Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman

by Lorraine Heath

  She almost said because the babe was so small, but she’d never lied to him. Not one false word. She’d simply not told him everything. She’d never said she’d given birth to John. Only that she was his mother, and in her heart she was.

  “I might hurt you yet,” he rasped, and she saw the torment on his face with the thought. “Is that why you’re as shy as a virgin? Because there was pain before?”

  It was not his way to hurt women. She’d learned that much about him in the short time she knew him. But, yes, with her fingers wrapped around him, she thought he very well might hurt her.

  “The memory of pain dwindles with time,” she reassured him. “I only remember how much it meant to me to be with you. I want you.”

  “Then you shall have me.”

  With a smooth movement, he was suddenly wedged between her thighs, his body pressed to hers as he kissed her deeply. The musky scent of sex wafted between them. She ran her hands up into his thick curling hair. She skimmed her thumb along his scar. He was a man of such confidence that a physical imperfection bothered him not at all. But losing two years of his life was another sort of imperfection altogether. She wanted to relieve him of all doubts.

  She opened herself up to him—heart, body, and soul.

  He rose above her, his face a mask of dark pleasures, as he guided himself into her. Yes, she was tight. Yes, there was discomfort. But she fought to ignore it, fought instead to relax, to make the way easier for him.

  He pushed. Coated her throat in kisses. Pushed again.

  “Wrap your legs around my waist.” His voice was strained, his arms taut as he held himself aloft.

  She did as he wanted, and he slid farther, farther, until he filled her completely.

  “God, I’ve dreamed of this,” he murmured. “Of you. Of those lovely long legs.”

  I’ve dreamed of you, too.

  Where he found the strength to speak, she hadn’t a clue. With all these wonderful sensations dancing through her, she could barely think. All she could do was feel. The press of his mouth, the caress of his hands. His slow withdrawal, his determined thrust. Her hips lifted to meet him, her body curled, desire peaked.

  His tongue played havoc with her breasts while he again retreated, only to return with more force, more pressure. She whimpered. Whatever discomfort she’d initially experienced was gone, replaced by this need to have him closer, nearer.

  He was whispering things, tawdry things about her breasts, her throat, her stomach, the haven where his body joined hers. She thought she should have been shocked. Instead she become more aroused, her pleasure increased.

  He began rocking against her, faster, deeper, stronger. Sensations built. They spiraled, they soared. As her back arched, she pressed her head into the pillow and his hot mouth was immediately nibbling at her throat. Her fingers scored his back, and then she was crying out as stars burst forth inside her. Lightning flashed, sunlight poured in. It was a storm of pleasure that took her under and lifted her up, left her trembling on the shore of passion.

  His grunt echoed around her as he tensed, his body pumping into her, fast and furious—

  “God, Mercy!” Other sounds of gratification and satisfaction echoed around her as he stilled and slowly lowered himself to press a kiss to her lips. “There is no way in hell I should have forgotten that.”

  Chapter 13

  Stephen stared at the canopy, while Mercy dozed, snuggled against his side. All blood had drained from her face with his words, and he regretted them the moment he’d spoken, bringing his loss to a place where she didn’t want it to be.

  But it was true. How could he have forgotten what they had together?

  He remembered every detail of every woman with whom he’d been intimate until the moment he had tea with Claire that long-ago day. He remembered every encounter, every cry, every spark of pleasure. And he knew—knew—every one paled when compared with what he’d experienced with Mercy. None were as tight or as hot. None held onto him as though she’d die if she released her hold. None carried him to a realm of sensations where everything else had ceased to exist except for the two of them.

  She was perfection, she was radiance, she was his wife.

  For the first time, he was convinced he’d not made a mistake in marrying her. There was so much about her that he admired, that he enjoyed.

  He’d been wrong. He’d tried to identify exactly what it was about her that drew him in … and it was everything. Everything. The last he’d discovered tonight quite simply topped it all off nicely.

  And he’d forgotten her, forgotten that they might have had a night like this. What the bloody hell else had he forgotten? What else that was as important as she was?

  While one arm held her securely against him, with the hand of the other he pressed the scar on his face. He’d thought he’d forgotten only battles and blood and men dying. Then he discovered that he’d forgotten a nurse whom he’d left with child. But now he realized it was so much more. He’d lost moments of joy, moments of laughter, moments of pleasure that far exceeded anything he’d ever experienced.

  It wasn’t fair. He wanted those moments back. He wanted to know what had happened during those two years of his life. He needed to know. He wanted to regain what he’d lost.

  Twisting his head, he glanced down on her sleeping form. Her coppery hair stuck up at odd angles, much as his did first thing in the morning. Her auburn lashes rested gently on her cheeks. She breathed softly. Her balled fist rested on the hollow of his stomach. Neither of them had bothered to put on their clothes. Their flesh warmed the other.

  It had been cold in the Crimea—from what he’d experienced after waking without his memories. She and he would have created a fire that would have burned through the night and quite possibly longer. He’d always been angry about what he’d lost, but never so much as now, when he realized exactly what had been taken from him.

  Moments with her. Words spoken, passion shared. He wanted to know what the first smile she bestowed upon him had looked like. Had she flirted with him or had he pursued her?

  He would have pursued her. He was certain of it. And she would have resisted. She was too good. She’d left England behind, to return with nightmares. Her motives had been altruistic. She came from a good home, had resisted his attentions at Grantwood Manor. Yes, she’d have been hesitant to accept what he’d offered. But he’d worn her down, somehow. The night the men attacked her.

  Bastards. If he ever laid eyes on them again, he’d give them what for.

  Only he damned well didn’t remember what they looked like.

  Her life was tangled with his. It was a blessing and a curse. He shuddered to think what would have happened if he hadn’t gotten her with child. He’d have never seen her again. And if he had … he’d have not known who she was, not known what they’d shared.

  There was the true tragedy of his affliction. On the street, he might run into someone who had saved his life—and Stephen would ignore him because he wouldn’t recognize him. He should buy him a drink. Hell, he should buy him a woman. And instead, he’d casually stroll by as though the man were nothing.

  The not knowing ate at him. More so now than ever before.

  He needed to know everything that had transpired during those two lost years.

  Although she was sore in places that had been stretched and contorted during their lovemaking, she awoke feeling marvelous. She opened her eyes to find Stephen staring down on her. Sunlight eased in through a part in the draperies to glint over his hair, to mark the sharp planes of his beloved face.

  All her fears were gone. She had survived the night. Their relationship had survived. No more worries that he’d realize she’d not given birth to his son.

  Everything would be all right now. They’d live happily ever after.

  Smiling warmly, he trailed his finger between her breasts. “I do so love waking up next to you in the morning.”

  “I do so love having you wake up next to me in the morn
ing.”

  “No nightmares last night?”

  “Nary a one.”

  “Good.” Gently, tenderly he kissed her lips. “I was thinking of having breakfast delivered to us in bed.”

  “I do appreciate the way you think.”

  “Are you sore this morning?”

  She felt the heat blush her cheeks with the reminder of all that had transpired between them last night. “A little. To be expected, I suppose.”

  “We’ll rest today then.”

  “I’m not an invalid.”

  He tilted his head. “All right then. Perhaps we’ll take a ride over the estate. Check things out.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “Very good.”

  For several minutes he simply drew patterns over her flesh with his finger, creating languorous sensations. She could feel the passion simmering just below the surface. Perhaps she shouldn’t have admitted to being sore.

  “What were the first words I ever said to you?” he asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “The first words I ever said to you. What were they?”

  She licked her lips, trying not to let on that his answer bothered her. “Water. I need some water.”

  “I was in the hospital.”

  Everything within her stilled as a frisson of fear went through her. “Yes. Are you remembering, then?”

  Had the cataclysm of their lovemaking shaken the memories loose?

  “No, but I’m thinking that maybe I can rebuild the memories. If I know what happened, what was said, then perhaps I could envision it.”

  “What does it matter? We have now. That’s what’s important.”

  “I have so many memories that are gone. Moments with you.”

  “But if you spend your time looking back, you’ll miss making memories now. So you’ll have fewer of them.”

  His brow furrowed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t want me to remember.”

  “Now you’re being silly. Of course I’d be delighted if you remember.” Her first true lie to him. “But the memories should come of their own accord. You shouldn’t take up precious time trying to recreate them. If you do, you might not have time for this …”

  With a boldness that surprised her, she straddled his hips.

  “I thought you were sore.”

  “Tender … but willing.”

  “I don’t wish to hurt you.”

  “Then live with me now in the present.” Before he could respond, she latched her mouth on to his with near desperation. She wanted him to stop interrogating her about their time together in Scutari. For her, it was a place of horrific memories, except for the night she’d been with him. But even it had begun badly.

  Three men. Drunk. Filled with lust.

  She bit Stephen’s shoulder, not hard enough to draw blood, but with enough force to make him curse and grab her head, cradling her face between his large palms.

  “What the devil—”

  “I don’t want to think about it,” she said. “Don’t you understand? I want to be like you. I want to forget every moment that I was there. Please.” She kissed where she’d nipped him. An apology. “Please.”

  He cupped the back of her head, his eyes earnest. “It’s what I’ve lost with you that I can’t stand not having.”

  “We’ll make new memories. The ones worth having were only a few hours of one night. Everything else is rubbish. Please, let us just have now.”

  He levered up to his elbows, bent her head toward him, and took her mouth with an urgency that gave her hope that he would leave the past behind. She didn’t want him to remember it. She would do nothing to help him remember.

  She felt his arousal tapping against her backside.

  As he dropped back down, she pressed kisses to his chest. To each scar. She wished he didn’t have them. But they were safe, because she didn’t know how they’d come to be. They didn’t detract from his beauty.

  He was all sinewy muscle, in spite of the fact that he’d been recovering. She felt his muscles rippling as he caressed her.

  Then he lifted her up, guided her down, and she welcomed the fullness of him.

  Here, here, here was where she could forget.

  She rode him fast and hard. She watched his face. Watched the pleasure darken his eyes. His jaw was tight. His nostrils flared. His teeth clenched.

  He drove into her over and over. The pleasure mounted. Cascaded through her, to her fingertips, to her toes.

  And then beyond.

  She cried out with the force of it, heard his guttural grunt, felt his final driving thrust. They had peaked at the same time, completely and absolutely as one.

  Falling forward, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “That is a far better memory than anything that happened in Scutari.”

  His response was to kiss the top of her head and drift off to sleep. She could only hope that she’d convinced him.

  Chapter 14

  With some reluctance, Stephen left the bed. He’d awakened to discover that Mercy had fallen asleep. He was tempted to stay until she awoke, have another rousing session of lovemaking, but if his brother was entrusting the care of this estate to him, then he intended to be responsible, and that meant finding out exactly what he needed to do.

  Returning to his bedchamber, he prepared himself for the day. This notion of two bedchambers struck him as silly. He had no intention of ever sleeping in a bed without his wife in it.

  The thought brought him up short and he sank into the nearest chair. It wasn’t only that he didn’t plan to sleep in here alone. He had no desire to visit another’s bed. He wanted no other woman. He wanted only Mercy.

  Surely, this was a temporary condition. He’d always been adept at juggling women, never giving only one his attentions. He always made each woman feel as though she was the only one, but in truth, another was always waiting for him. He’d never yearned for one woman exclusively.

  But at that precise moment he couldn’t envision going to another’s bed after leaving Mercy. All he wanted, with an almost ridiculous desperation, was to return to her.

  It was the novelty of her. The newness.

  But that’s never mattered before.

  It was the shackles of marriage vows, spoken before his family, vowed before God.

  Only it doesn’t feel like manacles and chains.

  Maybe it was because he wasn’t quite up to snuff, was still healing.

  Only I feel stronger, more myself than I have in months.

  The thought that he couldn’t see himself slipping into bed with another woman, because Mercy mattered so much more than any other, scared the devil out of him. It wasn’t possible. He cared for all women equally. Even if he enjoyed one woman more than another, his feelings for her were no deeper, no shallower, no different.

  But Mercy was different.

  She was courageous and strong and so incredibly compassionate. She brought sunshine into a room. She’d sacrificed her good name, mothered his child. She was a wicked wanton in bed.

  He smiled at the memory of her seduction this morning, as though he’d needed any sort of enticement to once again possess her. Every fragrance, every touch, every moan and sigh, every undulating movement of her lithe body was indelibly branded in his mind.

  His hands balled into tightened fists on his thighs. He’d had it all once before, and he’d lost it, lost so much more than he’d ever realized. He’d lost her.

  He could not, would not, let that happen again, even as he realized that it was beyond his control.

  “You’re going in circles, old boy,” he whispered to himself. “There is no reason you’d ever lose any of this.”

  But his words brought him no comfort.

  A distant sound disturbed his disquieting ruminations. He tilted his head to better hear it. Was that crying? Yes, John. No doubt with an empty stomach. They’d had to make several stops on the journey here. The boy had one hell of an appetite. Took after his father i
n that regard.

  So why was he still crying? Where was the damned nurse?

  Stephen shoved himself to his feet, stalked to the door, flung it open, and stepped into the hallway. No servants were about and the wail was rising in crescendo. He stormed into the nursery, crossed over to the crib, and glared into it. “You’re a Lyons. A Lyons does not cry.”

  John immediately stopped his caterwauling. With water-filled deep blue eyes, he blinked up unhappily at Stephen. His puckered mouth trembled. A little bubble burst from one nostril.

  “Disgusting,” Stephen muttered as he took his handkerchief and cleaned the boy’s face. “There. Better. I’m sure your nurse will be here soon with what you require. You’re going to discover that you’ll spend a good deal of your life waiting for women, so you might as well get accustomed to it early. You wait patiently like a gentleman.”

  John’s mouth quivered and he began taking in quick breaths. Distressed, obviously. Damnation, where was the blasted nurse?

  Stephen leaned in. “I’ve got no breasts, lad. I can’t help you.”

  The lips quivered faster. The boy pleated his brow into what looked to be quite painful. A new tear leaked out from the corner of his eye.

  “Oh, very well, if you insist.” Reaching in, he lifted the boy into his arms. John’s brow relaxed. His mouth spread into a contented smile. Ah, yes, he was quite the charmer. He was heavier than he’d been before. His limbs longer. He seemed so much stronger. “You’re growing rather fast, aren’t you, you little bugger? You look like me, you know. Have they told you that?”

  The blue eyes blinked slowly. The urchin made a mewling sound that was obviously supposed to be some sort of answer.

  “No? Want to see how handsome you’ll be when you grow up? You’ll have all the ladies begging for a bit of your time,” Stephen told him as he walked to a cheval mirror in the portion of the room designated for the nurse. He held John up so their faces were side by side: one chubby and round with huge blue eyes, the other a sharp contrast of defining edges.

  “There. What do you think?”

  The babe seemed remarkably unimpressed. Stephen wondered if perhaps children’s eyesight was limited until they got older. He moved in closer and suddenly John erupted with peals of laughter that shook his tiny body.