She laughed lightly then. "Why, George, you almost sound as if you're trying to talk me out of making love to you."
He laughed as well and sat back, his dark eyes gazing upon her earnestly now. "By rights I should do. You're so young--"
"Many women have got married at a younger age than me."
"I'm old enough to be your father--"
"Many women have been forced to marry men far older, nearly in their dotage."
"My past during the war--"
"You served your country in your best capacity, my love."
"I have a reputation that strikes fear even into the police."
"A mere role, like the many others you play every day to try to keep control of the chaos that threatens us all. You don't really exploit people or pimp, George. I know what's real and true about you now, and I love you."
She pivoted over to sit next to him, and demonstrated her words with a kiss so sweet and yet so passionate he could feel it sizzle down his spine and up to the top of his head.
"Oh, Miranda," he panted, when at last she lifted her lips.
"Mmm, George. May I?"
She was already loosening his cravat with one hand and waistcoat with the other.
"As I said before, love, I'm in your more than capable hands. Oh my."
Her eager attentions in the carriage had them both breathless and panting by the time they ever reached Fulham House. Once there, not wishing to waste a moment of the evening together, swung her out of the coach and up into his arms, and almost ran full tilt up the stairs to their room, brushing past Alistair and his wife with a curt good night which had Alistair chuckling.
"Reminds me of us at The Three Bells. Or us last night," he whispered in his wife’s ear. "Or in about five minutes?"
Viola blinked. "But what about supper with—"
"They’ll understand," Alistair said.
At last his wife relented and went back upstairs to remove the gown she had just put on. She sighed as she did so, wondering at her mood.
Then she admitted that what she had seen disturbed her even more than her husband's normally compelling romantic intentions. She understood then that what she felt was grief. She had lost George forever. Their friendship, his unquestioning loyalty, were now truly gone. They had been bestowed upon another.
But as her husband came into the room and began to caress her hair and shoulders with his warm, strong hands, she realised that it was the nature of things. After all, her own marriage to Alistair had broken up her special friendship with George, and that which had existed with her brother Sebastian as well. They had all been brought together by adversity, and Alistair had come into her life like a thunderbolt after he had saved Sebastian's life.
Miranda too had transformed George beyond all recognition ever since she had arrived at the theatre. If she had to lost George to anyone, it might as well be to a good woman who made him happy.
"Ready for bed, now, darling?" Alistair said with a warm, slow smile as she finished removing the pins from her hair thoughtfully.
"When am I not?"
"It will be all right, you know," he said, sensing her mood. "You don't have to worry. She's been the making of your friend, not his ruination. I'm only sorry she got ruined in the process."
"She doesn't look ruined, though, does she?" Viola said, as the thought struck her.
"She's a strong woman, with the Dane spirit. Just think of Lady Pemberton and you'll know what I mean."
Viola laughed then. "Not exactly the most amorously inspiring person to think about, my dear, but I know what you mean. A formidable woman, strong, but so kind."
"She would be proud of her niece, if she but knew all Miranda has endured. But now she looks set fair to have a happy life with George, and never has a woman earned her happy ending more."
Viola turned to stare. "You almost sound a little bit in love with her yourself," she accused.
He gave her an indulgent smile. "Nonsense, my love. A man can admire a woman without lusting after her. I'm simply saying that for one so young to have gone through so much, and yet accomplished so much, well, she deserves all the happiness she can get. George is clearly completely in love with her, as I am with you, my dear. Let's seize the joy where we find it, and not go looking for trouble where none exists." He patted the bed beside him invitingly.
Viola swallowed down the last of her jealousy of Miranda, bitter though it was, and gave her most winsome smile.
"Hmm, seize is a nice word. Since we are forgoing supper, I feel quite famished, Mr. Grant. Do you think I might be permitted a small banquet of sensual delights?"
She approached the bed, and began to slide one of her hands under the covers.
"No, that would never do."
She stared at him in surprise.
"I know your appetite, my dear. Nothing less than a full feast will do." He gripped her hand and tugged her into the bed. "So let's not waste any more time. I want our first course."
"Oh, Alistair. Oh my."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In the opposite wing of Fulham House, George and Miranda were preparing for a sensual feast of their own. Once out of the carriage and into the house, they had scarcely been able to get to their room, the temptation had been so strong.
Now, with Miranda’s back pressed to the door, as it had been in her dressing room that first time she had ever soared in his arms, George kissed her fervidly, smothering her face and neck with heated caresses and endearments.
His hands busily slipped the pins from her hair and he whispered in a voice rendered deeper and more hoarse by heated emotion, "I can’t tell you how much I love you, how lovely you look tonight. Radiant, happy. I want to make you happy, Miranda. Make all your dreams come true. But you don’t need to prove your—"
"I know. I love you. Nothing could be more perfect than being in your arms like this."
"Glad you enjoy it so much, darling," he said softly, "but I shall try to make it even better."
His hand glided down Miranda’s body, soothing, gentling. She leaned into his huge frame, and for once she was not afraid. She brought her arms around his waist and leaned her head back, surrendering herself utterly as he began to unfasten her gown and suckle her throat and lick the pulse points behind her ears.
She had never felt such excruciating pleasure. Her mind screamed that he was a man, not to be trusted. Her body screamed that he was a man, the only man who could fill the aching void gaping inside her.
George was a man of the world, her friend. He had never been anything other than kind, patient and tender with her, from the moment they’d met. A bit of naive foolishness on her part and nasty plotting by Oxnard had led her to make a most grievous error, but she was not going to be a coward any more.
She knew what she wanted: George’s love. She would grab the elusive prize and hold on for dear life.
George knew he had to be careful with Miranda, but the elusive prize was within his grasp. This was his one chance to show her the joy there could be between a man and a woman. That is was not all lust and coarse brutality. He had only to be patient, and it would all be his for the asking.
He wished he were better prepared for this, for he was sure if he dared avail himself of her luscious raspberry lips once more he was going to devour her whole. He contented himself with warm open-mouthed kisses along her creamy cheeks, nose and eyelids. Her lips parting and tongue peeping out to lick them was his undoing.
With a muffled groan he fastened his mouth over hers, his tongue penetrating with one hard thrust. She gasped at the contact and the overwhelming sensations it provoked. No one had ever kissed her like George. Would never get the chance...
A raw hunger for she what she could only dare guess at filled her veins and belly, and her gasp only served to drive his tongue still deeper. Yet still she wanted, needed, yearned for more. She knew from their heated interludes in the past exactly what he could do with his talented tongue not just there, but all over her body, her most
secret flesh.
She blocked out any thoughts of Oxnard and the fake vicar who had assaulted her as she recalled the first time George had ever pressed his cheek to her mound and filled her with rapture.
She remembered the second time, when she had begun to tear at his clothes like a mad thing. This time, she swore to herself, she would not be denied.
With a will of their own Miranda's fingers sought out bare flesh, tugging at the remains of George's cravat that she had already disheveled during their carriage ride home, and now started to work on the upper fastening of his shirt. At last his chest was undraped, a masterpiece of bone, muscle and sinew. She felt his flat nipples peak to life and her own thrust up avidly, desperate for his caress.
By now her gown was fully parted in front, and his strong fingers locked around her supple waist. With almost painful slowness his hands moved upwards. She awaited eagerly his touch upon her breasts. To her surprise they grasped her head instead, cradling it in his huge palms.
He lifted his lips slowly, his breath a hot searing caress on her scorching cheeks. "You know what’s going to happen if we continue this, my love," he asked softly, his eyes blazing.
She nodded wordlessly, sure she could not get a word past her throat, constricted as it was with the most acute desire.
"But do you also understand the consequences?"
She was about to utter a mildly sarcastic retort, but something in his tempestuous eyes arrested her.
"I'll tell you what this means, my love. If you come to me this night, Miranda, you’ll be mine forever. There will be no going back. Coming to my bed now will make you mine, body and soul. My wife in every sense of the word, my woman, partner, the other half of myself, a woman who in every sense is my better half, and the only woman who can ever complete me."
"Oh, George, I--"
He stroked the hair back from her face tenderly. "So if you’re just you owe me anything, Miranda, don’t do this. Just walk away now and we shall never look back. I shall always love you and be your friend no matter what. You don’t have to make love to me to assure you of that."
"No, I know that," she said, shaking her head. She stroked his cheek and traced his full lips with one tentative forefinger. "I know you love me. I think I’ve always loved you. I was a prize fool. You deceived me, tried to actually make me think you’re a far worse than you really are for reasons I can’t even begin to fathom. But still I love you. I want to be yours forever, George. Please, please make love to me now…"
He swallowed hard. "Even if what’s about to happen is terrible?"
She shook her head and stroked down his shoulder. "It won’t be. This is lovemaking, not just a base physical need or the desire to despoil and debauch. You love me, George. I know you do. I think we've been in love from the moment we met."
He nodded. "Aye. I loved you more with every passing minute. And yet every moment I had to hold myself back because I knew, well--"
She put her hand on his bare chest, right over his heart. "I don't blame you, George. I had my own fears too. But the one lesson my whole ordeal has taught me is the difference between lust and love. And that what I felt for you from the moment we met was no girlish fancy. No idol worship for my rescuer and employer.
"All we've shared in the theatre and out of it shows me the kind of man you really are, completely at odds with the shadowy underworld figure you pretend to be. Every time we're together, darling, your heart speaks to mine. So it can never be terrible between us. Not when we shared so much passion before, well, before I was assaulted.
"Anything you've ever done to me in the past, or might do now, is out of love, not lust. And that's the way it should be, my darling, for I most certainly love you too. I know you’ll be patient and generous with me as a lover and the partner I want to build the most blissful life with."
She gave a small smile and admitted, "I would be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous, even a little frightened. But not of you, my beloved. It’s more like I’m terrified of the vast power between us. I felt it from the very first, and only ever when I’m with you.
"I need you now, George. Now and forever, my love. I understand the consequences you've spoken of just now, dearest, and it's the same for me. We've wasted too much time apart and our fears and caution actually left the door open for the most unimaginable terror into our lives.
"Oxnard nearly destroyed what we shared forever. But he's not going to win. I'm never going to be his victim, or any other man's, ever again. I am banishing him from our boudoir, and our lives as of this minute." She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "To do any less would be to let him blight all we can share, and I refuse to let such a foul fiend punish either of us when we're innocent.
"So yes, my love, this may be difficult for me, but I'm never going to take any chances with our love again. I'm going to grasp on to our happiness with both hands and never let go. No one is ever going to come between us again, my love, least of all me and my foolishness."
Miranda was already moving to strip off her disheveled clothes as she said her final words. Even now she was tugging at the laces to part her chemise.
"Here, let me, my darling," he rasped.
With infinite care he untied it and brushed the gown and the thin sheer lawn undergarment off her shoulders, sending them pooling to the floor. Her petticoat and drawers soon followed, and his jacket, waistcoat and shirt. He did not dare remove any more than that for fear of alarming her, for he was at full mast and he could almost hear the threads of his breeches straining.
He led her to the bed by the hand, and sat her down. Kneeling, he removed her shoes and stockings, and began to stroke her feet. He had done it before, with stockings on. Now bared, she was stunned at the intimacy of the act, and could feel a warm gush flood through her from head to toe.
As he moved up her ankles, then toward her knees, she let out a couple of gasps of surprise. He paused his progress long enough to reach up for a pillow to prop against her back.
"There. Just relax. We’ll go nice and slow. I promise you, if you get frightened, just tell me and I’ll stop."
"I’m fine, it’s wonderful," she breathed, reclining on the pillow, her eyes growing heavy-lidded with passion.
George started back at her feet again, each masterful stroke more inflaming than the next as he massaged each toe, her instep. He even tickled between her toes teasingly, making her laugh, but setting her even further afire as well.
Now his hands travelled slowly and gradually up her ankles and calves, past her knees, brushing, stroking and massaging all the way up their long length patiently, erotically, until at last, she thought with sheer relief, he was at the apex of her quivering thighs.
She held her breath in eager anticipation of his next massage stroke, but to her shock and not a little disappointment he rose up off his knees and stood over her. He proceeded to massage his way downwards now toward her seat of desire, running his hands over her breasts reverently with his fingertips.
"All right?" he asked softly.
"Yes, lovely."
"You most certainly are."
He took infinite care, feathering the sides, undersides, tops, and at last the aching crests of her breasts. He teased each taut nipple gently between the tips of his forefingers and thumbs, noting that she tensed for a moment as if expecting pain.
He backed off for a moment, brushing lightly at the tiny aureoles, the whole peak of her breast now hard and tight as an unfurled rosebud. He cherished the little velvety tips, and finally risked his whole hand on one breast. When she made no demur, he moved both hands to one and treasured it from every angle, then repeated his caresses on her other side.
He noticed with relief comingled with the most rampant delight that her legs were gradually parting of their own accord.
"May I taste you? If it upsets you, you can just say no or stop, and I shall. If there’s anything you want, tell me. Don’t be afraid. There are no secrets between us. No shame."
She n
odded and closed her eyes. "Yes, please. I remember what we once shared. It was beautiful, not horrible. Please, kiss me there. Heal me, my love. Take away the pain of anyone ever having touched me except you, George."
He felt the wrath burning through him at the thought of what she must have endured. He brought his head down slowly, gathering a goodly amount of saliva, until he jutted out the very tip of his tongue and licked the entire underside of her breast.
She gasped and arched off the bed, thrusting the entire crest into his mouth. She let out a little cry, and her legs fell open even further.
George resisted the almost overwhelming temptation to bury his head between her thighs, and forced himself to concentrate on laving her breasts as worshipfully as their magnificence deserved. He had known she would be perfection. Her lush charms were such that even the most talented poet would need an eon to praise them.
The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 6 Page 68