What really made her angry, though, was knowing that the men in the world had won again. She just didn’t live in a time when women were allowed any advancements or achievements, any personal recognition; gradually, as if maturing to fully grasp the complexities of life, she realized she should just be grateful for the things she had. Even with anguish raging inside each time she thought of the world of adventure and study she’d given up for love, she would have to accept her life as it was. There was no turning back. It would simply have to be enough.
But she did have her greenhouse, and that she adored. During the last two weeks she’d begun filling it with greenery and flowers from the estate proper, watching as they took to the soil, some of them budding almost at once. Most of the plants inside, however, were those she’d finally had transplanted from her greenhouse at her father’s home, and all were different from those in the garden. During the coming months she expected the structure of glass to fill with color and brilliance, producing just as well as her creations did in the open air.
She’d been working on vines for twelve days, and although the woodbines were already taking to the soil, the scarlet runners would be difficult, for they only grew ornamentally in northern climes, and she hoped to provide them with the ability to sprout their edible beans in her greenhouse as they did in the tropics, their natural environment. Botany, as with any science, usually proved to be the greatest unknown, and she adored the challenge.
Within the week she intended to return to flowers—rhododendrons, violets, carnations. After that she’d again delve into the nightmare of breeding her cherished lavender roses. With so much work in the coming months, she hoped her mind would be too full to contemplate America and what could have been.
Thank God she had a husband who allowed her the freedom to do what she loved.
That thought made her smile as her hands dug into the soil. He’d left at sunup, quite secretive about his plans for the day, but she didn’t care. Her work took her mind from everything else, and she’d just pry it out of him later.
He quietly opened the door, the box in his hands, trying to come to terms with his feelings as he gazed inside the structure that had, in part, torn his family to pieces more than thirty years ago.
“It’s as…green as I’ve ever seen it, Caroline.”
She whirled around and smiled. “Well, if it isn’t Miramont’s resident spy sneaking up on his wife again.”
He grinned and stepped inside, taking in the surroundings.
She’d placed two large, oblong tables parallel to each other along the center, both almost completely covered with greenery. To his immediate left was a small desk piled high with papers, books, and what he assumed to be notes, and to his right along the glass wall were three small wooden benches, side by side, leading to a basin for water in the far northeast corner. Beyond that, the greenhouse was full of nothing but plants, dirt, and tools. This was where she belonged, and in a rush of guilt he wished he’d given it to her sooner.
Taking it from her again wouldn’t be easy. He only hoped his little gift would lessen the blow.
“I brought something for you,” he said mischievously, sauntering toward her.
“A gift for me?” she returned, grinning, and reaching for a towel to wipe her hands.
He stopped in front of one of the tables, placing the small, ribbon-tied box on the only clearing he could find. “I will, however, demand compensation for my effort,” he teased, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his hip on the wooden surface.
She gave him a sideways glance, smiling slyly in return, as she slowly started toward him, hands on hips.
“Compensation? A…plant for your sill perhaps?”
She stopped two feet in front of him and leaned over the table to lift a small pot containing some ugly green thing with sickly leaves.
“That’s…not exactly what I had in mind,” he murmured, watching her breasts push hard against her blouse as she strained to reach it. Seeing that was enough.
Quickly he moved to stand directly behind her, pinning her against the table, pulling the ribbon from her hair, and nuzzling his face in the long, shiny locks as they fell down her back.
“You intend to take advantage of your wife in her greenhouse?” she asked sweetly, as if she couldn’t feel him against her, his rigid erection gently rubbing her backside.
“Mmmm…”
She sighed loudly, leaning her head back against his shoulder. “Coupling in the dirt doesn’t sound all that romantic.”
“It doesn’t have to be romantic. It can be fast and furious.”
“Fast and furious?”
“And just as gratifying,” he whispered gruffly, wrapping his arms around her, caressing her stomach.
She laughed softly, attempting to turn, and with that he reached down and began to lift her skirt, holding her firmly against the table. He felt a shiver escape her as his left hand began to knead her breast, the tiny bud hardening against his palm.
“Brent—”
“Rosalyn is with Charlotte. We’re all alone, little one.”
“You planned this,” she said sternly.
He nuzzled her neck. “Of course I did. I’m not going to walk all the way down here for nothing.”
She ran her palm along his arm. “What about my gift?”
Slowly he pulled her skirt up to bunch around her bottom, and before she could protest, he started stroking the outside of her thigh with his fingertips.
“Open it,” he whispered.
Her breath began to quicken, her skin flushed beautifully, but he knew, as did every man, no woman could refuse a present when it sat directly in front of her, beckoning to be opened.
She reached for the small oblong box, gently trying to push his hand from her breast to no avail. He clung to her, caressing her, running his fingers along her thigh, and then, when finally she had the satin ribbon completely untied, he quickly moved his hand to hold the top closed.
“I thought you said open it,” she exasperated with feigned annoyance.
He softly kissed her ear. “Spread your legs for me first.”
She turned her head sharply to glare at him. “That’s obscene, you insolent man.”
“I know.” He grinned. “And you cannot imagine how pleased I am that you wear nothing under your work gowns. Had I known this little fact, I surely would have taken advantage long ago.” He lowered his voice to repeat impishly, “Spread your legs, Caroline, or no gift…”
For a long, drawn-out moment she did nothing. Then, smiling coyly, she turned back to the box and moved her feet just wide enough to allow him access. With her surrender, he lightly moved his fingers forward, around her thigh to the front of her, inside, then covered her completely with his palm.
She drew a sharp breath as he started to move his fingers back and forth along her cleft, already growing wet and hot to his touch. He lifted his hand from the top of the box and placed it back on her breast, cupping her, kneading her through the softness of her blouse, grazing his palm across her nipple.
“Open it now,” he whispered.
“You’re tormenting me,” she murmured in a deep, sexy voice.
“It’s my duty as your husband.”
She placed her fingers on the box.
He kissed her neck, gently squeezed her nipple, and slowly continued stroking her.
She lifted the lid, and as comprehension enveloped her, she nearly stopped breathing, fell completely still.
“This is what you mean to me, my darling Caroline,” he said in a thick, deep whisper, stroking her back and forth, teasing her breast in slow circles with the tips of his fingers.
For a moment she just stared at the box.
“Don’t cry yet,” he added tenderly, placing little kisses along her ear and neck. He eased his fingers between her folds, found the tiny nub hidden so intimately, and began rubbing it gently, quickly, making her gasp. “I need you first.”
“How did you—”
“Shh…”
She leaned her head back, closing her eyes to the feel, her breath growing erratic and fast. He kept her pinned with his hips and chest, unable to move, one hand caressing her breasts, the other between her legs, under the table and her gown, pushing her against him while his fingers moved expertly, faster, harder.
She moaned softly, and he quickened his movements, ran his tongue along her ear in slow form, and he knew she was fast approaching her peak.
He nuzzled her neck, breathing her scent, rubbing his swollen member against her backside, trying to stay in control.
“We shouldn’t…” She clutched his arm. “Brent…”
“I love to hear you say my name,” he whispered in her ear, squeezing her nipple gently once more. “I love to watch you when you’re aroused. I love to feel you in my hands, your moist heat surrounding me, making me ache to be inside of you, a part of you.” He increased the pressure and speed of his fingers, making her whimper, making her hips move rhythmically, instinctively, erotically against his hands. “I love to touch you, Caroline…”
Suddenly her nails dug into his arm. “Brent—”
Then she cried out, clinging to him, her body quivering against his. He held her tightly, feeling the tiny spasms with his fingers as he continued to stroke her, sucking her earlobe, kissing her neck and cheek over and over until he heard her soft whimpers of pleasure, felt her slow to his touch, her body begin to relax.
She breathed hard and raspy, eyes squeezed shut, face beautifully flushed. Then slowly, shaking, she turned, and this time he allowed her to do it, pulling his hand from her and letting her skirt fall once again to the ground.
She leaned into him, her head and palms against his chest, hair flowing loosely around her face. He embraced her fully, dropping small, delicate kisses on the top of her head, holding himself still, listening to her soft breathing and the faint rustle of trees outside.
And then she moved her hand down his stomach, slowly, until she grasped him firmly against the tightness of his riding breeches. He inhaled deeply but he didn’t move, didn’t let her go, then seconds later she gazed up at his face.
Her expression was one of fulfillment and warmth, the pure yielding of herself to only him.
His pulse raced, his blood rushed through his veins, and she smiled as if reading his thoughts. Then within seconds she lifted her hand and started unbuttoning his shirt, moving faster as she opened each one. He raised his hands to help, but she brushed them aside, and almost immediately she had it pulled from his body and discarded, tossed on the bench behind him.
Gently, her eyes never leaving his, she ran her fingers through the curls on his chest, making him suffer with want, then teased his nipples with the pads of her thumbs.
He groaned, pulling her hard against him and closing his mouth over hers, hungrily, passionately, kissing her possessively as his tongue plunged into her mouth, searching. Suddenly, as boldly intimate as it was unexpected, she grasped his tongue exactly as he’d done to hers so many times, and began to suck gently, the shock of the touch causing his knees to weaken beneath him.
He touched her shoulders, but she pushed his arms away once more as her hands reached down to his breeches. She placed her fingers just inside, gradually drawing them back and forth across the soft curls low on his stomach. Then quickly, before his mind cleared the fog of desire to understand what she was doing, she pushed down with her finger until she touched and circled the tip of him.
“Caroline…” he whispered against her lips.
She pulled back, and he opened his eyes.
She was watching him intently through dark, glazed orbs, features lovely and soft, cheeks dewy pink, and clearly outlined on her face was the look of a satisfied kitten ready to pounce on a nest full of birds.
He inhaled deeply for control, keeping his eyes locked with hers. Then swiftly, as if she’d been doing such a thing for years, she unbuttoned his breeches with incredible speed, placed her hands inside, and pulled them down just enough to expose the tip of him. Before he could even consider touching her, she put her hands on his chest and began pushing his body toward the bench behind him. He moved with ease, allowing her to guide him, sitting finally on the hard wooden surface and atop the shirt she’d taken from his torso and discarded only moments before.
Coyly smiling, she lowered herself to remove his boots, one at a time, pushing them to the side, and finally, his skin on fire, the wait excruciating, she moved back to his breeches, grasping and pulling them from his body in one fast action.
Still her gaze never wavered. She stood before him, fully clothed, and he sat on the wooden bench completely naked and never feeling more sexually aroused or exposed to a woman in his life. She had absolute control, and he was captivated.
Then she was on her knees, leaning over and kissing him intimately.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the glass, weaving his fingers through her hair, fighting the urge simply to lose himself to the moment. Her lips moved up and down the length of him, kissing gently, her tongue circling the tip in slow, blissful, agonizing form. As if sensing the urgency, she raised her head slightly and began placing tiny kisses on his thighs, back and forth from one to the other, then moving up to his stomach, her lips warm and moist on his bare flesh.
She softly cupped him with her hand, making him moan when she started gently massaging him, stroking his hardness. She continued kissing his stomach, running her fingers through the curls surrounding his shaft, until finally she released him and moved her body up to his, placing her knees on the bench, straddling him and raising her skirt to bunch between their bodies.
He reached for her, and she grabbed his wrist.
“Touch me, and I’ll stop,” she whispered, looking deeply into his eyes.
Without allowing protest of any kind, she delicately grasped him once more and placed the tip of him against her sheath, gently moving back and forth until he slowly slipped inside of her.
She was hot, wet, tight, surrounding him with the softness of velvet, making him crazy with longing just to let go and spill himself completely.
She started moving, stroking the length of him, and he relished in the feel, watching her, trying once more to touch her as he attempted to cup her breasts over her blouse. Immediately she stopped.
“I said no.”
That nearly killed him.
She must have noticed his pained expression, for at that moment she reached for his hands and placed them up under her skirt, his palms on her thighs.
Again she began to raise and lower her hips, slowly and gradually as she pushed her fingertips through the curls on his chest.
His heart pounded, his throat ached, and he desperately needed release, especially seeing her as she was now, on top of him, her long, glossy hair draping over her shoulder and down her right breast, the very thing he craved to touch, to cover with his mouth. She was so beautiful, her lips moist and rosy, eyes shiny and dark, skin luminescent and rich. He had completely lost himself to her a long time ago, and as frightening as that realization was now, he marveled in the feeling.
Suddenly she stilled her body, placed her palms on his cheeks, and eyed him suspiciously, intensely.
“How did you get copies of Sir Albert’s notes?” she asked in a daring, sultry voice.
He teased her skin delicately, the tips of his fingers skimming her thighs. Cautiously he replied, “I know people.”
She shook her head and raised her hips so the tip of him remained only barely inside of her. “Not good enough.”
He focused his thoughts to maintain control. “I know someone who knows his secretary, Stephen Phelps. He’s compiled the man’s personal lecture notes for years.”
Glancing quickly to the fullness of her bosom, he added, “The cost of having the work done was enormous, but I think you’re worth it.”
She grinned and narrowed her eyes to slits of shiny skepticism. “Years of notes are in that box?”
“Brent…”
She’d evidently noticed. He’d raised his hands high enough on her legs for her to feel his thumbs lightly touching the curls at the junction of her thighs, but the sound of her voice made him pause. She wanted to dominate this love play, and he was both intrigued and immensely excited by such a bold action from a woman.
He stilled his movements and waited, whispering, “I’m at your command, my lady.”
With that concession her smile broadened, and she slowly pushed herself down onto him once more, encasing him tightly. “It must have taken weeks to copy them.”
He held her gaze. “I’m certain it did.”
“And they won’t be the same as my notes.”
“They’ll be as similar as you’ll ever be able to find.”
She ran her fingertips across his lips. “I can’t believe you did this for me.”
He stared at her hard and fervently, breathing deeply to contain the powerful, confusing emotions descending on him in waves.
Then she gave in, closing her eyes, leaning in to him and kissing him fully, running her fingers through his hair.
“Touch me…” she pleaded against his mouth.
That was all he needed to hear. Grabbing her hips, he pulled her tightly against him, holding her still, relishing in her feel. He was close to release just from watching her, feeling the warmth of her, knowing she controlled the actions as she spread her thighs across him, pinning him to the bench.
Slowly she began to stroke the length of him once more, moving her hips against his, faster, up and down, one hand on his chest, the other splaying across his cheek, her lips brushing his, then moving to lay tiny pecks on his face. He reached up with one hand to cup her breast over her blouse; the other he placed where their bodies met, gently beginning the stroking motions with his fingers once more.
My Darling Caroline Page 21