And now, so much made sense. She made so much sense. Why it had been so important that Rafe accepted the olive branch his father had offered. Not because of rank or power, but because he’d been given that which she’d been searching for.
He brought a palm up, cupping her cheek, and it was as though his touch calmed her, for the frantic rush of words falling from her lips ended on a shuddering little sigh as she pressed her eyes closed.
“Your father never deserved a daughter such as you. You are better without one such as him in your life.”
“Perhaps.” A sad, watery smile trembled on her lips, and he stroked that flesh with his finger. “But not safer.”
No. Not safer. And it was why she’d been so resolute in her goal to succeed in the duke’s mission for her and Rafe. Because her future had always been dependent upon Rafe coming to London, but also upon succeeding at the task—an impossible one at that—the duke had thrown her way.
He knew that now. At last, he understood.
Rafe continued to move his finger in a light stroke over her generous lower lip . . . when something shifted in this moment, the energy, everything around them.
Her lashes fluttered, but not before he caught the blaze of passion spark to life in her hazel irises.
“You should go,” he said gruffly. Release her. Stop touching her. Because this, his hunger for her, was not what this moment was about.
Edwina caught his hand, trapping him there, holding him close. “I don’t want to leave,” she whispered.
He swallowed hard. “You don’t know what you’re saying.” She didn’t know what he wanted to do to her . . . with her in this moment.
“I do. I’m a woman who knows my mind, and what I’m saying, and what I want. And what I want, Rafe, is you.”
* * *
• • •
Edwina’s heart hammered, under the enormity of the words she’d uttered.
And more, the weight behind them. The truth of them.
In this moment, having shared the most secret parts of herself with Rafe Audley, she wanted to share every part of herself with him. She wanted to give herself to him, and take from him. Soon she would go, and he would remain here, part of this new world, and she would have this piece of him to take with her.
His thick, dark lashes swept down, and he swept his hooded gaze over her face.
And tiring of his restraint and honor, she wrapped her arms about his neck, and drawing herself up, she kissed him.
He stilled; the corded muscles of his chest and arms rippled.
And then his mouth met hers with a wild, wicked intensity that matched her own, and she moaned, welcoming this kiss she had so craved.
His tongue lashed against hers, a hot brand that she teased and tasted. Dueling with him.
Catching her thigh, he drew her leg up around his waist, so her gown climbed high, and the night air slapped at her skin, the cool a balm upon her heated skin. And moaning, she rubbed herself against him, her actions and those naughty sounds spilling from her mouth and into his adding a heightened layer to her desire.
“You want this again,” he rasped.
His wasn’t a question, and yet, neither was he correct. Not in his entirety. “I want more than that.” She lifted her eyes to his. “I want all of you.”
His eyes darkened, and then he smashed his mouth over hers again, as he was consuming her, once more. His kiss raw. Primal. Gathering both of her legs, he guided them up about his waist, and she wrapped them about him. Their bodies flush as they were, with his trousers and her flimsy dress the only barrier between them, she felt his rigid shaft against her center, and moaned desperately, pushing herself against him.
How very good he felt.
So very good.
The table met the backs of her legs, and she gave silent thanks for that sturdy oak that kept her up. That, and Rafe, whose mouth never lost contact with hers. She lifted her hips, rocking them forward in a bid to ease that aching need for him.
And yet, with each thrust of her hips, that hungering only grew, more desperate, more acute.
Then, he reached down, and finding the opening in her chemise, he cupped her mound.
She keened his name over and over again into his mouth. Sweat beaded on her brow, and slipped down her cheeks, as he rubbed her in a wicked caress that taunted as much as it tempted.
“You deserve more than a cold kitchen for your first time,” he rasped, honor warring with desire.
“Don’t presume to tell me what I should want, Rafe Audley,” Edwina panted, undulating her hips. “I need more,” she begged, biting her lower lip. She wanted more. That taste of passion he’d gifted her in Staffordshire, she hungered to taste again.
And then he answered her pleas. God, how he listened.
Rafe slipped a finger inside her channel, and a hiss exploded from her teeth; her legs moved convulsively as he stroked her. Each glide of that long digit, within her shamefully wet, tight channel a piece of magic. He rubbed her, teasing her nub. Caressing that little pleasure button.
“Do you like that, love?” he rasped in that harsh, demanding baritone, against her neck.
He bit at her flesh, suckling, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “I love it,” she panted, her profession ending on a long moan as he increased his movements within her. I love you. I love you. It was a litany within her head, made all the more powerful by being in his arms, and being loved by him now.
He removed his hand, and she wept at that loss, pushing her hips up, silently begging him to fill that void once more.
But he was only lowering her onto the table, and then grabbing his jacket, he set it down beside them. Lifting her up slightly, Rafe guided her onto the makeshift bed offered by that wool garment. Then, as he came down over her, Rafe freed himself from his trousers, and the glow cast by the hearth and lent support by the moon’s light flickering through the lead windowpanes allowed her to drink in the sight of him. Long and thick and possessed of a ridged crown, his shaft jutted out almost angrily, amid a patch of black curls, reaching for her.
And she curved her hand about him, feeling him as she’d longed to for so long.
Silk that had been set afire; it burned her skin, and drew a long groan from Rafe’s lips that contained her name: “Edwina.”
“Do you like that?” she teased, as he had her. For she already knew with Eve’s intuition. She continued to stroke him, the glide of her hand growing bolder and smoother, and he surged, pulsing and throbbing within her palm.
With a growl, he adjusted himself over her, shifting so that he lay between her legs, and the head of his shaft probed her entry. With a desperate little whimper, she wrapped her legs about him, and followed where he led, undulating wildly, begging him with her body, as words had failed her, to give her this. All of this.
Just this once.
Except, as he slid himself inside her, slowly, inch by agonizing inch, stretching her walls, until all she wanted was for him to fill her fully, she knew that this would never be enough. That she wanted— “More,” she pleaded.
Sweat beaded his brow, and he clenched his eyes tight, as if that slow glide was even more pleasurable for him, which was impossible. Nothing could be better than this. Than this moment. Than they two together.
Then, he reached that slight barrier, and stopped.
No!
She moaned her outrage. “Make love to me,” she whispered harshly against his ear, and then opening his eyes, Rafe scraped a harsh, passion-filled gaze over her face.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, and taking her mouth under his, he thrust.
There came a slight pressure, uncomfortable but insignificant next to the hungering inside her. Wrapping her arms about him, she tangled her tongue with his and moved, urging him with both her mouth and the undulation of her hips to continue.
And
then he was. Withdrawing slowly, he teased her as he drew himself from her drenched channel and then entered her. Again and again. Grunting, she lifted her hips to take his every thrust. To meet it. Demanding more, and more. “Raaaafe,” she moaned, squeezing endless syllables into his name, as her body pulsed and thrummed, and the pressure built. That wicked, wonderful pressure that bordered on pleasure and excruciating pain, the one she knew.
She knew because of this man. Because he’d shown her that bliss.
And she wanted that, and so much more with him.
Edwina’s movements became more frenzied, so that she had no control over the jerky flex of her hips, and then she froze, and went hurtling over that magnificent precipice; an explosion of light burst behind her eyes, pure and white and blinding, as she screamed her release to the high ceiling overhead.
His movements grew frantic, less coordinated, and his breathing dissolved to ragged, primitive gasps and groans, and then with a shout he withdrew, letting his seed fall in a shimmery, translucent arc on the floor beside them.
All the while he came, she stroked the tight, tense lines of his face.
And then he collapsed atop her, just catching himself on his elbows.
Edwina wrapped her arms about him; his breath came fast and quick, like her own. And she held him. A dazed, contented smile played on her lips. This would be enough.
It had to be.
Chapter 22
The following evening, Edwina found herself living in a moment she’d never thought to know—at last, she moved among the peerage: in a grand, golden drawing room, of a duke and duchess, and marquess and marchioness, no less.
Granted, she was not an equal member. Not truly. She’d not, however, ever really thought to be included that way. Working among the peerage, however? That had been the most she had hoped for, in what had come to seem like an impossible dream.
Only to find how little she’d ever really known about dreams. The slight discomfort between her legs as she moved, however, proved a wicked and wanton reminder of that stolen moment she’d known with him.
With Rafe.
Her heart danced and fluttered as it always did from the mere thought of him. As the companion on the fringe of the festivities, not really part of the event beyond the role of an elevated servant, she was free to watch him.
And since he’d entered the drawing room a quarter of an hour earlier, she’d done just that.
Moving comfortably among the guests, he may as well have been born to this life. And the lightness that came in watching him wasn’t pride at any accomplishment she was responsible for, but rather . . . joy. It came from the happiness in witnessing Rafe so at ease, so comfortable in the presence of his father, and the duke’s wife, and the marquess, the marchioness, and their three daughters and son, who rounded out the esteemed company for the night.
Of course, she hadn’t had so very much to do with it. None at all. Yes, she’d managed to get him to come here, but that had really been the extent of her assistance. His late mother had fully prepared him for just this moment, and she knew he’d never needed her.
Nay, Edwina’s happiness came in knowing . . . he was going to be just fine, that he would succeed, and because of that, he’d be spared from the unkindness that was such a part of Polite Society. That was such a part of any society, really.
Standing beside the duke’s esteemed guest, the Marquess of Tweeddale and his son, Rafe proved taller, noticeably more muscular, and a king among lesser men. And last night, he had been hers. Her mouth went dry, and she knew propriety said she was supposed to feel shamed and embarrassed for it, but she was incapable of feeling anything other than the ache that formed between her legs at the memory of what they had shared last evening.
As if he felt her stare, Rafe glanced across the room, and his eyes found hers.
Edwina’s heart jumped as it always did when he looked her way. They shared a smile, and she sighed softly. How very different that smile was, how much less strained and tense and how very natural and—
A tall, distinguished figure slid into her path, shattering the moment, and she gasped. “Your Grace!” She promptly sank into a curtsy, lowering her head in a bid to conceal the fact that she’d been just then, and really all night, openly ogling the gentleman’s son.
And yet, by the warm smile he wore, he appeared oblivious to Edwina’s singular focus on Rafe this evening. Because surely he wouldn’t be smiling so if he knew just how head over heels she’d fallen for his son. But then a solemn mask fell over his face, driving his lips back down at the corner, and her stomach muscles clenched. “Miss Dalrymple.”
“Your Grace,” she repeated and then bit the inside of her cheek, as she’d already greeted him by his title. As she rambled when she was uneasy, and always revealed more than she ought.
“Miss Dalrymple, I had the opportunity to observe you working with my son,” Oh, God. He had. Her mouth went dry. She’d not known. Because she’d been so focused on Rafe, and only Rafe, that the whole world melted away when they were together.
“Did you, Your Grace?” she said with a calm she didn’t know how she found within herself.
“Indeed.”
Just that: indeed.
She tried to make herself breathe evenly, as her mind raced to recall every detail of that particular lesson. Had she been overly familiar? Likely so. As she was always overly familiar with Rafe. They had been from the start.
Edwina stole a sideways peek at Rafe’s father. The duke had his gaze directed out on Rafe, who was conversing still with the marquess and the older gentleman’s son. She searched for some hint that he knew the level of intimacy that had formed between her and Rafe, and yet could see . . . nothing. He was a duke, in perfect control of his emotions and thoughts.
“I was . . . concerned some,” he murmured, and Edwina’s stomach roiled.
Oh, God, what had he seen?
“My son was . . .”
What? She silently screamed, alternately wanting with an urgency the remainder of his response, and never wanting to know the remainder of that unfinished sentence.
“. . . not entirely cooperative.”
Edwina blinked slowly. Cooperative? And a giddy laugh built in her chest that she just managed to suppress. This is what he wished to speak with her about?
“In fact, he appeared quite difficult.” He slanted a look her way. “I trust you have met much of that resistance from him along the way.”
She tensed. To respond felt like a betrayal of her time with Rafe, and yet, her time with Rafe had only been a product of the duke who’d hired her, and therefore, the gentleman, as her employer, expected and was entitled to answers.
A small smile formed on the duke’s lips. “You needn’t answer that. That was more of a statement based on my own interactions with Rafe, and observations of you and he together.”
“I trust a man as proud as Mr. Audley would never appreciate outside interference in his life. We are both guilty of that,” she murmured, and there would have been a time when she’d have never dared utter such a bold challenge to an employer, let alone a duke. But in her time with Rafe, she’d come to appreciate she was entitled to a voice.
“No, you are correct on that score,” the duke said, still watching his son, appearing so very comfortable as he spoke to Lord Tweeddale. “And yet . . .” At last, he moved his focus to Edwina, and she stiffened. “. . . he is not rude or discourteous now. He is . . . very much at home here.”
Very much at home. How she wished that for Rafe. Whether he would ever feel that way about this place, she did not know, but she knew the duke was correct . . . his son moved with an effortless grace among the ton.
“That is a credit to you, Miss Dalrymple,” the duke said quietly, cutting into her musings.
“Oh, no,” she said, quickly shaking her head. Perhaps at another time she would have
been so disingenuous as to accept that credit from such a lofty patron, and yet it wouldn’t be honest, and it wouldn’t be fair to the one truly responsible. “Though appreciative of your praise, I . . . cannot in good conscience claim it. Ra . . .” No, that was not who he was to her. At least not outside the privacy of their own interactions. “Mr. Audley was already in possession of most of the skills you tasked me with seeing to. His mother properly instructed him. As such—”
“You do not do yourself enough credit, Miss Dalrymple.”
“It would not be genuine to let you assume I’m responsible for something I’m not.”
“How very admirable.”
Or stupid.
“Tell me, you claim he . . . came to you prepared. Do you believe him ready to face a ballroom, filled with guests?”
“Yes,” she said automatically. “I do not doubt it. In addition to his being a proficient dancer, he is also . . . comfortable with anyone, able to converse on all topics, and well aware of that which is suitable, and not, in discourse.” There was nothing Rafe could not do.
“Yes, he is . . . very comfortable here. Isn’t he?” the duke murmured, and there was such raw emotion in the gaze he had trained on his son, a display of sentimentality and pride she’d have never expected a duke to reveal to anyone, let alone her, a servant in his employ.
“Indeed,” she added, even though she didn’t believe he truly expected an answer. Rafe moved with an ease that students she’d instructed for years hadn’t managed. There was a natural grace and confidence to all he did. As if to illustrate that very point, laughter went up across the room at something that Rafe had said. Lord Tweeddale patted an also-laughing Rafe on the back. And her breath hitched at the sight of him, so comfortable. Fully immersed.
He belonged . . .
The evidence of that should only fill her with the same that she’d found when she’d arrived to the drawing room. Instead, there was this overwhelming urge . . . to cry. Because it was apparent and clear that she was no longer needed. She’d known as much. Now, however, the duke did, too.
Along Came a Lady Page 28