Fantasy

by Christine Feehan

  “But what if I really am flawed—”

  “The only flaw you possess, my darling Bella,” he murmured as he turned her fully to face him, “is a deplorable inability to appreciate how wonderful you truly are.”

  A sudden smile broke over her face. “Oh, Justin, you say the sweetest things. Tell me, have you a method for ridding me of my ‘deplorable’ flaw?”

  “Indeed I do.” Feeling his hunger well up inside him, fierce, undeniable, he pushed the sleeves of her chemise off her shoulders. “What you need is to see yourself through the eyes of a man who does appreciate how wonderful you are. Like me, for example.”

  She sucked in a shaky breath as he dragged her chemise lower.

  “First, there are your breasts.” His voice thickened with need as he exposed them fully. “So beautiful and soft to the touch. I love having them in my mouth.”

  Dropping to his knees, he kissed them in turn. “I love tasting them and teasing them and…” He trailed off as he seized one in his mouth, giving free rein to the urges that had plagued him endlessly all night.

  But only for a moment. There was more of her he wanted to “appreciate.” Sliding the chemise down farther, he smiled to see her slender waist. Lamberton must have been blind to ignore this angel’s delights, to treat her body as something shameful when he should have been worshiping it.

  Well, Lamberton’s loss was his gain, and he’d make up for the man’s stupidity if it took him all night. “Then there’s your smooth belly,” he rasped through a throat gone raw with desire. “One day, if you’ll give me the chance, I intend to spread this belly with jam and spend an afternoon licking it all off.”

  Her skin quivered at his words, but her hands reached to caress his hair, and that was all the encouragement he needed. He kissed her navel, then pressed open-mouthed kisses in widening circles around it, inching lower and closer with every one.

  Only after she swayed into him with a moan did he draw back to tug her chemise free of her hips. It dropped to the floor, baring her completely to his gaze.

  With a little embarrassed cry, she covered the thatch of hair with her hand.

  “Don’t,” he commanded. He looked up at her. “I want to see you, darling Bella.”

  Though her face grew pink, she nodded and pulled her hand away. “My husband never saw me without clothing,” she said softly. “He told me that nakedness was indecent and…and shameful for a lady.”

  He felt a surge of anger toward Lamberton, anger mingled with pity. “What about when you made love?”

  “He came into the bedchamber in his nightshirt, gave me a kiss, then got into bed. Only after he was under the sheets did he lift my nightshirt and…and…well…you know…”

  Without sucking those pretty breasts? Or touching her lovely belly or—“Your husband was insane,” he growled. He unfastened both her garters, then slid her hose down her legs. “Not to take advantage of his right to see these perfect thighs of yours? Bloody insane.”

  Stroking up the insides of her legs, he said hoarsely, “You don’t know what they do to me—your elegant thighs. I can’t help imagining them wrapped about my waist as I drive into your sweetness.”

  Her face flamed, especially when he sat back on his haunches and parted her curls with his fingers to expose the pink flesh beneath. “And as for this sweetness here…” he began.

  “Justin, you shouldn’t—”

  He ignored her protest. “This is the holy altar at which I long to worship. It’s so tender and dainty and eager for me.”

  Then he leaned forward and planted a kiss right on it. She jerked back with a little gasp of surprise, but he caught her hips to hold her still. “Oh, no, Galatea,” he said, smiling up at her, “how can I be your lover if I can’t worship every part of you?”

  She looked uncertain, but he could already feel her relaxing in his hands. “Justin, are you sure—”

  “Shhh,” he murmured, then kissed her there again. But this time he used his tongue and his lips to caress her sweet petals, delighting in how the swollen flesh grew warm and fluid beneath his mouth.

  Good God, her scent inflamed him—ripe with musk and hinting at lemon oil. It made him devour her, thrusting his tongue deep inside in his urgency to know more of her.

  She shivered and shook, yet made no move to prevent him or chide him for his scandalous behavior. Her hands left his hair to knead his shoulders, and the mewling sounds she made in her throat turned his cock to iron. His mouth was ravenous on her now, and he could feel the heat build in her body, between her legs, beneath his hungry lips.

  When at last she convulsed and cried out his name, he thought he’d come off in his breeches right there.

  He needed to be inside her. He couldn’t wait another moment. So while her knees were still buckling, he rose to sweep her up in his arms and head for the bed.

  Isobel reveled in Justin’s fierce, eager hunger. Like her very own Roman conqueror, he carried her off, his eyes dark with the intent to plunder and vanquish and mold her to his will.

  She was quite eager to be molded after the way he’d sent her soaring just now. Why, her tender parts still thrummed from the excitement, and he hadn’t even put himself inside her yet.

  As he set her down on the bed, she stretched out to her full length, feeling languid and soft and all woman. He stepped back, and she propped herself up on one elbow to watch him drag his shirt off.

  How odd that it didn’t bother her in the least to recline here entirely naked. But he’d banished any shame in her body that Henry had tried to drum into her. He’d certainly banished any reluctance to see him scandalously bare his chest.

  Such a fine chest it was, too! She hadn’t seen a shirtless male since her girlhood in the mill, where the proprieties were rarely observed. Back then she’d been too young and tired to care what the boys looked like, but she did remember that their bony and grimy chests bore no resemblance to this wide expanse of male muscle, all sculpted and lean.

  “Are you sure about this, Bella?” he asked, his hands pausing on his breeches buttons.

  Her gaze flicked down to his bulging breeches, and curiosity overcame any lingering apprehension. “Oh, Lord, yes,” she whispered.

  A faint smile graced the firm mouth that had just sent her into ecstasies. “Like what you see, do you?”

  She blushed, and turned her head. “I–I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “There’s nothing to apologize for.” Catching her by the chin, he turned her back around. “I like having you look at me.” Her gaze met his to find it smoldering with heat. He added in a ragged whisper, “I’d like it even better if you’d touch me, too.”

  Her heart knocked madly against her ribs. Sitting up, she ran her hands over his chest, over the muscles flexing beneath rough, hairy skin, over the taut belly that trembled beneath her questing fingers.

  “My husband never let me touch him,” she murmured. “I was supposed to lie still. He said if I touched him, he might do something awful.”

  “Like make love to you as you deserve?” he bit out. “Forget your husband. Forget every stupid thing he ever told you.” He shoved his breeches off to bare drawers that strained with the fullness of his arousal. “Granted, there are men with such absurd notions about lovemaking, but I’m not one of them.”

  Opening his drawers, he slid quickly out of them, and her heart stopped. His shaft sprang free, long and rigid and arrogant—a conqueror’s lance, to be sure. And she’d wager it was larger than Henry’s had been, though she couldn’t be sure since she’d only felt Henry’s. She didn’t know whether to be frightened or intrigued by Justin’s size. If Phoebe were right, then her discomfort during lovemaking hadn’t been related to the size of the blasted thing.

  But if Phoebe were wrong…

  “If you belonged to me, darling Bella,” Justin rasped, “I’d take every opportunity to have your hands on my bare flesh.”

  “Like now?” she whispered a little nervously.


  “God, yes, now. I’d like nothing better.”

  Reaching out, she stroked his silky thickness tentatively with her fingers. “Y–you’ll have to show me how to give you pleasure. I don’t know anything.”

  “You know plenty, almost too much for a man’s sanity. But I’d love it if you’d grip it in your hand.” Closing her fingers around him, he said, “Here, like this.”

  With a patience that she knew required great effort, he showed her how to caress him. It excited her to see him so rapt, to watch him throw his head back and utter heartfelt groans of pleasure. She’d never guessed it would be so wonderful to prompt this reaction in a man.

  But she’d scarcely adapted to the new, delightful experience when he brushed her hand away, whispering, “I need to be inside you, Bella, I can’t wait any longer.” Pushing her down onto the bed, he knelt between her knees. “We have all night for playing, but for now, let me inside you…”

  Her answer was to widen her legs and lift her hands to draw him down on top of her. Still, she couldn’t prevent the trembling in her limbs or the subtle fear that made her fingers tighten on his shoulders. This was it. And what if she truly were flawed? What if this proved to be only more disappointment?

  “Don’t worry,” he said, gentling her with one hand stroking up her thigh. “I’ll make it good, I swear. Relax, just relax.”

  Surprisingly, she did. And even more so when his finger delved inside her as before. She knew this, knew what it felt like. So she hardly flinched when he replaced the finger with something larger. She even shifted to give him greater access when he began easing up inside her.

  But it was nothing like having Henry force himself there. She didn’t feel violated or hurt or embarrassed. She felt…filled. Yes, that was it, filled to the brim with Justin, surrounded by his scent, engulfed in his strength.

  So this was why they called it “joining.” No other word could adequately describe this intimacy, this intensity.

  “Ohhh,” she said, as any lingering anxiety drained from her. “I like this.”

  He choked out a laugh. “Good.”

  “Do…do you like it, too?”

  “Can’t you tell? Oh…darling…you feel wonderful. So tight…so warm. I wish I could stay like this forever.”

  “Why can’t you?” she teased.

  That Roman blood of his shone in every devouring glance he settled over her lips and breasts and belly. “Because it’s even better when I do this.”

  That’s when he moved. He drew himself out, then thrust so deeply into her that she gasped. Again and again, he drove into her, his blue gaze piercing her, his mouth whispering how he loved being with her, what he wanted to do to her, how often he wanted to do it.

  Like a thread caught on a spindle, she felt as if he wound her tighter and tighter around him, joining them so they could never break apart, twisting their destinies together irrevocably.

  Oh, dear heaven, what a feeling! The same glittering excitement that she’d felt earlier built again, only this time it was different because it seemed to come from him, too, to seize them both together until they were straining against each other, pressing together, fighting to be as much a part of each other as possible.

  This time when the explosion came, like a white-hot searing of her soul, her cry of release mingled with his hoarser one. And joy rained down from the heavens all over her.

  “Bella, Bella…my sweet Bella,” he chanted as he spilled himself inside her.

  His possessive tone gave her pause. Because this was a man she could easily lose herself to.

  As he collapsed atop her, she clutched him close, her heart constricting in her chest. Oh, Lord, she’d fallen in love with him. With Warbrooke, who would never marry her. Lady Kingsley might fit some of his needs for a wife, but the orphan millworker Isobel would never do. He was headed for prime minister, for heaven’s sake, the sort of man who required a matchless wife. Not one with her low past.

  Yet perhaps she could be content with an illicit liaison. Plenty of widows engaged in them. If they were discreet…

  No, she couldn’t. He’d marry some politically appropriate wife one day, and it would destroy her.

  With a growl of contentment, he rolled off her, then dragged her into the lee of his large body. Hooking one arm under her head to cradle it, he draped the other across her waist. “Well, Bella, what do you think—are you flawed or no?”

  A sudden shyness seized her. “What do you think?”

  He tipped her chin up until she was gazing into his face. “I think Bradford was a fool to stop at a mere thousand pounds.”

  Every uncertainty she’d ever had about her feminine qualities evaporated. She laughed, her heart flipping over in her chest. “You really are a dear, do you know that?” She stretched up to kiss his cheek. “That’s for bidding so much for me.” She kissed his other cheek. “That’s for saving me from Bradford.” Then she planted a hot kiss firmly on his mouth. “And that’s for showing me how wonderful lovemaking can be.”

  His eyes darkened. “I have a better way you can show your thanks.”

  Her belly tightened in anticipation…until he lifted his hand to the ties at the back of her mask.

  “Do we really need this anymore?” he murmured. “Let me see your face.”

  “No!” She gripped his wrist to prevent his tugging the ties loose. “No…I–I can’t.”

  Rebellion showed in the clenching of his Roman jaw, and for a moment she feared he’d unmask her anyway.

  Then he sighed and dropped his hand from the back of her head. “As you wish.”

  Relief made her weak. And grateful. “Thank you.” She pressed a kiss to his neck, then another, lingering to taste the salty skin with the tip of her tongue.

  He shuddered, his skin drawing taut under her kisses. “Bella, if you keep that up, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

  “Good.” She lifted her head to grin at him. “I’d say we’ve a great deal of wine left to drink, and I’m still thirsty.”

  He froze, his eyes a stark, brilliant blue. Then with a growl, he caught her mouth in a blatantly plundering kiss.

  Her heart filled as she gave herself up to him. She might have to swear off this particular bottle of wine in the morning, but for tonight she intended to drink her fill.

  7

  The prim and proper Lady Kingsley was going to kill him.

  In the wee hours of the morning, Justin fell back against the pillows after their last lovemaking session, so completely drained that he couldn’t even move to drag the cover up over their naked bodies.

  It had been a long, tempestuous night. They’d made love on the table where he’d licked wine off her luscious little belly. They’d made love on the floor before the fireplace, writhing on the fur rug like cats in heat.

  And just now they’d made love in the bath they’d called for shortly after midnight. What a tricky business that had been. But he must have managed it well, since “Bella” had climaxed three times.

  He turned over to tease her about her insatiable “peasant blood,” only to find that she’d finally reached her limit. She lay on her side asleep, her mask slightly askew, her hands folded like an innocent’s under her cheek.

  Even though they both desperately needed the rest, he felt a twinge of regret. Their private night was over. There would be other nights, but never another like this.

  In the morning, everything would change. He’d been willing to humor her about this mask nonsense for a while, because he hadn’t wanted to ruin her enjoyment. But tomorrow was another matter entirely. They’d have to make plans and discuss marriage.

  Because he knew beyond any doubt that he wanted no other woman in his bed and his life. No other woman could make him happy. And now that he’d learned he wouldn’t be competing with Lamberton in the bedchamber, he felt certain he could beat out Lamberton for possession of her heart.

  Which he fully intended to do. Somewhere between yesterday and the wee hours of today,
he’d discovered that he very much wanted the clever, exasperating, and thoroughly bewitching Lady Kingsley to belong to him, and him alone. He didn’t intend to share her with anyone, even her late husband.

  In the morning, he would demand that she remove that bloody mask. If she didn’t, he’d snatch it off her. But either way, they would be married as soon as he could obtain a special license.

  Not that he expected her to refuse to marry him. No matter what she said about not having the sensibilities of a “real” lady, she would never have made love to him so eagerly without caring for him. Once he removed her mask, she’d have no choice but to admit it. Then marriage would be the next logical step.

  Dragging her into the curve of his arms, he kissed the mask that had grown bedraggled in the course of their nighttime revels.

  “Good-bye, Bella,” he whispered. “And hello, Lady Warbrooke.”

  He was still holding her when he drifted off to sleep.

  Just after dawn, he awoke to find his arms empty. He shot up out of the bed, realizing in an instant that something was wrong. The table was precisely as they’d left it—with plates heaped up to one side to make room for the second time they’d made love. The tub still sat in a puddle, and the empty wine bottle listed to one side atop a pile of the towels they’d dampened trying to clean up their bath-water.

  But she was gone. Panic seizing him, he leapt from the bed and dragged on his drawers, then searched the room. Her costume had disappeared, along with her pelisse and her shoes. He did find assorted other pieces of clothing—a garter, both stockings, and one of her gloves—but that only showed she’d left in a hurry and probably dressed by firelight. She’d certainly fled, however, as evidenced by the absence of that bloody huge reticule she’d carried. With the sponges in it that they’d forgotten to use.

  Thoughts of those sponges roused his temper. She’d left him, damn it! And after letting him make love to her four times without a thought for the consequences! The woman needed a keeper, that was for certain.

  Striding to the door, he bellowed for a servant. One appeared in minutes.