Scandal's Daughter

by Christine Wells

  He inclined his head. “I need not tell you, of course, that our . . . friendship is at an end.”

  Her lovely eyes sheened with tears before she swallowed and lowered her gaze. The sight disconcerted him. Did Eleanor really care for him? She had never given the slightest indication of it.

  “You are in love with her, then,” she whispered, turning away, her slim shoulders heaving. “I might have known.”

  In love? With Gemma? The notion flashed through his mind like a lightning bolt across a darkened sky, dazzling him with its brilliance. He made no effort to stop Eleanor when she swept from the alcove in a swish of oyster satin.

  As the heavy curtain swung shut behind her, he stood, still staring, rooted to the spot. Had he been that transparent? Did everyone know? Did Gemma?

  He had stumbled about like a player in blindman’s buff, trying desperately to marry Gemma to someone else, yet wanting to kill every man who glanced twice at her. He had rejected all she had offered him so sweetly tonight, pushed her away, when what he really wanted was to keep her with him forever. He had tried to tell himself it was pure desire, or mere friendship that he felt for her.

  But no. Eleanor was right. He loved Gemma. And he wanted her to be his wife.

  ONCE his valet had assisted him in removing his boots and his tight-fitting coat, Sebastian dismissed the man and dropped into his wingback chair with a brandy in hand.

  There was no question in his mind. He had stopped Eleanor’s tongue for the moment, but he would not be easy until he could protect Gemma from malicious gossip by giving her his name. Once she was the Countess of Carleton, none would dare say a word against her.

  The more he thought about this marriage business, the more he wondered why he had been so adamant against the institution for so long. He had vowed to discontinue his father’s line in punishment for the earl’s treatment of Andy, and he had held that vow sacred. But the oath itself had been an adolescent reaction to stunning grief, one he now realised he had carried into adulthood with little further reflection. Perhaps because it had suited him to do so.

  Perhaps, all it had taken was the right woman to convince him he was a marrying man, after all. The right woman was Gemma, beyond doubt. Exhilaration pounded through him. Now he had made that decision, he could not wait to make her his.

  With a considerable effort of will, he stopped himself charging down the corridor to hammer on her door. He wanted to do this properly, treat Gemma with the respect she deserved—even though it might kill him to do it.

  A click and a wheezing creak sounded from the far corner of the room.

  Sebastian started up. “Who’s there?”

  For the second time that evening, she robbed him of speech. Gemma, dressed—no undressed was the word—in a peach gauze peignoir.

  The candlelight gleamed and leaped in her unbound hair. Every soft inch of her extended an invitation. Though the negligee covered her more completely than her evening gown, the filmy wisp of lacy nothing showed clearly the outline of her breasts, the dark rose pink of her nipples, and the slender curves of her waist and hips. His gaze travelled down her legs—long, smooth, shapely perfection. Her feet were bare.

  Hot blood shot to his groin, but he forced himself to stay where he was. If he touched her, he was lost.

  She advanced into the room, head held high like a queen. “I thought you might like to see another of your gifts.”

  “What? I didn’t . . .” Then he recalled de Cacharelle pressing that last item on him. He’d meant to get rid of it before the boxes were delivered to Gemma. Why hadn’t he remembered?

  “Ravishing, isn’t it?” Gemma smiled and drifted closer, with a sultry sway far removed from her usual purposeful stride. “It is a little tight across here.” She swept her fingertips lightly across her bosom and smiled. “But I am sure it matters not.”

  She kept her hand on herself, fiddling with a silly little bow at the side of her neck. He wanted to flick her fingers away and put his mouth there, rip the bow apart with his teeth, but he held back, dragged his gaze away.

  He forced the words out. “You don’t want to do this, Gemma, not now.”

  Her light voice tormented him. “But now may be our only chance. Since there is no wedding to plan for, I return to Ware tomorrow.” She twisted a red-gold lock around her finger, pulled it taut, and let it spring back into place.

  Panic flared along with the heat. He closed his eyes. She held a gun to his head. He could follow her to Sussex and begin his campaign to court her, but once she was back there, he knew he would lose her to Ware’s thrall. His hand clenched. Damn that place to hell! And damn her ridiculous obsession.

  This was his last chance to win her, and suddenly, he knew he could do it. She thought she could just take him to bed and then walk away. But she was wrong. This time, there would be consequences.

  Consequences. He rose and spoke carefully. “Have you considered what would happen if I got you with child?”

  He heard a faint gasp. “I believe there are ways to prevent that.”

  Sebastian tried not to show his shock at her knowledge. “They are not reliable.”

  “I’m willing to take the chance. If it happens, I shall be discreet. You need not worry.”

  “If it happens, you will marry me.”

  “Sebastian!”

  “Your word on it, Gemma, or I won’t do this.”

  She stared at him for a long time, her midnight eyes huge and unblinking in her fine-boned face. “All right. If, against all precautions I get with child, I shall marry you.” She paused. “And I will live with the child at Ware.”

  The words were spark to tinder. Ablaze with hurt and limitless passion, Sebastian gripped her arm, jerked her against him and kissed her hard. For an instant, incredibly, he sensed her fighting him, in a duel of tongues and lips and teeth. He tightened his hold, crushed her breasts against his chest, and assaulted her mouth with all the power and skill at his command.

  Suddenly, she sank into him with a soft murmur in her throat, and all that warmth and woman moulded around him and he nearly died.

  His fingers traced patterns of lace at her bosom and shoulder, whispered through gauze as he kissed her and stroked down her body, running his hands over all that lush softness. He was hard, throbbing, and oh, so ready for her, but he needed to take it slowly, pleasure her to madness, until she could not even think of saying good-bye.

  Her hands were busy at his waistcoat, his neckcloth, his shirt. He yanked the shirt over his head and threw it on the floor. When he stood bare-chested before her, her gaze feasted on him, and the blatant satisfaction in her eyes made him savage with desire.

  She skimmed her fingertips along his shoulders. “So hard.” Her lips whispered over his chest.

  He gave a hoarse laugh. “Everywhere.” He caught her hand and brought it to the bulge in his pantaloons. She drew back. Her eyes lit with fascination, then she closed them and stroked him gently. “Does that feel good?”

  “That feels . . .” He groaned as she gripped him a little harder. Seizing control, he picked her up, a fragrant soft bundle, and threw her on the bed, following swiftly to loom over her.

  Gemma watched Sebastian transform from reluctant, honourable gentleman to the graceful, stalking predator above her. She almost purred in satisfaction. She flicked the heavy weight of her hair from under her, aware of his gaze on her uplifted breasts. Her nipples hardened, pricked with anticipation.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned down to ravish her mouth. His kiss seared her, made her skin burn for his touch. Could she ever get enough of him? Could she ever leave him, as she planned to do?

  She reached up to pull him down to her. He resisted the tug of her arms, and she felt the strength of him then and revelled in it.

  “Slowly, Gemma.” He gave her a lazy, wicked smile. “We’ve a long night ahead of us.”

  A responsive shudder ran through her, right down to her toes. With one hand at her nape, he drew her
to a sitting position. Then he kissed her with thorough, tortuous deliberation, until her bones melted and her flesh liquefied and her mind drifted away.

  Still kissing her, he undid the row of tiny pearl buttons that ran down the centre of her negligee. His fingers lingered in their task, touched her intimately as they worked to undress her, shooting darts of pleasure through her, as he did wondrous things with his lips and teeth and tongue.

  She kissed him back, telling him everything she could not say—how much she needed him, how much she wished they could be together always, not only these moments, not just this night.

  When his mouth left hers, she felt bereft, but he speared his fingers through her hair and tangled in it, tilting her head back to expose her neck, his lips trailing a sizzling path along her jaw. He nuzzled her throat as if to breathe in her scent, then lightly nipped the tender skin. She gasped at the potent mix of pleasure and pain, and moaned as he bit deeper. The negligee gaped open down her front, now, exposing her belly and the valley between her breasts to the night air.

  He slid his hands beneath the silk, skimmed them over her sensitive, swollen breasts to smooth the garment away. His palms were hot on her skin where the air had been cool, and she shivered at the delicious contrast. He pushed the garment off her shoulders so it slipped down her arms with a soft hush. Then he raised his head and stared.

  “Oh, my God. Gemma.”

  She tugged her hands free of the negligee, but she took a deep, ragged breath and fought the urge to cover her nakedness. There was no turning back now.

  Sebastian studied her with those heated, dark eyes. “I’ve dreamed of this,” he whispered.

  “Y-you have?”

  He nodded. “But my dreams came nowhere near reality.”

  He ran his palm over her breast and down her waist, tracing her shape, trailing fire in his wake. He let his hand rest on her thigh and the blood beat in her loins, a burning, thrilling ache.

  As he bent to her breast, she licked her lips. “Now you.” She wanted no barriers between them this time.

  He hesitated, then, with a faint groan, drew back. Gemma closed her eyes and took another deep breath, trying to calm her hammering heart and slow the blood that pounded through her veins. His weight lifted from the bed, and when she opened her eyes again, he stood with his back to her, removing his pantaloons, stockings, and finally, his drawers.

  As the linen dropped past his buttocks, Gemma forgot to breathe. In that moment, she wished she could sculpt him from marble, shape the broad, muscular shoulders with their sharply defined blades; the long, gently curved torso; the narrow hips, tight, rounded buttocks and thick, powerful thighs. Not just to capture his masculine strength and beauty, but so she could keep him like this with her forever. She lay back and watched the muscles in his arm flex as he flung his clothes onto a chair. A fierce, shocking wave of possessiveness swept over her. Mine, mine, mine, chanted a primitive voice inside.

  And then he turned around.

  She blinked. For the first time, her courage wavered. She knew the mechanics of what they were about to do, but the dimensions staggered her somewhat.

  He watched her with tender amusement. “Having second thoughts?”

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he took her hand and leaned closer for a warm, slow kiss. “Just relax. Everything will be all right, Gemma. I promise.”

  Against his lean cheek, she whispered, “Of course,” though her mouth dried and her nerves thrummed with tension.

  He stretched out beside her and moved down her body, kissed her earlobe, her throat, the swell of her breast. She gasped, and when he drew her nipple into his mouth, suckled and tongued it with firm, steady strokes, all power of thought and doubt flew away. She dug her fingers into his back and writhed under the insistent, drawing pressure.

  He lingered there, as if worshipping her breasts was an end in itself. Finally, he descended lower still, kissed her stomach in a sudden movement, and she squirmed, couldn’t stop the laughter that escaped her. She felt his lips spread in a smile at her reaction. His tongue moved in lazy whorls around her navel. He kissed her belly and parted her legs with one large hand.

  Delicious thrills shot to her loins, even though his hand had merely brushed her sex. His mouth feathered kisses down her hipbone, drifting slowly inwards. She tensed, strung tight with anticipation. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t . . . would he?

  He did.

  In one, swift motion, he gripped her inner thighs, gently parted her folds with his thumbs and sank his head between her legs. Gemma gave a startled cry, shocked by this new sensation. His mouth was hot and wet and he found the place he had worked to a fever that night in the cottage. His tongue swirled, flicked and kneaded, flooding her body with pleasure. Panting, burning, she threw her arms above her head and surrendered to mindless rapture.

  A distant earthquake rumbled, sending faint tremors through her body. She opened her eyes and looked down, and the sight of Sebastian’s dark head moving rhythmically between her thighs spiked her with excitement. Frenzied, gasping, lost to shame, she ran her fingers through the thick waves of his hair, pressing him harder against her. The faint stubble on his chin rasped her sensitive flesh. A prickling, hot, frantic sensation built in her spine, down her thighs, along the soles of her feet.

  While his mouth pleasured her beyond control, he slipped one finger to stroke inside. Her body swirled like a river of fire with hot, surging currents and ripples of intense pleasure. She bucked and moaned, even tried to push him away. His hands clamped down on her thighs, trapping her beneath him. Burrowing down, he took the swollen nub of flesh between his lips and sucked, until the searing currents swirled and clashed and exploded at her centre.

  She cried out, convulsing and shuddering helplessly. He kept touching her, gently prolonging the sweet agony, until waves of ecstasy swelled and broke again and again, and she heard her own voice whimper a plea for mercy. With a harsh exhalation, he finally left her throbbing, twitching loins to ravage her mouth.

  She tasted her own essence on his tongue as she kissed him back hard. In some effort to convey the wild joy inside her, the frantic need, she ran her hands over him, raked her nails over the broad, muscled back she had coveted in secret so long ago at Ware.

  “Gemma, touch me.” Sebastian’s voice sounded ragged, pleading even, all his suave sophistication stripped away.

  Without hesitation, she reached down and curled her hand around his erection. “Like this?”

  A soft groan escaped him. “I’m your slave, princess. Do with me what you will.”

  Impatient, yet intrigued, she gave him a little push so he lay back on the bed. She knelt and reached for him, ran her fingertips along his erection, gasping when it sprang up at her touch. The skin there was smooth, soft as a rose petal, but there was a thrusting, jutting strength to that hard ridge of flesh that intimidated her. Gathering her courage, she took the shaft in a firm grip and explored its tip with her fingers. She heard him moan. His chest heaved. A glance at his face showed his features drawn in a slight grimace, as though he were in pain.

  Not what she wanted at all. She wanted to drive him mindless with desire, pleasure him as he had her, but she had not the slightest notion how. Frustrated at her inexperience, she admitted it. “I’m sorry, Scovy. I don’t know what to do.”

  Laughing, he surged up, tumbling her beneath him. In a voice roughened with passion, he said, “I want you now, Gemma. We’ll play those games some other time.”

  Sebastian made an effort to speak calmly, but he did it through gritted teeth. Holding back while she teased him with such curious, inexpert innocence was pure torture. With the fixed notion that if he didn’t get inside her right now, he would explode, he reached down and positioned himself at her entrance. She was hot and wet, pliant and ready as a virgin ever could be for such an invasion. The thought of her virginity nearly made him lose control. To be the first man, the only man Gemma had ever had— would ever have, if he had anything to say
about it— aroused him more than he’d thought possible.

  Grimly restraining himself from ramming into her like some oafish adolescent, he stroked the head of his erection up and down the slick folds of her sex. He leaned in to kiss her, and as she reached up to slide her hands over his shoulders, he pushed in a little way, then eased a little farther into that searing, moist sheath and stopped.

  “How peculiar,” breathed Gemma.

  The muscles in his neck and shoulders corded with tension, he was sweating with the effort of restraint, and all she could say was “how peculiar”?

  He just managed to grind out, “This will hurt,” before he surged in and thrust deep.

  She gave a strangled cry and her face spasmed with pain. He lowered his head to kiss her with what gentleness he could muster, forced himself to remain still inside her until he felt her relax around him.

  “All right?” he whispered against her lips.

  “Yes.”

  He ran his hand over her breast and down her silken, sweat-dampened body. “God, you are perfect.”

  Shyly, she smiled into his eyes. “So are you.”

  Sebastian froze. In an instant, that bright, trusting smile cracked the shell of cynicism that had taken so many years to harden around his heart. Her warmth and light ripped through him and for one, glorious moment he thought, This is love.

  But he was a man inside the body of a woman he had desired forever, it seemed, and this strange epiphany only heightened his need.

  There was no more talk after that. He stroked into her smoothly, endlessly, relished her sweet responsiveness; the soft, moist heat that encompassed him, gripped him, drew him on and on. Her breath came sharp and gasping in his ear as he moved inside her, and then she began to move, too, catching his rhythm, sending him spinning in a white-hot whirlpool of desire.

  He thrust into her again and again, lost himself in the scent of her, in the cadence of her sighs.