by Julia London
As he drew it between his lips, her body spasmed and she cried out; her hands clutching at his head, her body shimmering against him. She moved wildly, trying to escape the pleasure, but he could not let her go, not yet, not until he’d had his fill. He effortlessly held her steady in his hands and continued to suck that tiny bud until she cried again, sobbing, her legs squeezing him. “I beg of you,” she said breathlessly. “No more.”
Only then did he rise up and come over her, pushing his trousers down, past an enormous erection. He kissed her roughly, passionately, possessively as he parted her legs with his thigh and lowered his body to hers, pressed the tip of his cock against her wet body, and bit his bottom lip in a supreme effort to keep from taking her like an animal.
Her eyes were closed, her breathing ragged. “I never imagined feeling this way,” she moaned.
“Nor I,” he averred, and pressed the tip of him inside her.
Greer groaned; he kissed her, continued to stroke her hair, and slid a little deeper, giving her body time to accept him. He slid still deeper, felt the barrier of her virginity, and realized, in the haze of desire and want, that he was grateful for it.
He lowered his forehead to hers. “I want you desperately, Greer…but are you certain you want me?”
She opened her eyes. The blue seemed even bluer somehow, and he had the sensation he was looking into a deep pool. She smiled and put her hands to his face. “Yes,” she said softly.
He sighed with pleasure and kissed her as he thrust past the barrier and slid deep inside her.
To her credit, the only evidence of pain she expressed was a small whimper. But as her body opened to him, her hands began to move up and down his back. Rhodrick moved fluidly, withdrawing to the tip, then sliding in again, watching her eyes with each stroke. She closed her eyes as he began to stroke her faster; her head rolled to one side, her hair covering her face. But her body moved with his, her hands gripping his shoulders, her hips lifting with each stroke. His breathing grew shallow.
When the raging desire exploded within him, he threw his head back, baring his teeth, letting loose a guttural growl of pleasure as he spilled hot and wet inside her. With a final shudder, he collapsed to her side, his face in her neck, his heart pounding so hard that she could feel it and pressed her hand against it.
“My prince’s heart,” she whispered.
The endearment was almost his undoing. He closed his eyes and held her tightly, remembering every moment, trying to burn it into his memory so that he would never forget how he felt this night.
They slept, wrapped in one another’s arms, until the early morning hours when Rhodrick finally untangled himself from her and quietly dressed. He found a lap rug and placed it over her; in her sleep, Greer moaned and rolled onto her side. Rhodrick smoothed the black hair from her face, stroked her cheek, and squatted down beside her. He took a strand of her hair between his fingers and brushed it across his face before leaning over to kiss her.
When he did, her eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at him with a smile of sleepy satisfaction.
“Sleep,” he said, and watched as she closed her eyes and pillowed her hands beneath her head.
Rhodrick stood up, tidied the room as best he could by the light of the single candle that still burned, stoked the dying embers in the hearth, adding another piece of wood to the fire, then quietly let himself out of the room. And as he walked through his cold, dark castle, he wondered if he had just made the greatest mistake of his life, or if he’d just opened a door.
Twenty-one
G reer awoke before dawn, alone, curled into the spot where the prince had lain with her on the settee. She was covered with a lap rug that had been tucked tightly around her. As her eyes focused in the dim light, she rose up on one elbow and looked around the room. Her clothes were neatly folded on a chair, the fire at the hearth had been stoked. But she was alone.
Greer fell onto her back, threw an arm over her eyes, and with a shiver of excitement, she recalled every moment.
She had never been so captivated, had never felt quite so alive as she had last night! It wasn’t precisely the act itself, which was uncomfortable—but so much more than that.
It was the way he touched her with such reverence, the way he breathed her in and the care that he took in pleasuring her, as if he held something precious and fragile in his hands, and the tender, heartfelt words he’d whispered to her.
It was the way he looked at her, the way his eyes shone from a place so deep that it made her shiver with excitement this morning just recalling it.
Beneath the cover of her arm, Greer smiled contentedly.
Until she remembered that she’d let her usually sound judgment be clouded by curiosity and excitement and…feelings?
Feelings. Sentiments that felt bottomless, stirred from somewhere so hidden inside her that she could hardly make heads or tails of them now. In the blink of an eye, all the tiny rumblings she’d been feeling came rushing to the surface to overwhelm her, until all she could think or feel was the need to be held by him, to be kissed and caressed by him, to be loved by him. To be loved in the most primal sense of the word.
Love? The notion startled her. Was it love she was feeling? Greer slowly sat up, clutching the lap rug. Was this, what she was feeling, the mysterious thing that had eluded her all these years? When other women talked of loving this or that gentleman, was it this that they were feeling? It seemed so much more profound than what made debutantes giggle endlessly.
Was it possible that somewhere in England, Ava had felt these very same stirrings for the Marquis of Middleton? Was it really possible that Greer could be falling in love with a man who was years older than she, who lived in near seclusion in Wales, with so many unanswered questions swirling about him?
It was almost too much to even contemplate.
Greer stood, wrapped the lap rug tightly around her naked body, and gathered her clothes and her shoes. With a glance about to assure herself that nothing was left behind, she retreated to the safety of her bedchamber.
But as she walked into that room, she was reminded that it had once been the bedchamber of a wife he had once loved, and that sobered her. As she put her clothes away and pulled a nightgown over her head, she wondered if the prince still loved Eira? Was it possible for a man to love two women in his lifetime?
“Stop it,” she chided herself as she climbed into bed. “You have no right to think it.” It was true—she was rushing ahead into something she really knew nothing about. In the absence of a formal declaration of esteem from the prince, she was not ascribing any such feelings to him. For all she knew, he’d only done what so many gentlemen in London made a sport of doing—bedding a young woman for the sake of carnal relations. Why should he be any different? After all, she was living under his roof without a chaperone. Not only had she failed to stop what had happened, if anything, she’d been a willing and eager participant.
Her world had turned completely on its head.
When she lay down in her bed, she closed her eyes again, only this time, it was against the ugly image of a ruined debutante, who had let not one, but two men kiss her thoroughly in the space of a few weeks, and had finally succumbed to the unthinkable.
Honestly, where were Ava and Phoebe when she needed them?
Greer finally slept, but in those hours before dawn, she dreamt of her mother. She was standing at the door of Kendrick, beckoning Greer to come inside. As Greer climbed the steps, her mother entered the house, and Greer’s steps grew hesitant as a fear of what awaited her began to build in her chest. When she reached the dark threshold and stepped inside, it wasn’t her mother she saw at all, but the prince. He was standing in the middle of the foyer, his black cloak moving with the breeze around his ankles, his expression darkly erotic.
Greer awoke in a cold sweat.
Dearest Ava and Phoebe,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. I am feeling very well. I have determined there are some days in Wales that
are really rather beautiful, and not as bleak as I had previously thought. Today there is a light dusting of snow on the landscape that makes the forest look pristine and beautiful.
We dined recently with friends of the prince—M & M Awbrey and Lord & Lady Pool. Lady Pool, who was a frequent visitor to London in years past, claims to be acquainted with Lady Purnam. She cannot be entirely certain, but judging from my description of Lady Purnam, she believes they are indeed acquainted. I cannot imagine anyone’s having met Lady Purnam and forgetting her easily, not even with the passage of so many years.
I am reminded of someone we knew in years past, Miss Bethany Randall. Do you recall that the poor dear was caught up in a frightful scandal involving a notorious rake? Do you suppose she was careless with her virtue because she fancied herself in love with him? What do you suppose ever happened to Miss Randall?
I hear voices in the corridor, so I should close now. Please give my kindest regards to Lord Middleton, as well as Lucille and Lord Downey. I desperately hope to hear from you soon.
Warmly, G.
She had sealed the letter just as Mrs. Bowen and two footmen entered the conservatory. The footmen were carrying two large arrangements of hothouse hydrangeas, which, at Mrs. Bowen’s direction, they deposited on the floor on either side of the writing desk. Greer looked at Mrs. Bowen with surprise; Mrs. Bowen, however, seemed to look everywhere but at Greer.
“What is this?” Greer exclaimed.
“His lordship thought that as it is snowing, you might enjoy some flowers from the hothouse.” As she spoke, her gray brows rose nearly to her scalp. “He selected them for you.”
Greer exclaimed with delight and stood up to examine the huge vases of colorful hydrangeas. “Oh, they’re lovely!”
“I daresay his lordship has not been to the hothouse in two years or more,” Mrs. Bowen said, her brows still quite high.
“How gracious of him,” Greer murmured, smiling, as the footmen went out. She would have liked nothing better than to question Mrs. Bowen endlessly—What did he say? Was there a message of any sort? How did he look when he asked her to bring down the flowers? Was he smiling?—but she wisely thought the better of it. If there was one thing she had learned in London, it was that servants could spread gossip faster than anyone.
“I trust your hand is healing?” Mrs. Bowen asked, glancing at Greer’s unbandaged hand.
“Quite,” Greer said, and held up the palm for Mrs. Bowen’s inspection, wiggling her fingers. “It is really a very shallow cut. I’ve hardly noticed it today at all. In fact,” she said, lowering her hand and picking up the sealed vellum, “I wrote this letter without giving it a thought. May I have it posted?”
“Of course.”
Greer walked across the room to Mrs. Bowen, and handed the letter to her. But when Mrs. Bowen took the letter in hand, Greer did not let go. “If I may, Mrs. Bowen,” she said with a bright smile, “I…I’ve been meaning to ask if there is anything more about Alis Bronwyn that you might tell me.”
“Miss Alis?” Mrs. Bowen repeated dubiously. “I can’t tell you more than what I have already told you, miss—”
“But isn’t there anything more about her childhood you remember?” Greer pressed anxiously. “That is to say, what sort of girl was she? Do you recall anything extraordinary about her? My aunt was much younger than my mother and really knew very little about her childhood.”
“Well,” Mrs. Bowen said thoughtfully as she tugged the letter from Greer’s grip, “she was a pretty lass. Long black hair and blue eyes,” she said. “Like you, miss. And she was very polite.” Her brow furrowed as she thought about it. “I do recall that she was lost once.”
“Lost?”
“Mmm,” Mrs. Bowen said, nodding. “Got away from her nurse somehow.” She shook her head and frowned. “Oh, they looked high and low for the girl. The prince’s father and his men were called upon to help them search the river.”
“The river?”
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Bowen said, nodding vehemently. “She was just a tiny thing. They were quite certain she’d wandered into the water and drowned.”
“My heavens! But she didn’t drown, obviously.”
“No indeed. If I remember correctly, she had followed a pair of rabbits into the woods and had gotten lost. She emerged all on her own several hours later, covered head to toe in dirt and whatnot, and when they asked how she had found her way home, she said something very odd. She said that an old man in a red coat had helped her find her way home.”
“An old man in a red coat,” Greer repeated. “Who was he, do you suppose?”
“A spirit, Miss Fairchild.” Mrs. Bowen said it as if it were obvious. “There was a portrait of her grandfather in his regimentals that hung in the foyer. She said it was him, but the old man had died long before Miss Alis had come along. His spirit led her home.”
“A miracle,” Greer murmured.
“Indeed it was. I really can’t remember aught else,” Mrs. Bowen said, smiling a little. “You might inquire of his lordship—”
“Yes,” Greer said, wondering if she might broach the subject of Kendrick with him now. She smiled brightly at Mrs. Bowen. “It looks as if the snow has stopped falling.”
Mrs. Bowen glanced at the windows and nodded. “Indeed it does. If there is nothing more, I shall see this is put with the post straightaway. His lordship is to Rhayader on the morrow, and he always takes the post.”
“Thank you,” Greer said.
Left alone in the conservatory, her letter written, she had nothing to do but either dwell on the prince or read. So she picked up her book on Welsh history and began to read. But as the fire began to die, the room grew cold, and on the settee, Greer shifted below the lap rug she’d brought from the green room as she read about the conversion of the Welsh people to Methodism.
She must have drifted to sleep, for she was awakened by a loud clop when the thick tome of history slid off her lap and onto the floor. Greer blinked the sleep from her eyes and pushed herself up to a sitting position, at which point she noticed the prince standing just inside the door of the conservatory, his hands clasped behind his back, watching her. She could feel a delicious smile spread across her lips.
He seemed taken aback by her smile and slowly returned it with one of his own. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“I think the culprit was Methodism,” she said sheepishly as she collected her book. “I was reading of Methodism and the Welsh Bible,” she said, before realizing how that sounded. “N-not that I find that the least bit tiresome, for I don’t!” she added hastily, looking up at him. “It’s inspiring, of course.”
“Naturally,” he said, his smile deepening. “I didn’t realize you were a student of history.”
“The history of the Welsh is quite interesting.”
“Oh?”
She nodded. “It feels as if it is a part of me in an odd way.”
He held her gaze a moment; she could see him swallow.
Greer glanced at the beautiful hydrangeas and smiled again. “Thank you for the flowers, my lord. They are beautiful.”
“I thought perhaps they might cheer your writing room. I have no notion what color they are—”
“Pink.”
“Ah.” He stepped into the room and looked around. “It’s rather cold in here.”
“I don’t mind it,” she said, coming to her feet and putting away the lap rug. “It’s invigorating.”
He nodded, his gaze taking her in. “If you are accustomed to the cold, I should like to show you something.”
“Oh?”
He glanced at the window. “It’s outside. Nearby, but outside.”
She could think of nothing she would like better and nodded. “I shall just get my cloak.”
And as Greer walked by him, she glanced up and smiled, and could see that same deep shining in his eyes that she felt inside herself.
Twenty-two
S he met him in the foyer, where he was waitin
g with his dogs and wearing the same long black cloak he’d worn in her dream and a beaver hat. A watch fob glittered at his waist, and he wore a dark blue neckcloth that matched his gold-embroidered waistcoat. He looked, she thought, regal and handsome and uncommonly virile. He smiled a little as he took her cloak from her hand and held it open for her. She stepped into it, felt a shiver of delight as his hand touched her shoulder, and had to concentrate on fastening the clasp.
He handed her a thick woolen scarf. “For your throat,” he said, glancing at the column of her neck. “I would not want you to catch cold.”
“Thank you.” Smiling, she wrapped the dark brown scarf that smelled of men’s cologne around her neck. When he was satisfied she was properly bundled, he handed her a fur-lined bonnet for her head and a fox muff for her hands.
She blinked at the extravagance of the items as she took them from him. “They belong to my sister,” he said, and walked to the door, which a footman opened for him. “She wouldn’t mind you using them.” His commanding frame filled the doorway as he looked out into the courtyard. “Ah,” he muttered, “there he is.” He turned and held out his hand to Greer.
It was such a simple gesture, nothing more than any gentleman might do, but to Greer it felt as if she’d been waiting for that gesture all her life, for the right man to offer his hand to her. She slipped her hand into his, relished the feel of his fingers closing possessively around hers, and allowed him to lead her out into the courtyard with Cain and Abel trotting alongside.
But in the courtyard, beneath an icy gray sky, there was only one horse—the big black steed she had seen the prince ride. She glanced around, her breath coming out in puffs of frost. “Where is Molly?”
“The trek we will take is short but rather steep. You will ride with me,” he said, and glanced at her sidelong. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
The thought of riding astride that beast with this man was enough to make a poor ruined debutante swoon, but Greer had moved well past swooning, and nodded happily. She walked with him to stand beside the horse. “Has he a name?” she asked, staring up at the steed’s enormous black eyes.