As if sensing her doubt, he laid her down and turned the gas lamp low, leaving the room bathed in a subtle glow. Setting a knee on the bed, he braced himself over her and covered her mouth with his. He shifted back. “Are you sure?”
No. Yes. This surpassed recklessness, but his kiss and touch left an ache that needed to be soothed. She nodded.
His sensuous lips turned upward. He slipped his braces off his shoulders and tugged his shirttails free. In one swift motion, he drew the crisp shirt over his head, causing his pectoral muscles to bunch reflexively.
Her mouth grew dry. He was magnificent. Her fingers twitched. She wanted to touch him—this man with a body so different from her own, a man hard in places where she felt soft.
He tossed his shirt onto her favorite chair. The sight of the garments touching the flowered surface evoked a sense of intimacy—an intimacy shared by husbands and wives, and yes, lovers.
His gaze never left her as he kicked off his shoes, unfastened his trousers, and slipped them off. As he removed his socks and drawers, his forearms flexed. Swallowing, she forced her gaze lower. His penis looked hard and thick, nothing like the flaccid illustrations in Thomas’s medical books. She understood the mechanics of coupling. Knew a man needed to become firm to make the whole process work, but never had she imagined it would become so large that the veins would strain against the taut skin.
Hayden moved to the edge of the bed, took her hands in his, and pulled her to her knees. He kissed her long and deep while he lifted the hem of her chemise. He broke the kiss and drew the garment over her head. The warmth on her face spread to the tips of her ears.
“How beautiful,” he said, sliding his large palms over her shoulders, arms, the tips of her fingers. His hands lifted to her hair, extracted the pins that held her chignon. The long mass tumbled down her back—swayed against her bare skin. He wrapped his hand in it, tipped her head back, and then capturing her mouth, he lowered them both to the bed.
For long, splendid minutes, he lay next to her merely kissing her. Then his nimble fingers drew off her remaining garments. His hands moved over her, exploring, shaping, feeling. Her skin grew hot. She ached for something more, an unknown entity—primal, yet natural. She shifted closer.
The tips of his fingers grazed her skin, a featherlight touch. Too soft. A torment. She felt him smile against her neck. He comprehended what he did to her. Knew it was not enough. She bit her lip, forced herself not to beg him to increase the pressure, but she couldn’t stop her body from arching, pleading.
In answer, he rolled her nipple between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. It should have caused pain, but it satisfied, drew her closer to the elusiveness she sought. He lowered his mouth to her breast, sucked one, then the other. She tangled her hands in his silky hair and held him to her.
His hand skated over her abdomen to settle between her legs. Her body quivered. He slid his palm against her feminine skin, now dampened by her own uncontrolled yearning. He took possession of her mouth while his fingers stroked her. At the exact moment he deepened the kiss, he slid a finger into her. She pressed her heels into the mattress and lifted her hips.
Wanton. Yes, she felt wanton, and close to bursting from her own heated skin. She wished for more—for Hayden to bury himself in her, to join with her, to satisfy the overwhelming need that clawed for release. But instead, he made his way down her body nipping and kissing. His mouth moved past her navel and dipped between her legs.
Oh, heavens! What was he about? She tried to shift away.
But he held her hips and peered up at her. She stilled, suddenly wanting to experience what his heated gaze promised. His tongue delved where his fingers had been. Every nerve in her body centered in that spot he touched. An unexplored, foreign sensation threatened to overwhelm her. “No,” she said, scrubbing her head back and forth over her pillow.
“Hmm, but you taste so lovely,” he said, his breath, little puffs against her damp skin.
“Please.” To her own ears, the single word sounded like a plea for the continuation of his sensual ministrations, but he heeded her former word and pressed kisses against her inner thigh before he shifted and braced himself above her.
She reached out, tentatively wrapped her hand around his hard manhood. The texture was smooth and silky; it defied its appearance. Fascinated she ran her fingers up, then down its length, stroking him.
He made a noise, low, animalistic in its timbre, and threw his head back. When he glanced back at her, his eyes appeared nearly black. Air swished between his teeth. He shifted, settled between her legs, and pulled her hand away. With one quick thrust, he buried himself in her.
Sophia flinched and dug her nails into his shoulders. She had counseled women on the discomfort associated with the tearing of the hymen, yet she’d not really known what to expect. It had not been too painful. He stilled for a second, drew back, and looked at her, his expression puzzled.
Her stomach fluttered. She must seem gauche, awkward. He opened his mouth, but she laced her hands around his neck and brought his lips down to hers. With a groan, he started moving within her, partially withdrawing, only to plunge again. An exquisite sensation that coalesced pain and pleasure until only the latter survived.
The rhythm of his movements grew stronger, deeper. She wrapped her legs around his hips. Her body clawed at the growing sensations as if it realized something fantastical lay just out of reach. She wanted to ask him to explain what was happening, but instead she arched up, demanded it not elude her. The fine edge of his teeth grazed her neck before his tongue soothed the scraped skin.
She closed her eyes and centered her mind on the pleasure building within her, drawing her closer to the edge of something—a culmination. Then it overtook her. Her legs quivered and hot rivulets of pleasure shot through her body. She floated in a cloud of sated weightlessness.
Hayden’s voice drew her back. “Ah, Sophia, your climax humbles me.”
He thrust forward, once, twice. His breath ragged, he thrust again, tensed, and the sinew on his neck tightened as he held himself deep within her and shuddered. He kissed the top of her head and rolled to his side, taking her with him. He remained inside her and she could feel herself pulsating around him. She buried her face against his chest, listened to the heavy strumming of his heart, and drifted off to sleep.
* * *
Hayden brushed his hand over Sophia’s silky hair. She slept soundly, her head upon his chest and one small hand curved around his forearm. The even rhythm of her breathing marked the inevitable passage of time. He wanted nothing more than to stay cloistered in her bedchamber for a few days while the world slipped by.
If he’d meant to purge himself of his desire for Sophia, he’d failed miserably. When he was with her, the past and his guilt over what had happened to Laura drifted deeper into the recesses of his mind.
Edith was right. His wife’s death had tossed him in a dark hole of regret and self-destruction. He’d given up on himself and happiness, but the woman lying beside him made him believe there could be more to his future than regret. She made him want to be a better man.
He flattened his palm against the smooth plane of her belly. He always took precautions, usually more than one. Yet he’d been reckless. The fortitude to withdraw had deserted him, making him wonder if he’d come here to allay his baser instincts or to bind her to him.
Perhaps he didn’t wish to lose the peaceful calm he experienced when beside her. Did that equate to love? Or self-preservation? He wasn’t sure.
So where did that leave him? Did he wish her to be his mistress? That offer would likely be met with a firm slap across his face. Which left only one other option.
Marriage.
But would she accept his proposal?
Damnation, he was a member of the peerage. An earl. Though admittedly, one with a sullied reputation. Yet he had a feeling she wouldn’t care a jot about his title.
So what offer would he make? One might turn her awa
y from him, and the other would bind them for life. And both possibilities were scary as hell.
Chapter Thirteen
Sophia awoke bathed in warmth like a cat stretched languidly across a sunny windowsill. A strange experience, for she knew the wind pummeling the façade of her house carried the dampness of the Thames and a bitter chill. She glanced at the front windows. Moonlight seeped around the curtains, infusing the room in a subtle blue light.
The longcase clock struck five times, resonating through the house. Hayden should leave soon. Mrs. MacLean rose early, and the dailies would arrive in a few hours. Every cell in her brain told her she should wake him. Nevertheless, she pulled the quilt over her bare shoulders and nestled deeper into the crook between Hayden’s arm and chest, closer to the glorious heat his body offered.
“Sophia?”
Hayden’s deep voice rumbled beneath her ear. A shiver of awareness shot through her. He must have perceived the frisson, for his left hand, splayed on her lower back, pressed her tightly toward him as though he wished to warm her skin with his own.
She peered up at him. He looked magnificent, even with his hair tousled as if he’d ridden a fast mount through a turbulent gale.
Had she done that to him? Yes, she remembered running her fingers through the thick mass. “Good morning.” She feigned a sense of ease.
He flashed a devilish grin. “How lovely you look upon awakening.”
She probably resembled the doxies she’d seen in Whitechapel, the ones with red whisker abrasions on their faces.
God, what have I done? A vision of herself with her legs wrapped around him assailed her. She had behaved like a wanton, acting far beyond the realm of anything imaginable, all because his blue eyes had begged, and her heart—her foolish heart—wanted him.
For the first time in her life, she comprehended why many of the women who sought guidance at the mission acted so recklessly. Desire and lust, the touch of a tongue, the stroke of a finger, all conspired with the heart to overpower rational thought.
She should prompt him to leave. It would not be prudent to let anyone see Hayden leaving her house. It would herald her ruination as clearly as a town crier’s proclamation.
“You should be going. Mrs. MacLean is an early riser.”
“I shall speak to her. I assure you she will not say a word to anyone.” He stroked his hand up and down her back.
If he spoke to her housekeeper again, Sophia feared the elderly woman might suffer some malady of the body or mind—possibly both. “Mrs. MacLean will not gossip.”
His hand stilled and one dark eyebrow edged upward. “Sophia, the woman had the audacity to eavesdrop.”
“She’s tended to me since I was twelve. She will chastise me as though I am still of that age, but nothing more.”
Hayden flashed an expression of disbelief but didn’t argue the point. Neither did he appear ready to leave. She reached out and turned the bedside lamp higher. “I ran into Lady Prescott the other day. Your sister said she is to help you interview governesses today, several young women from Queen’s College. She is excited over the candidates.”
He didn’t respond.
“Hayden?”
“Just a bit longer.” His hand resumed the gentle sweep across her back.
“You realize,” she said softly, “though Chelsea may be far more liberal than Mayfair, I cannot have the wicked Earl of Westfield seen leaving my house at the crack of dawn.”
“Wicked? I don’t believe anyone has ever had the temerity to call me that to my face.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “No, I presume they wouldn’t.” She ran her fingers through the dark wisps of hair that dusted his chest.
He gave her a wry grin and rolled her onto her back. “I think I should stay and teach you deportment, my dear Miss Camden.”
“You teach me deportment?”
He favored her with another arrogant lift of his brow.
“I fancy you’ve taught me quite enough.” She gave him a slight push with her hands in an effort to prompt him off the bed. A futile attempt.
“On the contrary.” He drew the quilt off their bodies. “I wish to teach you a great deal more.” He slowly traced a finger lightly over her waist, causing her to laugh.
He grinned. “Ah, you are ticklish.”
“No, I’m not.” She sobered her expression and tried not to squirm beneath his touch.
His fingers circled her navel. The sight of his large hand touching her caused a warm yearning to grow.
His hand moved lower.
Her heart beat faster.
Lower.
Her mouth grew dry.
He froze. She followed his gaze to a light smear of blood on her left inner thigh. His brows furrowed as if he’d not expected to see the proof of her lost innocence.
Her cheeks warmed, and she quickly tugged at the blanket to cover her body. “Did you believe me anything but chaste?” she asked, her voice hollow.
He closed his eyes briefly. “I thought you’d had a child. A daughter.”
Is that what he thought? Her throat clogged. She swallowed the thickness. He’d been misinformed. Oh, how foolish she was.
After gathering the quilt around her naked body, she slipped from the bed and padded across the room to the large oak dresser. She didn’t know why she felt irate. What had she expected of him? They lived in different worlds. Nevertheless, she’d wanted him to realize what she’d given up, yet he thought her a fallen woman.
She opened the top drawer, pulled out a small flannel cloth, and slammed the drawer closed. She spun around to face him. “Is that why you bedded me, Lord Westfield?” Her stomach pitched and rolled. “Did you think me a whore who bestows her favors with ease?” She didn’t wait for his reply, but squared her shoulders and moved toward the bathing room.
Hayden leapt from the bed and reached for her.
With little forethought, she let go of the quilt and shoved him. Hard. A nerve twitched in his taut jaw, but otherwise he didn’t move.
“Do not put words in my mouth, Sophia. I said I thought you’d had a child, nothing more.”
She turned away from his steely gaze and searched the shadows of the room. “Your information is faulty. I have never borne a child or shared the intimacy of my bed.”
He took a deep, audible breath. “Look at me.”
She kept her face averted, not wishing to reveal the tears threatening to stream down her cheeks.
“Sophia, please.”
She peered at him. The hard glint in his eyes softened.
“I should not have come here last night. I should never . . . Damnation, you’re trembling.” He swept up the quilt, draped it over her shoulders, and held it closed. “When I entered you, I thought my information flawed. But you said nothing.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I wish you to know I do not go around defiling virgins.”
“Ah, such noble restraint.”
His nostrils flared. “I was misinformed. Perhaps I realized it—refused to grasp the facts—to admit what I had done. I took your silence and used it to ease my conscience. Allowed myself to believe only what I wished, not what I knew.” His fingers traced the line of her jaw. “Sophia, we both wanted this, and somehow I think it was inevitable—a beginning.” He pulled her back into his embrace.
She stood still, absorbed his words. They implied a future, but what it entailed she didn’t know.
“Tell me about the child?”
She hesitated. “Her name was Georgiana. She was vibrant and lovely, and she was my sister’s child. My niece.”
“And she lived here with you?”
“My sister, Maria, died after giving birth. Puerperal sepsis.”
His brow furrowed.
“Childbed fever.”
His arms tightened around her. “I’m sorry. What of the child’s father?”
How did she explain why Maria married Samuel? That love had not factored into the equation. That her sister had married a man beneath her st
ation to anger Great-Uncle Charles. Samuel was Maria’s pawn, and in turn, she his. “Her husband abandoned her before Georgiana’s birth.”
Talking about Maria and Georgiana always made her melancholy—amplified her loneliness. She pressed her nose closer to Hayden’s skin, seeking its soothing scent. “She didn’t have our guardian’s blessing to marry, so she ran away with Samuel to Scotland. Her letters to me were always brief until the last one, when she asked me to come to London. To Spitalfields.”
“Spitalfields?” His tone reflected his awareness of the destitution the rookery contained.
“Maria and Samuel had come to London to meet with Father’s solicitor about her inheritance. The money should have lasted them several years, but it ran like water through Samuel’s fingers, and when it was gone, so was he. My sister was left not only destitute but shamed and pregnant.”
She thought of grandfather’s landscape hanging above the mantel in her morning room. Maria had never realized how valuable their grandfather’s paintings had become. “I arrived five days after Georgiana’s birth, and three days later Maria died.” She swiped at an errant tear.
Hayden stroked his hand up and down her back, soothing her inner turmoil, buoying her courage to continue. “Maria and I grew up here, in Chelsea, with our parents and grandfather. After we were orphaned we went to Northumberland to live with our paternal great-uncle. I bought this house a few years ago, hoping to give Georgiana the life Maria and I had known here.” Her chest tightened. “I failed. Georgiana died only a year after her mother.”
“Sophia, I’m sorry, but surely it was not your fault.”
She tipped her face to his. Her tears blurred his handsome visage. “Thomas said infection caused the fever that took Georgiana.”
“Trimble was your niece’s physician?”
“Not at first. But when she took a turn for the worse, I went to his Harley Street home in the middle of the night. After he saw how distressed I was, he came here to examine her.” She dashed her fingers across her cheeks to remove the tears streaming down her face. “If only I had brought her to Thomas initially, perhaps . . .” A sob caught in her throat.
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