He removed her clothing with a skill that left her breathless, leaving her clad only in her shift and stockings. The rest of her garments he cast aside willy-nilly, his movements quick and sure, his face taut with urgency. She sagged in his arms, knees weak, content to let him do with her what he would. He backed her up against the pianoforte, capturing her nipple in his mouth right through the delicate cotton of her chemise. She whimpered as the pleasure exploded through her, grasping his hair in her hands as he cupped her bottom in his palms and rubbed against her.
She should have been frightened. She was a virgin. But she had seen and heard too much in her years to be undone by maidenly modesty. Secretly she had always wondered what it felt like to be bedded. Clearly it could not be painful—except for that first time, she had been told—or else women would never tolerate such behavior. And she trusted Wylde—Thornton—to be kind.
He nuzzled his face between her breasts, then took the neckline of her shift in his teeth and tried to tug it down. She squealed in surprise, and he let go of the material, grinning at her.
She grabbed his shirt and attempted to pull the edges from the waistband of his breeches, though she was only half successful. “What think you of that, wicked man?”
“You want wicked?” His reckless grin both thrilled her and made her nervous. He yanked the shirt over his head, popping ties along the way, then tossed the garment on the floor. Before she could do more than goggle at his naked torso, he leaned over and closed the lid to the pianoforte. The snap of the wood made her jump, and then she let out a small yelp as he grabbed her around the waist and seated her on top of the instrument.
She sat with her face on a level with his, her heart nearly pounding out of her chest. He held her gaze for a long moment, then slid his hands beneath the edge of her chemise, stroking over stockinged calves and frilly garters before his hands swept over her bare thighs. She said nothing, just watched. Just felt. Her lips parted.
His thumbs brushed over her mound before he grabbed her bottom in both hands and tugged her forward, shoving the chemise to her waist as he did so.
“Oh my!” She grabbed his shoulders, then pinkened as he looked down at her exposed womanhood. She nearly squirmed away, but the expression of appreciation on his face held her captive. Slowly, he raised his gaze to hers.
“This is wicked,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss her with lazy deliberation. As if he had all the time in the world to enjoy her mouth, tease her tongue. Meanwhile he stroked her dampening folds with his fingers. She whimpered, leaning into his kiss, spreading her legs a little more.
“And this.” He dipped his head down to her breasts, took the hard nub of one nipple between his teeth. And still his fingers lingered between her legs.
Her head fell back, her eyes slid closed, and she clung to him with both hands.
“And this,” he murmured, easing her down to lie flat on top of the pianoforte. Then he ducked his head and touched his tongue between her legs.
She jolted, nearly sitting up again. But he laid a hand on her chest, gently easing her back down, and proceeded to make her head spin with the insane pleasure of his mouth.
How could she have known such bliss was possible? Awash in overwhelming sensation, she dug her nails into his shoulders and hung on tight. She was so aroused that her body responded instantly to his demands. He urged her up and up and up until she arched her pelvis toward his mouth, begging him in whispers to end her torment. Then he did, and pleasure exploded through her like Chinese fireworks.
Her body sagged on the pianoforte, his hands on her hips holding her fast so she did not slip to the floor in a puddle.
“Sweet girl,” he murmured. “Do you want more?”
She lolled her head to the side and opened her eyes. He was watching her with that intent gaze, the utter picture of a man holding on to his control with slippery fingers.
“I want you.” She undulated her hips. “Please God, finish it, Wylde. Take me before I go mad.”
“Be certain,” he warned in a guttural tone, tearing at the fastenings of his breeches.
“I am certain.” She smiled as he managed to shove his clothing down, baring that part of him she had never seen, only imagined. And her imagination had not done him justice. His manhood thrust forward as if leading the charge, hard and swollen.
For an instant panic fluttered in her belly. “You are larger than I expected.”
He gave a chuckle as he slipped his hands beneath her bottom and tugged her to the very edge of the pianoforte. “Do not fear, Miranda. Man and woman were designed by God to fit together—like a key in a lock.”
“I trust you not to hurt me.” She grasped his forearms and clung.
“A maiden’s first time involves a bit of discomfort,” he said, urging the head up against her female folds. “I shall endeavor to be gentle.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, then moaned as he pressed his hot flesh forward in slow, unrelenting increments.
He filled her near to bursting, working his manhood into her untried body. She winced at the sting as he forged inexorably forward. When he was fully seated inside her, he leaned over to kiss her lips.
“Hold on,” he advised, then began to move.
She had thought his fingers talented back in the breakfast room. She had thought his mouth to be the zenith of heaven only moments ago. But this…this transformed her body and sent her senses spinning, the epitome of anything she had ever felt before.
“That’s it,” he murmured, lifting her leg beneath the knee and curving it around his waist. “Hang on to me, love. Let me take you places you have never imagined.”
“Dear God, what are you doing to me?”
He ground his hips against hers, his hardness rubbing against sensitive spots deep within her that she’d never imagined she had. “Making you mine.”
“Oh, God.” Her eyes slid closed as it began again. She clung to his neck blindly as he bent over her, laving her nipples with his tongue, driving them both mad with desire. If anything, he seemed to grow bigger inside her, moving faster, harder. More urgently.
“Hold on to me,” he commanded, then thrust once, twice. Then he slipped out of her and stiffened, his eyes closed and neck muscles bulging. A long, low groan slipped past his lips as his climax swept over him, his fingers clenching around her limbs as he spilled himself on her thigh. Then he relaxed, over her, around her.
She toyed with his hair as he laid his head near her shoulder, breathing as if he had run for miles. A small smile curved her lips. “So that is lovemaking.”
He opened one eye. “Give me a few moments and I will show you more, perhaps even in a bed this time. I am afraid that was over more quickly than I intended.” He closed his eyes again, then reached up a hand to lazily fondle her breast. “I wanted you too much. I cannot imagine not wanting you, ever. Even when we are both in our dotage.”
She tried not to read too much into his comment. “I never imagined you as a lecherous old man.”
“I imagined you all the time.” He stroked his hand lazily over her nude form. “Just like this. Naked. Mine.”
She was flattered by his desire, but her heart ached for what he did not offer. She had succumbed to her passions and given herself to him, but nothing had changed. And nothing would. She would never have his love or the right to stand at his side as his wife.
“I am yours for tonight,” she whispered. She only hoped she had the strength to walk away when the time came.
“Well, Wyldehaven, we are waiting. Show the cards.”
Daniel Byrne raised a regally sardonic brow. “Are you implying something, Rothgard?”
“Perhaps I am.” Lord Rothgard tapped the edge of the short stack of cards on the table. “No one has that much good luck.”
Byrne shrugged. “Lady Luck is not with you this evening, Rothgard. Or perhaps it is your skill that is in question.”
Rothgard surged to his feet, green eyes blazing. “Have a care with your words, Duke.”
“Not every man has a head for cards.” Byrne smirked. “Perhaps it is a family trait.”
The men watching the game murmured with alarm as the tension in the room rose.
“What are you implying, Wyldehaven?” Rothgard demanded.
“Simply an observation that not all men have the logic—or the temperament—for gaming. Like your son, for instance.”
“You leave my son out of this!” Rothgard slapped his cards facedown on the table.
“I must admit it was my pleasure to beat him. His cattle will make a wonderful addition to my stable.” Byrne also laid down his cards. “Do you concede this game, Rothgard? Or is this drama merely a way to avoid paying your losses?”
The earl stiffened. “Tread carefully, Wyldehaven.”
“I am simply wondering if this is a new tactic employed by the men of your family, to cause an incident at the tables when your luck is not going well. One could almost call it cheating…or dishonorable at best.”
Rothgard jerked to his feet, his chair toppling over. “You dare call my honor into question? I accept that from no man!”
“So vehement.” Byrne toyed with his pile of winnings, a smile playing at his lips.
“I demand satisfaction.”
“At your pleasure,” Byrne said with a nod.
“My seconds will contact you.” Rothgard leaned forward, his hands flat on the table. “And stay the hell away from my son.” He jerked away, storming from the room.
“Well then, that was a bit of excitement.” Byrne slid his gaze over the spectators. “Would anyone else care to play?”
A warm and tender hand slid along her belly, up her ribs, and closed gently around her breast.
Foggy with sleep, Miranda instinctively pressed herself into the palm of that hand, arching her back. Her bare buttocks came into contact with furred skin and something hard and hot. Her body recognized it before her mind could wake, and she rubbed her bottom against the delicious hardness.
“That’s it,” a voice whispered in her ear. “Show me what you want.”
“Wylde,” she murmured. A hand slid between her legs from behind, parting her feminine folds. Then his hard cock slid between her thighs, not penetrating, just resting snugly close to her heat.
Her eyelids drifted open. Sunlight trickled in through the window, gleaming off the elegant pitcher and bowl on the bureau. Heavy bed hangings kept most of the light at bay, sheltering them in a cocoon of shadow. She was wrapped in Wylde’s arms, one of his hands kneading her breast and the other splayed across her belly, holding her fast against his aroused body.
Her own hunger shocked her with its intensity. Her nipples peaked like pebbles and dampness slicked her inner thighs. Desire spiked when he began to lazily suck on her neck, as if she were a candy to be savored. She moaned, curling backward into him, wanting him.
“Can you take me again so soon?” he asked. The hand on her belly drifted lower, one finger slipping between her folds.
“I want to,” she replied, parting her thighs, aching for his touch. “But it is morning.”
“That just means we can see what we are doing.” He moved from her breast and lifted her leg with a hand beneath her thigh, opening her up to him.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, startled by his manhood rubbing more firmly over her damp sex.
“Something new.” With his other hand, he reached down and adjusted himself, and then she felt him slide into her from behind. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
Hurt her? She groaned at the deliciously new, yet familiar, feeling. There was something scandalous about allowing him to make love to her this way, facing away from him. He curved one arm firmly beneath her, his hand splayed on her belly, guiding her in time with his slow, steady movements. He held her leg aloft with the other hand. The hand on her belly dipped lower, and he searched for and found her center again, rubbing the sensitive bud with his fingers. Passion roared through her. She pressed her bottom back against him, encouraging his thrusts while his fingers drove her wild.
She had learned during the night how to tell when he was near release. So many times he had allowed her to reach her climax first, then followed later when she was limp and sated, always spending outside her body. But not this time. This time she wanted to give something to him. She wanted to make him so wild that he would explode inside her. The drive to do that overwhelmed her. When she felt his muscles clench in preparation of pulling back, she tightened her inner channel around him.
“Sweet Jesu, Miranda.” He hesitated, then thrust into her again. And again.
“I love how that feels,” she whispered.
“It feels incredible.” His hips stilled but he kept stroking her with his fingers, kept building the fire.
Her mind spun with escalating desire. He was going to do it again, give her pleasure and then satisfy himself afterward.
Not this time, she thought.
She reached down, halted the hand that was caressing her loins. And rocked her hips, caressing his cock with her slick passage. She heard his quick, indrawn breath, felt the tension in his body.
“Come with me,” she whispered. “Do not make me go alone.”
“God.” He took her hips in both hands, burying his face in her neck as he pulled her back onto his hard shaft, then slid her forward. Again. And again.
She clenched her hands in the bedding and closed her eyes, giving herself over to him completely.
His thrusts grew stronger, more demanding. His fingers dug into her hips, but she did not care. Her mind spun with glee that he had relinquished control. That he was so hungry for her. The pressure built inside her as his movements grew less practiced, more urgent. More frenzied.
He nipped her neck. Fire shot through her, straight to her loins. She rocked her hips in rhythm with his thrusts, determined to urge him onward. Faster. Harder. Whatever it took to send him past the point of sanity. Then she felt him stiffen. He gave a harsh groan and plunged inside her one more time and held there, shuddering, as his seed poured into her.
His climax pushed her over the edge, and her world exploded into multicolored starbursts, leaving her limp and panting and utterly, completely satisfied in his arms.
Already he was relaxing, his softening cock slipping out of her. She slowly pulled her leg from his grasp. He curled his arm around her waist again, pulling her back more snugly against him so her bottom cradled his loins. His breathing sounded ragged and his heartbeat thundered against her back. They lay together in silence, perspiration slowly drying on dampened hair and skin. Gradually, his arm grew heavy across her waist; his respiration eased.
He was falling asleep.
She stroked his arm, listening to his breathing as the sun rose higher above the horizon. Finally she knew she could linger no longer. She gingerly slid from beneath his arm, easing from the bed so as not to wake him. He mumbled something and dragged the pillow closer, burying his face in it. Then he settled.
She stood for a moment, naked in the morning sunlight, drinking in his magnificent body. Any woman would be thrilled to have a man like this as a lover. As hers. But she knew well enough that even though he had become her lover, he would never be hers to keep. Men like him did not wed women like her—nobodies with dubious parentage.
This night, this memory, was all she would ever have. It would have to be enough.
Silently, she gathered her clothing. It was time to go home to her child.
Chapter 17
“Wylde!”
The shout, followed by a shove to his shoulder, woke Wylde from a sound sleep. He swiped at the hand shaking him. “’Tis the bloody middle of the night; let me sleep.”
“It is nine o’clock in the morning, you fool, and there is much to do.”
Wylde opened his eyes, squinting in the morning light. “Who opened the draperies?” He scowled at Wulf, who stood beside his bed. “What are you doing here?”
“Late night, was it?” Wulf asked, his sarcasm in full form.
“I am not sotted,” Wylde snapped, closing his eyes against the blinding glare.
“’Tis the only thing that makes sense to me,” Darcy said. “What other explanation is there for what happened last night?”
Last night…
Wylde sat straight up in bed, bunching the covers around his waist. He glanced around the bedchamber. But no trace of Miranda remained. She was gone.
“Blast it,” he muttered, then scrambled from the bed, dragging the coverlet with him.
“That’s the spirit,” Darcy said. “There is still time to fix things.”
“Not too late at all,” Wulf agreed.
Ignoring their nonsense, he jerked open the bedchamber door. “Phillips!”
A passing housemaid turned to look at him, squeaked in alarm at his near nudity, then reddened and scurried down the hall.
“Fetch Phillips!” he called after her, then shut the door, leaning back against it. His friends watched him steadily from their places beside his bed. “And what the devil are the two of you doing here again?”
“We’re your seconds,” Darcy said. “At least I assume we are. We did not ask Kit.”
“Seconds? What the bloody hell for?”
Wulf frowned. “Your duel with Rothgard.”
“My what with whom?” The door opened behind him, nudging him in the back. He glanced over his shoulder and through the opening to see his valet peering back at him. “Ah, Phillips. Excellent. I must dress immediately.”
“Yes, you must,” Darcy agreed as Wylde opened the door wide so the valet might enter. “The sooner we tender your apologies to Rothgard, the sooner this might all be forgotten.”
“I do not know what the two of you are babbling about,” Wylde said, then addressed his valet. “When did Miss Fontaine leave?”
“Miss Fontaine?” Wulf cast a questioning look at Darcy, who raised his eyebrows.
“I believe it was shortly before eight o’clock, Your Grace. Travers sent her home in your carriage.” The servant lowered his voice. “The ducal crest was covered for discretion.”
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