Had he judged her and found her lacking?
Did he regret binding himself to her, after all?
But why should it matter what he felt for her? or what he must think of her? She’d chosen him because he’d offered her this union without all the usual trappings—without duty, and without attachment. Margaret wanted a loveless marriage. She didn’t mean for them to fall madly in love at first sight, and then long to fall into each other’s arms…
She certainly didn’t wish to consider a married life, with tots running about her house…
And nevertheless, never in her life had any man ever looked at her with such intensity of expression. Never had she experienced such a fluttering in her belly, such a tightness in her breasts—precisely as she was feeling this instant…
Her heart beat a staccato as she stared at Gabriel’s lips... her gaze lifting to his blue eyes and those brows, which were tilted so devilishly.
Her brow furrowed. Why, oh why hadn’t he kissed her? And why, oh why must she care?
The questions plagued her, though she told herself it was absurd. Preposterous. Outrageous. Completely without merit. So what if he didn’t wish to kiss her? Perhaps he had judged her and found her wanting, but why should that matter? Still, the possibility weighed like stones in her belly—niggled her as well, if the truth be known.
He sat there, looking far too unrepentant, and she had the most disconcerting desire to box his ears.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a notion—but yes, yes, she did, and she couldn’t suppress a sudden huff of laughter over the memory of a boy who’d once vexed her so thoroughly that she had cursed the encumbrances of her femininity.
“Laughter suits you,” her husband declared.
Margaret shook herself free of her reverie, momentarily taken aback by the compliment.
“Whatever are you thinking?”
Margaret refused to be soothed by his flattery—or mollified into sharing her private thoughts. How dare he rebuff her in front of that ill-tempered man, then expect her warmth. She shrugged. “A childhood memory—nothing of importance.”
And then, compelled to, she lifted her chin as she sat forward. “Not that I’m particularly upset over your change of heart, mind you… or your reasons, for that matter, but I hardly appreciated the humiliation of your declination, sirrah.”
He leveled his gaze upon her. “Pardon?”
Margaret inhaled a breath. “It was certainly your prerogative to change your mind—again, might I point out—however, you could have advised me well in advance, before I managed to make myself appear quite the ninny.”
“It was my prerogative to change my mind?”
“Yes, of course. But you could have advised me that you cared to do so.”
The man knit his brows, feigning obtuseness, but obtuse was something Margaret was quite certain he was not. “Advised you? That I cared to do… what, precisely?”
Margaret rolled her eyes. “Kiss me.”
He lifted his brows and turned up those sinfully beautiful lips. Of course, in her anger, it probably sounded like a demand, and Margaret was at once chagrined over the path in which their conversation had veered. “I mean to say. You might have said... before—oh, never mind!”
He lifted his head to peer at her through the shadows, looking entirely too composed, while she, on the other hand, in the space of an instant, had managed to feel even more a fool for her outburst. She groaned, discomfited.
“I thought you would be relieved.”
The mere slant of his brows sent her heartbeat to bedlam. She shrugged, mentally attempting to compose herself. “Of course I am,” she lied.
His lips curved a fraction more, and she cursed him to perdition for it. “Truly?”
“Of course,” she said. “I only wished—”
“We could remedy it easily enough, if you so desire?”
Margaret froze. “Remedy?” Her voice sounded strangled, even to her own ears. She stared at Gabriel’s face through the shadows, trying desperately to read his expression.
He sat straighter. “I mean to say, if you should desire that kiss, after all…” His expression was perfectly sober, and more than a trifle compelling. “I am quite willing.”
Margaret waved him away. “How absurd,” she said, though her heart pounded like thunder at her temples. If, in truth, he couldn’t hear it, he must be deaf. “Why ever would you think I wished to kiss you?”
He leaned forward, and Margaret sucked in a startled breath over his advance. And yet... she didn’t withdraw into her seat. She swallowed convulsively.
“Perhaps,” he said, “because of the way you are once again ogling my mouth.’
“I am not ogling!” Margaret argued, though she knew it must be a lie. She was decidedly aware of those lips, and not much else. In fact, scarce could she seem to remember, even, to breathe. She had to remind herself to exhale.
Her imagination? Or did it seem as though he leaned a bit closer?
Margaret swallowed her words of protest as his hand reached out to touch her face... so gently that she might have thought his fingers formed of mist—a brush of warm flesh that made her breast swell with pent up emotion. She shivered as the tip of his finger tapped her chin, before sliding down beneath, and ever so gently, cupping it and lifting her face to gaze evenly into his. Margaret lowered her lashes, afraid to look into his eyes.
“No?” he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.
“N-No,” she croaked, but then she betrayed herself, closing her eyes. And she couldn’t seem to move away as he leaned close. Sweet love, what was it about this man that drew her so inexorably? What was it that made her yearn to be so bold? To be held by him? Why now did she longed to be kissed by those wickedly beautiful lips?
He sighed. “Perhaps ‘tis but me,” he confessed.
“Y-You?”
“Because, I must confess… I cannot seem to stop myself from staring at your disconcertingly beautiful mouth.”
Margaret dared not breathe after his confession. “You cannot?”
“No,” he murmured. “I cannot.” And then he asked very softly, his voice a caress in itself, “Would you deny me now if I begged you, please?”
“Please?”
Margaret’s thoughts simply would not coalesce; her brain seemed suddenly as mushy as the puddles she used to trample through as a girl…
Some glimmer of memory surfaced, but fled as quickly as it reared, leaving Margaret to feel an overwhelming desperation to chase it.
Gabriel moved closer, until their breaths were mingled like a warm, gossamer veil between them, and she thought perhaps he must be about to kiss her. And more, she had a perplexing feeling she wasn’t going to refuse him…
Her breasts tingled with anticipation, tiny prickles that titillated her and stirred liquid heat in her belly.
“Would you like me to kiss you, Maggie?”
Her body slumped forward, and she sighed, no longer able to think at all. His voice mesmerized her, delighted her, sent shivers racing up and down her spine…
“I believe so,” she said, lapping at her lips gone dry. “Perhaps but once.” And then… and then… she could finally stop thinking about it once and for all…
Gabriel chuckled at her artless response.
Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted... the sweet dew of her mouth shone on her lips, and his own mouth went dry as dust.
So much for good intentions.
So much for waiting.
So much for contracts.
Alas, how could any man refuse lips so luscious as hers? How could he be expected to turn away from this temptation when she sat so near, smelling so astonishingly sweet?
How in God’s name could he refuse her, when the gentle rise and fall of her breast, and her quickened breath, were but tantalizing glimpses of the passion he knew full well lay tempered within? He knew the fiery girl she had been, and suspected he would delight in the fire she hi
d.
After all, what chance had he of convincing himself that this could possibly be wrong when it felt… so… right?
And she was his wife.
No matter that it was for convenience sake, his body wasn’t aware of that distinction. His logical brain must have quit working some time ago, and besides, he’d craved this moment too long...
She couldn’t possibly realize how much he yearned to take, how much he needed to give—and yes, how much he craved this simple kiss…
Reaching very slowly for fear that he would startle her, he slid the tip of a finger across the velvety softness of her neck, and felt her shudder. His heart hammered as he curled his hand around her nape and pulled her close, anticipating the taste of her with a hunger that belied the gentleness of his touch.
She made some strangled sound at the back of her throat, and then a soft, whimpering sigh that heated his blood to a boil. His nostrils flared, reveling in the scent of her… an impossibly familiar scent. How was it even remotely possible that he could remember her scent so completely?
More than anything, he longed to taste her soft, luscious body... every inch… inhale the scent of her into his long-deprived lungs. He growled—a fierce sound of unrepentant triumph—as she allowed his lips to descend at long last to the mouth he’d only dreamt about much too long—and Lord help him, he was lost the instant he tasted her essence on his tongue. In all his days, he couldn’t possibly have anticipated how sweet she’d taste… how supple her lips would feel beneath the play of his own. In fact, nothing could have prepared him for the silky warmth of her mouth, and the glorious mysteries held within.
And he didn’t think he could stop with a single kiss…
No more could he do so than he’d been able to forget those incredibly bewitching eyes, or her brilliant smile, or her laughter, or the impertinent tilt of her head, and the stubborn lift of her chin.
But even more than her kisses, he craved her sweet, sweet laughter…
One kiss… just one kiss…
So easily Margaret was undone.
She moaned softly as his lips coaxed hers—velvet steel against her pliant mouth, insistent and sleek, tempting her to open for him, like the petals of a flower to a hungry bee.
Instinctively, Margaret slid her hands about his neck, entwining her arms there, and he groaned savagely, sending another delicious shiver down her spine.
That seemed to be all the encouragement he needed. He swept Margaret into his arms, lifting her as though she weighed no more than a child.
There was no time for protest, no time to think. She found herself seated quite scandalously upon his lap, his arms bracing her for the onslaught of his mouth.
After a good deal of time—a moment lost in forever—he lifted his head, and said, “You cannot know how much I have longed for this. From the instant I laid eyes upon you, Maggie…”
He swept in again, closing his mouth over hers and Margaret whimpered.
“Open for me,” he said, as he slid his tongue across her lips, persuading her with soft caresses.
Margaret swallowed and did as he bade her, her body thrilling to his declaration… to the intimate way he said her name. She thrilled as his tongue slid into her mouth, liquid fire between her lips, exploring...
Moaning softly, she tilted her head while his hands held her face in an intimate embrace that made her heart cry out for more—and more, and more, and more! Never in her life had she been held so tenderly. Never had she known a mere touch could be so exhilarating. Never had she been kissed Nor, in truth, had she ever imagined she would yearn to give her soul to the first man who dared to hold her so ardently.
“Give me your tongue, Margaret,” he whispered, and she could do nothing but obey, giving it tentatively at first, then more boldly. And he might have asked her for anything in that instant, and she would have given it to him gladly.
He made some sound, part groan, part chuckle, when she thrust her tongue at him awkwardly, and then ever-so-gently, he suckled... until Margaret thought she would die with the soul-stirring pleasure that spiraled through her body.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, abandoning her tongue to suckle at her lips. Shiver upon shiver rippled down her spine as he nibbled at her lips, nipping and tugging with his teeth, and then suckling again to soothe the erotic sting.
A poppet in his arms, Margaret clung to him, afraid she might tumble backward into the undiscovered abyss of her own desire.
Wrapping his arms about her waist and folding his hands at the small of her back, Gabriel attempted to reign in his lust... for Margaret’s sake. His heart pounded like cannon fire against his ribs. She was making this too easy… not that he wouldn’t normally appreciate such enthusiasm, he acknowledged to himself, but he wanted her with no regrets.
He should stop now, he realized.
He should drag her away and set her neatly on her own seat, out of his reach, but he couldn’t seem to make himself obey. The fingers curled about his nape clutched at him a little too desperately... the fingers combing through his hair teased a bit too unmercifully.
Bloody hell, he didn’t want to stop.
All remaining reason began to fade. His vision blurred. His mouth grew parched and he sipped urgently from her mouth to quench his ungodly thirst. Try as he might to disengage, his hands took on a will of their own, unclenching at her back, and sliding to her waist... such a deliciously small waist. He tested the circumference with his hands, then danced his fingers back up along her ribs, discovering each one by turn, stopping only when his thumbs reached the curve of her breasts.
For a long, torturous moment, he envisioned himself bending low, ripping her bodice with his teeth, tasting her passion on her skin… and then lowering to her belly... ripping at her clothes, until she lay naked… and merely by those thoughts, he was nearly undone.
Burying his face against her soft throat, he groaned aloud, commanding himself to stop.
She sighed, completely oblivious to his torment, and curled up like a wee-kitten in his lap, saved by the many, many layers of her skirts from discovering his lascivious intent.
After all, she trusted him to keep his word—to kiss her and do no more. He held her for a long time, stroking her cheek with a thumb, and finally, he cleared his throat. “Are you sleepy?” he asked.
“A little,” she confessed, sounding sated, though he was anything but.
He sorely needed something to take his mind off his baser thoughts, and he couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking. Giving himself a mental shake, he asked, “How about we play a game to pass the time?”
Perhaps he could jog her memory.
She didn’t stir. “Game?” she asked with a breathy sigh. “What sort of game?” She yawned and started to rise, but he held her fast.
“Stay,” he begged. “Rest a while. It’s been a long night. We’ve a long way to travel. I was thinking we’d play a game to better know each other. I will say a word. You tell me the first thing that comes to your mind.”
She settled back, peering at him between thick, dark lashes, scrutinizing him. “I always liked that game,” she confessed.
He had to resist the urge to answer, Yes, I know.
“Good,” he said. “We’ll play a while and then be home before you know it. Laughter,” he began.
“Children,” she said at once. “That was easy.” He smiled when she cozied herself into his lap, making herself more comfortable.
“My turn.” He smiled at her enthusiasm. “Blue,” she said.
“Sky,” he answered. “Play,” he countered.
“Work.”
Gabriel frowned at her response.
“Books,” she said.
“Boring,” he answered, and chuckled.
She laughed as well. “Not so boring,” she demurred.
“I rather suppose it depends on what you might be reading. The books I read are quite tedious,” he maintained. “Kisses,” he offered.
“Nice,” she
said, without pause.
Gabriel smiled. “Regrets?”
“None.” She sighed, too, and cuddled deeper into his embrace.
“What about you?”
“What do you think?” he asked, then dared to tickle her ribs with a finger as he used to do.
She giggled. “Stop. Stop! You’re not playing right. You cannot answer a question with another question! Nor was that one word, it was four. You must answer properly.”
“No.”
She lifted a single brow. “Was that no, you’ll not answer properly? Or no, you have no regrets?”
“No regrets.”
She laughed again, this time unrestrained. “Did you see that look on the parson’s face when you refused to kiss me? I dare say, he didn’t know what to make of us.”
“I’m quite sure,” Gabriel said, smiling.
She giggled, and quieted. For a long while, the two of them sat together in silence, lulled into a sweet languor by the rocking coach and the soothing darkness.
Inexplicably, they sat together with the comfort of two lovers accustomed to sharing the same breath. But Gabriel wanted more than to be her lover, he wanted her heart as well. “Friend,” he said, after a long moment.
Her brows knit but she remained silent.
“Friend?” he said again.
She didn’t respond.
“Margaret?”
Still, she didn’t respond, and Gabriel glanced down to see that her eyes were closed. Neither did she move, nor did she seem to be breathing.
She’d fallen fast asleep?
Damn, but he was enjoying her answers nearly as much as he relished the feel of her in his arms… after so, so bloody long.
“Brat,” he said, and then settled back against the carriage seat with his delicious burden cradled in his lap.
Gad, she was his wife—after all this time! He grinned over that fact, and leaned back against the carriage, closing his eyes to enjoy the feel of the woman in his arms.
Chapter 8
The following morning Margaret awoke in her own bed, with only vague memories of how she’d arrived there. She’d fallen asleep in her husband’s arms, whilst playing that silly game. But she hadn’t precisely fallen asleep during the game, only pretended to be asleep, unable to respond to the word friend.
To Love a Lord: A Victorian Romance Collection Page 26