An Affair with a Notorious Heiress

by Lorraine Heath

  He shoved himself away from her, leaving her forlorn and miserable, pushed himself to standing, reached down, pulled her to her feet, and lifted her into his arms. His strides were long, quick, purposeful as he headed for the house. She rested her head on his shoulder and began toying with the buttons on his shirt.

  “Why do men wear so much clothing?”

  He laughed. She truly loved his sound of merriment, of joy. For the life of her, she couldn’t recall ever hearing Downie laugh. But then she’d never been carried in his arms or rushed to a bedchamber as though he might expire if he didn’t get her there quickly, as though without her he would cease to exist.

  What a silly girl she was to read so much into his actions when he might only be seeking release for his swollen and aching cock. Perhaps any woman would do. Perhaps she wasn’t so special. But it didn’t matter because at that moment she was the one in his arms.

  “Women wear so much more—and it’s much more cumbersome to remove,” he lamented.

  “You can rip it off,” she said dreamily.

  “Then how will I get you home?”

  She had the insane thought she never wanted to go home, never wanted to return to the mausoleum in which she lived, the residence she had claimed out of revenge, mistakenly thinking that it would bring her satisfaction.

  Into the manor they went, up the stairs. By the time he charged into a bedchamber—his, she assumed—she’d unknotted his neck cloth and mussed his hair until he looked rakish and uncivilized. The door had barely closed with a snick before her feet were hitting the floor and his mouth was claiming hers with a hunger that equaled her own. Unlike the kiss last night, this time she was inches lower so he had to dip his head. She liked the way he curled his arm around her, brought her in closer to his body. She loved the way he was undoing lacing and ties without ever removing his lips from hers or his tongue retreating from its enthusiastic engagement with hers.

  This, she thought wildly, this was how kisses should be—full, bold, fervent. They should steal the breath, weaken the knees while at the same time reawakening, inspiring, rekindling passion until one felt incredibly alive, ignited, aware of every small touch, every nuanced stroke.

  When his mouth left hers, the fire in his eyes caused heat to rampage through her. With quick sure hands, he worked to remove the clothing he’d unfastened so expertly. She refused to consider how much practice he might have had elsewhere to achieve what he did with such proficiency. She was not a virgin, untouched, without experience.

  She recalled how awkward and clumsy she’d been the first time, how shy and afraid. She was grateful not to be his first, grateful to be the beneficiary of all he’d learned. Her clothing became a discarded pool on the floor, and she fought not to cover herself from his excruciatingly slow perusal. The heat in his eyes burned hotter, the corners of his mouth curved upward.

  “My God, but you’re beautiful.”

  He began tearing at his own clothes, and she could do little more than watch as his glorious chest was revealed. Oh, yes, marble sculpted much as she’d imagined it. His boots, stockings went. Then his trousers.

  Her breath caught, suspended, rushed out. With trembling fingers, she touched his sternum before pressing her palm flat, splaying those fingers out. “You’re equally beautiful.”

  “You’re wrong but I’m not going to ruin things by arguing with you.” He pulled her close. Skin to skin from shoulder to toes. Warmth and silk. Coarse springy hair. Heat. A throbbing as his cock pressed against her belly. A rumbling of chest against her breasts as he growled low and deep.

  He began marching her backward, never taking his mouth from hers, his hands never ceasing their stroking of her back, her shoulders, her hips as though with her legs moving various parts of her felt different. Perhaps they did.

  He felt different. His buttocks bunched and tightened as he walked. She loved squeezing them, stroking them. Gliding her hands up his back, sliding them down. She imagined she could feel the individual muscles doing their work as he guided her toward the bed.

  The backs of her thighs hit the mattress. He drew back, lifted her up, and placed her on the sheets as though she were a piece of hand-blown glass to be carefully set on velvet to avoid breaking.

  He covered her body with his, heat against heat, hard steel against soft silk. He was so much larger, he fairly swamped her, yet she felt no fear, no panic. He’d made her smile again. She suspected he was going to make her smile a great deal more before the night was done.

  He nipped at her shoulder, kissed her collarbone, trailed a series of butterfly-light kisses over her breasts. “Spread your legs,” he ordered, his voice deep and gravelly.

  She did as he bade.

  “More.”

  She obeyed. He eased into the space she’d created. He kissed his way down her belly before sitting back on his heels, his gaze not on her eyes, her face, her breasts, but lower, much, much lower.

  “You’re not looking at me there,” she whispered, horrified by the thought she was so exposed. Why had they not dimmed the lights? Why wasn’t he already joining his body to hers?

  “I am. And I’m going to do much more. I’m going to lick it.”

  “No.” She tried to close her legs but he was in the way.

  He curled his hands around her thighs. “Don’t struggle. I won’t do anything you object to, but I think you would like it.”

  He released his hold on her legs and used his fingers to gently spread the folds open as though unfurling a rose. “Such a pretty pink.” Over the opening, he stroked a finger. When he held it up, she could see it glistening.

  “So wet,” he said. “Do you ever touch yourself there?”

  Now he held her gaze? When he asked such a personal and impertinent question?

  She wanted to lie but there had been too much dishonesty in her other relationship. “Yes.” It came out as a scratch, like fingernails scraped over a slate.

  “Do you think of me when you do?”

  Still he held her gaze. She nodded.

  “Do you peak?”

  She bit her lower lip, not wanting to acknowledge the truth with words or movement, although she suspected he knew it.

  “I do,” he said quietly, leaning forward and kissing one of her lower ribs. “When I think of you and stroke myself, I come swift and hard.” Still he did not look away from her eyes. “I fear I will do so tonight, when I am buried inside you, when your notch closes around me, hugs me tightly, threatens to strangle my cock. When you are so slick and I like a rock and we move in tandem. I fear I will not be able to wait for you—no matter how hard I try. If you were any other woman I would distract myself with sums, but I don’t want to think of anything except you, of what it feels like to be inside you.”

  She had ceased to breathe, to think. If he touched a finger to her now, it would come away drenched. Her nipples had hardened; her stomach was quivering. Poetry would not have sounded sweeter to her ears.

  “I want you to come before me, Tillie. Allow me to lick you, sweetheart.”

  The deep yearning reflected in his low voice was her undoing. He truly wanted this—for her. A shudder of pleasure rippled through her. A croak escaped her lips. It was meant to be yes, but it sounded like desperate desire, unbridled longing. Yet apparently he accurately interpreted it, because he shifted until he was stretched out on his belly, his face positioned between her thighs. He lowered his head.

  The first stroke nearly had her catapulting off the bed. Had she ever felt anything so sublime, so wicked, so marvelous? He made a sound deep in his throat as though he were feasting on a delicious morsel. Was he possibly enjoying this as much as she was?

  There was no part of her that didn’t feel touched by him, that wasn’t curling. Clutching the sheets, she released a little mewling cry, embarrassed that it had escaped.

  “That’s it, sweetheart. Make all the noises you want.”

  “I feel a need to scream.”

  “Then scream. There�
��s no one to hear.”

  He wouldn’t judge. She knew that. She looked down at the blond curls, the strong hands cradling her hips, the broad shoulders keeping her legs spread wide. Everything she’d experienced before tonight told her that she should have been mortified by this intensely personal encounter—

  Yet she’d never felt more treasured, more loved—no, not loved. They did not love each other. But she did feel adored. Appreciated. He could have taken his pleasure without worrying about her, without seeing to her needs. But he hadn’t.

  She combed her fingers through his soft curls and surrendered.

  To the remarkable sensations that his efforts elicited. To the fire that burned, to the glorious unfolding of pleasure in its purest, most basic form: uncivilized, feral. She couldn’t control the scream, the arching of her back, the wracking of her body that overtook her as splendor engulfed her.

  Never before had she experienced anything like it. She was left lethargic, gasping for breath, barely aware of his moving up to hover over her.

  Then his eyes met hers. Reaching up, she cradled his beautiful face. “Take me.”

  “With pleasure.”

  He glided into her smoothly, her body stretching to accommodate him. She lifted her hips and he sank deeper with a groan, his arms closing around her as his hips pistoned, fast, hard, sure. She’d thought it impossible, but the pleasure began building again, tighter, more intense.

  She clutched him, buried her face in his neck, pressed her mouth against his skin as the cataclysm overtook her, overtook him. The force of his release nearly slammed her into the headboard. If he hadn’t been holding her so tightly, she’d likely be unconscious now. She was fairly close to that, to not being able to think.

  Smiling, she held on to him, wishing this moment would never have to end.

  She’d never simply lain there afterward, snuggled against a man’s side, his arm around her, his fingers lazily stroking and circling over her upper arm. It was a devastating moment to realize what she’d never truly possessed, what she might never possess for longer than a few nights, for however long this affair lasted. She rather regretted now that she’d insisted they’d be done by the end of the Season.

  “I was never intimate with Griggs,” she felt compelled to confess. She needed him to know how truly unique, how special it was that she was in this bed with him. She was keenly aware of his stilling.

  “Griggs?”

  “The footman who is now my butler.”

  He shifted slightly, his arm coming away from her, as he rose up on his elbow and looked down on her. Even though his hip rested against hers, she wished she’d held silent, that she hadn’t disturbed the lethargic spell that had encased them.

  “People witnessed you kissing him.”

  She nodded. “But it was never more than a kiss. And only that once.” She’d gone this far. She might as well go all the way. “I was so terribly unhappy. As I mentioned, Griggs was kind, because it was his way. He had no romantic feelings toward me, and I had none toward him. Our relationship was distant, but respectful. In the beginning, when I was learning my way around, he would cover for me if I made a mistake. I came to trust him. So I asked for his assistance, to help me stage a situation in which we’d be caught kissing. I promised him he’d always have a position in my household if he would do me this one favor. Public humiliation was the only way to force Downie into divorcing me.”

  “You wanted a divorce?” His tone implied he found the notion inconceivable. Most did. The shame of it, the embarrassment it brought. It signaled failure, loose morals, lack of loyalty.

  “Desperately. I’d asked him for over a year, pleaded with him to end the farce of our marriage, but he had too much pride to go through something so scandalous. So I created a scenario that was more ruinous, one that allowed him to garner sympathy.”

  “You made him look a fool.”

  “I was the fool.” In so many ways.

  “The men you met at the Nightingale . . .” His voice trailed off, but she knew he was asking a question, wanted details.

  “I didn’t meet men at the Nightingale. Other than Downie, you’re the only man I’ve ever been with.”

  “But you knew of the place. Its location isn’t known by many. Most don’t believe it even truly exists.”

  “Something was amiss in our marriage. I knew that. He was so distant. I thought the fault was mine. He invariably left me alone in the country. When we were in London for the Season, he would often go out at night. We’d been married a year. I was all of twenty and growing more despondent, because I couldn’t determine how to make him happy, how to please him. So one night when he left, I followed. I’d heard rumors of the Nightingale Club, but I thought it was myth.

  “I was standing in the shadows, trying to determine if I should go in and confront him, worried that perhaps it wasn’t what I thought, perhaps it was much worse. A woman approached. ‘Is it your first time, love?’ she asked. ‘I’ll show you how it’s done.’

  “She escorted me inside, introduced me to the matron who kindly took me under her wing, loaned me a mask, arranged for a servant to help me change. They thought I was in want of adventure. I walked into that parlor and saw a woman sitting on Downie’s lap. They were laughing. Somehow that hurt worst of all. He never laughed with me. To be quite honest, I can’t remember him ever smiling at me once we were married. I could do little more than stand there like an idiot and watch as she slid off his lap. He stood, tucked her beneath his arm, escorted her from the room and up the stairs. He looked as though he anticipated being with her. Coming to my bed was always a chore.”

  He grazed the backs of his fingers along her cheek. “He couldn’t have seen bedding you as a chore.”

  “‘Just lie still and endure it,’ he said on our wedding night. So I did. Still, I always dreamed it could be so much more.” Reaching up, she cupped her palm over his jaw, feeling the slight tickling of his stubble. He’d shaved before he retrieved her, but his beard was making itself known. “Tonight for the first time, it was what I’d always believed it could be.”

  “Christ, Tillie,” he growled before taking her mouth with an urgency that alerted her this time they would not go slow.

  She hadn’t been unfaithful. She didn’t have a taste for the rough, hadn’t been bedded by a footman, soon to be butler. She hadn’t had affairs. She’d sacrificed her reputation, her standing, her place in Society for a chance to be free of Landsdowne. She’d forced a life of solitude, an absence of friends, onto herself.

  He adored her for it. For not staying with the unfaithful bastard, for recognizing she deserved better, for using whatever means necessary to free herself.

  For taking a chance, for being with him now.

  When he had promised her only this: running his hands and his mouth over every inch of her body. He loved every aspect of her. The roundness of her breasts, the arch of her back, the dimples in her backside. Tiny, but there just as he’d envisioned them.

  He entered her with a sure thrust, up to the hilt, and pumped hard and fast. Threading his fingers through hers, he carried her hands over her head, held them there, held her gaze. “Don’t close your eyes,” he ordered.

  He wanted to see the fires of passion burning within the blue. Her hard nipples grazed his chest with each movement, her thighs bracketed his hips, her knees pressed against his sides. Her sighs and moans filled his ears, echoed through the chamber.

  He wanted this every night, every morning, every afternoon. Never before had anything felt so right. She was made for him, and him alone. It didn’t matter that she’d had another. It mattered only that she was here now, with him.

  He would not think about her leaving Britain; he wouldn’t contemplate that this was not forever. He would give her memories to take with her, and she would leave memories with him behind. For above all else, he wanted her happy.

  “Rexton,” she rasped, her eyes holding his even as she rolled her head from side to side, as her
fingers tightened on his.

  “Fly, sweetheart. I’ll follow.”

  Her cry was the sweetest he’d ever heard. Then he kept his word.

  Tillie understood at long last why Juliet argued with Romeo that she’d heard the nightingale and not the lark. She didn’t want her time with Rexton to end, for dawn to creep over the land, to awaken all sleeping things, to bring with it the reality of her life. In his carriage, he held her against his side as though he, too, were reluctant to let her go.

  “I would apologize for my rudeness in not letting you sleep,” he said, his voice a low lullaby in the rocking carriage, “but I suspect you’d view it as insincere.”

  They’d drifted off a couple of times, although not for long. But even during sleep-filled moments, she was acutely aware of the long length of his body pressed against hers, his chest to her back, his leg draped possessively over her hip. There was security in that position. She’d never wanted to be a possession, yet she couldn’t deny that she relished being possessed—by him, at least. She didn’t belong to him, not truly, not for more than a few weeks anyway. Yet she liked the idea that at this particular moment she was his, and he was hers.

  “I acquired more sleep than I expected—or wanted,” she assured him. “I’ll sleep the remainder of the morning, probably well into the early afternoon.”

  “Mmm,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck. “Do you know how good you smell right now? You smell of sex, a little sleep, and me.”

  She felt the blush rising over her cheeks. He smelled of her mixed with his scent. It was a glorious fragrance.

  “I’m half tempted to have the carriage return us to my residence,” he said.

  “How would I explain my absence?”

  “Would Gina notice it?”

  “I suspect so. She’s accustomed to having me about.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  When the carriage stopped, he disembarked, then handed her down. With his arm around her, pulling her in close against him, he escorted her up the steps. She retrieved her key, only to have him take it from her, and use it to unlock the door. She closed her fingers around it when he extended it toward her. She needed something solid and firm to hold on to, something that reminded her where she needed to be.