He was seconds away from taking her. In her father’s summerhouse. The reality of who she was and where she was squeaked vaguely from the back of her passion-soaked mind.
“We shouldn’t,” she forced out, even while she raised her knees to bring him closer to where she wanted him.
“We should,” he said gruffly. He braced his arms on either side of her. “I’ve locked the door. Nobody can see us.”
Then even such few words as those deserted them when he nudged her entrance. For a delicious second, her passage resisted his intrusion. She was slick with arousal but it had been over a year since she’d taken a man into her body and her intimate muscles defied the incursion. He pushed again with a confidence that took her breath away, flexed his hips, and settled into her full length.
She gasped at the joining, so much richer and more intense than her vivid lonely dreams. He groaned her name and buried his head in her shoulder.
Her body took time to adjust to his size and weight after so long without him. He stretched her inner passage and her muscles clenched around him.
Tears sprang to her eyes at the incredible feeling. He was hers again. Even if just for now.
Tentatively, she reached up to stroke his damp hair, pressing his face closer. All the love she didn’t dare speak invested her touch.
Oh, Matthew, never leave me. I love you.
She bit back the pathetic cry before it escaped.
The sweet stasis couldn’t endure. His back tightened, then he began to move deeply, surely, possessively. She moaned and lifted herself to meet him as the glorious rhythm reigned.
She was so ready, the friction quickly pushed her over the edge. Without warning, her body convulsed on a sun-bright peak. For a small eternity, rapture blasted her, turned the air around her incandescent with pleasure.
She tasted the salt of her tears on her lips. Aftershocks still quivered through her. Tenderly, she ran her hands down his lean hips to knead his firm buttocks. Part of her clung to the ecstasy even as the blaze subsided to a gentle glow.
The physical delight hadn’t faded. If anything, it was sharper, deeper, more profound. Matured through suffering and loss and deprivation.
She expected him to finish but he wasn’t satisfied yet. Implacably, he tilted her hips and continued to ravish her. Shocked, she realized he hadn’t found release in that shivering culmination. She’d been too lost in her own pleasure to register his responses.
Before her last climax subsided, another more shattering crisis ripped through her. She raised her hand to her mouth and bit down hard to muffle a scream. Uncontrollable ecstasy gripped her in claws of flame. It was as though the dragons on the doors had breathed their fire into her lover.
Still he didn’t relent. Almost roughly, he reached down to stroke the swollen folds between her legs and this time she did scream. She arched up to kiss him using teeth and tongue. Her touch held no tenderness. Although in her heart, she felt an endless lake of tenderness for this man she loved so dearly.
Another wave hit her and she shuddered, blind with the violent onslaught of sensation. Time itself was suspended as she lost herself in ultimate pleasure.
Matthew groaned from deep in his throat as he at last gave himself up. While liquid heat spilled into her womb, she clutched his shaking body.
Slowly, inevitably, she made the dazzling descent from heaven. She closed her eyes and let pleasure ebb through velvety, electric darkness. He lay on top of her, heavy, beloved, welcome.
For a long breathless time, they stayed linked in the aftermath. Then through her boneless exhaustion, she felt him shift and withdraw.
He lifted himself until he sat with his back against the wall. Painted Chinese bridges and gardens framed the pure male beauty of his face. He dragged her up to rest against him. Under her cheek, his heart pounded wildly and his chest heaved as he struggled for breath.
He’d taken her as if the world ended today. She’d loved every moment of it. She raised her head and studied him. His mobile mouth was curled in a smile. He looked calm, satisfied. His frantic need was banked, although bright embers still glowed in his eyes.
She lay back and waited for her heart to steady. She felt as though he’d wrung every ounce of passion from her. Her womb quivered with the force of his volcanic possession. She felt stretched, well used, replete.
She might have dozed. Matthew did, propped up against the wall with his legs stretched out along the bench.
Gradually she became aware of the outside world. The faint creak of the elaborately carved shutters in the breeze. The warmth of sunlight. The distant honk of a graylag goose on the lake. Her mind slowly returned from its dazed journey to ecstasy.
Just what was Matthew doing here? Why had he left London for the wilds of Yorkshire?
Not just for a quick rut with a willing wench, surely. There must be women aplenty in the capital happy to oblige the great Marquess of Sheene. He’d become a sensation, the darling of society.
He’d been through so much in the last year. First there had been the scandal of Lord John’s death and the revelations of his crimes. The public validation of Matthew’s health and sanity. The trial and hanging of Filey and the venal doctors. Matthew’s unstinting support for his aunt and cousins who had faced destitution and disgrace. The triumphant return from New South Wales of the family servants who had risked so much for their master.
So what now? Had Matthew made this arduous journey to tell her he’d selected another woman as his bride?
Something in the frenzied anguish of his touch told her he’d hungered for her as she’d hungered for him.
Perhaps she was a fool. But she couldn’t help believing that for now, Matthew was still hers.
Goodness, he’d just flung her on her back and taken her as though he’d combust to ashes if he delayed another second. What more evidence of need could she have?
She smiled as he sighed sleepily and slid his arm around her waist to hold her closer. Incredibly, he was here. That was all the favor she begged from fortune for the present.
“I flatter myself you missed me,” Matthew said in a rusty voice above her head.
Grace stirred from her blissful inertia. Her back still pressed into his chest and her head tilted against the broad security of his shoulder. She must have slept again.
Speech seemed almost strange after the perfect communion of their bodies. How long had they rested in radiant peace? Long enough for the sun to move below the hill behind the summerhouse.
“Flatter yourself indeed.” She gave an exhausted laugh and ran her hand along the strong forearm that circled her waist. She’d presented him with all the resistance melted butter offered the knife and they both knew it. “I let you tumble me like the most round-heeled wanton.”
“You’re my wanton. Come here,” he said rawly and tugged her around and up for a long kiss.
Hungrily, their mouths met and clung. He tasted like sex and yearning. He tasted as though he still loved her.
Oh, let it be so, her aching heart cried.
She drew away slightly and pushed her skirts down. They frothed around her thighs in wicked abandon. Almost as much wicked abandon as she’d shown in his arms, she thought with a blush. What would the world think if they saw the usually subdued and decorous Lady Grace Marlow now?
“I’ve brought you something,” he said huskily. He disentangled himself and rose to collect the box he’d left beside the doorway. He fastened his breeches but left the rest of his clothing lying where he’d thrown it.
With a reverence she couldn’t help but notice, he lifted the box and carried it across. He sat beside her, his untucked shirt settling loosely around his lean hips. Sheer cambric gaped at the neck, offering glimpses of the firm planes of his chest. She licked her lips as she remembered tasting him there.
He groaned and tore his gaze from her mouth. “Stop it, Grace. We can do that later. First we have to talk.”
“Later?” she said breathlessly. It was the f
irst hint that he intended more than just an afternoon’s sport.
“Yes, later.” He gave no indication that he knew one word had changed her world. He drew in a shuddering breath and spoke more evenly as he laid the box in her lap. “This is for you.”
She didn’t want presents. She just wanted him. More, she wanted him to tell her that he was here to stay.
But clearly whatever the box contained was important to him. She made herself reach for it then she looked up. A lock of his fine black hair fell across his forehead and a ghost of a smile hovered. Her heart lurched with a wayward surge of love.
“What is it?” she asked in a low voice.
“Open it and see. The catch is on the side. I’m rather proud of the design. I came up with it myself.” He sounded relaxed, confident, in a way he never had before. Always before, his uncle’s evil had darkened the air. She only realized how much, now the shadows had lifted.
After a little fumbling, she raised the lid. Underneath was a frosted glass cover. She slid away the plate to reveal the contents.
“Oh, Matthew,” she whispered, moved to tears.
“I called it Grace. I hope you don’t mind.” For the first time, his manner held a hint of shyness, disconcerting in a man who had just made love to her without hesitation or reticence.
Gently, she curled her hand around what was inside the box and lifted it to the light. “It’s your rose.”
“No, it’s your rose.”
A heady fragrance filled the air. With one shaking finger, Grace touched a flawless pink petal. The color was unforgettable. It was the most beautiful rose she’d ever seen. Impossible to credit that those unpromising stalks in his courtyard had produced this exquisite bloom.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered. “It’s a miracle.”
He was a miracle. How could she not love the man who conjured this beauty with hands and imagination?
The faint smile broadened. Had he worried that she’d reject his gift? Foolish, darling Matthew. The question was whether the rose was a promise of a future or a token of parting.
“I worked on it whenever I could. This last year has been busy.”
An understatement, she knew. The Marquess of Sheene had been a ubiquitous presence in London since his release. Everywhere he went, society feted him as a hero. She’d read of the string of honors he’d received, the friendship with the king, the invitations to join scientific boards and societies.
Echoing her gesture, he reached out to touch the petals. The sensitivity of his fingers on the flower reminded her of his hands on her skin.
“I did most of the basic experiments when I was a prisoner, but I couldn’t get it right.” He glanced up with an expression that combined pride and diffidence in a breathtakingly attractive mixture. “This is the first bud, Grace. It appeared almost a year to the day after I promised to wait. It seemed a sign.”
“And you brought it to me,” she said softly, staring at the flower. The anniversary of his release didn’t occur for two more days. That date was etched on her longing heart.
Reverently, she set the rose back in its container. The glass kept the air inside moist and cool. No wonder Matthew was pleased with his design.
Then she noticed something else.
“My glove,” she said blankly. With unsteady hands, she reached in and withdrew a light green kidskin glove from a recess carved away from the damp. The buttery leather was crushed and worn from incessant handling. “Have you kept it all this time?”
“Of course.” He wasn’t smiling any more and his eyes deepened to a rich, rare gold. Beautiful, unwavering, somber.
“You make me want to cry.” Her voice emerged so thickly, she didn’t sound like herself.
She laid the box on the bench and tightened her grip on the soft leather until her knuckles whitened. What was he trying to tell her? What did the rose mean? The glove?
Had he carried her glove into his new life like a knight wore his lady’s favor into battle? The thought sent choking emotion to her throat.
“You are crying, my love,” he whispered and reached out to brush away a tear. His stare held a message but she was too keyed up to read it with any certainty. She needed a declaration but now that the time had come, she was too afraid to hear words that could crush her dreams.
Without really caring about his answer, she asked the first question that came into her mind. “How did you know where to find me this afternoon?”
“Your father told me,” he said quietly, not shifting his gaze from hers.
This was surprising enough to pierce her despairing suspense. “My father?” She blushed furiously as the implications sank in. “Dear heaven, he could have followed.”
“I don’t think so. He’s a sensible man. He knew I required privacy. I’ve just received his permission to pay my addresses to his daughter.”
“Well, you did that,” she said on a cracked laugh as she remembered how uninhibited those addresses had been. Then finally words she hardly dared say. “Are you asking me to marry you, Matthew?”
“Of course. Why else am I here?” His jaw set in a determined jut that indicated this was an argument she wouldn’t win. But she was too speechless with joy to muster any objections. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the marks where she’d bitten her palm in extremity. The glove slid unheeded to the floor.
“You’ve had your year, Grace. You must know I’ve stayed faithful. No other woman can hold your place in my heart. I love you.” He paused and his fingers tightened around her hand almost to the point of pain. “The question is do you love me.”
Matthew’s every muscle tensed with dread as he waited beside her. Nervous sweat prickled at the back of his neck. The last time he’d asked her to marry him, she’d refused. He didn’t think he’d survive another rejection.
She looked troubled, not at all like a woman ready to embrace a glowing future with the man she loved. Fear worse than he’d ever known spurred his heart into an unsteady gallop. Jesus, don’t let her have changed. He’d thought when she greeted him with such fervor, that she must want him too.
But passion didn’t always mean love, as a year in society had taught him. His unjust incarceration and dramatic release meant the ton’s ladies had treated him like a prince from a fairy tale. He’d lost count of the lures, licit and illicit, cast his way.
“Only you make my heart sing, Grace,” he said with every ounce of conviction he felt.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” Her voice was so quiet, he barely heard her.
“I knew you were the woman for me from the first moment I saw you. Through illness and suffering and solitude, I’ve learned to be very sure of my decisions, my darling.”
She shook her head and avoided his eyes. “I don’t come to you with an unblemished past. I’ve done bad things, hurt people, hurt myself. I’m not virtuous, Matthew. I’m not pure. And I’m likely barren.”
“Your past made you the woman you are. I’d never change that. Whether we have children is in God’s hands.” Then more urgently, because she still hadn’t answered the most important question of all, “Do you love me, Grace?”
He heard her draw a shaky breath. “You must know I do.”
He’d hoped, but hadn’t known. Not after this separation. Many things could change in twelve months. She hadn’t spoken of love during their wild encounter. Then neither had he. Deliberately. He hadn’t wanted to frighten her off.
“Is that a yes?” He pressed her hand hard between his as though he could convince her through touch alone.
At last she managed a smile, even if a tremulous one. Tears glittered in her shining eyes. “Of course that’s a yes.”
His heart caroled hosannas and hallelujahs even if he only breathed one word. That word was the most exquisite sound in the world. “Grace…”
He wrenched her into his arms and kissed her hard, passionately, without surcease.
He’d never get enough of her. She was in his bones and his b
lood and his mind and his heart. The year without her had been endless hell, whatever outward success he’d achieved. She gave meaning to everything he did. Without her, he was nothing, lost, trapped, as much a prisoner as ever.
She kissed him back as if she felt the same. An astonished corner of his mind edged toward accepting that she did feel the same.
When they drew apart, there were tears on her face. Not all hers, he admitted without shame.
She gave a watery laugh and brushed a trembling hand across her cheek. “I’m so happy.”
“So am I,” he said in an equally choked voice.
The indigo gaze studied him as if she could see right through to his soul. If she could, she’d know one word was written there. Grace.
That word would be there until the day he died.
Perhaps she did see because her beautiful smile brightened her face. Her voice was husky with feeling. “This story deserves a happy ending. Let’s do our best to give it one.”
“Come, darling Grace.” He stood and offered his hand. “We have a wedding to arrange.”
She clasped his hand and stepped without hesitation to his side. He took a deep breath of clean country air and felt the chains that had bound his heart fall away.
Love had at last set him free.
Acknowledgments
Firstly, a huge thank you to the many readers who contacted me about my first book, Claiming the Courtesan, to say how much you enjoyed Verity and Kylemore’s story. It really meant a lot to this debut author to know that characters so dear to me found a warm welcome in your hearts.
With Untouched, I’d like to thank everyone at Avon Books, especially Lucia Macro, my fantastic editor, and her wonderful assistant, Esi Sogah. The brilliant members of the Art Department have excelled themselves once more with a gorgeous cover. I’d like to thank Sales and Publicity for their hard work on my first book and for their enthusiastic efforts on behalf of my second. Gratitude also to my agent, Paige Wheeler, of Folio Literary Management.
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