by Stacy Reid
She glowed warm and vibrant. And he knew she would match him as a lover in all ways. He knew she must be sore, but she was enjoying her sensuality too much, in the wicked lust that arced between them, to stop. No one had ever taken him with such raw, unmatched passion. And that was what she did—she took him, as surely as he had taken her last night. He was mesmerized. And he gave full control over to her.
She bit her lips and bore down inexorably on him. Sliding up and down until she sat boldly astride him, fully seated to the hilt. And then she rode him.
She rode with guilelessness, with sheer wantonness, and with a freedom that utterly captivated him, and he tumbled with her when she fell.
At last, he had met a woman who would match his needs.
Finally, a woman who had captured his heart.
…
Phillipa snuggled into the warmth of Anthony’s embrace, unable to move. He drew the coverlet over them when she shivered. The silence between them was comfortable, and she smiled in the darkness, filled with contentment. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he said, and they both laughed softly.
He pressed another kiss at her nape. “Are you ready to talk about it? About this secret you hold so close?”
His calm question surprised her, but didn’t upset her. If he had demanded or berated, she would have retreated behind her usual wall of doubt. But his air of relaxed curiosity made her want to answer. She wanted no more secrets between them.
“I had a lover in Boston,” she said softly. “We were childhood friends, and the older I grew the more curious I became about everything. Especially between men and women.” She turned into Anthony’s arms, needing to see his face. He shifted so he sprawled on his back. She did not resist the arms that drew her down, so that she lay in the crook of his embrace.
“We were best of friends, more than anything else. He introduced me to small adventures. He taught me how to swim in the lakes that I’d been forbidden from, how to ride astride. We were so close it grew into more than friendship. We shared our first kiss together, then more, and eventually our explorations led to us making love.”
She inhaled. Brandon had been her first in everything. First bloom of love, first tentative kiss, and when she discovered her parents intended to uproot her from her known world to move to London, she gave herself to him. It had been sweet, painful, a little messy, and very poignant.
“It was more out of defiance than real love, hoping that my parents would leave me behind to wed him. Brandon and I made grand plans together of where we would travel and what we’d explore. They were more my dreams than his. He knew I wanted to see the world, so he urged me to go with my parents, promising to follow by my twenty-first birthday.”
“What happened on your twenty-first birthday?”
“Nothing yet. I’m still only twenty. When I turn twenty-one, I will claim the inheritance my grandmother left me. I planned that we would use it to tour the continents.” She twined her fingers through Anthony’s. The slow, steady beat of his pulse reassured her.
“Go on,” he encouraged.
“My family made me feel so ashamed. I endured Papa slapping me, calling me a harlot, and my mother’s wrenching sobs. Mama drew the curtains as if there had been a death in our family, and all she spoke about was the shame. Never mind that the person who had seen us together was Mama herself.”
Anthony’s hand rubbed her shoulders soothingly.
“By the time we reached London, I felt suffocated under their guilt and expectations. All I heard was how I’d ruined myself and my chances of ever being loved. My aunt tried to arrange a suitable match for my hand. She introduced me to Lord Orwell.”
Anthony’s muscles tensed. “I assume he presented himself as charming, elegant, wealthy, and everything a young lady ought to dream of in a husband,” he drawled.
“Indeed. And my aunt kept singing his praises. I admitted that I found him likable. I attended the opera with him, took early morning rides, and even went on several picnics. My father invested heavily in several of his ventures, to strengthen the connection. After two months of courtship, Orwell made an offer for my hand.”
“Even though I had a desperate desire to travel, I was tempted. But I found it distressing to accept a man’s proposal, knowing I’d already had a lover. Believing him to be a gentleman, someone I could trust, I confided in him. I told him about Brandon.” She cringed, remembering his violent reaction. His hands around her throat and his cruel taunts.
Anthony made a growling noise. “I can only imagine his anger.”
“He turned ugly. I instantly ceased to be a lady to him. I realized then that everyone would feel the same way. My own family insisted I was impure. Orwell made me feel much worse.” She closed her eyes as the awful memories swept over her.
Anthony’s muscles grew even more rigid. “What did the blackguard do?”
“He kissed me. For the first time. Then he made promises of the lavish lifestyle I would live, and how he would provide for me. It took a few minutes to dawn on me that he wanted to establish me as his mistress. I was no longer suitable for marriage. I was soiled goods and could only be his mistress. I said no.”
“And he didn’t take kindly to your rejection.” Anthony’s arms tightened around her.
She lay silent for a few minutes, feeling safe, truly protected, for the first time since leaving Boston. “He became a nightmare after that. He hounded me at every turn. He accosted me at balls, trying to force kisses. He said if I did not come to him, he would let it be known I’m a harlot. He would not relent. He resorted to using my father’s heavy investments in his schemes as blackmail. He threatened to tell his wealthy friends my father was not an honest man to work with, ruining his business. I was terrified. I needed to escape the vile blackguard. So, I devised a plan.”
Anthony peered down at her with a scowl. “What plan?”
“I wrote Brandon to remind him of his promise. But he replied that he’d gotten married. I should have been devastated, but truthfully I was more annoyed my plans had been foiled. So, I resolved to travel alone instead, with a paid companion. My twenty-first birthday is in a couple days.” She sighed and fell into the daydreams that had sustained her over the past difficult months. “So, you see? My inheritance will let me leave London and do as I wish. I shall tour the continents and have as many adventures as possible. When I marry, it shan’t be to someone from London’s haute monde.”
Anthony’s body had grown still beneath her. “Yes. I see.”
She stifled a yawn, exhaustion draining her. “I foolishly believed I could ignore Orwell’s advances until then. I never imagined that he would kidnap me. I was so afraid.” She glanced up at him with a smile. “And then my gallant knight rode up on his white horse and rescued me.”
“Odin is black,” Anthony said evenly.
She snuggled deeper into his embrace. After last night, his sensual touch had replaced the fear and distaste of Orwell’s. Anthony’s easy acceptance of her impurity still left her stunned. She instinctively knew he would not hold her in contempt, even now, after she’d confessed everything. “By the way, how did you know I was abducted?”
“I had a trail put on you. I was not comfortable with how Orwell hounded you.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. She probably should be miffed at his arrogant interference. But she wasn’t. If not for his concern, her life would now be an unbearable nightmare. If she were alive at all. “I will always be in your debt, Lord Anthony.”
Another yawn rushed from her.
“We will continue this discussion later,” he said. “Including your debt to me.” He shifted her closer, wrapping her in his arms. “But for now, sleep.”
It felt perfectly natural, and so right, to place her cheek against the crook of his neck and do as he commanded. And so, she did.
Chapter Thirteen
The lush expanse of Anthony’s estate awed Phillipa. The dark green, rolling lushness of the lawns stole h
er breath. Rows of flowers sprawled in majestic beauty, surrounded by perfectly trimmed hedges. Dozens of elm trees lined the stately driveway. Several French gardens were scattered about in wild disarray, completing the charming effect. In the light of day, what had seemed like a large manor house was in fact an elegant mansion.
Upon rousing, she had slipped from the bed, grateful to see her clothes stitched, ironed, and laid out for her. Then heat had seared her entire body realizing that the maid must have seen her wrapped in Anthony’s arms.
After a long, warm bath, she had made her way down the massive hallway and winding staircase, to the sunroom where the butler directed her. It was aptly named, facing east where the sun rose, with an entire wall of windows. The yellow, green, and silver decor of the room was stunning in its elegance, and yet, the room invited comfort.
Footmen had paraded in with eggs, bacon, cheese, cakes, and tea, to fill the sideboard. But it was the fragrant aroma of coffee that had roused her from her worrying thoughts. She had queried the footman, and had been pleased to have recognized the heady roasted scent of Jamaican blue mountain coffee, a favorite of hers.
She’d eaten her fill and waited with a feeling akin to dread for Anthony to descend. The beauty of his property could not soothe the riotous emotions that jangled inside her. Joy that he had made love to her without disdain. She felt no shame at her own part in their bed play. Though she blushed recalling all the ways he had taken her. She had never expected that making love could be so tumultuous, so delicious.
Where was he? Doubt and worry gnawed at her.
She rose, and tentatively wandered through the mazelike main level of the house. In a small, bright room, she found an easel positioned in front of the windows facing the gardens. She picked up a bit of charcoal. She’d always had an artistic bent, so she sat down before the easel and started to sketch. Her hands slashed with bold movements, and before long, the raw beauty that was Anthony appeared on the paper. She drew him as how she saw him—vital, energetic, and a little rakish. On a whim, she added wings that arched with graceful power on his back. She brushed the charcoal, her brows frowning in intense concentration as she darkened his wings, turning them a deep shade of midnight.
“You are immensely talented.”
She gasped in surprise and spun on the stool to look at him. A blush heated her cheeks. She was not sure how to act after their night of excess. “Thank you. I love drawing and painting.”
“A lady of many talents.” His lips fleetingly brushed against hers, and pleasure unfurled inside of her. He cupped her cheeks, and his thumb caressed a light bruise at the corner of her lips.
“I will crush him,” he avowed. “He will not escape unscathed after such contemptible behavior.”
Her heart beat faster as he gently kissed the bruise. “Forget him. I don’t want him to spoil the day for us.”
“You’re right. He’s forgotten.”
She smiled up at him. “Your estate is beautiful.”
“Thank you. Come. I have not yet eaten.”
They returned to the breakfast room, and he strode to the sideboard, while she accepted another cup of coffee. He filled his plate and she tried not to gape at the quantity when he seated himself across from her and picked up his fork.
“My mother and sister have arrived,” he said. “My mother penned a letter to your father, informing your family of your visit, and the rain that forced your overnight stay. No one knows she and my sister only arrived this morning, and it must be kept that way. Many will still speculate, and rumors will abound, since I resided under the same roof. I will announce our engagement, and then we will wait an appropriate time and wed.”
Phillipa tilted her head up a notch, filling with rebellion. After telling him of her inheritance last night, she’d been hoping he would dispense with that line of thinking. “If your mother stands behind our tale, such a noble sacrifice on your part is unnecessary.”
“It is no sacrifice,” he said evenly. “I am happy for us to wed.”
She rose from the chair and started to pace. “But I am not.”
“Is marriage to me so undesirable?” he asked with a shade of irritation. Or perhaps hurt.
“It is not you, Anthony,” she said softly. “It just that…I do not wish to remain in London. I hate the whirl, the restrictions, and the quick condemnation. I am continuously told how a proper young lady must behave. Be biddable, do not prattle, and heaven forbid I display some modicum of intelligence. If our relationship becomes known, I will be ostracized. Better to leave now. I do not need the approval of a society I loathe, and have no intention of spending my life bowing and scraping to it.”
She stopped pacing, and sank back into her chair, trying to hold his gaze. His mien was carefully neutral, but she could see the coldness encasing his eyes.
“You know how I feel about marriage,” she pleaded. “I hate the condemnation I see blazing from you. Is it not enough that we are lovers?”
He rose and strode around to stand over her. “Is that all you desire of me? For me to be between your legs pleasuring you?” His face was bland, but she thought he sounded a little hurt.
She winced at his bluntness. “No. I enjoy your company. I love being with you—conversing with you, dancing with you. You are the most honorable man I have ever met, but I have no desire for marriage, Anthony. I would like for us to remain lovers and friends.”
His chuckle held no mirth as he folded his arms and walked over to lean against the mantel. “You do not understand the nature of the society you live in, Phillipa. This is about more than us being lovers. Orwell will undoubtedly drop hints about you, providing grist for the vicious rumor mill. He is a coward and will never act in an honorable manner. You can only benefit from our marriage.”
She clamped her jaw. Why did everyone insist they knew better than she what would benefit her? Still, the last thing she wanted was to fight with Anthony. Not after all the wondrous things they had shared together. She slowly took a few sips of coffee, composing her thoughts, trying to still the trembling of her heart.
“What benefit will being married provide to me? Pleasure? I can receive pleasure without tying myself to the whims of a man. A man who can dictate how I dress, what I do, a man who can beat me any time he so wishes. I want to travel. Africa, Egypt, Shanghai, the Caribbean. You propose to be my husband, Anthony. Will you be content with a wife who is not here, attending to you and your home? Will you be content with a wife who yearns for more than a conventional life, instead of one who gives you babies and hosts your dinner parties? A wife who will attend women’s rights conventions?” She hiked a brow. “I don’t think that is what you want in a wife.”
His face shuttered, and her heart squeezed. For some reason she desperately wanted him to say yes, he did. He wanted her with all her eccentric ways. Because of all her eccentric ways.
“You paint quite a picture,” he ground out.
“You seek to marry me out of some misguided notion of chivalry, Anthony. I’m telling you, it is not necessary.”
“I do not offer to marry out of honor or to obtain legal issue,” he growled.
“Why then? Love?” She scoffed, expecting it to be anything but. Her heart shook when she noticed his expression closed up even further.
Love?
“Much too high an aspiration for a licentious rake such as myself,” he bit out coldly. He stalked to the window and thrust his hands deep into his pockets.
Phillipa hesitated, then got to her feet and went to him. “You know very well I did not mean it like that, Anthony. You are not debauched in any way. You are both heroic and kind. I simply have no desire to wed, and I do not understand why we must do so if your mother will help us avoid a scandal.”
He shifted, and she held his gaze. Her chest squeezed as his eyes became even more distant. Concern curled inside her.
He lifted his hand, and his thumb brushed against her lips, slowly, seductively. The regret that coated his voice deepened
her unease. “The bonds of matrimony are never something I would enter lightly, nor for something as cold as chivalry. But I understand now, that is all you would see them as, Phillipa. Bonds.” He dropped his hand and gave a curt bow, conceding to her wishes.
She did not feel the relief she had expected to feel. Instead, her stomach felt hollow. Confusion swirled through her, and she hated the blank, neutral look that evened out his features as he walked back to the table.
“Anthony.” She was afraid to ask, but she needed to know. “Are we still lovers?”
He sat back down, methodically finishing his food. “I am not interested in a cold, meaningless relationship, Phillipa. If I need sex, I can take a mistress. I want more. A wife…children, a family.”
“What we have is not cold and meaningless!” she said, affront tingeing her words. “You knew how I felt. Did you think I would change my mind after spending one night in your bed?”
His expression didn’t flicker. “My mother and Constance will travel with you back to London. She will tell your family, and anyone else who asks, that you dined with us and the inclement weather prevented your return. Hopefully, that will be enough to silence the gossips.”
Phillipa nodded mutely at his matter-of-fact recitation, dropping her gaze to her hands and swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat. She was suddenly hit by a painful realization. If he had murmured words of affection, or love, rather than cold logic, she might actually have considered marriage.
But it was too late now. Pride tied her tongue. If Anthony had felt affection for her, he would have said so when she mentioned love. She would not mistake the passion between them to mean anything deeper to him than lust.
His mother swept into the breakfast room, and Phillipa blinked at her dainty perfection. She forced herself not to react to the curious way the viscountess regarded her. She must know Phillipa spent the night with her son.
Anthony’s voice remained blandly polite as he introduced them.
She battled the urge to fidget. Or smack him for his damned insouciance. Instead, she curtsied nicely. “My lady.”