by Tessa Dare
“You’re being absurd.” He rose to his feet, pacing away. “There are fleas that jump from dog to dog with greater difficulty than your mind leaps from one conclusion to the next.”
“Oh, no. Don’t think you can shut me out now.” She chased after him, sliding around him to block his path. “I know how long it took you to let anyone this close. For pity’s sake, it’s been more than a year since Ellingworth died, and you haven’t even gotten a new dog.”
He looked away and exhaled a slow, angry breath. “I know what you want. I told you from the first, I’m not the man to give you those things.”
“Then we’re equal. Because Lord knows, there are ladies better suited to loving you. But I seem to be the woman who does.” She touched his chest. “You told me yourself, it’s too late. I’m on your mind, under your skin, in your blood. I will not be kept out of your heart.”
“You need to understand this. My life has no room for uncertainty, no margin for error. I have to keep a clear head, or people get hurt. You’ll get hurt.” His hand encircled her bandaged wrist. “Damn it, you already have.”
“What if I told you I know the risks, and I’m willing to take my chances?”
“It wouldn’t change a thing. Those walls, as you call them . . . They’re part of me now, and they are iron strong.” He lifted a hand to her face, skimming his thumb over her lower lip. “Even if I wished to, I wouldn’t know how to dismantle them.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “I know.” She wreathed her arms around his neck. “That’s why you need me. I’m going to burn them to the ground.”
He started to reply.
She didn’t wait to hear it.
Instead, she tugged on his neck, pulling him within kissing distance, and captured his mouth with hers.
He resisted at first, but she offered him no quarter. It wasn’t fair, perhaps, to use desire against him. But it was the one weapon she had. This was a siege meant to conquer his heart. Charlotte would take any advance she could.
She sipped at each of his lips in turn, softening their stern set. And then she slid her tongue into his mouth, probing deep.
Taking the lead was a new experience. She liked it. She liked it very well indeed.
With a helpless sigh, she swept her hands down his back, then ran bold touches over his bare shoulders and chest.
“You’re perfect. So beautiful all over.” She kissed his chest, just to the left of his sternum. “Beautiful inside, as well.”
He growled in warning. “Charlotte . . .”
“Yes?” she asked, making her voice sweet and innocent. She stepped back, looked up at him, and then let her satin dressing gown slither to the floor. “You were saying?”
From the hungry way his gaze swept her nakedness, she knew she’d gained the upper hand. He’d surrender to her now.
She took a step back, then another.
He moved toward her, as though he were pulled by invisible strings that stretched from her nipples to his eyes.
When the backs of her thighs hit the mattress, she reclined on the bed. His gaze still pasted to her bared breasts, he followed, prowling up her body on hands and knees.
“Not this way. Not this time.” She hooked a leg over his waist and rolled them both, flipping Piers onto his back. “It’s my turn.”
As she leaned forward to kiss his unshaven neck, he muttered a curse. She trailed her tongue along his collarbone and down the center of his chest. She gave his small, flat nipples playful bites.
Then she sat up, straddling his thighs. She lifted her breasts with her hands, shaping and plumping them for his view. She circled her nipples with her fingertips, teasing them to tight, rosy peaks.
He made a strangled sound in his throat. “You’ll kill me.”
She only smiled.
She laid a single fingertip to his lips, then drew it down his chin, then his neck, then his chest. Down, and down . . . Until she found the bulge tenting his breeches and cupped it in her hand.
She reached for the buttons of his falls. Her fingers didn’t falter this time.
He sucked in his breath as she reached into his breeches, freeing his swollen staff from the buckskin. She stroked his hardness up and down, then reached lower to cradle and caress the soft, vulnerable sac beneath.
Gripping his length in one hand, she bent her head and drew her tongue across the tip of his cock.
His hips jerked, and he muttered something in a language she didn’t recognize.
When she lifted her head, he was staring down at her. Holding eye contact, she lowered her head and licked him again, this time swirling her tongue around the head.
“Christ.”
His blasphemy didn’t deter her in the slightest. To the contrary, she felt a surge of power that bordered on divine.
She sat tall. He reached for her, but she caught his hands, lacing her fingers with his. Then she pushed his arms back against the bed, pinning them to the mattress. As she leaned forward to brace him there with her weight, her hair came loose from its plait and tumbled about them both.
She moved a few inches, feeling his hardness slide deliciously against her most sensitive places. Then she sank down on him, one inch at a time, until she’d taken him all the way to the root.
Setting a slow, smooth rhythm, she rolled her hips, taking his fullness inside her again and again. She kept his arms pinned to the bed and stared into his eyes.
“You feel so good inside me,” she whispered. “So hard and so deep.”
She loved it when he said carnal things to her. Perhaps hearing them from her lips would excite him, too.
It would seem she’d supposed correctly. He began to arch his back, pushing up to meet her with each stroke. Urging her faster. As they moved together, her unbound hair brushed her nipples and his cheeks.
“Can’t hold back much longer.” He gritted his teeth. “Come.”
She smiled down at him. “You first.”
She released his pinned arms, leaning her weight on her elbows and tangling her fingers in his hair. His hands went to her hips, seizing her flesh in desperate handfuls. He guided her up and down, pushing her to ride him faster, harder. His brow furrowed with effort, and he bared his teeth.
Through it all, their gazes locked and held. His blue eyes penetrated her even more deeply than his cock. Searching, pleading.
“I love you,” she gasped, feeling him swell even larger within her. “Love you, love you, lov—”
He kissed her. He might have stolen her words, but not the emotion. No force on earth could hold back the tide welling in her heart, or the bliss gathering at her center.
At last, he let go. With a harsh, guttural cry, he thrust deep, holding her hips in place. She felt a series of frantic spasms as he found his release.
His crisis unleashed her own.
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t help it. The joy, the desire, the relief, the love . . . They all swirled and collided within her. White light sparked behind her eyelids.
She saw stars.
When her breathing calmed, she looked down at him again—and was heartened to find him gazing up at her. She smoothed the damp hair back from his brow.
“That”—she pressed a kiss to his lips—“was making love.”
He closed his eyes. “Charlotte . . .”
She shushed him. “It’s all right. I know this is new to you, and probably a bit overwhelming. It’s rather new and overwhelming to me, too. But I love you, and it’s important that you know that. Because no matter how you control your emotions, you can’t control mine. I know what’s inside you, behind all those walls. I’ll keep chipping away until I get at it. Even if it takes years. Decades. I know you’ll be worth the effort.” She rested against his chest, burying her face into the crook of his neck. “I’m never giving up on you.”
His arms went around her, clutching her so close and tight she barely had room to breathe. Nevertheless, she felt safe in his embrace. His heartbeat pounded in her ear,
steady and strong, lulling her into a trance.
Someday, Charlotte told herself, she must learn how to make love without falling asleep moments afterward.
That day wouldn’t be today.
“Charlotte, wake.”
Her eyes snapped open. She sat bolt upright in bed. The past two times he’d tried to wake her had been disastrous. She wasn’t going to give him cause to worry again.
“There’s smoke,” he said. “We must hurry.”
No sooner had he pulled her from the bed than footsteps pounded down the corridor. Someone was running through the house, pausing only long enough to thump on each door.
“Fire! Fire!”
While Piers checked the corridor to make certain it was safe, she located her dressing gown and tied it about her waist.
They emerged from the room to find the house in an uproar. People in nightshirts hurried past them in both directions. She couldn’t see any flames. However, a cloud of acrid smoke obscured the corridor to the right, blocking the way to the main stairs.
“This way,” he said, taking her by the wrist and heading left. “The servant stairs. You go ahead, and be quick about it. I’ll follow with your mother.”
Oh, no. Mama.
She looked toward the streaming black smoke. Her mother’s bedchamber was down the corridor that way. Just across from Charlotte’s own.
Between Mama’s age, her diminished eyesight, and her nervous condition, she would never make it out unassisted.
She pulled her arm from his grip and started toward the right.
Piers held her back. “No. You go downstairs.”
“I can’t. Not without her.”
“Go, now. I can carry her if need be, but I can’t carry you both. You’ll be in the way.”
“But—”
But who will carry you, if you’re overcome?
Before she could respond, he’d vanished into the smoky corridor. She stood numbly for a moment, staring after him. Then the wave of smoke began to curl about her shoulders, stinging her eyes.
Her body’s will to survive tugged her in one direction. Her heart pulled at her from the other side.
“Charlotte?”
She swiveled in place, turning toward the voice.
Delia stood in the doorway of her own room, coughing.
Charlotte rushed to her friend’s side, sliding an arm under her shoulder. “Lean on me. We’ll take the servant stairs.”
Together, they hastened toward the dark, narrow staircase and fumbled their way down the steps. Delia faltered on a warped riser, but Charlotte steadied her. Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, they turned and stumbled down a narrow corridor. They kept at best two steps ahead of the smoke, which pursued them like a malevolent demon.
When they finally plunged into the night, they gulped the fresh, cool air like water in the desert, then hurried to join a huddle of servants and family in the back garden.
“Delia!” Lady Parkhurst ran to embrace her daughter, drawing her away from Charlotte’s side and toward the bench where Frances sat trembling.
Sir Vernon held a torch aloft as he shouted to the footmen and grooms, organizing a bucket brigade to deliver water from the pump to the fire’s source. Even young Edmund was pressed into service, bringing leather buckets out from the stables.
Charlotte turned back to look at the house. It was so dark, and the footmen running in and out made it even more difficult to see. With every moment her wait stretched, her heart climbed further into her throat.
The two most important people in her world were caught in that hell of smoke and heat.
If she lost them . . .
The tension was unbearable. She couldn’t stand there any longer. She ran back toward the servant entrance, weaving her way around the manservants. If Mama and Piers were in peril, she would help them—or die trying.
Just as she reached the doorway, Mama emerged in a flutter of lacy white nightgowns, her cap askew.
Charlotte ran to her and flung her arms around her mother’s neck, overcome with relief. “Mama. Thank heaven.” Once she’d drawn her mother away from the house, she asked, “Where’s Piers?”
“He turned back to help the men extinguish the flames.”
Of course he had. Always the hero.
Oh, Lord. Charlotte pressed her hands to her mouth, holding back a sob.
“Come.” Mama put her arm about Charlotte’s shoulders. Her voice was steady. “Come sit down with me.”
“I can’t. I need to help him.”
“He’s strong and more than capable. You will help him best by keeping yourself out of danger. And in the meantime, we’ll pray.”
Pray? Charlotte’s thoughts couldn’t be settled enough for anything but the most desperate, inarticulate petitions. They went something like this:
Please, please, please, please, please.
After a few minutes, she noticed the pace of the footmen carrying buckets had slowed. A man emerged from the building and conferred with Sir Vernon, and then Sir Vernon came to join their group.
Charlotte rose from her bench. Mama rose with her, holding her hand.
“The fire is extinguished,” he announced, making a calming gesture. “The men are a bit singed, but no one has been grievously hurt.”
Charlotte’s internal babbling immediately changed.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.
“The flames were contained to one room, fortunately. The entire wing will need a good airing out to clear the smoke, but no further damage was done.”
“What caused the fire?” Charlotte asked.
“I was planning to ask you that question, Miss Highwood. The fire was in your bedchamber.”
“What?”
“From the looks of things, the flames started on the floor, in a heap of piled garments near the hearth. Then it spread along the carpet to the drapes and bed hangings.”
Oh, no. Did he mean to say this was all Charlotte’s fault?
Lady Parkhurst turned to her. “Did you tip over a candle, Charlotte? Fail to bank the fire?”
“I . . . No, I don’t believe so.”
However, she had rifled through a great many things in a quest to find her most alluring dressing gown. Perhaps a stocking or shift had fallen too close to the grate.
Sir Vernon frowned. “You must have some notion. Surely you noticed the flames, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Do let her be,” Delia said. “She’s suffered a shock. Obviously, she was fortunate to escape with her life.”
“It wasn’t good fortune.” Frances’s gaze sent daggers at Charlotte. “And she can’t tell you how the blaze started, Papa. She wasn’t in her room at all. She was in Lord Granville’s bedchamber.”
Everyone stared at her now. Charlotte didn’t know where to look. She drew her dressing gown tight around her body, holding it closed at the neck. For the first time since she’d escaped the house, a chill went through her.
Delia, good friend that she was, leapt to her defense. “You must have been mistaken, Frances. The whole house was in an uproar.”
“I saw them clearly,” Frances said. “Leaving his room together. I’m not mistaken. Am I, Miss Highwood?”
Charlotte swallowed hard. There was no use denying it. “No.”
The ensuing silence was painful.
“Charlotte?” Delia’s expression was wounded. “I thought we had plans. You said you wanted nothing to do with him.”
“We do have plans. That hasn’t changed.”
“But then why would you . . . ?”
“Murder!” Edmund shouted. “It’s murder! He’s been trying to murder her for weeks now. I heard it myself. Eek, eek, eek. And then grrra—”
Lady Parkhurst clapped a hand over her son’s mouth.
“Muh-urr,” he insisted, despite the muffling.
“I tried to warn you,” Frances said to her sister. “Gossip is always at least partly true. You saw in the Prattler how she is, but you wouldn�
��t believe it. Now you know the truth. She’s been using you.”
Charlotte turned to Delia. “It’s not true. Don’t believe her. We are friends. The best sort of friends.”
“Friends are honest with each other. You lied to me.”
“I never meant to. This all began as a misunderstanding. I was trying to mend it on my own, and then somehow . . .”
“I’ve been so stupid.” Delia turned her gaze to the distance. “I should have seen it. The shopping excursion. Your mysterious absences. I came to your room the night you claimed a migraine, but you weren’t there. You must have feigned that silly poisoning episode, too. Just like the blackberries and the Satan spit.”
“No. Delia, please. I know how it must look, but give me a chance to explain.”
It was no use. Delia had all her guards up. Perhaps she’d be willing to listen and forgive her in time, but it wasn’t going to be tonight.
“Don’t worry, Delia,” Frances said smugly. “The ton will punish her well enough. I suppose we know what name the Prattler will be giving her next. It’s all too easy, given what rhymes with Charlotte.”
“Scarlet?” Lady Parkhurst asked.
“No, the other one.”
Sir Vernon interjected, “She means varlet.”
“Varlet?” Mama echoed. “What on earth is a varlet?”
“It’s a medieval term for knave or rogue.”
Frances sighed. “Really, Papa. No one’s going to call her a varlet, either.”
“Well, then what can you be suggesting?” Lady Parkhurst said. “There’s marmot, I suppose. But that’s not even a true rhyme.”
Charlotte couldn’t bear this inanity any longer. “Harlot!”
The word quelled all chatter.
“That’s what Frances is saying. They will be calling me Charlotte the Harlot.”
A large hand settled on the small of her back. Its owner announced in a deep, authoritative voice, “They will address her as Her Ladyship, the Marchioness of Granville. My wife.”
Piers.
Charlotte wheeled around. There he was, still bare-chested. His torso was streaked with soot, and ashes dusted his wild hair. He smelled like a bonfire.