With Love in Sight

by Christina Britton

  She moved further into the room once he finally released her. Rubbing her hand, she glared at him.

  “Where are we?” she asked, glancing around, trying to make out any identifiable shapes. Moonlight filtered through a sheer curtain, but did not give her imperfect vision enough light to see details beyond a few hulking pieces of furniture. One of which was—a bed?

  “My room,” he replied. He stayed in the shadows by the door.

  She turned on him, her mouth falling open. “Your room? I should not be here.”

  She could just make out him shrugging. “No one will know you’re here. You’re in bed ill, remember?” His voice held an edge to it.

  “What is the matter with you?” she demanded. “Why are you angry with me?”

  He paused, and she wished desperately she could see his face.

  “I am not angry with you, Imogen,” he replied in a low, intense voice.

  “Then what is it? Why are you acting like this?”

  He took a step toward her. “This isn’t you.”

  She gave an exasperated sigh. “No, it isn’t. But wasn’t that the whole point? This was your idea, that I should have one night as someone else.”

  He took another step. “I made a mistake. I never should have had you dress like this.”

  “Why?” Her eyes strained, but his face evaded the light, remaining in shadows even as he came closer. “It was only for one night. Why are you reacting so strongly?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead he stepped into the moonlight, so close she had to crane her neck to look at him. He had removed his mask, and the expression on his face took the very breath from her lungs. There was a heat there, an intensity she had never seen before.

  He reached out and pulled the ribbon securing her mask, removing it and throwing it aside. She could only stare at him mutely, her every nerve ending tingling with awareness. Gripping her arms, his hands were hot on her flesh. He dragged her against him, and even through the stomacher and stays and hoops she could feel the hard, muscled length of him pressed to her.

  “You don’t need this, Imogen. You don’t need any of it.”

  With that he lowered his mouth to hers.

  Chapter 14

  This kiss wasn’t like the first time, when he thought she was someone else. Nor was it like last night, when he had kissed her with a gentleness that had bordered on familial. No, this kiss was hard, and hot, and full of some desperate emotion she could not begin to name but that she wanted more of. So much more of.

  His hands dove into her hair, pulling pins from it. Imogen could vaguely hear them hit the floor over the rushing in her ears. Her hair tumbled free, the great heavy mass falling like a wave down her back. He ran his hands through it even as his lips tore free from hers and moved to the column of her throat. She gave a shuddering breath, her eyes closing as she was bombarded with sensation. She arched her neck, her entire body thrumming and alive.

  “Your hair is glorious,” he said against her skin. “You are glorious. Every bit of you. I don’t know why I fought it for so long.”

  Fought what? she wanted to ask. But then his lips moved down, over her collarbone, to the mounds of her breasts pushed up over the neckline of her gown, and her brain simply stopped working. She gasped, straining toward him as his lips and tongue played over her flesh.

  He growled when he reached the fabric of the dress. Immediately his fingers were at the stomacher, fumbling at the material as he searched for access to her.

  “How the hell did our ancestors manage to get these blasted things undone?” he muttered against her skin.

  Imogen gave a breathless laugh. Without a second thought she began working at the clothing. Between the two of them they managed to get the gown, corset, and hoops undone. And then she was standing before him in just a thin shift, her hair free down her back.

  She couldn’t feel ashamed or shy. No, this was Caleb, and she loved him.

  His eyes were hungry as they raked her body. He gave a tortured groan and stepped closer. She reached for him, beyond caring that this went against every one of Society’s rules, that after tonight she would be ruined beyond saving. Never before had something felt so right and pure and…good.

  Her hands gripped the soft thickness of his hair as his lips claimed her own. She sighed into his mouth at the intimacy of the embrace. Now she could feel him, the thin material of her chemise doing nothing to hide the hardness of his aroused body against her own. He reached down, grasping her bottom, and she could feel the insistent length of him pressing against her belly.

  But it still wasn’t enough, she realized hazily as his mouth devoured her own. There was a tension, an ache building inside her, and she knew she had to feel more of him, to see more of him.

  Her hands took on a life of their own, working at his cravat, loosening the material and tossing it aside, moving to the buttons of his coat, his waistcoat, his shirt. His hands left her body long enough to shrug from his clothing, his mouth lifting from her own only as he pulled his shirt over his head. And then he hauled her back against him, and her hands were on his skin, that same smooth skin she had so longed to touch at the pond just days ago. Now she took her time, delighting in the way it bunched and flexed under her questing fingers. He felt hot, and tense, and absolutely wonderful.

  He moved her further into the room, and soon something pressed against the backs of her legs. Her world momentarily tilted as he lowered her to the bed, the softness of it embracing her like a lover. He left her lying amid the blankets and pillows. She felt bereft without him, chilled.

  But a moment later he was back at her feet, and to her shock she could see every lovely bare inch of him exposed to her view. He was beautiful, all lean muscle. A trail of pale hair dusted his chest, down across his stomach, and to that part of him that was swollen and straining toward her. She swallowed hard, focusing on his face instead, suddenly nervous. But the ache in her had not gone away at the sight of him aroused and ready for her. It had only grown. She needed his arms about her, his lips on hers again, more than she needed anything.

  She reached out for him. Instead of coming to her, however, he leaned down. She gasped as he reached up under her shift, his warm fingers on her legs, slowly rolling her fine silk stockings down over calf, heel, toes. And then, to her shock, he took the hem of her shift in his teeth. He began to pull it up, inch by inch. Her breathing grew ragged and she bit her lip to keep from moaning as he worked his way up slowly, baring every bit of her.

  In one swift move his hands joined his teeth and the shift was gone, up and over her head. Caleb held himself above her for a time, looking down at her naked body, pale in the moonlight. Imogen gripped the blankets in her hands, stunned at the raw need she saw on his face. And then he growled low in his throat and covered her body with his own.

  Imogen shuddered at the feel of his skin on hers. Nothing was between them now, not even a breath of air. Never did she think such a sensation existed. Surely nothing could feel better than this.

  He proved her wrong in the next moment.

  “Imogen,” he groaned. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” His lips worked their way down her throat, across her chest and to her straining breasts. Imogen’s breath caught in her throat, her back arching toward his questing mouth. He claimed her nipple, his mouth hot and moist. She cried out, nearly coming off the bed in her shock.

  His hands went to her hips, holding her still beneath his onslaught. And then the fingers of one hand loosened their grip and trailed across her stomach. When he reached between their bodies and touched her, that intimate center of her that she hardly even touched herself, she instinctively clamped her legs together.

  “Open for me, Imogen,” he rasped. He pushed at her legs, and she let them fall open to him. His fingers caressed her, swirling over her swollen flesh, making her gasp and writhe beneath him. Her hands gripped his shoulders for support.

  When his finger entered her, her body coiled unbearably. She was
so close to something, desperately wanting it.

  “Caleb,” she gasped, a plea.

  “You’re so ready for me.” He raised his head then and looked down at her. His eyes were almost wild from desire. But he paused.

  “Imogen,” he said, his voice low and taut as the string of a bow, “if you want me to stop, you have to tell me now. There is no turning back after this.”

  She gazed up at him, at the torture he was putting himself through to make certain she understood. He would stop this very moment if she asked him to. She knew it with every bit of her. She would still be a virgin, would still have her honor.

  But she didn’t want him to stop. If he stopped now, she felt she would break into a million pieces and would never be able to put herself together again. She could no more leave him than stop breathing.

  “Don’t stop, Caleb,” she whispered. “Please.”

  He groaned, his body coming down hard and heavy on hers, his mouth claiming her own. His hand left her, and a moment later he was moving between her legs, his lean hips fitting between her thighs. His hands gripped her hips.

  Imogen clung to him, her fingers digging into his sweat-slicked back as he poised himself at her entrance. He began to push forward slowly, and she felt an unbearable tightness as he filled her.

  He suddenly stopped, seeming to gather himself. And then he surged forward in one smooth thrust.

  The breath left her, more from shock than pain. But in the space of a heartbeat it dissolved away, and all that was left behind was sensation. He began to move within her, and the strange tension she felt before came back tenfold.

  She threw her head back, gasping. Her feet dug into the mattress, her hips moving with his. She was aware of his breath, ragged in her ear.

  “That’s right, love,” he rasped. “Let it come.”

  His movements quickened. The tension became a nearly unbearable ache.

  “Caleb, please!” she cried, not understanding what she was asking for.

  “Imogen,” he groaned.

  And then she shattered. Caleb’s mouth covered hers as she cried out. Golden stars burst behind her closed lids, her every muscle taut, her breath strangling in her throat. As she began to float back to earth she felt him tense, give one final thrust. She captured his own shout of completion as he had done for her, her limbs cradling him as he collapsed atop her.

  And then there was only a wonderful lethargy, and peace, and happiness as her eyes shut and she drifted off in his arms.

  Chapter 15

  Imogen awoke slowly, aware of a wonderful contentment filling her. Caleb lay next to her, his strong arm cradling her to his side. Her head rested on his chest, and his heartbeat sounded steadily in her ear. The faint sound of music drifted to her. There was a soft white sheet pulled up over them, and she realized Caleb must have tucked them both in. It was a heavenly thought that made her smile. She sighed softly, happily, her arm stealing about his waist and holding him tightly.

  “I’ll go to London tomorrow for a special license,” he murmured, his voice rumbling in her ear.

  Her eyes flew open. A feeling of dread began to uncurl in her belly. “Special license?”

  His cheek was resting against the crown of her head, and she could feel him nod. “We can be married by tomorrow evening if you wish.”

  This could not be happening. She could not marry Caleb. There was a sudden flash in her mind, of her sister Frances’s pale, drawn face, her eyes filled with more misery than they should rightly be able to hold. That was what happened to a person when they married someone they loved and who did not love them in return.

  “No,” she said out loud. It was all she could manage.

  She felt him shrug. “If you would like to postpone it a day or two, that’s fine. But I warn you, I won’t take kindly to waiting much longer than that.” He chuckled low, his hand doing wonderful things to her back. She shuddered, and then with great force of will she wrenched out of his arms.

  She rose to a sitting position, pulling the sheet up over her nakedness. He regarded her from the pillows with a small smile on his face, his eyes soft in the dim light. He put one arm behind his head, and the position brought his muscles into beautiful relief. Her heart ached at the sight. In that moment she almost lost her resolve. Almost.

  “I won’t marry you, Caleb.”

  “What are you talking about?” He reached for her, but she scooted off the bed, bringing the sheet with her. Which was a mistake, for now he had nothing covering his glorious nakedness. She swallowed hard, willing her eyes not to stray from his face.

  “I won’t marry you,” she repeated, hoping he missed the quaver in her voice.

  He rose, and every beautiful inch of him began a slow and steady advance on her. “But you will,” he said, his voice full of a certainty, a maleness that suited him deliciously.

  She held a trembling hand out, and he stopped.

  “I will not marry you,” she said once again, inserting as much steel into her voice as she could, praying he would leave it alone.

  But of course he did not. “We have no choice,” he said patiently. “Imogen, we just lay together, as a man and wife would.”

  “It makes no difference. I shall never marry, so there is no man I need to remain pure for. No one will know, and we can go on with our lives.”

  “But I will know,” he said quietly, intensely. “And you will know. Our bodies know each other now. You can never change that.”

  She shivered from the emotions his words brought her. She clenched her hands until the knuckles showed white. “We can’t, Caleb.” It will destroy me, she wanted to say. But to her relief, her throat closed up before the words slipped free.

  “We have to,” he insisted. “Imogen, I am a gentleman. And a gentleman does not make love to an innocent lady without marrying her. My honor will not allow me to do otherwise. Besides,” he added quietly, “there might be a child.”

  She blanched. “We’ll deal with that if it happens. There is no use rushing into anything until we’re certain. Otherwise, I release you from what you perceive as your responsibility toward me. You need feel no duty toward me, nor feel your honor is being impugned. I refuse to marry you. And so, you see, there is no cause for all of this talk of honor and duty.” Her voice had become frenzied, and she fought to calm herself.

  He regarded her in silence, his eyes showing his confusion. Suddenly his expression changed, became intent, focused. He took a slow, measured step toward her, for all the world as if he were stalking her. Imogen felt frozen as he advanced.

  Coming close to her, he reached up, gently dragging his knuckles down her cheek. His thumb rubbed her lower lip. She gave a shuddering sigh, the fire inside her leaping to life once again.

  “Marry me, Imogen,” he whispered, his eyes hooded and hot. He leaned toward her, his gaze fastened on her mouth. And, God help her, she wanted to say yes, to melt back into his arms and take everything he offered.

  With a cry she pulled away from him. Turning about, she fled from the room, the sheet flying behind her like a specter.

  • • •

  It was only much later that Imogen was able to think back with horror at what she had done. Not lying with Caleb. No, that she would never regret. But fleeing from him wearing nothing more than a sheet, running down a hallway in a house that was full of people—that made her cringe at the very recollection.

  Somehow she made it back to her room unseen. And after she dressed herself in a nightgown with shaking hands and ducked down into her bed, she experienced what turned out to be the longest night of her life.

  For a long while she expected Caleb to come after her, to pound on her door and demand answers. But he didn’t, and Imogen wasn’t sure what she felt more, relief or despair. She told herself that she should feel only relief. She had turned down his marriage proposal and certainly did not want him renewing it. Even so, there was an ache in her chest that she could not banish.

  She had wanted to acce
pt. She could imagine nothing so wonderful as marrying Caleb, living her life with him and giving him children and growing old with him. More than anything she had wanted to say yes. Her very bones ached with the need.

  But…

  That was the one word that had stopped her, the one word that brought to mind every reason why she couldn’t accept him.

  But he didn’t truly want to marry her.

  But he’d only asked her because of what they had done.

  But he didn’t love her.

  No, he had never mentioned feelings at all when he had proposed. But she knew he didn’t love her. And she could not stand a life beside him knowing he had shackled himself to her, and that his feelings would never be the same as hers. For in the end it would destroy her. As it had destroyed Frances.

  And Imogen knew, deep down, that if she were to marry Caleb, she would find herself just the same as Frances, a pale copy of herself, her heart breaking daily until it was in fragile pieces, never to be made whole again.

  Some time in the night there was a quiet knock at her door. Imogen gasped and clutched at the sheets, a horrible hope blooming in her breast.

  “Imogen,” came the soft call from the hallway. And Imogen felt a fissure appear in her heart when she realized it was not Caleb, but Mariah. She kept still, listening, until the heels of her sister’s shoes could be heard heading away from the door and all was quiet once more. It was then that Imogen’s tears finally came. They poured like a torrent down the sides of her face into the pillow and ran unchecked till dawn broke and she finally fell into a fitful sleep.

  She was woken by a pounding at her door some hours later. She opened her swollen eyes to peer blearily out the window. The sun was well up in the sky now. It must be nearing noon.