As though following her unspoken, bold wishes, he tugged off his boots with an ease any valet would have admired and tossed them aside. He lowered his hands to the fastenings on his breeches. Not taking his gaze from hers, he shoved his pants down then kicked them aside.
Prudence wetted her lips, as her mother’s early lessons intruded on her earlier desire. A spear. She’d said it was like a spear and that had sounded like a deuced awful experience. Though, there had been nothing awful about any of what had come before this moment. Perhaps her mother had been wrong and had merely had it…wrong. She stole a peek at his spear and then her cheeks promptly burned. Oh, bloody hell, must her mother have proven correct about this? She shot her gaze to Christian’s. He studied her still through those deeply veiled lashes.
“We won’t fit,” she blurted. She gave her head a shake. “That.” She motioned to his long, plum-tipped member. “Will never fit.”
The ghost of a smile played on his lips as he eased himself over her. “It will fit. I promise you.”
He made to kiss her lips, but she angled her face away. “You can’t be truly sure about that.” And even if he proved correct in this regard, it was going to hurt like the deuced devil.
“Oh, trust me, I am sure,” he said with such masculine arrogance she frowned.
“Because you’ve been with others?” she said tartly. She knew the warnings and whispers he’d been a rogue and yet she’d never known him to be that man. She’d only known her Christian. Suddenly, she despised all those faceless, nameless women to come before.
Christian furrowed his brow and then blinked slowly. He lowered his mouth close to hers and froze, their lips a hairsbreadth apart. Their rapid breaths merged in an unsteady cadence. “I know because your body was made for mine, just as I was made for you.”
“Oh, Christian,” she whispered, caressing his cheek with her fingers. Her heart swelled with love for him.
He claimed her lips once more in a kiss, slipping his tongue inside. The leather groaned in protest as he shifted himself over her and continued his exploration with his mouth, dragging his lips in a path over her body. Her neck, lower to her previously neglected breast.
She bit the inside of her cheek as he closed his lips over the turgid bud. Her hands came up reflexively and she fisted the long strands of his blond hair, anchoring him to her chest. Desire pooled at her center, leaving her burning and aching for more. A cry of protest burst from her lips as he ceased lavishing his attention on her tender breast, but he was moving down her body. She forced her heavy lids open and shoved herself up on her elbows as he settled himself between her legs. “What—?” Her words ended on a soft keening cry as he put his mouth to her moist curls. He slipped his tongue inside the curls and caressed the swollen, aching nub at her core, laving her wildly until she collapsed backward. Prudence scraped her hands along his shoulders. “Th-this is scandalous,” she managed to rasp out.
He paused, looking up at her. “Do you wish me to stop?”
She would die if he did. In silent reply, Prudence tangled her fingers in his hair once more, and turned herself over to the sensation. He pushed his tongue inside her, taking her up higher and higher on this illusive peak, so all she was capable of was feeling.
A cold emptiness filled her as he ceased his shocking ministrations, but he shifted his body over hers. She dimly registered the hard length of him pressing at her damp curls as he slid easily inside her. Prudence wrapped her arms about his back, urging him on. Then he stopped, his shaft bumping the entrance of her womanhood. A pleased smile turned her lips. How very wro—
“Right,” she cried out, as the sharp tear cut across the haze of desire. Her bloody mother had been proven right. Oh, why must she always be right?
Her husband froze, his chest heaved with the force of his breathing. “What is right?” His words came out fast and ragged.
“My mother.” She winced and moved experimentally. Bloody hell. It still hurt. Her center throbbed in a way that was not at all pleasant.
Christian flinched. And it appeared to hurt him, too. “I would rather we not speak of your mother at this precise moment,” he whispered and turned his attention to her breast.
“Yes, but you see…” She gasped as the stirring in her womb was reawakened at his wicked caress. He reached between them and found her slick nub, rubbing the button once again until the pain receded.
“Yes?” he breathed, switching his attention to her other breast and suckling on her nipple.
Her hips of their own volition lifted, searching for him once more. “Did I-I say something?” Her body was a bundle of nerves and heightened sensations so that all she was capable of was feeling his touch.
Then he began to move within her—long, languid strokes. He slid his hardened shaft deep inside and then withdrew. In and then out. In a slow, tortured rhythm that drove back all earlier discomfort and left, instead, in its place a burning ache for…for…
“Christian,” she cried out, as he increased his movements. Her hips rose and fell in time with his until their bodies were matched in a synchronized harmony. A bead of sweat dotted his brow and his face contorted. “Are you in pain?” she whispered, brushing back the faint sheen of perspiration.
“Yes.” Agony underscored that one word utterance.
Oh, God, he needed to stop. It would kill her if he stopped. “D-do you need to stop?”
“I will die if I do.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I do not understand you men. You would…” He palmed her center and all thought fled.
“Yes?” he whispered, trailing his lips down her cheek and then nibbling at the corner of her lips. All the while, he thrust deep inside until her body climbed that peak once more and then crested.
She stilled, her body freezing, and then on a shattering scream came undone in an explosion of white light. He followed her over that precipice, going taut in her arms. He spilled inside her, coming in long, rippling waves. Christian continued to thrust into her, wringing each agonized drop of pleasure-pain from her, until she dissolved into a shuddery puddle in the folds of his leather sofa.
Christian collapsed atop her. His breath came in rapid, painful spurts. He adjusted his large frame rolling sideways and taking her into the curve of his arm. They lay that way a long while with her buttocks tucked against the vee of his legs; replete, no words needed.
A pleased smile played about her lips as she burrowed close. He’d given her magic. From across the room, the precious branch he’d given lay forgotten, abandoned upon the floor by his desk. She ran her fingers up and down the length of his arm, wanting to learn all of him. He spoke of having nothing to give her, and yet, he’d given her so much. Yes, marriage to her had provided him the funds he desperately required, but she wanted to give him something more. Prudence froze. There was something she could give him. Nay, someone. And hopefully that someone could provide the peace he’d long denied himself.
He pressed a kiss to her ear. “You are quiet, love.” His breath tickled her skin.
“I am thinking,” she whispered, turning into his kiss.
Christian cupped her breast, toying with the erect nipple. She moaned. “It does not speak well of my efforts if you are capable of thought after that.”
“Hmm?” she murmured arching against him.
He rolled her underneath him once more. “Much better.”
There would be time enough for thinking later…
Chapter 24
Lesson Twenty-four
You can tell much about a man by the loyalty of his servants…
For the first time since he’d inherited the title of Marquess of St. Cyr, a weight had been lifted off Christian’s shoulders. After handing the reins of his mount to a waiting groom, he strode toward his townhouse. He bounded up the broken steps and Dalrymple pulled the door open in greeting. “My lord,” the man said, easily catching the cloak Christian tossed to him.
He tugged free his gloves and handed them off to the
servant. “Dalrymple, a wonderful day is it not, my good man?” And it had been wonderful ever since he’d wed Prudence three days earlier. He grinned and the other man smiled in return.
“A good meeting with the solicitor?”
The first good meeting he’d had with Redding in, well, in any of his meetings. It was not, however, the sudden improved finances but rather the woman waiting here for him. A grin formed on his lips as yesterday’s memories rushed in of making love to her last evening. “It was a splendid meeting.” He’d the funds now to not only secure his current staff’s posts but to grow the members of the household. He rubbed his chilled palms together. “Where can I find my—?”
“She is in the White Parlor, my lord.”
He inclined his head. Whistling a jaunty tune, he continued along the threadbare carpets that had once served as a pressing reminder of his circumstances and onward to the White Parlor. His grin deepened. A perfect place for his white gown-wearing wife to spend her time. He came to a stop outside the doorway and paused a moment. Unaware of his presence, Prudence was seated upon the window seat overlooking the London streets below, staring intently out, her nose pressed to the glass.
Christian narrowed his eyes. He had known his wife less than three weeks. Longer, if one considered their chance meeting on Bond Street prior to Christmas.
As such, he knew her well enough to know she was up to something. He studied the sketchpad opened on her lap as she devoted more of her attention to the overcast skies outside that window. “Do you find yourself uninspired?” he drawled from the doorway.
Prudence shrieked and the book tumbled to the floor and landed with a loud thump. She swung her legs over the bench and hopped to her feet. “You startled me.”
He folded his arms at the chest and lounged against the doorjamb. “Were you expecting another, love?” A guilty blush stained her cheeks and he frowned. “Were you expecting another?”
She trilled a laugh and slapped the air with her hand. “Oh, Christian, you are hilarious. Who would I be expecting?” It did not escape his notice that she returned a question with a question.
God, she was a deuced awful liar. He entered the room then proceeded over to the tray of refreshments and tea set out and rescued a tart.
Prudence flew across the room. “That is not for you.”
He froze with the pastry halfway to his lips. His wife plucked the delicate treat from his fingers and crumbs flaked off, dusting the black of his jacket. “Then who is it for?” he asked with a frown as she rearranged the tray of assorted pastries.
Bent over the silver tray as she was, she paused. “Hmm?” She blinked like an owl startled from its perch. He could practically see her thoughts rapidly spinning. “Well, they are for us,” she said slowly, as though she spoke to a small child. “Just not yet.”
A startled squeak escaped her as he drew her into his arms. “Splendid,” Christian breathed against her lips. “I was afraid you’d invited company.” He nibbled her plump lower lip. All the while he worked his hands along her slender waist, downward to her gently flared hips. “And I am selfish, for I’m not prepared to share you.” A breathless sigh slipped from her, that gentle puff of air warming his lips and heating him all over with the promise of picking up precisely where they’d left off last evening. “I want to make love to you in this parlor, Prudence.” And in every room in the townhouse, so each echoed with the memory of her desirous moans and her climax.
His words brought her eyes flying open and she slipped out from his arms.
“Would you like that?” He stalked toward her.
She danced out of his reach, knocking against the small, rose-inlaid table with the tray of pastries and tea. Prudence shot her hand out to quickly steady the delicate porcelain teapot. “U-undoubtedly.” Skittish like a doe caught in the snare of a hunter, she backed away from him. “J-just not now.”
Her gaze skittered beyond his shoulder and he followed her stare to the ormolu clock. The broken ormolu clock. Her lips flattened in a little frown. “It is nearly thirty minutes past twelve.”
Prudence yanked her gaze back to his. “It is? How do you know?”
He folded his arms at his chest and sank his hip upon the edge of the upholstered sofa. “I had my meeting with my solicitor this morning.”
“You did?” Then she widened her eyes. “Of course! You did! I just was not thinking of your meeting, but rather—” She clamped her lips tightly closed, bringing her ramblings to an immediate cessation. “How was your meeting?” she blurted when he opened his mouth to speak.
The niggling of suspicion crept in yet again. What was she up to? “My meeting went well.” Her gaze strayed past him, once again, over to the door and lingered. His wife was expecting someone. The way she worried her lower lip hinted at her distractedness. “With the funds, we are now free to fly to the moon.”
“Are we?” she murmured, maintaining her focus on the doorway.
“Oh, yes,” Christian drawled. “And Redding informed me we are now in a position to fit the King’s soldiers in new uniforms made of white gowns.”
Prudence stitched her eyebrows into a single line and swung her attention to him. “What?”
He closed the distance between them and, settling his hands on her shoulders, he leaned down and kissed the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck. “Was it the mention of white gowns that earned your notice?”
She tipped her head sideways, granting him greater access to her satiny soft flesh. “I detest white gowns,” she breathed.
“You could wear a tattered, drab shift and still be as magnificent as—”
The sound of a clearing throat at the doorway cut across his words and Christian shot his head up. Dalrymple bore a faint trace of amusement on his coarse face. “The Duke of Blackthorne,” he announced.
As though scalded, Christian drew his hands away from his wife. He stared in a hazy fog of a dream turned nightmare as Dalrymple stepped aside and admitted the towering bear of a man. He stood, his frame in profile, and with the cold, austere stare he raked up and down their persons, he may as well have been born to the role of duke. Larger than he remembered, broader in his shoulders, the duke only bore hints of the young man he’d skipped rocks with as a boy of seven. Silence ticked away the tense moments and he dimly registered his wife looking between Christian and Blackthorne.
Except, this stranger was not the friend of his past. The man turned, presenting the whole of his face.
The muscles of Christian’s gut clenched as guilt sucked the air from his lungs.
At his side, Prudence drew in a slow, audible breath. He marveled at her strength. Most women and men would cower at the ferocity glinting in the Duke of Blackthorne’s lone blue eye. The hideous, jagged, white scars that covered half his face stood a glaring reminder of Christian’s crimes.
A hard, mocking smile formed on the other man’s scarred lips in a macabre rendition of amusement. “St. Cyr and…” He scraped another gaze over Prudence. “I take it this is the new Marchioness of St. Cyr.”
Christian watched his former friend’s entrance into the room, feeling much like a player who’d not practiced his lines upon a Drury Lane stage. Gone were the once long, powerful steps. Blackthorne now moved with the aid of a serpent-headed cane as his leg hitched with the force of each stride. This was his doing. All of it. He balled his hands into tight fists. “Blackthorne,” he said quietly. He tried to make sense of his former friend’s reentrance into his life. “This is my wife. Prudence Villiers, Lady St. Cyr.” A sea of questions raged through his mind, all coming back to a single one—what was the man whose last words to him were “rot in hell” now doing here?
The duke ignored that introduction. Instead, he eyed the threadbare furnishings and the worn upholstery of the sofa. His lips peeled up in the corner. Shame tightened Christian’s cravat at the unspoken scorn there.
Of course, his cheerful, ever optimistic bride broke the thick tension blanketing the room. She rushed ove
r and then stopped in a whir of white skirts. “Your Grace,” she greeted and sank into a deep curtsy. “It is an honor.”
Christian braced for the other man’s curt rejection of her warm greeting.
Instead, his former friend inclined his head displaying a trace of the charming gentleman he’d been before his entire world had been blown up with the spark of a flint. “Indeed,” he said on a lethal whisper.
Prudence’s smile faltered and she fisted her skirts. “Would you care for refreshments?”
Refreshments? Had his wife lost her bloody, everlasting mind? Blackthorne had not come ’round for—
Christ!
Christian took in the tray of refreshments, his wife’s earlier, odder than usual behavior. Why…why…she’d orchestrated this bloody meeting. “Prudence,” he said quietly, willing her to return to his side. “His Grace does not want refreshments.”
A vile chuckle rumbled from the duke’s chest. He spread his arm wide, the tip of his serpent-headed cane nearly brushed Prudence’s arm. “Do not be ridiculous, St. Cyr. Why, this is a festive occasion. A reunion. How would I dare reject your,” he smirked, “lovely wife’s graciousness?”
He silently cursed.
Prudence hesitated a moment and then slid into the shellback chair with its ripped upholstered seat. She reached for the teapot.
Blackthorne claimed the seat closest to his wife. He rested his cane alongside the edge of his chair, but kept the palm of his hand about the gold serpent head. “I must admit when I heard from you, I was at first surprised, my lady.” She froze mid-pour and looked to their revered guest questioningly. The duke settled back in his chair and looped his ankle over his opposite knee. If Christian hadn’t been studying this ghost of his past so very closely, he would have failed to see that faint spasm of pain. But he saw it and knew the long ago injured leg still brought the other man agony. “But upon consideration, I am not at all surprised.”
Lords of Honor-The Collection Page 45