Never Say Never to an Earl (Heart of Enquiry Book 5)

by Grace Callaway

  “Come in.” His wife’s sweet summons beckoned like a dream.

  ~~~

  Watching Sinjin enter her chamber filled Polly with a giddy sense of unreality.

  In truth, the entire day had had a dream-like quality. Sinjin had been back to his old self, his aura once again vital and bright. He’d lavished such attention on her that she’d begun to wonder if her earlier apprehension had just been a case of the bridal jitters.

  And as much as she loved her family, she’d loved them even more when, in the absence of Sinjin’s kin, they’d made extra efforts to welcome him into the fold. He and her brother Harry, in particular, had seemed to hit it off; the two were of a similar age and apparently shared a fanatical love of boxing. Between the toasts and general hilarity, the wedding “breakfast” had gone on until nearly suppertime, when Ambrose had announced that the newlyweds should be allowed to leave.

  Now Polly was at her new home with her new husband, and all she could think was, I’m married to this god-like man?

  Sinjin’s dark hair was still wet from his bath, the ends damp and curling. His sinfully handsome face was freshly shaved, and his eyes gleamed in the light of the lamps. He wore a black silk dressing gown that clung to the broad planes of his chest, revealing a vee of virile chest hair. Beneath the hem, his calves bulged with muscle.

  His male sensuality was raw and uncivilized, and every part of her responded to his wild energy. Her breath quickened. Her nipples stiffened. Her pussy moistened in a damp rush.

  He strode over to her. When he’d knocked, she’d had a sudden panic about how she ought to pose herself. Sitting on the bed might appear too forward—on the chair by the fire too prim. How should a bride greet her new husband? Paralyzed by indecision, she’d wound up where she was, frozen at the foot of the bed. Gawking at him, she realized belatedly, like a feather-wit.

  He curled a finger under her chin. “What’s going on in that head of yours, kitten?”

  “I understand why they call you the God of Revelry,” she blurted.

  His brows lifted.

  “The only thing you’re missing is a leopard skin and a thyrsus. And maybe a few Maenads and Satyrs following in tow,” she babbled on like an idiot.

  “This room isn’t all that large. I’m not sure we could fit in a procession.” His lips quirked. “What’s a thyrsus?”

  “It’s a kind of staff. With a pine cone on top. It’s supposed to be a symbol of fertility,” she said and immediately wished she hadn’t. What a time to mention the issue of fecundity… on her wedding night! It was as if her tongue had a mind of its own.

  “You have an awful lot of knowledge in that pretty head,” he commented. “From your papa the schoolmaster, I take it?”

  She nodded, deciding it might be better if she didn’t talk. Ever again.

  Sinjin lifted a tendril of her loose hair, rubbing it between finger and thumb. “So if I’m Bacchus,” he murmured, “does that mean you’re my Ariadne?”

  His words sparked an uncomfortable connection—not the one he obviously intended. She was like the mythical Princess of Crete in that she’d once been duped by a man. Before being discovered and rescued by Bacchus, Ariadne had been dumped on an island by Theseus—the supposed hero whom she’d helped to slay the Minotaur and escape the labyrinth. Polly had known a similar betrayal: Brockhurst had used her to win a wager, then tossed her aside like yesterday’s newspaper.

  Why was she thinking about that now? It was in the past and had no place in the present. In the future embodied by her outrageously attractive husband whose aura blazed with desire for her. Her—Peculiar Polly Kent. She could hardly believe that destiny had been so generous.

  “I’m no goddess,” she managed.

  “Aren’t you? You could have fooled me.” He released her hair to cup her jaw, and her breath caught at the fierce tenderness in his gaze. “From the moment we met, I thought that you had divine wisdom in those eyes of yours. That you saw in me something no one else had before. I must have recognized my own fate.”

  He kissed her, and some of her nervousness fled. Passion nudged doubt aside. Heavens, she’d missed this—missed him. The reassurance of his firm lips moving over hers, the taste of him saturating her senses like the finest wine. He was intoxicating, real, and all hers. When the kiss ended, they were both breathless.

  He traced the curve of her cheek with his thumb. “I’m a scoundrel, but I can’t bring myself to regret what happened on the balcony. For it led to this, to you being mine—even though you deserved much more for your first time.”

  “More?” She blinked. Recalling the riotous bliss, she said doubtfully, “I’m not certain I could have handled more.”

  “Oh, you can, sweeting.” His lazy, wicked smile made her heart stutter. “I’ve never met a woman with your passion. There hasn’t been a time when you haven’t come at least twice for me—and I haven’t even had you on a bed yet.”

  Her cheeks warmed. Was her response… normal? “Do you think me wanton?”

  “Yes, love.” Before she could start to fret, he kissed her again, whispering against her lips, “You’re wanton and sweet, and I’m damned lucky I found you before someone else did.”

  “I’m the lucky one,” she said earnestly.

  “I’m glad you think so, but you’re wrong.” His gaze was solemn. “You’re a gift, sweetheart, the sort I never thought to have in my life, but I’m not a fellow who looks a gift horse in the mouth. I’d rather spend my time unwrapping you.” He toyed with the sash of her chintz wrapper. “No doubt a considerate husband would douse the lamps… but I’d prefer to see you, Polly.”

  She realized that he was giving her a choice. And she loved him for it.

  She also knew how she wanted to reply.

  Taking a step back, holding her husband’s gaze, she reached for the belt that held her wrapper together. She inhaled for courage, gave a sharp tug, and pushed the modest covering off her shoulders, letting it pool at her bare feet. Pulse skittering, she felt his gaze traveling over what she wore beneath.

  “Devil and damn.” He sounded stunned.

  Those three guttural words—along with the leap of lust in his aura—boosted her confidence. Her sisters had been right in suggesting this particular choice for her wedding night. At first, she’d balked at the notion of wearing something this risqué: the white satin negligee dipped low over her bosom, leaving her upper back bare, its lace-trimmed hem ending just below her knees. The garment was held up by a single cherry-red bow tied at her nape.

  She stood there, debating her next move, when he spoke up.

  “There’s no need to be shy or embarrassed with me, kitten. Or anything but bloody proud of everything that you are.” His gaze raked hotly over her. “You do know that, don’t you?”

  “I’m not embarrassed.” How could she be when confronted by his vivid admiration? “I was just wondering since you said that I’m, um, your gift… if you would like to do the honors?” Blushing, she gestured to the bow.

  The fierce approval in his eyes told her she’d made the right decision.

  He reached out, her pulse quickening as he slid his fingers under the ribbon. The faint rasp of his callused fingertips chased thrills over her nape. Her breath lodged as he pulled on the end of the bow, the action as slow and deliberate as a boy who is striving to make a treat last. He let the ribbon fall, his gaze following the fluttering strip as it obeyed gravity’s call, bringing the garment with it.

  Polly felt the sensuous slide of silk over her breasts, the fabric hitching slightly over her taut nipples before it shed from her like an unnecessary skin. Seeing the flare of Sinjin’s nostrils, she knew the sight pleased him, and it made her stand taller, proud indeed that she could have this effect on a man as worldly as him. She waited, breath held.

  “You are the finest birthday gift I could hope to receive,” he said.

  The reverence that lit his aura was so dazzling that it took her a moment to register his words.


  “It’s your birthday?” she burst out. “Today? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I just did.” He sounded distracted—perhaps because he’d cupped one of her breasts, his gaze focused on his thumb as it circled her erect nipple.

  Even as his touch released shivers of pleasure, she persisted, “But you didn’t mention anything earlier. We could have celebrated properly. I didn’t even get you a present—”

  “I’ve never celebrated my birthday.” Before she could question that, he said huskily, “Polly, do you know what I really want?”

  “What?” Whatever he wanted, she was determined to get it for him.

  He moved, quick as lightning. One instant she was standing, the next she was on her back upon the feather mattress, her husband lying on his side next to her, looking at her like she was a feast and he a man starved. He ran a finger between her breasts, the possession in his touch unmistakable.

  “You. My wife. Mine.” Blue flames leapt in his eyes.

  Then his lips claimed the arch of her throat. Even as pleasure overtook her, she made a mental note to return to the topic of his birthday… later. He cupped her heaving breasts like a pirate weighing his treasure, licking back and forth between the stiff peaks, tormenting her with his mouth. Turbulent pleasure gathered as he cupped her between her legs, his fingers plundering the depths of her giving flesh. Again and again, he touched deep inside her while his palm ground against the sensitive crest of her mound.

  The storm broke, flooding her with bliss.

  “By Jove, you’re a sight to behold in the throes.” His earthy praise didn’t help her heart’s erratic thumping. “I wonder if your pleasure tastes as good as it looks…”

  The mattress shifted as he kissed his way downward, between the valley of her ribs, the soft rise of her belly. Like a playful panther, he nipped and nuzzled, making her giggle when his tongue tucked into her belly button, tickled the back of one knee. Then he made himself a place between her thighs, and all laughter fled at the first lush swipe of his tongue along her cleft.

  “Mouthwatering.” At the burning hunger in his eyes, her satiated nerves sprang back to life. “I love the way you taste, Polly. Love eating this sweet, juicy part of you. Spread your legs further, love, show me you want this too.”

  With a moan, she did. He mouthed her exposed sex, his tongue delving between her swollen folds, teasing the entrance to her sheath. Her fingers found the rough silk of his hair, holding on as he ate at her tender flesh. It was more than the sensations that rocked her: it was him. The way his cheekbones were flushed, his brows drawn with pleasure. Knowing that she could affect him thus brought her to the brink—and then he suckled her pearl, his tongue strong and flicking, propelling her over.

  As she came with a cry, he surged upward, yanking at the belt of his robe. He didn’t even bother to remove it completely, his mouth latching onto hers as the broad crown of his cock prodded her entrance. She sighed against his lips as he pushed into her, a thrust that was exquisitely filling… but not painful.

  “Polly?”

  “Yes,” she murmured, knowing what he was asking. “It’s good, Sinjin. So good.”

  With a groan, he began to move. His hard, hair-dusted chest scraped against her nipples, setting off shocks of pleasure. She slid her palms beneath his parted robe, touching wherever she could, clinging to the bulging strength of his shoulders as he moved within her. His big, powerful shaft caressed her with stunning tenderness. It was more than a connection of bodies, it was a closeness unlike any she’d experienced. A closeness she’d craved without even knowing it.

  Apparently, he felt it too, for he growled, “Wrap your legs around my hips. I want to get in deeper. To have all of you.”

  Her calves fitted in the lean, hard grooves of his hips as if they were meant to be there. His big palms cupped her bottom, tipping her hips up, and she gasped as that altered angle dragged fiery friction against her pearl. The steel-hard root of his cock grazed against her with each pass, triggering tremors deep in her pussy.

  “Sinjin,” she moaned, “it’s happening again…”

  “Yes, love, yes.” His eyes burned, his hips thrusting harder and faster. “Come for me once more, take me with you.”

  The tremors built and built and then something inside her snapped. The convulsions shook her very core, rippling outward in ecstatic waves. As bliss rolled through her, she felt him seize her hands, planting them onto the mattress as his hips pounded her fiercely. His fingers laced with hers, he exploded inside her, their shared cries of fulfillment ricocheting off the walls.

  Chapter Thirty

  Polly was having a wondrous dream. She was cocooned in warmth, in feelings of safety and belonging, her body lax and satiated. But something was tickling her nose, and though she tried to move away, she couldn’t. She was trapped.

  Awareness drifted over her, and she surfaced groggily, her lashes blinking at the unfamiliar sight that greeted her. The muscular planes of a male chest, the glinting bronze hair on it the culprit of her nose’s discomfort. Beyond that, bulging biceps. And beyond that, a strange room, a line of watery light peeping through a slit in the curtains.

  Then it returned to her that this wasn’t a dream—this was her reality—and joy inundated her. She lay quietly for a few moments, savoring the beauty of waking up tucked next to Sinjin. Even in sleep, he kept an arm curled possessively around her… as if she’d want to be anywhere but where she was at the moment! Then she recalled what he’d told her last night.

  I’ve never celebrated my birthday. The notion filled her with sorrow—and indignation on his behalf. How could his family be so cold toward him? She resolved to make certain that, from here on in, every birthday of his would be marked with proper festivity.

  Nature soon interrupted her musings, and not wanting to wake Sinjin, she eased herself carefully from under his heavy arm. She found her wrapper tangled up with his dressing gown on the floor, the entwining of chintz and black silk making her smile. As she got dressed, she couldn’t help but admire her sleeping husband.

  She thought Sinjin was even more handsome with his features relaxed, the faintest curve on his sensual lips, as if he were enjoying a good dream (was it greedy to hope it was of her?). Lying on his back, the sheet down to his waist and baring his defined torso, he was the very picture of muscular virility. Beneath the sheet, she saw the prominent outline of his member against his thigh, and her well-used inner muscles fluttered.

  Goodness. Even at rest, her husband’s potency could not be denied.

  Chiding herself for being a shameless wanton—and feeling giddy because she had cause to be—she quickly went to use the adjoining bathing room. When she returned, she saw that Sinjin was still asleep, though he’d turned over onto his side. She removed her robe, put her knee on the bed, and her gaze hit his bare back for the first time.

  A gasp left her. She stumbled backwards in shock, bumping against the bedside table, rattling the glass shade of the lamp.

  “Polly?” He turned over, his blue eyes slumberous, a mahogany lock falling over his brow. He radiated lazy male satisfaction. “Why are you standing all the way over there?”

  She couldn’t erase what she’d seen. The white scars criss-crossed over his muscled back. The evidence of untold abuses.

  “What happened to your back?” she whispered.

  His languor vanished. He sat up, his expression hard, his eyes like chips of ice.

  “It’s nothing,” he said curtly.

  “Who did that to you?” Her voice shook.

  “I said it’s nothing. I’ll put on a shirt if the scars bother you. Now come back to bed.”

  “Of course the scars bother me—because someone hurt you! I want to know: who?”

  Jaw set, he stared at her. Anger ripped through his tranquil aura, along with a host of other dark emotions that she was too distraught, too furious to pay heed to.

  “Was it your father?” she persisted.

  She�
�d had cause to dislike the duke before, knowing that he hadn’t believed in his own son’s innocence… hadn’t even bothered to attend the wedding. The notion of him abusing Sinjin as a child—for those scars were as old as they were plentiful—made her feel fit to kill. Her hands balled.

  “His Grace couldn’t be bothered to discipline his spare,” Sinjin drawled—yes, drawled, as if they were talking about the blessed weather!—“so he paid someone else to do it. After I was expelled from Eton, he sent me to another school. Creavey Hall prided itself on being an academy that reformed problematic children.”

  “Did he know what they were doing to you?” she whispered.

  “My stepmama and I did not rub along, so I was rarely allowed home. I did, however, write His Grace about it. He wrote back saying that whatever happened was my fault and that he hoped I would learn some self-discipline to prevent further punishment.” Mouth twisting, Sinjin gave a shrug. “He wasn’t wrong. I was a troublesome child. At Creavey Hall, they had their ways for dealing with rabble-rousers. Spare the rod, spoil the boy and all that.”

  Was he actually defending the bounders who had beaten him? “There is nothing you could have done to deserve such treatment,” she said vehemently. “Nothing.”

  “You don’t know what I’m capable of. Self-restraint—it has never come easily to me.” Though his tone was light, she saw the tangled morass of anger, despair… even resignation in his aura. “I fought with the other boys. I played truant on a regular basis. One time, I locked the tutor in his room so he couldn’t get to class—”

  “And none of that warrants being abused,” she burst out. “My papa taught an entire generation of children in our village, and he never, not once, beat a child. Nor any of us, and my siblings and I made more than our fair share of mischief.” Desperate to convince him, she rattled on, “Violet was always ruining her clothes with her acrobatic antics, Harry blew things up constantly with his scientific experiments, and even Em lost track of the cat one time and set the cottage on fire—”