by Sophia Nash
“Look, I’m telling you this because I like you, Esme. Norwich is another story. I’ve never been able to make heads or tails of the fellow, to be honest. Oh, he’s a good enough sort to be sure.” He stopped short.
“And?” she resolutely kept her face toward the wall.
“And you were forced to marry. And you will either live together or live apart. I wanted to warn you that he is the sort who will choose to live apart from you in the end. I tell you this so you will guard your heart. I once knew someone very like you and I do not want to see you hurt.”
She swallowed.
“It has nothing whatsoever to do with you. You must, please, understand this. Even if he cares for you, he will choose a solitary life.”
“Why?” she said, trying very hard to sound casual.
“I’m not certain. I am breaking every bloody rule between the sexes by what I’ve advised you. But, there is nothing wrong in reminding you of recent Norwich history if you are not aware of common knowledge.” He paused for but a moment before continuing. “His elder brother, who would have been duke, died when the ship he and Norwich were sailing sunk off the coast more than a decade ago.”
“I remember hearing a little about it,” she acknowledged.
“Everyone admired the elder. The old duke adored his heir. The mother and sister doted on him, and the two brothers were inseparable. The elder was the golden one and when he perished, the family changed. The father never recovered. Roman and the old duke were . . . well, I will not go on. I’m beginning to sound like a scandalbroth-sipping magpie.”
She turned to finally face him and caught sight of his sly smile and hooded eyes.
“But I’m willing to appear a sodding idiot for a quarter hour to warn the best fisherman this side of Christendom not to place her heart in his hands.”
She pursed her lips. “Thank you. Thank you more than you know. But you see, I think it’s rather too late.”
Abshire shook his head. “I thought as much. Well, I’ve done my duty by you. It’s really too bad you weren’t born a man. I think we would have formed a fine friendship. Instead, we are forced to dance on far too many levels. And I hate to waltz unless there is something to be had after the ball.” He winked again.
He really was the most entertaining man she knew. And she never would have guessed how kind he could be under all his many jaded levels of reserve. But now she would turn the tables on him.
“I feel it necessary to return the favor of concern. But to do so, I must first ask your intentions toward my very dear cousin Verity Fitz—”
A light tap sounded at the door. Esme felt like cursing as much as she was certain Abshire suddenly desired to escape.
“Yes?” she called out.
“May I?” Roman’s deep voice returned.
Abshire jumped from the chair and strode to open the door.
The two eyed each other warily.
“Where is my wife’s maid?” Roman asked, annoyed.
“Oh, shut up,” Abshire replied. “It always comes down to a maid, doesn’t it?” With that nonsensical remark, he walked past the door and slammed it behind him.
Esme had not the slightest idea what Abshire meant by his odd remark, but she would wager her last gold guinea that it had something to do with Verity Fitzroy. Or her maid—or rather, her abigail.
And Esme realized she had not once seen Verity’s ever-present lovely Scottish abigail, Amelia, since arriving in Derbyshire.
Chapter 13
“Just tell me he didn’t cause you any worry. I know the scoundrel only too well,” Roman said coming toward her. “Shall I thrash him for you?”
Esme smiled. “I have the oddest notion you two are of the same mold. He offered to do the same to you, by the way.”
He set the beeswax candle down on the table. “So, I must keep on my guard, then?”
She paused and remembered Abshire’s advice. How on earth was she supposed to guard her heart when she was afraid the man standing in front of her might have already stolen a large part of it? She swallowed. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” she said softly.
“How is your head?” He sat on the edge of the bed and she moved away to give him more room.
“Everyone keeps asking me but no one believes me so what is the point of a reply?” she said wryly.
“I shall believe you.”
“I am perfectly fine. I might limp a bit, but my head is healed. I am leaving this bed at dawn and going outside. I cannot bear another day of coddling.”
He was staring at her with an odd light in his blue eyes.
“Except, of course, when you indulge me,” she said, her eyes unable to meet his. “It’s ridiculous to admit, but I will never be able to thank you enough for coming to me each night. It is a great comfort.”
“May I?” he asked, reaching toward the bandage on her head.
She nodded.
He unwound the small strip of linen and felt the injury on the back of her head. “The swelling is down. And the cut?”
“Is nearly healed. It’s so silly. Everyone knows that there was so much blood because it was a head wound. But I am perfectly fine now. Please do not worry.” Abshire’s caution overshadowed the words Roman had told her in the maze. He was not a man who would be steadfast in the end. It would be better to try to stop her intense sentiments, if she could. “Really, I do not want you to feel any obligation to stay here tonight. If I need anything, I shall call my maid.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
She couldn’t bear to lie to him even if it hurt her more by telling the truth.
“No.”
He removed his coat. She drank in the sight of him as he undid his waistcoat, and pulled one end of his neckcloth. He always undressed in the same elegant, efficient manner—as if he had deciphered long ago the most scientific means to an end.
She tried to memorize the way his eyes watched her as he undressed, and how he placed his clothes on the back of the chair. This was the last time she would allow him to come to her bed. It would just be too hard to leave or to watch him leave if it continued like this.
He paused, his thumb and forefinger hovering near the candle’s flame. He looked at her with a question in his eyes.
She wanted to see him. She didn’t want to be in darkness as in the past. “Please, no,” she whispered.
He nodded and climbed into the bed.
“May I help you with your shirt?” she asked tentatively.
He sat up and removed it so quickly it was a blur. And then he took her in his arms, in the fashion she had grown to want more than anything. His flesh touching hers felt like two halves coming together.
“March,” he whispered in her ear, “I want you.”
“I want you, too,” she responded.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to cause you any pain.”
“Please.” She just could not resist him, even if he would break her heart in the end. And there was something in his eyes . . . something that spoke of such need for tenderness and love—two things she wanted to give him so very much.
It was all the encouragement he needed. With a gentleness bordering on indecision, he removed her bedclothes, and undid her simple long braid. She refused to be embarrassed by her nakedness. She had this one night to give and take before she would put a stop to something that would only become more painful as time went on.
His fingers soothed her shoulders, and drifted down her back, as she mirrored his actions. He moved her to the center of the bed, and lowered his mouth to touch her breast. She bit her lips to keep from making a sound.
There was something about the way he suckled her, and licked the crest that made her want to cry out. She tried desperately to hold back the moan in her throat.
But he must have sensed her pleasure for he would not stop. She had no idea how much time had passed but then she felt the warm slide of his hand on her thigh.
She wanted to tell him how much she de
sired him, but she did not. His hand moved to her waist and cupped her breast as he licked it once again.
She shyly traced her fingers down his sides, all the way down to his buttocks. He was so solid, each muscle defined along his back and hips.
He shuddered as she brushed his ballocks.
“Dear God,” he murmured. “Do that again.”
She drew her fingers gently along his broad spine and drifted down to linger on his large ballocks. The sound of pleasure he made allowed her to be bold.
She touched him as she had always wished to do—without any reserve. Over and over she stroked every inch of his back, and lower, while he kissed her flesh, and ministered to her every need.
When she thought she would die from wanting, his fingers caught the back of one of her knees and drew it high. He released it only to slide his hand down to the juncture of her thighs. She could not hold back the sound in her throat any longer.
“Yes, my love,” he whispered. His fingers stroked her, and she felt an embarrassment of wetness. And then he entered her with his finger, and she nearly rose off the bed.
What was happening to her? Never had she felt the incandescent torment of sensations coursing through her body at this moment—except the night with him on the ship. Her body pulsed where their skin touched.
And he was doing something with his finger that was causing it. Inside, he was motioning for her to come closer. At that realization, a thousand shards of light burst within her. She turned her head into the pillow and released a sound of such intensity it nearly frightened her.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Don’t stop.”
“Oh God,” she moaned. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you pleasure,” he said gently. “All the pleasure you deserve and want from me.”
And then he lowered his body, never removing his fingers from her, and she watched in shock and wonder as he bent his head to suckle that part of her.
She could not breathe. She dared not move for fear that he would stop. He clamped his mouth on her peak, and did something unspeakable with his tongue. And at the same time, his fingers inside of her beckoned without pause.
She was dizzy from not breathing and her palms fisted the sheets below her. His free hand forced her other leg wide open.
“Yes, that’s it,” he rose to whisper. “Open yourself to me.”
What was this? What was he doing to her? She should never have allowed this to begin. Because now she was incapable of stopping him. It was a passion and a torment so far from what she had thought she understood.
She tried to hold herself back from the edge, but she could not. She was suddenly flying. Flying to a place too close to the sun, she was certain. She was so hot, and she burned from the pleasure of it. And it did not stop. She had never ever possessed these sensations and she was certain she never would again. As the edges of her vision began to darken, she finally took a breath and fell back down to earth.
“Take your time,” he whispered. “You’re still weaker than you know.” He rose back up to lie beside her, and released one of her hands from the balled-up sheet to hold it within his own. His thumb brushed the back of her wrist. She had never felt so exposed and vulnerable in her life and she did not like the feeling. She preferred to be the one doing the giving.
“Please,” she finally whispered. “Please come to me.”
And then he was rising to mount her. At least now she knew what to expect. And yet, as he placed the large, blunt end of him against her, she realized that this would not be like either of the two times they had lain together. This was something impossible to fully understand.
He entered her gently, until she grabbed his buttocks and pulled him closer. He slid into her, in one long, slow glide, until she could not take any more of him. He angled her hips with his strong hands, and then he drove into her, every last inch inside her.
He didn’t move, and she could not hear him breathe. She held very still to let him regain control.
“Why is it so good?” he murmured.
“Because it’s you,” she said simply. “And me.”
The long slow slide and release began, and she gave every last part of herself to him and received every last part of him.
She raised one knee and he latched on to it with his strong arm, clenching it to his chest. And she reached behind to stroke his sac, which seemed to bring him to an unknown plateau. It filled her with such happiness to see him lost in passion that she could not stop the flood of a release deep inside of her. Lost with him somewhere this side of heaven, her muscles pulsed and clamped down on him.
Roman Montagu was stunned. Something he rarely if ever had been in his life.
This woman beneath him was the most beautiful vision he had ever seen. Her long hair framed an image of such intense emotion, it scared the hell out of him.
And yet, he could not have denied himself no matter what the cost to either of them. He was caught in a maelstrom of pleasure, incapable of escape. He tried to think of anything except the touch of her fingers on his ballocks and the tightness in his lower back. He was a hair’s breath away from a complete loss of control when he felt her clenching him as she strained to find release.
Using a force he had not known he possessed, he plunged still deeper inside of her and stilled. She made an inarticulate sound, which nearly undid him.
He wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on. His release was poised in his shaft, inching ever closer to the end. Through sheer force of compassion he continued, thinking only of pleasing her.
And then suddenly, she stopped undulating under him.
“Wait,” she whispered. “Wait.”
He did as she bade. “What is it, March?”
She pushed at his shoulders, and he understood that she could not breathe with his great weight upon her. He rolled to one side and tried to keep pushing into her but she would have none of it. Relaxing totally, he allowed her to roll him onto his back, and in the process his arousal sprang free of her warm depths.
A cool breeze fluttered over his body before he realized she had moved to between his legs.
No.
She would not.
No gently bred countess would ever—
He shouted as she took him in her mouth, and cradled his ballocks with her gentle hands. He bit back another shout, horrified that he might awaken anyone in the manor.
Oh, God. It was too good. It was too damn good. She was taking him deep in her mouth and touching him everywhere with her bewitching hands. She was swirling, and giving, and driving him . . . to a place he did not know.
And then he could not stop it. And she would not let him. She moaned, and lightly, very gently took him far inside, and then paused.
He pulsed, and then tried to pull outside of her, but she would not allow it. He thrilled to the warm sensation of her mouth as he gave up all control and experienced the most profound climax of his life.
When he finally stilled, he raised his head to find her meeting his gaze. Light brown hair was tousled around her oval face, her gray eyes looking back at him with mystery and with such tenderness it suddenly made him very shy. He smiled.
“Are you all right?” he rasped out.
“Of course,” she whispered.
He reached over his head for the glass of water he knew was there and offered it to her. “Are you certain?”
She drank from it. “Yes.” She handed him back the glass and he returned it to the table, never letting his eyes stray from her face.
Her eyes studied him, uncertain. “Are you all right?”
He answered without thought. “Of course. How could I not. You are . . .” He did not know what to say. It had been the most extraordinary experience.
“Shhh . . . there’s no need to say anything,” she murmured.
He wasn’t sure he agreed. Females were so damned complicated to understand and . . . no. Esme was easy to understand. She didn’t want his compliments. She wanted his love.
That was the only reason he had said it. And he did not want to feel as if he had to tell her again. Love should feel natural. No one could force it. And right now both of them needed the peaceful oblivion of sleep.
“Come here, March. Will you not let me hold you again tonight?”
She looked at him a long time before she eased into his arms.
She stayed there next to him and drifted into sleep. He smiled when she began to snore a little and then quite a lot. He realized it was the first time she had fallen asleep before him.
He was going to have to leave soon. They had made a bargain and he would stick to his end. She had an unparalleled talent and he would never hold her back.
He would give her every advantage he could afford to help her reach the pinnacle of her dreams to establish herself in the art world. Tomorrow he would arrange all the details to ensure a grand journey for her of epic proportions.
The one thing he refused to ponder was how he would feel as he watched her sail away. For some damn reason, he could not find slumber that night.
Chapter 14
Esme woke from deep sleep, to find that once again, Roman had left her sometime during the early-morning hours.
She sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and yawned, only to stop in mid stretch. The muscles in her arms, normally quite strong from forever lugging about her easel and painting things, were sore. She vaguely remembered clenching the bed linen last night and sank back down onto the bed.
She pulled the covers over her head.
God.
What they had done to each other last night. It was like some sort of vivid, awful, embarrassing, fantastic dream. He had done things to her she would never have imagined, and she had . . . well, what she had done was not anything she had dreamed of ever doing. She had just followed his lead, which had taken them on a magnificent journey to a place she had not known existed.