Air seemed far less interesting compared to tasting her.
“Perhaps we should go back,” he said, almost as a plea.
Perhaps if they left right now, he could leave her with her maidenhood still protected. Every moment alone with her was dangerous.
“Or we could stay,” Veronique said after a pause.
“I don’t think I can restrain myself.”
She stepped nearer him, and her voice was low. “Perhaps you needn’t.”
He took her shawl and laid it on the ground. “I’m going to make use of your practicality.”
“That wasn’t why I brought the shawl,” she murmured.
“Tell me to stop.”
“I—” She didn’t.
“It’s fine,” he said more seriously. “If you really would rather move to your cottage near the sea. I know you can take care of yourself.”
“I’m not sure I want to,” she whispered.
She lay down on the shawl, and Miles settled beside her. They were in darkness, but he’d long ago memorized the placement of the delicate features of her face and the curves of her slender body, visible even when swathed in dusty attire.
He flung his tailcoat off, and then more slowly unwound his cravat. She touched the coarse, carefully folded linen with almost reverence.
He brushed his fingers over her bosom, tracing them with wonder. Then his lips moved from her lips to her neck to her… She seemed to melt as he trailed kisses down her bosom. Every nerve ending sang as he explored new, wondrous parts of her body.
“Veronique,” he murmured, saying her name as one might utter a prayer. Wonder emanated through his voice.
His heart thudded beneath his ribs, as if at any moment prepared to pound an Italian symphony.
The scent of grass and flowers and…Veronique filled his nostrils, causing his head to swirl with greater force than any alcohol heavy concoction.
Veronique moaned, and Miles concentrated on bringing more delightful sounds from her. Her curves beckoned him, and he pulled her toward him. Her long skirt pressed against his trousers, and he raised the hem, cursing whomever had invented pantalettes.
Anything that separated them, even linen, seemed an enemy worthier of scorn than anything Bonaparte had ever done.
She moved, winding her legs about him. She echoed his movement, and Miles became more conscious of the need to touch his lips against more skin. He pulled her pantalettes off and ran his fingers over her long legs. He wanted to memorize every inch of her.
*
Desire rushed through her. Even though desire was nothing she’d ever considered before. It seemed now like the largest force of anything else in the world: greater than hunger, thirst or any yearning for protection from the icy cold wind that billowed over them. Desire was everything. Miles was everything, and he might actually be hers.
Her heartbeat fluttered. It beat a new rhythm, a new symphony. Something that if anyone could record would surely compete with the likes of Beethoven. His fingers, long, firm, expertised, roamed over her, and every skin cell in her body seemed to wake up at his mere presence. Energy surged through her and made her back arc up to him. Her legs seemed to naturally tangle with his, pulling him closer to her. The one thing she was absolutely certain of now, even though her mind seemed to have completely floated away, surging through the heavens themselves, was that Miles needed to be right beside her, right on top of her. Even an inch apart from him would equal the vastness between the coasts of the Atlantic ocean.
“You are wonderful.” Miles’s voice was warm, sultry, and comforting. He stroked his fingers through her hair, which had now become undone somewhere after she’d hit the earth.
His fingers twirled her locks, naturally curly, with something that seemed very like reverence. He didn’t wonder at the thickness of each strand, marveling at how it managed to spring up so quickly, and comparing it unfavorably with his own.
He moved his finger up to her face, as if memorizing the exact shape of her upturned nose was as important to him as any cricket match.
“I need you,” he said.
She nodded. She needed him too.
He moved his lips to hers, and in the next moment they were back where they had been in the chapel. She was being transported to the heavens themselves, to Atlantis, to ancient Greece, to every magnificent place in this world and beyond.
His lips ran over hers, moving to the curve of her neck and the place where it met her shoulders.
And everything that she knew of him. Miles managed to be adventurous, exciting, moving. But now as he held her pressed against his chest, he seemed only filled with reverence. He brushed his hands against her, his strokes tender, and even though she was lying in a maze, some garden contraption built centuries ago to amuse bored medieval aristocrats, in his arms she only felt safe.
The stars and the moon lit his face. Not very well, but she’d long ago memorized the exact shade of his skin, and the multitude of laughs and smiles he was so prone to giving her. Moonlight illuminated the contours of his chiseled features and he looked every bit as magnificent as any Greek or Roman statue Lady Alfriston might manage to pull from the ground triumphantly. He was everything.
“I need you,” he said. “I don’t understand it. I don’t need anyone, but I sure as hell need you.”
“I feel the same. If you’re insane, you’re not the only one.”
“The word we use here is mad.” He smoothed the curve of her cheek beneath his fingers. “I should get you inside. Being here outside, with you, makes me long for things, desire things so utterly and completely…”
“What would you want to do?”
“Besides haul you over my shoulder straight back across the Scottish border to marry you?”
“Yes,” she said.
She wasn’t naïve. One didn’t become a writer of penny dreadfuls without some knowledge of passion. All of her information, though, derived from the whispers and giggles of servants, and the more flowery prose of her contemporaries.
“I desire you as well,” she said.
“You mustn’t say that. I might devour you.”
“I am yours.” She knew that was true. No matter what happened, she would always be his. She didn’t need a marriage certificate to tell her that.
“My darling.” He kissed her again, but this time with even greater force that sent pleasure coiling through her body with more vigor than any waterfall.
Her toes curled, and her fingers clutched him. She was his. She would always be his.
No doubt the vicar would be upset at how she was acting. Likely her parents would be disappointed. But the only thing in the world that mattered to her was the feel of his kiss against her lips as he pulled her closer to him.
Miles lay next to her, and she was aware of long muscular limbs pressed against hers. He glided his hands skillfully over her body, and he lowered her bodice.
He kissed her again, so very deeply, and she was certain he would feel her heartbeat thump against his.
Suddenly she was no longer cold, even though the sun had long since set, and they had likely not been transported to the warm sunny Caribbean, but she was no longer cold. She felt his hardness pressed against her hip. She grew accustomed to the feel of it against her, as he continued to stroke his hand through her hair.
No matter that her hair was not straight. She kissed him with more force, and desire swelled through her. When Miles lowered his mouth to her neck, moving lasciviously toward the edge of her bodice, she moved her hands over his chest and unbuttoned his frock jacket. She wasn’t sure of the exact procedure, but she was absolutely certain that fewer clothes on Miles could only be an advantage. The mere touch of his skin seemed to warm her. Any fabric was an unwelcome barrier.
She pulled him nearer. The only thing that mattered was the feel of him, and when he pulled down her bodice and then unfastened her corset, she laughed with him at his delight.
He moved his hands lightly over her bosom, and s
he had the vague sense she was moaning. Miles did not seem to mind that she was completely inarticulate. For a moment he pulled away from her and unbuttoned the flap of his trousers.
“It was getting a bit uncomfortable,” he said and grinned.
She smiled back, not quite knowing what he meant, but in the next moment he placed her hand over his hardness.
She stared at him even though it was dark and she could not quite see his features, aware that everything in her life was changing. She couldn’t be more happy. He moved his hand up her dress and she scarcely had a moment to consider the size of his hardness. Desire swept through her and he continued to kiss her body, eagerly claiming each new inch that he exposed as he undressed her.
He moved his wet lips over her legs. “So long.”
“Oh?”
He pulled her toward him, cupping her bottom, and she wrapped her hands around his neck and gazed at the stars as they twinkled above like jewels.
His lips moved toward the most intimate portion of her body. She had heard of men exploring this region, but it seemed too private. He couldn’t possibly be venturing there.
The next moment was bliss.
Pleasure swept through her with even greater force. His tongue was clearly the most magnificent thing in the world, and it glided over her.
She could feel him.
She moved her fingers tentatively to his length feeling it expand still further.
He moaned and then wrapped his arms around her, undressing, sliding her dress down. “Once I take this off, there is no going back.”
She just pulled him closer to her. He brushed his lips against her neck, and he angled his hardness against her center. Energy tightened within her.
She knew the basic procedure, but she’d never imagined it could feel so nice.
His hand seemed to travel everywhere.
Her heart beat quickly, and she heard him shudder as he pressed further into her. At first the sensation felt somewhat strange, and she shivered, for the first time realizing how unnatural their positions were, lying half-undressed in this maze. But then Miles began to move, and the world swirled. His hands once again swept over her, and he moved again to kiss her.
A new strange craving rushed through her, and she didn’t know whether she desired release or if she wanted the sensation to go on forever.
Miles had seemed calm before, but his breath became quicker, more uneven and she felt a tinge of pride that she was bringing him to this reaction.
He moved deeper into her, filling her completely.
She was his.
She would always be.
She succumbed to the sensation of his fingers against hers, led on by this new desire.
“I cannot resist any longer,” he said.
“Then don’t.”
Miles started to relinquish control. He wrapped his strong muscular arms around her, and his thrusts grew deeper, harder, rocking her very soul.
And then with a cry he pulled out quickly. She wondered if she’d done something wrong, but he spilled his seed on the grass.
“My darling.” He flung himself beside her, wrapping her in his arms, his breath still heavy and uneven.
The smell of the seed mingled with that of the flowers and bushes in the maze.
“Now for you,” he said.
“Me?” She didn’t know how anything could be more pleasant. She’d rather assumed the action to be over, but he moved his hands over her legs, once again entering her center with them.
His tongue was more interested in her bosom, and pleasure shot through her. He put a nipple in his mouth, thrusting his fingers deeply into her body and moving them with an expert rapidity.
Energy coursed through her.
She found herself arching her back toward him, and waves of pleasure shot through her. Her breath grew uneven, and she found herself pushing her body against his fingers, conscious of his lips continuing to mark her.
Then her insides seemed to tense in pleasure, and she shuddered on the ground, and he pulled her into a longer, messy embrace as she fought to catch her breath.
“I love you,” he said, and her heart continued to soar.
Chapter Twenty-two
A twig snapped, and Veronique stiffened. She tilted her ear in the direction of the sound. Miles continued to stroke her hair, seeming more occupied with the feel of her tresses against the palm of his hand than with whatever was distracting her.
Someone was here. Veronique had never thought twigs frightening, but now her spine coiled with fear at the sheer sound of a fallen branch cracking.
“I think we should go,” Veronique said.
The music had stopped playing. It was quiet, except for the sound of her beating heart.
She couldn’t hear horses trot over the gravel, and she couldn’t hear people, stragglers from the party. No one should be here now.
She lifted her torso and rose. The scent of the maze still filled her nostrils, and the stars still twinkled above, but for the first time she felt uneasy.
Miles stood up. He rested his hand against the curve of her back. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all. Lady Montague herself can find us, and it won’t matter.”
“Truly?” Veronique asked.
“Truly,” Miles said. “We’re getting married, and I want to marry you soon.”
They strolled through the maze. When they exited she noticed a woman.
Veronique relaxed. She’d worried it had been Lord Braunschweig.
Still…The woman looked familiar, and Veronique recognized her as the woman on the coach. Miss Haskett. It wasn’t good that anyone had seem them go out of the maze, so disheveled, so completely, utterly together.
She’d known the woman had been on the coach. That the woman had already seen them together. She also knew the woman was a governess. She wouldn’t know her father or her stepmother.
Still it was odd that the woman seemed so amused.
Miles drew in his breath, and she glanced up at him. His gaze was on Miss Haskett, and he dropped hold of her hand, sending a shiver through her body as he stepped away.
The musicians still played and the guests still danced when they entered the ballroom.
The hostess smiled at them from across the room.
“I’ll be back soon,” Miles said. “I have something important to do.”
Veronique nodded, and he soon followed Lady Mulborne from the ballroom.
“Abandoned so early?” a voice said behind her, and Veronique swung around.
Miss Haskett smiled. “I had an extraordinary conversation with Lord Braunschweig.”
She swallowed hard. She wasn’t afraid of people learning about her ancestors. She’d been proud of how she’d been raised, despite some people’s propensity to describe people with her color skin in solely negative adjectives.
“I know everything about you,” Miss Haskett said. “And soon so will everyone else.”
“Do you mean to claim the reward?” Veronique’s voice wobbled. “Because I can pay. More than the reward. I’m certain.”
“Yes. I know about your writing hobby. Your offer is tempting. But I feel it is a duty to warn others about you.” Miss Haskett’s lips curled into a smirk. “I think people will find your colorful ancestry—or should I say colored—very relevant.”
Villains in Veronique’s experience, and what she tended to impart to others, were mustache-sporting men with a tendency to run their hands through their less than ideal facial hair while narrowing their eyes and uttering demeaning comments. The villains were often physically strong, and when they weren’t that, they had the weapons to more than make up for their lack of muscular girth.
Veronique had never seen a villain like Miss Haskett. A woman of perhaps her own age, a woman like her, who may not have experienced everything. Miss Haskett was perhaps a woman she would have liked to befriend, and yet more than anyone else in this great and wonderful world she had the ability to destroy everything.
&
nbsp; She heard a noise, and she realized it was the sound of other people tittering in the room. The noise seemed to swell, perhaps helped by the excellent acoustics of the ballroom that clearly carried laughter just as easily as it carried opera singers.
Miss Haskett took a spoon and clanged it against a glass of negus.
No one heard.
She forced herself to think the lie, but it did nothing to calm the beating of her heart. She felt ridiculous in her gown. She’d been so excited to go to the ball with Lord Worthing. She glanced at the gilded mirror.
She’d spent so long immersing herself in this world. She’d read so many books set in Europe. She’d thought perhaps since it was across the ocean, that the farmers there did not employ slaves, that she wouldn’t experience the sneers and ill language that some people directed at her.
She wrapped her arms together, and then, conscious of the eyes on her, put them back to her side. She didn’t want to seem upset. But the mere action of standing up seemed impossibly difficult.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Miss Haskett said. “I have an announcement to make. An imposter is among us.”
The crowd murmured.
“I have discovered Loretta Van Lochen!”
Some people applauded, and Veronique felt a tinge of pride.
“Who is she?” some people cried out. “I want to meet her!”
“You shouldn’t,” Miss Haskett said. “She should not have been permitted to enter this ball…she is from Barbados. Her relatives were slaves.”
More murmurs sounded, and Veronique fought the temptation to careen to the floor or run from the ballroom.
“Indeed,” Miss Haskett said, and joy seemed to glisten from her eyes, the peculiar kind people seemed to experience when issuing the vilest gossip. “You’ve been reading books written by a woman devoid of any respectability.”
“Are you certain?” one person mused. “She doesn’t look like a negro.”
“You are seeing her by candlelight,” Miss Haskett said. “But I am certain that you will agree that in comparison my skin is paler. My nose is thinner, and I needed actual curling tongs for my hair. Hers is thick and unwieldy and decidedly inelegant.”
Mad About The Baron (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 4) Page 16