with a patient mixture of interest and amusement.

  The sleeve gaped open, then slid all the way to the elbow, exposing his taut, lightly haired forearm to Amy's gaze. He had strong, hard arms. Wonderful arms. She saw the tendons just beneath the skin, and, defined in the moonlight, the beautiful play of muscle. And still he lay quietly watching her, his shoulders propped against the wall, content to let her do as she wished to him and promising with his eyes that he would do the same to her. In time. All in good time. Still holding his fist in her hands, Amy smiled down into his eyes, lifted the underside of his wrist to her lips, and pressed it to her mouth.

  She feathered her lips against it, and lightly, lovingly, touched it with her tongue.

  She saw the exact moment something changed in him. His eyes darkened. His lashes lowered. A slow, easy smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

  Still kissing the underside of his wrist, Amy picked up his other hand and repeated the procedure. She undid the button, and allowed the sleeve to whisper down his raised arm. She put her lips against the slightly salty skin, then lightly ran her tongue all the way from wrist to elbow, chasing the sleeve and kissing, tasting, and licking as she went.

  He swallowed, hard, and she saw that his smile had widened until a dimple appeared in his chin. Beneath those long, sweeping lashes, his eyes were crystalline and gleaming with interest.

  "Why, Charles. I haven't seen you looking this relaxed since that day we got you half-drunk out on Plum Island!"

  "I daresay I was not nearly as drunk then, my dear, as I am now." His gaze held hers, steady, deep, and oh-so-warm. "And this time, I far prefer the intoxicant."

  Amy's own eyes glowed with answering warmth, and then she bent her head, feeling suddenly powerful in an entirely feminine sort of way. As she released his hand and began to pull his shirt free of the waistband of his breeches, she felt a tugging sensation in her hair.

  She glanced up, brows lifted in surprise.

  "Your hair," he murmured, setting aside the little muslin cap he had just removed. "Only once have I seen it down, and then, when it was wet and bedraggled after our escapade in the river. You just told me how long you have waited for the chance to touch me as you're doing . . . well, Amy, that wait was no less difficult for me. For nearly two years, I have fantasized about freeing your hair from its pins and running my hands through the entire length of it. For nearly two years, I have tormented myself with wondering just how long it really is, how silky it must really feel, how thick and shining it might really be between my fingers. Please — do not deny me."

  He pulled a pin from her hair, and part of her pinned-up braid sagged against her ear.

  Amy cocked her head and looked up, as though she could see the damage he'd just wrought. "Well, if you get to undo something, then so do I."

  "You've already undone something. In fact, you are several steps in front of me, my dear, and it's only fair that you give me the chance to catch up." He drew another pin from her hair, and dropped it against the wall behind him, where Contender would not step on it. "There. One pin for one sleeve." He withdrew another, and the heavy, coiled mass of Amy's hair began to droop. "A second pin for the other." Grinning, he reached up and drew one, two, three more pins from her hair, and with a whispery little sigh, the entire mass came tumbling down around her shoulders, around her breasts, around her waist, and to the straw in which she sat in a gleaming fall of sleek, nearly-black satin. He reached out and touched it, combing out one long, long skein with his fingers and admiring it with his eyes, with his hand, with his lips. "And there. That, I think, makes us even."

  "Not quite."

  Returning his grin, she pushed her hands beneath his shirt and slid her palms up the flat, hard expanse of his stomach. He was deliciously warm, and she thrilled to the feel of silky male hair around his navel, of the concave tautness of his belly, of the curve of his ribs. Here, a small bump; there, what felt like a tiny scar. She splayed her fingers and spread her hands wide, running them further up his torso, trying to touch all of him, all at once. Hard, slightly bulging pectorals. Soft, wiry hair fanning across his chest and under his arms. Tiny nipples that beckoned exploration, and warm, wonderful skin that begged her never to stop touching it.

  "Mmmmmm," he murmured, his eyes drifting shut before he dragged them open once again. "Your hands feel wonderful, Amy."

  And then, reaching up, he caught a length of her hair and trailed it over his bare stomach.

  "You're shivering, Charles. Are you cold?"

  "No, Amy." He shook his head from side to side, slowly, and never took his steady gaze off her. "I am not cold. I am not cold at all."

  She drew back, bringing her hands back down his chest as she went, feeling the tiny, involuntary shudders beneath her palms, beneath her fingertips. And as she returned to an upright position, her hands came once more over his navel — and stopped, just at the top of his breeches.

  There she let them remain.

  He gazed up at her. Watching. Waiting.

  She gazed back down at him.

  And then, her face growing warm — not with embarrassment or maidenly modesty, but with the fire that was already burning hot through her own blood — Amy let her fingertips whisper over his waistband. Down over the top button of his drop front. And now, up and over the huge, hard bulge just beneath the butter-soft leather, where she let them remain.

  "Oh," he said, taking a deep breath.

  "I thought you liked to be touched."

  "My dear — like is not quite the word I would use to describe the pleasure you are currently bringing me."

  She smiled, and, still holding his gaze, exerted the f
aintest of pressure against him.

  "Oh — oh, blimey," he said, on something of a surprised gasp.

  Amy's lips twitched on a helpless, giddy giggle, and beneath her fingertips, she felt his arousal straining, swelling, craving her touch with all the concentrated desire that was in its owner. He said that he liked to be touched. He said that this brought him pleasure, but his heavy-lidded expression, the sudden dampness on his brow, and the hoarse, shallow little breaths he was beginning to take made her wonder how much of this he could stand. How much of it he would permit.

  No sense backing down now. After all, he said he liked it.

  She opened her hand fully, and hardening her palm, passed it against the swelling ridge, then traced its shape with her fingers. He winced, and a soft groan escaped him. He was very hot beneath the soft leather of the breeches. He felt as hard as rock. Did it hurt, to be contained so completely by the straining leather? Was he uncomfortable? Guided by compassion and instinct, she found the pewter buttons that closed his dropfront, pushing first one through its hole, then another. He was breathing more raggedly now, and she realized, belatedly, that so was she.

  "Amy — what are you trying to do to me?" he asked, in a hoarse, strained voice.

  "I'm trying to make you more comfortable, Charles. You must be in pain, all bundled up like that . . . I mean, we wouldn't want to cut off the blood supply or anything . . . You don't mind, do you?"

  "Mind?" He gave a little half-laugh. "No, no, I certainly don't mi —" he sucked in his breath as she undid the last button and his hard, hot flesh sprang free against her hand — "mind at all . . ."

  "Do you still want me to touch you, Charles? Does this part of you enjoy it as much as the rest of you?"

  "Amy . . . yes . . . that part of me enjoys it more than all the rest of me combined, which is why — oh — which is why . . . dear God! — which is why you really cannot p-play with it the way you're doing . . ."

  "I'm not trying to play with it, Charles, I'm just rubbing it to restore the circulation since it was pushing so hard against your breeches that it now looks a little blue."