by Anna Bennett
Nothing he trusted, damn it all.
“It doesn’t matter. What I know is this: The thought of you with another man—whether it’s Pentham or Kirby—makes me want to fight a bloody duel.” Her beautiful eyes clouded with confusion, so he sought to explain. “I want to be the one who keeps you safe … who makes you sigh … who makes you smile.”
Her expression turned soft. Seductive. “If that is true, make me yours. Here. Now.”
His whole body tensed. He’d fantasized about making love to her, of course, but all of this—it felt like a dream. “Are you certain?”
Her eyes gleamed, and the corner of her mouth curled. “We will be wed within the week.” With nimble fingers, she loosened his cravat and caressed his neck. “Why should we deny ourselves?”
Gray was hard-pressed to think of a reason. His heart pounded, and he was so aroused that he wasn’t sure he could form a sentence. “I … don’t want to hurt you.”
She frowned slightly. “Physically, or…?”
“Neither.” God help him, he’d never forgive himself if he did.
“Do you want to know what hurts me the most? When you are detached and cold and indifferent. You keep telling me that you’re not a poet. You cannot find the words to tell me how you feel about me. So show me. Now.”
The words had barely left her mouth before he pressed his lips to hers. He tugged at the laces of her gown, desperate to remove the layers between them. “No clothes,” he growled. “I want to see you.”
She shoved his jacket off his shoulders. Unbuttoned his waistcoat. Pulled the tail of his shirt out of his trousers.
He slid the ribbon from her hair. Pushed her bodice down her body. Unlaced her corset.
When he sat and began to take off a boot, she jumped up. “Let me.”
Wearing nothing but her shift and stockings, she grabbed on to a heel and yanked off one boot, then the other, laughing as she stumbled backward.
But when he stood and pulled her hips toward his, neither of them was laughing. He reached for the hem of her shift, lifted it over her head, and tossed it onto the floor. When she slid her fingers inside the top of his trousers, he stripped them off as well.
As they stood toe to toe in front of the fire, he hesitated, savoring that last, perfect moment of anticipation. God, she was beautiful. Her skin glistened; her eyes sparkled. He drank in the sight of her breasts and hips. Her long, graceful limbs. The way she stood before him—proud and vulnerable at the same time.
And Lord help him, he was going to make her his.
Their bodies crashed together, and the sensation of her skin against his nearly undid him.
This … this he understood. This was not poetry or ballads or romance. This was pure passion. Lust. Satisfying a physical need, nothing more.
Because it couldn’t be more.
* * *
Gray laid her down in front of the fire. The quilt was soft beneath her, his body hard above her.
“I’m going to taste every inch of you,” he promised. He started with her lips and kissed his way down her neck, across her breasts, and over her hips, growling when little moans of pleasure escaped her throat. The slight scruff of his beard against her breasts and belly delighted and aroused her.
He responded to every shift of her body, every sigh, every whimper. It almost seemed as if he was studying what she liked best. Committing it to memory.
She speared her fingers through his thick hair as he cruised down her body and spread her legs. Every intimate touch was new to her, glorious and intense.
“Gray,” she gasped. “What are you…? Oh.…”
His mouth was there—precisely at the center of the pleasure swirling inside her. She gave herself up to it and to him. Her whole body, from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes, ached for him. Surrendered to him. With every wicked lick and moan, he brought her closer to the precipice, imprinting himself on her heart and her soul.
Slowly, steadily, she spiraled higher, till there was nowhere left to go. Her climax blossomed slowly—gloriously so—and hard. Her back arched, and every coiled muscle in her body released, catapulting her over the edge. Pleasure shimmered through her, carrying her across a starlit sky.
Gray lay beside her and pulled her close, planting a kiss on her forehead. She placed her palm over his heart and felt it beating as fast as her own. Looked down at the hard length of him and moistened her lips.
“Don’t,” he said.
“What?”
“Don’t do that.”
“But you just—”
He cut her off with a kiss, fierce and raw. Boldly, she reached between them and curled her fingers around his shaft. He jerked and groaned at her touch, then placed a hand over hers, showing her how to stroke him.
She reveled at the hitch of his breath and his muffled curse, delighted that she wielded such power. Her tongue tangled with his as she did her best to sweetly torture him.
“Damn it, Fiona,” he blurted. “I need you.”
“You say that as if it’s a curse.”
“Maybe it is. But God help me, I don’t care.” He propped himself on an elbow and looked earnestly into her eyes. “Do you want me to stop?”
She shook her head. “Please, don’t. I need you, too.”
His eyes never left hers as he positioned himself between her legs and slowly, steadily filled her. The dark hair that spilled across his forehead coupled with the stubble on his chin made him look slightly dangerous. Eminently masculine. “Are you all right?”
In answer, she twined her arms around his neck. Her body stretched to accommodate him as he slowly thrust deeper. A sheen covered his chest, and his powerful muscles flexed with barely contained restraint. He touched his forehead to hers and moaned. “I wanted this to last, but I can’t—”
“Do not worry,” she assured him, brushing the hair away from his face and kissing his temple. She wanted to tell him that she loved this side of him—this small chink in the armor of her brooding, reserved earl. But since she couldn’t quite form the words, she wrapped her legs around his.
He moved his hips faster, in a rhythm that stoked her desire and made her sigh with pleasure. This closeness was what she’d wanted. What she’d craved. All his walls were broken down, his defenses stripped away. And he was binding himself to her—at least physically.
She raked her nails lightly down his chest, and he thrust harder. Faster. Until he was almost shaking with need. He was pulsing, barreling toward his release, when he suddenly growled and left her—rolling away and spilling his seed on the quilt.
For several seconds, she lay there, thinking about what their joining had meant to her, wondering what it had meant to him. And knowing she’d never be able to summarize it in a diary entry.
Suddenly chilled and confused, she curled into his back and waited for his breathing to slow. Waited for him to say something. Anything.
Without facing her, he asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She thought so, at least.
“Good.” He sat up and held his head in his hands, as though chastening himself, then stalked around the small room, gathering up their clothes. He tossed her shift, gown, and stockings onto the quilt beside her and quickly pulled on his trousers. “I don’t have a washbasin here,” he said, apologetic.
Fiona shimmied into her chemise. “I’m fine,” she said—even though she felt perilously close to tears. She hadn’t expected him to profess his love for her, but she’d imagined that after she gave herself to him he’d be … warmer. Which proved precisely how little she understood about such matters.
“I don’t mean to hurry you, but if we want to make it back to the house before your mother and my grandmother wake, we should go.”
“Of course.” As she dressed and braided her hair, he banked the fire.
“I’ll return later to clean up,” he said.
She sidled up to him and rested her cheek against his shoulder. “Perhaps I could come with you a
nd we could talk some more. Make plans.”
He stiffened slightly—almost imperceptibly. “You needn’t worry that I’ll go back on my word. I’ll marry you, as I said I would. But I don’t want to risk damaging your reputation before then.”
“I see.” She supposed she should be grateful that he was concerned with protecting her name, but it felt like he was shutting her out once again. “I just thought it might be nice if we had the opportunity to discuss our future.” She should tell him about the blackmail notes, so that they could enter into their engagement without secrets between them.
“Soon.” He picked up her sketchbook and slipped her pencil behind her ear—a small, affectionate gesture that gave her hope.
As they quickly left the cottage and walked through the woods in silence, she told herself she had no cause to be unhappy. Things were falling into place far better than she could have imagined when she’d first written to the Earl of Ravenport, proposing marriage.
The problem was that now he wasn’t simply the Earl of Ravenport—he was Gray.
And she wanted more than a marriage with him. She wanted his love.
* * *
Less than an hour later, Gray had washed, shaved, and joined some of his guests in the dining room. He murmured greetings to Fiona’s mother and Lady Callahan, who were already seated at the table, and planted a kiss on his grandmother’s cheek before filling his plate at the sideboard. He kept an eye on the doorway, looking for Fiona. God, he’d been an ass—and he hated himself for it. But not nearly as much as he would have hated himself if he’d given her false hope that he could be a doting, loving husband.
“You missed the other gentlemen,” Mrs. Hartley was saying. “They decided to try their hand at fishing this morning.”
He poured himself coffee and reached for his newspaper. “Excellent. Maybe we’ll have something to eat at luncheon today.”
“So droll,” his grandmother tittered. “I say, Gray. You’re looking hale and hearty today. Very fit.”
Warning shots sounded in his head. He knew his grandmother, and she was warming up to something—he’d stake his life on it. “And you, Grandmother, are lovely, as always. Why do you have a twinkle in your eye this morning?”
“I’m delighted you asked.” She turned to Fiona’s mother and gave her a conspiratorial smile. “Would you like to share the good news?”
Gray took a scalding sip of coffee and braced himself.
Mrs. Hartley pressed a fluttering hand to her chest, then picked up a letter from the table and waved it in the air. “I’ve received word from my husband. Unbeknownst to me, my daughters wrote to him shortly after we arrived here, beseeching him to join us, and he has agreed. He shan’t stay long, as he won’t arrive until Saturday—the day before we are to leave.”
Aware that his grandmother was studying his reaction, Gray schooled his expression. “I look forward to meeting him.” He congratulated himself on refraining from grumbling. An extra guest for one night wasn’t a burden—and it would save him from having to call on Mr. Hartley in London to ask for Fiona’s hand.
Assuming she didn’t change her mind before then.
He shouldn’t have taken her on the floor of a cottage. Jesus, it had been her first time, and she deserved better—a feather mattress, silk sheets, candlelight. He’d wanted it to be good for her, but it had been over in the blink of an eye, and now she probably thought him no better than a rutting boar.
“… and we thought it would be a wonderful way to end the week’s festivities,” his grandmother said. “Gray?”
He snapped to attention. “Forgive me. You were saying?”
Her teacup paused midway to her mouth and she arched a thin, dark brow. “I was telling you about our plans for the ball, this Saturday evening.”
Holy hell. “A ball, here?” he asked, incredulous. “This house is in no condition for a ball.”
His grandmother shrugged her slender shoulders. “We’ll hang some greenery, keep the champagne flowing, and provide dancing music. Our guests will be enjoying themselves far too much to worry about a little peeling wallpaper.”
“Guests?” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Who would we invite?”
“Why, people from the village, of course. They are delighted to hear that you’re improving the Fortress, and even happier to hear you’re entertaining.”
“I don’t mean to disappoint, Grandmother, but there’s no time to prepare for a ball. We’d need food, drink, musicians … and Saturday is only two days away.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Leave all of that to Mrs. Hartley, Lady Callahan, and me. We will see to the invitations, and the young ladies will take care of decorations. Planning is half the fun, you know.” She clasped her hands, and her eyes turned wistful. “A ball. It will be such a festive affair, just like the ones your grandfather and I used to host.”
Damn it. She knew it was impossible for him to deny her. “Fine. But we’ll keep it simple. Nothing too grand or ostentatious.” Because they couldn’t afford anything lavish. In truth, they couldn’t afford anything at all.
Although he supposed all that would change soon. Once he married Fiona.
“I understand, dear,” his grandmother said meekly. But she didn’t fool him for a second. She was too excited over the prospect of a ball to rein in the plans. And if it pleased her to throw herself into the preparations, he couldn’t object.
He wondered what his grandmother would say once he and Fiona announced their engagement. From the time Gray was in leading strings, he’d known it was his duty to marry and marry well.
Fiona wasn’t from an old and respected family, but her fortune more than made up for her lack of noble blood. She’d grow into her role as countess—assuming she didn’t have a change of heart before they took their vows.
But if they did make it to the altar, Gray would be able to throw himself into the renovations completely. He’d convince Fiona to stay at his house in London, where she’d no doubt be more comfortable—and closer to her family. He’d remain at the Fortress—and focus on making it something his grandmother could be proud of. Something she could remember in the days after her world went black.
Chapter 19
On the Perils of Passion
Any girl who sits in drawing rooms and attends to the inevitable gossip learns the dangers of succumbing to the amorous advances of a dashing gentleman. A compromised young lady might find herself featured in the scandal sheets or shipped off to the country to live with a spinster aunt. While the gentleman who seduced her is lauded for his virility, her reputation is destroyed beyond repair.
But there is yet another peril—one that even wise matrons often fail to mention. It occurs when the young woman’s feelings run deeper than the gentleman’s. After giving herself to him, she may fancy herself in love with him.
A dangerous thing indeed.
“I know you’ve been sneaking out to meet Lord Ravenport,” Lily said matter-of-factly as she rummaged through her portmanteau looking for a bonnet later that morning.
Fiona sat on the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the sudden pounding of her heart. She hated lying to Lily, but she simply couldn’t confess everything, so she settled on the half-truth. “I know it’s not proper for us to spend time alone together, but I’ve been sketching him.”
Lily arched a brow. Her eyes flicked to the table where Fiona’s sketchbook sat. “May I see?”
“Not yet,” Fiona replied quickly, for the sketch revealed far too much. “I haven’t quite finished.”
Lily arched a brow, sat beside Fiona, and squeezed her hand. “Listen. I don’t give a fig about Miss Haywinkle’s rules. But I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“I know. Thank you. I care for him and think he … well, I think we are compatible.”
“Compatible,” Lily repeated with a hint of distaste. “I like the earl, but he’s rather … cold. He didn’t write the poetry, did he?”
Blast. “No.”
&
nbsp; “Oh, Fi, you’re so kind and smart and talented. You could charm any gentleman you set your sights on. Why would you choose the one man who has a heart of stone?”
An excellent question. “It’s not stone.… I think he’s been hurt.”
“Ah, yes.” Lily rolled her eyes. “Lady Helena jilted him.”
The mere mention of Helena’s name twisted Fiona’s belly in knots. “Yes, but I think there’s more. The countess hinted as much but wouldn’t elaborate.”
“Well, it seems to me that love shouldn’t be so difficult. The beginning of a relationship should be exciting and thrilling. Every encounter should leave you breathless and giddy—not sad and melancholy.”
“I’m not sad,” Fiona protested, but the words rang hollow. Her relationship with Gray was complicated. There’d been no time for the usual stages of flirtation, courting, or even engagement. But she’d never doubted that he desired her, and now they’d agreed to bind themselves to each other. Perhaps, over time, he’d return her feelings.
“You have at least one other admirer, you know,” Lily said smoothly. “Lord Pentham steals glances at you every chance he has. And the looks he’s sending your way could melt butter in January. He’s exceedingly handsome.”
Fiona nodded. Lord Pentham always appeared as though he were ready to sit for a portrait. Jacket pressed, face closely shaven, not a hair out of place. But he didn’t possess the same brand of slightly wild, masculine appeal as Gray—not even close.
“I have set my cap for Lord Ravenport.” A mild understatement after this morning’s tryst. “And I’m hoping to have some time to speak to him privately at the picnic this afternoon,” she added meaningfully.
Lily threw up her hands and flounced back on the bed. “Fine. I shall do my best to keep the others—especially Lord Pentham—occupied. Just promise me that you’ll be careful where the earl is concerned. I believe he’s what Miss Haywinkle would refer to as a scoundrel.”
“I think I could be happy with him.” Fiona wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince Lily or herself.