by Lora Darling
“Eirene?” Adrien somehow had a hold of her shoulders. When had he closed the distance between them? “You will give yourself wrinkles if you continue to think so deeply. Was my question really so difficult?”
She lifted her gaze to his. “I returned because I love you.”
He smiled, and it was the most beautiful sight she’d ever witnessed. Then he did the most extraordinary thing. He swept her into his arms, like a gallant knight of yore, and carried her to the large, luscious looking bed where he laid her down with a gentleness that brought tears to her eyes.
She reached for him as he straightened, but he shook his head. “No, no. Allow me this moment to simply look at you.” And look he did. His gaze trekked up and down her body with the diligence of a reconnaissance scout.
“I have a confession,” he said as his eyes met hers. “I imagined how you would look in my bed that first day in your study.”
Eirene pushed up to rest her weight upon her elbows. “And? Does reality meet with your expectations?”
“No.” He offered nothing further as he began to unbutton his shirt.
She wanted to challenge his negative reply, but the sight of him shedding his clothing quite distracted her. He possessed a glorious physique, although the hard expanse of his torso was currently marred by ugly bruising.
She snapped her gaze to his face. “We cannot do this. You are in no condition.”
He pushed his trousers down while shaking his head. “No, no. None of that. It is only bruising. I am fine.” As if to prove his point, he lifted his arms over his head and did a number of fascinating twists and stretches. Eirene was quite certain the sight would fuel her dreams for years to come. “See? Hale and hearty as ever.”
He was lying of course. She had noticed the subtle twinge of pain that crossed his features as he twisted his body to the left, but she said nothing. Male pride was a feisty beast if provoked, and the truth was, she wanted him to make love to her and she wanted it now.
She held out a hand. “Make love to me, Adrien.”
“Avec plaisir, ma cherie.”
Chapter Eighteen
Eirene did not need to ask twice.
Adrien crawled onto the bed over her supine body. Braced on hands and knees, he kissed her slightly parted lips, all while looking into her wide open eyes.
“Close your eyes, Eirene,” he instructed around a smile and another kiss.
She shook her head. “I enjoy looking in your eyes when you kiss me.”
He pulled back just enough to allow her to see his smile. She loved his smile, the way it made the corners of his eyes crinkle. It lent him a boyish vulnerability she doubted many people ever bore witness to. The papers would not write of him as they did if such a smile was commonplace. No, this smile was for her. Only for her. The realization should have thrilled, but it saddened her. She did not deserve to be the recipient of such a rare gift. She could not be what Adrien wanted her to be. He wanted a wife, maybe even a mother to his children. She could not be those things. Could she?
His kiss blessedly ended her train of thought. She focused on the feel of his lips, his warm breath, the moist slide of his tongue, his taste. Cognac. Well, well, well.
She eased away before he could kiss her again. “Have I fallen in love with a smuggler?”
His eyes narrowed in confusion.
“Your taste,” she explained. “You taste like very fine cognac and, given the current situation with France…”
“Not only do you look like a fox, you are as keen as one.” He landed a kiss upon her nose. “Westhaven is the smuggler.”
“Westhaven?” She tried to imagine the charming man she’d met upon Lady Palmer’s terrace as a smuggler. “I never would have guessed.”
“And that is what makes him a very successful smuggler.” He resumed kissing her, but she pulled away again, her mind working like a well-oiled mill.
“Westhaven. As in the son of Baron Eugene Westhaven of Cornwall?” If she were not mistaken, Baron Westhaven was the son of Navy Captain Edward Westhaven, an acquaintance of her grandfather’s. He had passed a few years before her grandfather.
“Yes, Eirene, Henry hails from the Cornish Westhavens.” Adrien sat back upon his heels, presenting a rather fetching image that made her forget all about the Westhavens. The man possessed sinfully glorious thighs, in or out of trousers.
She sat up so she could place her hands atop said thighs. The muscles tensed as Adrien sucked in a sharp breath. Other parts of him reacted in a most fascinating manner as well, and she gave into boldness and wrapped her right hand around his shaft.
“Mon Dieu, Eirene, have mercy.”
She looked in Adrien’s eyes. “Why? You do intend to make love to me, oui?” She worked her hand toward the tip, mesmerized by the sheen of moisture that appeared in response to the action.
Adrien captured her hand. “Yes, I intend to make love to you. Make love, being the important phrase, but if you continue to torment me in such a fashion, I will send my intentions to hell, flip up your skirts, and ravish you like a rutting beast.”
“Hmm.” She slicked her hand back down his shaft, the movement aided by the liquid he’d expelled. “I like the sound of that.” She barely had a chance to catch Adrien’s gaze before he shoved her onto her back and took hold of her skirts.
“Tu es un vilain petit renard.”
Eirene attempted to translate the murmured French, but it was difficult to think with his lips fused over hers, especially while his hands did truly wicked things beneath her skirts. When his fingers brushed over her sex, she gasped, but the slight touch was a poor warning for what followed.
Lord help her.
She arched her back and dropped her legs open like a wanton as he slipped a finger inside her. “Oh…”
“Do you like that, ma cherie?” His mouth was at her ear, his breath hot in her hair. “Hmm?” He pushed his finger deeper, and she purred like a cat. “Oui, I thought so,” he said, with all the arrogant confidence of a born rogue. But he was her rogue.
“Adrien,” she panted as he worked his finger in and out of her slick passage.
“Tell me what you want.”
She grasped his shoulders. “You.”
Almost before the word faded to silence, his hands were under her bottom, lifting her to accept the thrust of his erection. “Mon Dieu, you deserve better than this.”
But he did not temper his movements. He filled her and withdrew, only to fill her again. It was breathtaking and primal and the most amazing sensation one could imagine.
She dug her nails into his shoulders. “Give me all you believe I deserve later, but for now…” She had to pause to catch her breath as he thrust forward again. “I beg you, do not stop.”
“Never,” he vowed while catching her lips for a deep, open-mouthed kiss.
****
Adrien smiled at nothing in particular as Eirene nestled against his side. Her naked body radiated heat and her hair smelled like wildflowers. La vie était bonne. Life was good.
“Thank you.” Her quiet words broke the silence.
His smile widened as he kissed the top of her head. “It was my pleasure.”
And it had been. Every second of it. Being inside Eirene, hearing his name on her lips, witnessing her awakening as she climaxed for the first time—all of it, a divine, life-changing pleasure.
“It would seem,” she murmured while shifting at his side. “I am now, officially, ruined.” Her movements indicated she had cocked her head to look at him in the dark. “Should we hang the bed sheet from the window to declare my fallen woman status to the masses?”
Adrien’s blood ran cold. “You did not bleed.”
She sat up at that, and he could feel the weight of her regard. “I did not?”
“No.” Adrien remained as he was, staring at the ceiling. “It is not uncommon, especially for a woman who enjoys riding astride.”
“And how would you know how I enjoy riding?”
&nb
sp; “A man can tell.” Now he sat up as well, cursing the lack of light within the partially enclosed bed. “You rode me with breathtaking skill.” The words fell between them, sounding as dead as he suddenly felt.
“Should I consider that a compliment?” The laugh that followed sounded hollow.
He focused on the shadowy outline of her form. Maybe it was best to have this conversation in the dark. “You have no intention of becoming my wife, do you?”
He did not require an answer. He knew. He’d known the moment she made the flippant comment about the bed sheet. But he wanted an answer. He wanted to hear her reject her feelings for him.
“Adrien, making love with you did not alter my view of marriage. Why would you believe it would?”
“Because obviously I’m a bloody fool.” He left the bed, needing to be away from her and her damn narrow view of things. He stalked across the room to pour a drink. The bed springs creaked, followed by the soft pad of bare feet. He gripped the glass tighter, afraid if she touched him, he might shatter.
“It is not my intent to hurt you.”
He took a bracing swallow of cognac before turning to face her. She had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders in an attempt at modesty. It failed. The blanket did nothing to shield her naked legs from view, and the memory of how they had felt clamped around his hips almost had him hurtling the glass into the fireplace.
“You know what they say, ma cherie. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
She flinched, then reached for him. “Adrien, I—”
“You should go.” He turned his back and sipped his drink. Inside, he was a cacophony of emotions, but damn if he would allow her to see how deep the wounds cut.
“You are being highly unreasonable. What of the countless women you have taken to bed? Did you believe all of them meant to become your bride?”
He spun around. “That was sex. Nothing more, and I am not quite the rogue you have always believed me to be. I imagine you think there have been hundreds of women in my bed, when in actuality I can count them on one hand.” Her eyes widened. Good. She needed a dose of reality. “Having you in my bed was different. I thought you knew that. I thought I had made my feelings for you abundantly clear.”
“Oh.”
He gaped at her. “Oh? Oh! That is all you can manage to say?” He shook his head, unsure if he should be angry with her or feel sorry for her lack of understanding. “Do you love me, Eirene?”
“I told you I did.” She kept her gaze averted, and her brow furrowed, as if still contemplating the information he had thrown at her.
“Then do us both a favor, hmm?”
She looked at him. “You wish me to leave.”
Adrien set his drink down so he could take hold of both her shoulders. He tugged her closer, causing her grip on the blanket to slip. The heavy fabric slid down her right arm, nearly exposing her breast. God give him strength.
“I do not want you to leave. I want you to accept what is between us and agree to become my wife, because I cannot allow you to walk out of my life and I refuse to live as your kept man.” Never mind he had enough money of his own, despite his exposure as a fraud. He needed to make a point. In spite of the remarkable pleasure of having her in his bed, he would not be used for sex. It was marriage or nothing, and God give him strength to accept the latter if that was what she chose.
“Adrien.”
“Eirene.”
She glowered at him, though the expression lacked fire. “You are very stubborn.”
“Pot calling the kettle black, ma cherie.”
“Adrien.”
“Eirene.” It occurred to him that he would counter her all day, if necessary.
She sighed. “I need time to think.”
Hope pulsed through his veins. “I will allow you twenty-four hours. In that time, you will either return to my door or to the country. If you choose the latter, we shall never see one another again.” The last words cost him dearly, and he did not miss the widening of her eyes or the movement of her neck as she swallowed.
“Very well. Twenty-four hours.”
Chapter Nineteen
Dearest readers,
I leave the city for less than forty-eight hours and it seems all hell has broken loose. I apologize for abandoning you, and I shall do my best to inform you of all the delicious gossip that transpired during my absence.
It seems our roguish French Vicomte is not a Vicomte at all! You read correctly, dearest readers, the handsome Vicomte A. B. is but the son of a blacksmith! How fooled all of us were by his lovely manners and poetic countenance. I have no doubt, many a mamma is sighing with relief that their precious daughters were not bound in matrimony to the dashing, conniving wastrel!
And that is not all! As if lying about one’s true identity were not enough, our false Vicomte was paid a late-night visit by none other than the reclusive and reckless Lady R-W! The “lady” was seen exiting our false Vicomte’s house in what can only be described as a “huff.” Let it be noted, her hair was shockingly unbound and she was sans pelisse and fichu!! One need not be a trained spy to deduce the meaning behind the absence of such wardrobe necessities.
I do believe doors will be closed to more than just our false Vicomte. I do believe the reclusive Lady R-W will never have the opportunity to fully enter Society, should she wish to.
I cannot speak for you, dearest readers, but I do not take kindly to being unwittingly involved in a game of lies and deceit! I cannot imagine Society will take kindly to it, either.
Heed my warning, “Vicomte” B and Lady R-W, Society does not forgive or forget easily…
On another, albeit less intriguing note, it seems the notoriously unpleasant, yet darkly handsome, Lord S. P. has departed our fine country for the distant shores of America. Again, I cannot speak for you, dearest readers, but I say, good riddance!
****
Eirene’s hand trembled as she set the paper alongside her untouched breakfast plate. She stared at the cold toast and unappealing boiled egg. No doubt her tea had gone cold as well. Her appetite was nowhere to be found, and she wondered if it would ever return. Not that she cared one way or another if she ever ate again.
“Forgive me, Grandfather.” She glanced across the room toward her grandfather’s intimidating portrait. She’d opted for breakfast in her study, believing the comforting environs would improve her constitution. They had not. “I know it is most unlike me,” she went on, addressing the portrait, “to have such a morose attitude, but how can I not?” She blinked rapidly as her eyes began to burn.
Adrien had given her a most unsatisfactory ultimatum. Twenty-four hours to agree to marriage or nothing. Why did the man have to be such a stubborn ass?!
The door opened, and Hamish entered, carrying a fresh pot of tea. He did nothing to hide his disappointed expression as he glanced at her untouched breakfast. “Was something amiss with the food, my lady?”
“I would not know,” she said, pushing the plate away. “I did not touch it.”
Hamish frowned but said nothing. He had been with her long enough to interpret her moods, and the current mood begged for silence unless addressed directly.
Eirene sighed and sank back into the comfortable leather of her grandfather’s oversized chair. “Tell me what to do, Hamish.”
“In reference to…”
“Do not play coy, Hamish. It does not suit you.” She straightened in the chair to prop her elbows upon the desk and her chin within her hands. “You know damn well what is plaguing my mind.”
“The monsieur.” Hamish motioned toward the nearest chair. “May I?”
Eirene granted permission with a nod, then watched as Hamish set the teapot on the desk and settled into the chair with a quiet sigh. She waited the length of a heartbeat. “Well?”
Hamish sighed again. Much louder this time. “Have you asked yourself what your grandfather would advise, my lady?”
“My grandfather would shoot the monsieur for defi
ling me.” She did not miss the smirk Hamish tried, yet failed, to hide. “Does this amuse you, Hamish? Do you find my abject misery a source of great entertainment?”
His features sobered instantly. “Of course not, my lady, but if I may?”
“I insist that you do.”
“It seems rather obvious your misery can be cured if only you would surrender to your feelings for the monsieur.”
“I surrendered last night.” Several times, in fact, but she did not believe Hamish required all the sordid details.
Hamish cleared his throat. “Quite. Only that is not what I meant.”
“Yes, Hamish, I know.” She allowed her gaze to stray beyond Hamish’s shoulder, to her grandfather’s portrait. Such a great man. He had taught her to fear nothing. No, that was not quite accurate. He had taught her to fear nothing but her feelings. As a result, she was terrified by the prospect of living with or without Adrien.
“You may go, Hamish.”
“Very well, my lady.”
Once alone, Eirene slid a fresh sheet of paper in front of her, dipped her pen, and began the most important list of her life.
****
Adrien watched as yet another shot went wide of the mark. He’d been playing billiards for what felt like hours, and he’d yet to sink one single damned ball. He blamed Eirene, the damned stubborn woman. She had stolen his ability to concentrate on the most menial of tasks. Of course, she had also stolen his heart and his sanity, but neither of those would win him money at the billiards table.
He leaned over the table, aimed and…zut alors!
The door opened just as Adrien thought to snap the stick over his thigh.
“Forgive the interruption, monsieur,” Sayers intoned the new moniker with all the deference due the former. At some point, Sayers had acquired the knowledge that Adrien was not a vicomte. Nothing had been said beyond the simple change of address. “You have a visitor.”
Adrien’s heart actually stopped. Was it possible? Had Eirene ret—
Westhaven strolled into the room before Sayers could announce him.