A look of complete surrender changed his face from the hard mask she knew to one of utter vulnerability. He leaned forward, seized her face with his hands and kissed her.
The press of his body and the power of his kiss fanned that fire into an inferno, and once again, pleasure exploded deep within her.
She cried out against his mouth and wrapped her arms and legs around him. In this moment, she wanted to claim him and never let him go.
But she couldn’t. Even as the pleasure swept through her, she knew that pleasure was all she could let it be.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Once you’ve embraced passion,
one can never go back to the mundane,
no matter how painful the price.
-Ophelia’s Notebook
Andrew’s body shook with an ecstasy that verged on pain as he thrust into Ophelia’s body one last time. My God, it had never been like that before.
It was the only thought he was capable of at present.
Never in all his life had a woman pushed him to such a wild, completely exposed place.
He lowered himself over her body, resting on his forearms. Christ, he’d wanted to bite her, to take her so fiercely it could never be mistaken to whom she belonged.
“Andrew?” she whispered. “Are you well?”
A soft yet pained laugh rumbled from his lips. “Yes. My God. Yes.”
Softly, she slid her hands along his back, and he groaned, loving the feel. Had anyone ever touched him with such tenderness in his bed? Genuine tenderness? If so, he couldn’t recall it. Carefully, he adjusted to his side, not wanting to hurt her with his weight.
He cradled her against him, holding her in his arms, trying not to think about the strange, aching feeling in his chest. It was so mysterious, this beautiful, painful sensation. All he wanted was to hold her in his arms and never let her go.
A dangerous thought occurred to him.
Maybe he didn’t have to.
He stroked her cheek, then slipped his hand back into her long hair. Could anything ever be more beautiful than this moment with her?
He swallowed. His thoughts were so at odds with his usual line of thinking, he was half-afraid he’d lost his mind. “Ophelia?”
She nestled against him. “Mmm?”
“Will you marry me?” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he could hardly believe he’d said them. But it was his own voice he’d heard. And as that fatal phrase hovered in the air, he knew he didn’t wish to take it back, not matter how out of character.
She tensed against him.
The long silence that followed sank in, gutting him.
It had been a rash and impulsive query. Still, he hadn’t expected quite such a response. “Ophelia?” he prompted at last.
Letting out a long, slow breath that seemed to carry the weight of the world, she continued to hold herself taut. “Yes?”
“I’ve ruined this for you, haven’t I?” It had been her first night of passion, and he’d made it quite banal. But, damn it, most women longed for the words he’d uttered. They did everything they could to encourage a man to utter them.
Ophelia was not most women. How could he have forgotten? Even for a moment?
“I never thought you’d ask such a thing,” she admitted. Once again, silence filled the fire-lit chamber. Pulling back, she raised herself up onto one arm, looking down on him. “I do not wish a husband, Andrew.”
He closed his eyes, fighting off the sudden image of himself, Ophelia, and. . .dare he admit, a child? For one unbelievable moment, he’d risked the promise of a family. “You wish to be alone?”
“I’m not afraid to be alone, if that’s what you mean,” she said gently. She reached out and placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. “But you are?”
He grimaced and turned his head to the side, unwilling to meet her gaze full-on. Staring into the fireplace across the room, he said flatly, “How can I be afraid of the only thing I’ve ever known?”
“Surely not,” she scoffed.
Anger coursed through him suddenly. Did she think she was the only one that life was unkind to? God, it was selfish of him, but suddenly he longed to shake her. To make her see that suffering happened all around, that not everyone was loved by someone as she was, and that one had best take happiness in hand when one had the chance.
Not just pleasure. Pleasure wasn’t enough.
He could have cursed himself. He’d been preaching pleasure to her as life. Not family. Not love. He’d had enough empty pleasure for a lifetime. And he was tired of being alone. “I’ve never once known the love you’ve known from your mother,” he gritted.
“But your parents—”
“Sent me off to school when I was five years old, like so many other parents do their children.” His chest tightened with traitorous emotion. “Before that, I had an army of nannies. I saw my mother and father twice a year for over a decade.”
It was impossible to meet Ophelia’s gaze. If he had, he might have done something ridiculous, like let tears slip down his cheeks. Something he hadn’t done since he was in leading strings.
“Tell me,” she whispered.
“They traveled all the time, and I never knew them. Oh, I received disapproving letters, lecturing me on my behavior at school.” He swallowed, his throat squeezing. “They both died of fevers on one of their tours of India. I never got to say good-bye. I never got to comfort my mother as she lay dying. Most likely, she wouldn’t have wanted me to. In fact, only her portrait convinces me that I am correct in my recollection of her countenance. I have been alone all my life, Ophelia.”
“And now you don’t wish it?” she whispered.
He shook his head.
“Fear of being alone isn’t a good reason to wed.”
“I’d take care of you. I’d—”
“Don’t.” She pulled away. “I’ve had my fill of men who were supposed to take care of me. They’ve failed. My father couldn’t help dying, but when he did, he left us in poor hands. My brother’s hands. And he cast us out. So forgive me if I would prefer to take care of myself. Even my mother is abandoning me, though she has no choice in the matter.” She shook her head firmly, her face a mere silhouette. “I’m sorry, Andrew, but I will not be giving myself into anyone’s keeping.”
He wanted to argue, but the cold, bitter anger in her voice stopped him. He wouldn’t convince her. Not tonight. Possibly not ever.
“I want to enjoy this time with you, Andrew. Please let me?”
Let her? What was he supposed to do? Kick her out of his bed if she refused to marry him? She was doing exactly as he’d originally planned for her. She was embracing passion. And he’d never felt more alone. Or more the fool. Because he was a man in love.
“Whatever you wish, Ophelia,” he said. And he meant it, with all his saddened heart.
“What the blazes were you thinking, Stark?”
The note of disdain in the Marquis of Vane’s voice did nothing to alleviate Andrew’s dark mood. And, frankly, he was suddenly wishing that Vane had stayed in the country and not fulfilled his damned promise. He never should have agreed to meet the man at their club. Not after their last meeting. “You told me to ask for her hand.”
“And she made it damned clear she wouldn’t have you at the ball.” Vane leaned back in the lush, wing-backed chair. “I never took you for a fool.”
Andrew stared at the cheerily burning fire in the marble hearth, silently cursing its warmth, before he found the wherewithal to reply, “If you must know, neither did I until about sunrise this morning. Now I’d say I might be the king of fools. They do say love will make one do preposterous things.”
Vane leaned forward, the leather chair creaking ever so slightly. His black eyes turned hard. “Love?” he spat. “Love is not a thing that occurs between anyone but family. Between a man and a woman?” His upper lip curled in disgust. “There is lust, destruction, and heartbreak.”
The poison dripping from Vane’s wor
ds penetrated Andrew’s own self-pity. What the hell had happened to make the man so damned emphatic? Andrew cleared his throat, raised his hand, and caught the eye of a silver-haired porter. They were going to need copious amounts of liquor.
Drinking the last of his brandy in a quick swallow, he bought a moment before saying, “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”
“I would. And further,” Vane said, those dark eyes of his half-dead. “Love will destroy your life and the lives of those close to you.”
Somehow Andrew didn’t think Vane was speaking of one of his own amours. His anger was too sinister, too full of fury. The Vane he’d known would have just shrugged off a failed love affair. And he couldn’t for the life of him imagine Vane asking a woman to marry him. “I suppose asking you for advice—”
“Get rid of her. Bed her, if you will. She’s made it clear she has no wish to protect her reputation.” Vane smoothed a broad hand over his black brocade waistcoat. “But if she has a hold over your heart? Run.”
“What’s made you such a cold bastard, Vane?” Andrew whispered.
Vane’s lips twisted in pained smile. “Life, Stark. Life. She’s an unforgiving mistress. And she’s taught me well.”
Andrew hesitated. “You’ve become unforgiving?”
“I don’t need to give forgiveness,” he replied.
The porter approached silently and left a full decanter of brandy on the small mahogany table beside Andrew. Pouring it until the amber liquid trembled against the brim, he asked, “What do you need, then?”
Vane thrust out his glass. “Vengeance.”
A chill crept down Andrew’s spine at that one unrelenting word. Vane was on a dangerous path, and for now, there was nothing he could do but wait and watch and pursue the solutions to his own problems. Vengeance? No. Ophelia and Lady Darlington, for all the pain they might bring into his life, had taught him to face life with more strength than that.
’Twas a pity that Vane was lost. He’d been such a good man once.
“Stark?” Vane demanded.
“Mmm?”
“Forget her,” Vane said softly, almost kindly. “It’s the only way to survive, old man.”
Andrew smiled tightly and nodded, but in his heart, he knew he’d never forget Ophelia. How could one forget the moon and sun and stars once exposed to their glory or the soft warmth that he’d felt upon his heart for the first time in his life? No. He’d never forget.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A mother is the most wonderful thing in this world,
and it’s always terrifying to contemplate her loss.
-Ophelia’s Notebook
“You’re out of sorts,” Lady Darlington said. She clutched at the velvet blanket tucked firmly about her delicate legs with red-gloved hands. Under the faint, late-afternoon London sun, braced by cushions, she looked a wisp of a woman.
It had been suggested that they go out, but Lady Darlington had gently brushed that notion aside with a hand even more frail than the day before. So they had adjourned to Andrew’s courtyard.
Ophelia gripped the arms of the chair, wishing she could channel all her fear into the bamboo. Fear of her mother’s passing, fear of what had transpired with Andrew.
Of course her mother would notice. Even in her quickly declining state, her mother missed nothing.
“Well?” her mother prompted.
Ophelia leaned back in the bamboo chair. She couldn’t bear to look at her mother if she was going to tell a lie.
“No, Mama,” she said. “I simply wonder if Mr. Millais will indeed agree to teach me. He is so talented, and I admire him so much, it would be heartbreaking if he said no.”
“Look at me, Ophelia.”
Ophelia squeezed her eyes tight. It was so difficult, her mother’s embrace of honesty. How could one face so many hard things at once? At last, she opened her eyes and turned to her mother.
Penetrating pale-blue eyes blazed out from Lady Darlington’s paper-white face. Even in her opium-laced state, there was an otherworldly knowledge in her eyes that couldn’t be ignored. “Do I look”—she drew in a slightly shaky breath—“as if I’ve fallen off a turnip cart?”
Ophelia fought her distress at the strange turn her mother’s breathing had taken in the last day. Labored, shallow, and impossible not to notice. Ophelia wished she could pretend it wasn’t so.
Instead of thinking on how ill her mother truly was, she answered the silly question. “You’ve never ridden in a turnip cart.”
“Exactly. I am no fool.” Her mother smiled softly. A dreamy smile, despite the seriousness of her words. “You’ve quarreled with Andrew.”
Ophelia’s cheeks burned. Quarreled? Oh, she’d done so much more than that. She’d given herself to him in every sense of the word. Well, almost every sense. When he’d asked for it all, she’d denied him. But she couldn’t give him what he wished. She couldn’t trust Andrew with her hand. She was about to have her heart ripped out by her mother’s death. How could she ever risk feeling such pain again? Giving in to love would only ensure such pain would find her once more. Perhaps not now, but one day. She couldn’t bear that.
In fact, as soon as her mother had slipped from this world, she’d be done with Andrew. Surely Andrew would just remind her of her mother’s death? And that she wouldn’t be able to bear.
A red-gloved hand wrapped hers, and Ophelia jolted out of her reverie. “Mama?”
“You slept with him,” her mother whispered dramatically.
“That is not of your business,” Ophelia whispered back, her throat tightening around the shocking words. She should have known that her mother would see how it was and refuse to be silent. If anything, impending death had made Lady Darlington as bold as the wildest racehorse. Nothing held her back.
She forced herself to face her mother.
Her mother’s glance had altered, a slight glazed look taking over her eyes. Lady Darlington seemed to see much more than just everyday things. She was slipping away to a different place, her spirit seeing that strange, mysterious place before her body was ready to leave.
“Mother. . .I. . .I did sleep with Andrew.”
“Marvelous. Is he a good lover?”
Ophelia groaned, wishing she could run from such an awkward conversation, but she could refuse her mother nothing. “Yes. Or at least I assume so.”
“You enjoyed it?”
Ophelia gave a tight nod, but then an uncontrollable smile tilted her lips, warming her heart. The feel of Andrew’s arms about her, his lips on hers were not so far gone. He’d made her feel as if she was the sun and he but a planet basking in her life-giving rays. “It was wonderful.”
“Good.” She nodded slowly. “I’m glad Andrew lived up to his reputation. Now that that is underway, I expect you two shall enjoy each other very much.”
The warmth encasing Ophelia’s heart began to fade. Andrew had looked so disappointed in the early hours as she’d refused him. “He asked me to marry him.”
Her mother tilted her face to catch the sun. “I am not surprised.”
“No?”
“Mmm. I knew he was the man for you from the moment I saw you two together.”
Ophelia was tempted to roll her eyes, but she couldn’t. “What am I to do?”
Face still turned up to the sun like a flower drinking in the last warmth before dusk, she asked, “You don’t wish to marry him?”
Ophelia bit her lower lip, then said tersely, “No.”
“It’s not just your fear speaking?” her mother asked. Slowly, she lowered her chin and turned her gaze to her daughter. Gently, she reached out and touched Ophelia’s cheek.
Tears burned Ophelia’s eyes at that soft touch. She longed to cling to every gesture, to mold it into a memory. “I’m not afraid. Not of Andrew.”
“Aren’t you?” Lady Darlington didn’t look away, but rather cupped her hand along Ophelia’s face and simply held her gaze. “It is perfectly acceptable to be afraid, my love. Fear is a part
of life.”
Tears sprang to Ophelia’s eyes. How was she going to survive without her mother’s love? And she was afraid. Afraid of the pain of loss. “Haven’t we already had this conversation?”
“Well, it seems we need to have it again.”
“I am. . .afraid of what it will be like when you’ve gone.” Her words poured out, fast and angry. “But I shan’t marry out of loneliness!”
Lady Darlington’s silver brows drew together. “I never suggested you should.”
“Andrew did, more or less.” She let out a harsh sigh. “Or at least, that’s why he wishes to marry me.”
“He said that?” her mother asked, surprised.
“Yes.” Ophelia fought the tears lest they overwhelm her.
“No mention of love?”
“No,” she said tightly, not willing to admit how much that had hurt.
“You’re afraid he’ll hurt you,” her mother said simply.
Ophelia opened her mouth to deny it, but before she could utter the blatant falsehood, Andrew’s rich voice came from the doorway across the courtyard.
“Lady Darlington,” he called.
Despite her tired, shaking breath, Lady Darlington lit up at the sight of the viscount. “Young man, you have been absent far too long!”
Andrew stepped into the courtyard, his gray coat swirling about his black trousers. He looked askance at Ophelia, almost hesitating, but then he turned his gaze to Lady Darlington and his doubt seemed to fade away.
Ophelia folded her hands demurely in her lap, determined he shouldn’t see her distress. Had he overheard any of her conversation with her mother? From his relaxed countenance, it seemed not.
Crossing to Lady Darlington with arms outstretched, he bent down and lightly kissed her cheek. “Do forgive me. I had a meeting this morning I couldn’t deny.”
“Well, one must keep their appointments,” Lady Darlington agreed.
Andrew beamed down at her mother. “Speaking of appointments, you and I have one, do we not?”
Ophelia’s heart spasmed. Love. Andrew loved her mother. It was utterly clear from the soft look upon his face. He loved her mother in the way he’d never been able to love his own.
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