Society's Most Scandalous Viscount

by Anabelle Bryant

  Now she stood before him.

  As if he could capture a dream.

  As the first evening, the wind whipped her tresses into silver ribbons and shaped her cotton gown to her length like the elegantly carved figurehead on the bow of a ship.

  She sensed him and turned, her cheeks wet from tears, her eyes glassy, and he knew only that he wished to comfort her and right whatever wrong had caused her sadness. He didn’t speak for there was no way to explain the force that continually drew them together. It was out of their control, a charm of the moon or miracle of predestined happenstance, and it mattered little.

  Their gazes brushed, her expression a combination of recognition and relief as if to say: I wished for you, needed you, and now you’re here. She placed her lantern on the sand and came to him, folding into his arms because she knew where she belonged. They fit together in perfect companionship, not a word spoken, their emotion dictating action. He stroked her back as she rested her head against his shoulder. She trembled, not from tears but from their connection, and he absorbed her shiver, taking it away, making her better, stronger.

  They stood on the shoreline, the waves crashing yards away, the waxing moon dispensing parsimonious light when cloud cover allowed and he smoothed his hand from her shoulders to the curve of her waist, pulling her closer, wishing to abate all her sadness within his warm shelter. She grew quiet. No shivers racked through her and their breathing matched, the rise and fall of their bodies in perfect synchronicity attuned to the ebb and flow of the ocean waves.

  She tilted her chin upward and withdrew far enough to match his questioning gaze.

  “Thank you.”

  Her silky voice flowed through him, the two words embodying a wealth of meaning. He stared into her eyes, crystalline and colorless, shards of moonlight too weak to reveal the endless beauty he found there. She exhaled, her soft breath heating his skin, and a riptide of lust overcame him.

  He wanted her.

  All of her.

  Would she allow him the honor?

  He lowered his mouth slowly. Though he may have projected an illusion of control, beneath his skin his blood ran hot, desire raged with urgency and the cords of his neck pulled taut with barely contained restraint. His tongue plunged into her mouth and she moaned, a low murmur in the back of her throat as sibilant as a cat’s purr, as if she’d waited, needed the relief he provided, and now had finally found liberation.

  His leash on control slipped another notch. His cock grew harder and his muscles tensed. All the fantasies he’d entertained in hope of this experience demanded his attention, melding with ungovernable lust.

  Their kiss grew hotter, every rub of her tongue, every gasp as she nestled against his chest he took from her and offered more. Another. Then another. He tore his mouth away to nip her jaw; then he licked down her neck to taste her skin and left a long trail of hot sensation until she sagged against him, her breasts pressed into his linen shirt in erotic abandon.

  All thought of right or wrong evaporated. Any weight of the troubles he carried, disappeared. He floated through life seeking mooring, a man with no moral compass and a meaningless agenda, but in this moment with Angel in his arms, he experienced a peace that eliminated the lethargic ache that dwelled deep in his soul.

  Chapter Fourteen

  This was not the answer. Hadn’t she sufficient troubles without inviting heartache? She could never fall in love. Still she believed an intimate experience was what she needed to lock deep inside, where no one could take it from her, no one could touch. She never anticipated how much it would consume until Benedict became her every thought, permeated her waking hours and sleepy dreams.

  She knew only his name, nothing else, yet her future would be forever altered as of morning. With no need of her virtue, how much of her heart would break when she had only the memory of his heated kiss, his encompassing embrace, to carry forward?

  He could never know how painstaking the moment.

  She rested her hand flat against his chest. The muscle tensed beneath his smooth skin, the hard thrum of his heartbeat strong against her palm. He captured her mouth in a deep open-mouthed kiss and every pinnacle of her body spiraled into submission, anxious to surrender to his promised pleasure, eager to abandon reason. His kiss was glorious, magical, able to erase all sorrow and replace it with a hunger so insistent it could never be ignored. She dismissed all lingering reluctance.

  “Angel.” His hoarse murmur gave rise to gooseflesh on her arms as if his voice echoed within her chest.

  “Yes.” A riot of emotion welled—desire, hot and yearning, determination, fresh and new.

  “Do you want this?”

  His question shot an arrow of excitement to her core. His hands coasted over her shoulders to frame her face where he plundered her mouth in another long kiss, while he drew her closer, the extent of his ardor pressed firmly to her lower belly. Her pulse jumped. She knew the way of things, the order of nature, but that didn’t mean she understood the impact of her decision. Still, this was her only opportunity. This was her last hope.

  She shifted, the smallest tilt of posture and he groaned low in his throat. Then he repositioned, fitting her body to his in perfect compliment. He threaded his fingers through the chaos of her hair, wrapped the length around his palm and tugged.

  Her mind cleared, all at once aware he waited for her answer.

  “Yes.” She whispered against his mouth and inhaled deeply, wanting to keep his scent inside to treasure always. There was no way to explain the connection she found with this man other than he seemed as lost as she, washed ashore and forgotten, a bit of flotsam tossed in the waves. “Yes, Benedict.”

  He gave the slightest pause, no more than two beats of her heart.

  “Say it again.”

  “Yes, Benedict, you have my word.” Her lips pressed to his ear and she confessed the words in a clear whisper.

  He swept his palms down her shoulders, her sleeves falling to her waist, her thin chemise catching the ocean breeze to tease her skin with exquisite sensitivity.

  “You’re so beautiful. I’ve dreamed of you, never believing you real.”

  He lowered her chemise as the wind floated a few strands of hair across her cheek. He lifted them, tucked them behind her ear, caressing the skin below her lobe in the process, and then he snatched the queue from his hair and abandoned it to the sand. He lowered her gown to her hips, and stepped away. His eyes devoured her, his breathing heavy in the blue-black night.

  Then, while she stared at him with curiosity and wonder, he undressed, tugging free his loosened shirt tails, unbuttoning the placket and dropping the garment aside. His arm shot out to reclaim her, skin to skin, and he hissed as they made contact, his jaw clenched tight, the caress of his long hair across her shoulder boldly sensual.

  She touched his cheek, and he turned into her palm, placing a kiss there as if giving a gift. Their gazes met. He lowered his head to take her breast in his mouth. She arched in reflex, the heat of his velvet tongue against her tender nipple too much to bear. He drew on her and she moaned, mortified he could elicit such sounds, though she became more enraptured with each stroke. He stopped too soon and she shifted in his arms, clenching her legs tight, feeling the effects of his tongue in her sex most of all.

  This time she initiated the kiss, his groan fueling her effort. Their mouths collided, tongues tangled, as their limbs did the same. The desire to feel all, touch all, hammered between them. She laid her hand on the front of his trousers and heard his sharp inhalation as if he barely contained an unspoken word. She ran her hand down his long hard length and waited.

  “Goddamn.”

  There was no return now and she wanted no escape. Here lay a chance to make love with a strong, handsome gentleman and disappear come morning. The decision was made. Now to make the memory.

  He wanted to devour her, but would never waste her precious offer in a rush of selfish desideratum. Angel was meant to be savored. How he wished h
e could tow her into his house, only a stone’s throw from where they stood, yet the blanket would have to do. He pushed her chemise further down her hips and off, one hand holding her neck, sealing their mouths while he removed the garment. When he finished, he slid her hand from his erection and looped her arms around his neck, at work to unbutton his breeches and shed his smalls. They were naked as sea nymphs, concealed by the night, but how he wished he could see every inch of smooth skin. His fingertips rested at her waist and she leaned in to kiss his chest in the exact spot of his tattoo, as if to make it better or reassure him all would be right. He wondered…then abandoned the thought, his body in exquisite agony.

  He lifted her into his arms, then settled her on the blanket. His cock brushed against the smooth curve of her hip and she trailed her fingertips across his chest. His muscles tensed beneath her touch. Still her exploration continued across his ribs before outlining each ridge of muscle on his abdomen. Unable to withstand her delicate attention, he lowered her to the blanket with gentle finesse and caged her in as he positioned himself above her.

  Their kisses were hungry now, desperately in search of something each begged from the other. Tongues tangled, teeth clashed as they tasted and licked, kissed and sucked. He knew she was not experienced. Everything proclaimed it in her tentative manner, yet a greater force drove her, instinct on a primal level, to where their bodies communicated without language, want and need commanded their joining.

  He left her mouth and she moaned, the delicious sound an entreaty to get on with it, and he tasted her neck, then her breasts, shifting so he might touch her below. The first pressure of his fingertips made her arch, her body tensed then was immediately languid, the smooth silk of her sex wet beyond his imagination. He touched her with care, her slick folds ready for his mouth, his cock, her body pliant and open for him.

  How beautiful she appeared in the throes of passion: eyes closed, lips parted, innocent yet wondrous, generous, and demanding. Again he stroked her sex, her gasps an indication she neared climax. Her hands gripped the blanket, too lost to open her eyes or voice a word. He rose above her, sliding his cock against her smooth thighs, pressing his erection to her sex with insistence. He would relieve her torment, fill her, alleviate the building angst.

  She stilled at the first touch of him against her sex, then she gracefully opened, as if it was the most natural course of things.

  And it was.

  He fitted to her perfectly. So tight, wet, and hot, he almost lost control with the first thrust, but when she stilled, her gasp of pain different from the lovely expressions of pleasure, he found a moment of clarity.

  “I’m sorry, Angel. I’m so sorry.” She’d need time to adjust. Time to decide. He prayed she wouldn’t cease their joining. His body raged with unsatisfied demands.

  “No, I want you. I want this.” She released the blanket and placed her hands on his forearms, holding, trusting.

  “Give it a moment. It will be better.” He held himself still, though he ached to move. When she lifted her hips, the slightest reposition, he sunk into her deeper and her heat almost caused his ruin. He was an experienced pleasure-seeker, a rake, a rogue, a scoundrel by any account, but within Angel’s sweet tempting body, he felt new again, almost reborn, or at the least, reinvented. He wanted to stay inside her forever.

  He rocked forward, a small shift and she relaxed, aware her body was ready to accept him. He thrust again and slowly they found their rhythm. A few minutes earlier she was poised for release, her body anxious and excited, but now he would know the joy of rebuilding that sensation, the slide of his hard length inside her stoking an intensity he’d never known.

  Breathe.

  He’d tensed, not wanting to reach his release before she did, but he’d forgotten everything, awash in sensation.

  Breathe.

  He forced an inhalation and stared down at her face. She looked beautiful, lost in a lovely sacred moment of feeling, and he leaning into her to capture a kiss. Her eyes opened, her arms leaving her sides to circle his neck.

  Drowning.

  He was drowning.

  And she was as liquid as the ocean, unable to hold form but so powerful to wash away the burden of emotion he’d kept locked tight. At his lowest points he’d wondered what it would feel like to walk into the sea’s oblivion, but this, this was drowning. Every nerve ending in his body reacted, each cell screamed, his senses acutely aware of nuance, murmur, flavor, and caress. This was drowning deep. So deep.

  “Benedict,” she whispered against his mouth and he couldn’t hold back.

  He thrust, again, harder, and she shuddered, a moan escaping as she tightened around him. He wanted her. All of her. Yet he knew, on some peripheral level, piercing recognition managed to exist. Somehow he salvaged the last vestige of control and withdrew, dropping aside her overwhelming beauty to spill himself against the blanket.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  His words were a sincere murmur against her ear, though she couldn’t see his face from her position. “I already told you not to be concerned. You didn’t hurt me.” She nestled closer to his chest where they lay on the blanket like two spoons in a drawer, redressed and in no hurry to leave the hazy aftermath of their shared intimacy. “Tell me another story of your travels.” She enjoyed listening to the deep timbre of his voice and would remember the sound when loneliness and sadness owned her heart, the memory sure to provide solace. His descriptions of the faraway places he’d visited inspired her, coming to life with his soft-spoken details and vivid imagery. She’d know his voice anywhere now. It reverberated inside, speaking directly to her soul. And he enjoyed the retelling too. She could hear it in every tale. Earlier inquiries about childhood had produced a peculiar silence so she chose a safer subject. She was equally reluctant to reveal information concerning her family.

  “When I found Nyx, she appeared smaller and thinner than the other colts in the herd. The tribesman attempted to convince me to purchase a larger horse, insisting I would blame him someday when Nyx proved an unworthy ride. But while she wasn’t as tall as the other mares, Nyx had a rebellious gleam in her eye that issued me a challenge. She would break or I would. So I trained for weeks, transforming seditious high-spiritedness into obedient loyalty, and we’ve been together since.”

  “You must be proud.” Her smile was evident in her voice.

  “Something like that.” He exhaled long and thoroughly.

  “Was it terrible when they marked you?”

  She felt his grin against the back of her ear. “You’re very curious about my tattoo, aren’t you?” He shifted and reached for the lantern while she tumbled to her back, watching his movements with rapt attention.

  “I’m fascinated by the strength it took for you to endure the pain and remain still.” Her voice lowered to a hush, emotion adding a tinge of reverence to her curiosity.

  He smiled slightly before answering. “The pain was temporary, while the sentiment and acceptance extended to me remain everlasting. It is not something to take lightly and many believe it a great honor.”

  “Of course. It serves as a constant reminder of that moment in your life. I admire your bravery.” She could never reveal her level of cowardice, her admiration for Helen’s fortitude in kind to her esteem for Benedict.

  “Physical wounds heal easily.” He released a long breath as he continued. “Yet words are somehow more indelible.”

  “You speak from experience again.” It was more a statement of fact than a question.

  He didn’t comment. Instead he opened the glass, careful not to disturb the candle, and rubbed his pointer finger in the black ash gathered at the bottom of the tray.

  “What are you doing?” What purpose could he have for the residue left behind by dissolved candle and wick?

  Again he didn’t answer and instead with his left hand lowered her sleeve. He repeated the motion with her chemise until the skin above her breast was bared. She watched intently as he drew a sun over her
heart, the ash staining her in identical fashion to his tattoo.

  “Now you’re marked just as the tribesman marked me. You possess the same inner strength and experienced none of the pain.”

  She looked at him with wide eyes. She remembered his story, each entrancing word, and how the tattoo signified ownership, belonging, and eternal welcome. Did he mean to express these sentiments as he recreated the same image on her skin? Her heart thudded a heavy beat. He made her feel precious, almost fragile, and at the same time acknowledged her strength of courage.

  This time tomorrow he would forget her or worse, remember, only to discover her forever gone. It wasn’t fair, this selfish game she played.

  “I should go.” She offered a half smile and righted her gown, careful not to smear the ash. “It’s too late.” Sad how a few words could ruin the beauty of everything they’d shared, but Benedict didn’t notice.

  “Take the lantern so you can make your way.” He helped her stand and handed her the closed lamp. “I’d like to walk you back but I have the distinct feeling your answer will be the same as before.” He waited. “Another time then.”

  She smiled in way of confirming his suspicion and did not correct his assumption, although a swift stab of regret pierced like an arrow through the heart.

  “Then let me at least keep you warm.” He leaned in, capturing her mouth in a slow kiss, composed more of seduction than farewell.

  When she pulled away, he considered her face for several long beats of her heart, his expression at odds as if he wanted to say something but was unsure whether or not to do so. At last she broke contact, holding the lantern ahead to lend its light, refusing to look back over her shoulder.

  Benedict found sleep easily, his slumber heavy with dreams. Old memories of his travels coalesced with images of Angel as they made love. Childhood antics blended with accomplishments through adulthood where he’d experienced pride and hope. He woke feeling satisfied and fulfilled, the uncommon feeling at first unsettling, as if it were a new-tailored garment that needed to be worn to adjust to the fit.