by Meara Platt
His words were the equivalent of a slap.
She kept from flinching by exerting all her control. “Has it been five years? I confess, I had not recalled.”
A wretched lie, as it happened. She knew exactly how long it had been since she had seen him last. To the day. Hour.
Minute.
A half smile curved his lips, but it was not the smile she remembered. This was the vicious smile of a predator. “I should not have expected you to, Lady Fawkesbury. Your memory has always been a problem for you, has it not? Along with your loyalty.”
The loathing simmering beneath his words, belying the chill with which he spoke them, gave her pause. What had he to be angry about? He was the one who had abandoned her.
“On the contrary, Lord Haven. My loyalty has never been called into question,” she countered. “I wish I could say the same for others.”
Even to Fawkesbury, she had remained loyal. Whilst he had made his bed with countless others, Hannah had not committed adultery. Her reputation as a married lady was, ironically, far more spotless than it had ever been as a debutante.
“What a lark. Need I remind you of the promise you made me?” His low voice held an accusatory note, a bitterness she had not expected from him.
“How dare you?” she demanded.
What rancor could he possibly harbor when he was the one who had disappeared from her life when she had needed him most? She had been eighteen, a stupid girl who knew nothing of the world. He had been her brother’s dashing, handsome friend. A gentleman, she had supposed, and one with whom she could trust her heart, and so much more…
But she could not think of those dark days now, nor the light she had so wrongly supposed she had found in the man before her. He had been the most heartless, soulless of cads. Taking advantage of an innocent, then leaving her.
“How dare I, my lady?” He reached out, caught her chin in his thumb and forefinger, holding her captive with the lightest touch.
Deep within, she mourned the glove on his hands. She ached for his touch, one last time, his skin on hers.
Stupid, traitorous body.
But still, though her mind knew she should move… Though the December wind blew, though she knew this man had never loved her as she loved him, she could not go. She was immobile, speechless, staring up at him. Lost in his eyes. In the memories. She shivered again, but it had nothing to do with the cold.
“Damn you, Hannah,” he growled, his other hand going to her waist. “Tell me you do not remember this.”
His head dipped toward hers.
Go, warned a voice inside her. Run.
There was a ballroom filled with people just beyond them, the faint strains of the orchestra reaching her. But she silenced the voice. Ignored the repercussions. She stepped forward, rose on her toes.
Her arms went around Graham’s neck. Their mouths met.
* * *
He had dreamed of her, so many nights. Years had passed, but he had never forgotten. Though he had clung to the pain of her betrayal, her defection, he had not stopped wanting her. Nor had he ceased loving her.
Which was why kissing Hannah, the Countess of Fawkesbury, was the biggest mistake of his life.
Her lips were warm, in defiance of the cold night. She opened for him instantly, her arms were wrapped around his neck, her soft breasts crushed into his chest, and it was as if the five years between them had never happened. He was once more the man he had been then, unjaded, unscathed. His tongue slid inside, playing against hers. She made the sweet sound he remembered, surrender and need, the one that had never failed to make his cock spring to life.
Tonight was no exception.
Sadly, he possessed no restraint when it came to this woman. Nor had he any pride. Because now that he had her in his arms, every honed instinct roared to life. He kissed her with all the hunger burning inside him, the flame that had never been doused. Not by time, distance, or pain.
She tasted sweet, like the spiced negus being served at the ball, and like everything he had ever wanted. Her tongue invaded his mouth in return, hesitantly at first, and then with greater ardor. He had to have more of her. He had to devour her.
This was not enough.
He was ravenous for her. Need fired through his veins, pooled in his loins. He caught the lushness of her lower lip in his teeth and gently nipped before licking away the sting. The hand he held on her waist could not resist traveling. He slid it upward in a caress, cupping her breast.
Her nipples were sweetly sensitive. He remembered that about her. Her honey hair was shot with copper and curled when it was unbound. He remembered that, too. Her hips were pale as cream, generously curved. She had a birthmark on her left hip shaped like a heart, and it had never failed to tantalize him. A mole just above her right knee. He knew her laughter. How it felt to sink deep inside her.
All the memories came flooding back in one kiss.
How perfectly her body fitted to his, as if she had been made for him, and it had always been this way. The fire inside him, the blazing lust to have her, to make her his, all returned with staggering force. His desire pounded in his pulse, licked through him like the flames in a burning house, threatening to destroy him. He had known other women since her, but none had been Hannah, and that had never been more painfully apparent than now.
He had to have her again.
If he was going to shackle himself for life, to find a bride and settle down, doing his duty as he had vowed he would to Gervase on his deathbed, then Graham wanted one more taste of passion. One more night of bliss. He had to make love to Hannah once more.
Just once.
He had to have her beneath him, had to feel her sweet body surrendering to his.
One kiss, and he was wild with need. Drunk on her taste, on her sweetness. Drunk on Hannah. But she was kissing him, too. Kissing him fervently, frantically. Her velvet-soft lips responded to his so perfectly.
He wanted her now, but that was foolish. Still, he moved them deeper into the shadows. The wind bit at his flesh, reminding him they could not remain outdoors long, but he was reluctant to let her go. Her scent surrounded him, mingling with the cool freshness of nature: lavender and lemon.
Without ending their kiss, he maneuvered them into a sheltered space between two sculpted holly hedges. A marble statue of some Greek god hovered over them. By the light of the moon, and with Hannah in his arms, he did not give enough of a damn to decipher which one. He had her back against the statue’s base, and then he moved his lips to her throat.
With a complete disregard for the marks he might leave behind, he nibbled on a tender cord of her neck. Even her skin was delicious. Soft and smooth and warm, salty and flowery, all at once.
Her fingers were in his hair now, and his hand had burrowed in her gown. He grabbed a fistful, wanting to lift it to her waist, wanting desperately to get beneath it. Until he recalled he was still wearing gloves, denying him the sensation of her flesh bare against his. Another burst of wind whipped a fine sheen of powdery snow against them. It coasted over his heated face, a frosty recrimination he ignored.
Five years without her.
Now that he had her in his arms, he could not stop.
He kissed his way to her pulse, where it beat fast in a telling rhythm. Down to her décolletage. He kissed the tops of her breasts, abandoned her gown in favor of cupping her breast once more. She arched into him. Through her stays, he found her nipple with his thumb, pebbled.
“Graham,” she whispered.
The sound of his name in her husky voice, drenched with desire, sent another roaring rush of lust straight through him. And with it came more memories. The country house party where they had first made love, a walk through the summer rain when they had taken refuge in one of the temples built upon the estate they visited, and they had made love for the first time with the rain pounding on the leaden glass overhead. They had met everywhere. In her chamber, in his. They had met each other by the stream. Had ridden to a
n abandoned hunting cabin.
She had told him she loved him, that he had stolen her heart forever, and he had believed her. He had supposed she was true, that every word, touch, look, was genuine.
Those days had been the best fortnight of his life. Until word had reached him of Gervase’s riding accident. The news had been dire, his brother on his deathbed, and Graham had been forced to leave without telling her goodbye, leaving her a note instead. He had still been at his brother’s side in Surrey when word had reached him of Hannah’s sudden nuptials to Fawkesbury.
The news had devastated him. They had parted as lovers, without a true farewell. And he had believed her loyal and steadfast. He had wanted no other as his bride, and he would have done anything to make her his.
As if the wounds were new, the sharp sting of her betrayal sliced through him all over again, reminding him why he must never again trust the beautiful, passionate creature coming to life in his arms. He could not believe her. Did not dare open himself for a new betrayal all over again.
Yet, he could not keep himself from wanting her. On that desperate realization, he tugged down her bodice. Her breasts sprang free of her bodice and stays. In the moonlight, he was treated to the incredibly erotic sight of two full, creamy breasts tipped with pale-pink nipples that were hard from need as well as from the cold.
He would warm them.
He bowed his head like a supplicant, like a man bowing at the altar of a goddess who owned him, and sucked a beaded tip into his mouth. She moaned, tugging at his hair. The reserved widow he had seen in the ballroom was gone, and in her place was the wild girl she had been.
The wild girl who had stolen his heart with a simple look the first time he had met her. His friend’s sister. Someone he should never desire. An innocent. A lady. The daughter of a duke. He had been a second son then, few prospects aside from taking up the parliamentary cudgels in the House of Commons. She had been the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld.
She still was.
And she still responded to him as if her body came to life beneath his touch.
Some things did not change.
He sucked her other nipple, and she thrust her breast deeper into his mouth on a keening cry. All the desperation he felt inside himself was reflected in the husky reverberation of her voice. It echoed in the night, like the cry of a bird scared from her nest. The years did not matter now. He had not forgotten the way she liked to be touched or the actions that gave her the most pleasure.
He gently bit her nipple, then tugged.
“Oh, Graham, please,” she begged.
And he knew what she pleaded for. It was the same thing he wanted. There was nothing that could stop him from lifting her skirts, opening the fall of his breeches, and plunging his rigid cock inside her. He knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He knew without removing his gloves, without touching her cunny, that she desired him. That she would be wet, so wet, for him, as she had always been.
He sucked her nipple, a growl of appreciation rumbling from him.
But then the door opened, bringing with it the loud hum of revelers talking, a tittering laugh, the strains of a country reel just beginning. And also with it came a realization of where they were, who they were, and why he could not mindlessly make love to her in a darkened corner of a winter garden.
They were not alone. Far from it. At least a hundred others danced and made merry within the massive ballroom, beneath the brilliance of the chandeliers. That was not all, however. He was looking for a bride, by God. His chances of finding a suitable lady would vanish should he be caught making love to the widowed Lady Fawkesbury in the moonlit gardens of Abingdon Hall.
He released her nipple, tearing his mouth away. The action required every bit of will he possessed. Because all he wanted to do was to have her, here and now. With shaking hands, he restored her bodice, lifting it back into place.
The faint sounds of another couple chattering reached them.
Her eyes were wide on his as she, too, realized the dangerous implications of what they were about. They had precious little time. Seconds, mayhap.
“Let me come to you,” he whispered. “Tonight.”
He would find her chamber. They could end this. Douse the flames with the only antidote: one more time in each other’s arms.
She shook her head, eyes wide, expression stricken in the moonlight. “No.”
Footsteps neared. The voices grew closer. They were running out of time before he had to escape deeper into the holly hedges, leaving behind the impression she had been greeting the cool air all alone.
“Yes,” he pressed. “This is not over between us, Hannah. Surely you must recognize that.”
“It has been over for five long years, Lord Haven,” she bit out with more harshness than he would have thought possible after such a fiery kiss.
Before he could protest again, she swept away, leaving him to shrink into the holly maze and the cold darkness of the night.
Alone as ever.
Chapter Three
Let me come to you.
With five words, Graham had shaken her world, leaving her feeling as if everything she had known had been suddenly torn asunder, proven to be a lie.
Not Graham, she reminded herself. He is the Marquess of Haven now.
For despite the passionate kisses and intimacies they had shared earlier that evening, he was very much a stranger to her. A stranger she must keep at bay at all costs. The danger was too omnipotent: for the reputations of her sisters as well as for herself.
Hannah paced the thick carpet of the guest chamber she had been assigned. She was painfully aware she could not remain a widow forever. Fawkesbury had all but beggared them before drinking himself to death. She was left with nothing but a tiny widow’s portion.
Father had been too prideful to make provisions for her prior to her nuptials, so desperate to marry her off to an earl after the scandal she had been about to cause. Even the money he had settled upon her in her dowry had been lost quite easily by her husband. Fawkesbury had been a denizen of the green baize since he had been a young man. Nothing had changed after he had married her, other than that he had used her dowry to facilitate his gambling habits. The only boon of his vice had been that when he was in London, she was blissfully alone, and he could not hurt her.
But she must not think upon the misery of her life as Countess of Fawkesbury when her husband had been alive. She must think, instead, upon the weakness that had allowed her to behave so foolishly in the gardens tonight. She must gird herself against any such future mistakes, for she could not afford to sully Addy and Evie with her actions. Nor could she afford to sully herself.
Once had been enough, and she had done penance for her sins. She had no wish to take another fall or to serve another sentence with a rotter of a husband thanks to the Marquess of Haven. On a miserable cry, she stalked to her dressing area, where a pitcher and basin sat. She splashed handfuls of cold water on her face, and then scrubbed at her cheeks, trying to wash away the memory of those blistering kisses. The memory of his touch.
A low knock sounded on her door, and she froze, fearing it was him.
Heart pounding, she dabbed at her face with the cloth, thinking her skin must look a reddened fright after her zealous ablutions. Then she chastised herself for such an unworthy thought. She must not care about what Graham thought of her. Or how she looked.
And above all, she must not grant him entrée to her chamber.
Haven, she reminded herself belatedly. Haven, not Graham. Indeed, Graham was dead to her, a ghost of her past, if indeed he had ever truly existed at all. Certainly, the powerfully handsome man who had swept her into the shadows and had his way with her tonight was not he.
He smelled the same, whispered a taunting voice inside her.
He had tasted the same as well.
And his kiss was every bit as delicious as it once was.
“No,” she said aloud, with far more force than she ha
d intended.
Her voice echoed in the chamber, like a shot.
“Han?” came a muffled voice from the other side of the door.
It was female and familiar. Beloved.
Hannah heaved a sigh of relief, stalked across the chamber, and opened the portal to find Adele standing there, her expression hesitant. “What can it be, Addy? Do you not know the danger in wandering about the corridors so late at night in mixed company?”
Her sister paled, worrying her lower lip. “Forgive me, Han. It is merely that I wanted to speak with you. We are separated only by a wall, after all. It was seven steps. Eight at the most, just around the corner.”
Guilt assailed Hannah, both at the sharpness of her tone and just how close she had come to destroying her sister’s chance of making a good match earlier. She stepped back, gesturing for Adele to enter. “Come in, then, dearest. What can be the matter?”
“That is what I wanted to ask you,” her sister said, crossing the threshold.
She was wearing a night rail and wrapper, Hannah realized, which was also frightfully scandalous. She closed the door in a hurry and turned to face her younger sister.
“Addy, you are not wearing the attire in which an innocent lady ought to be seen about the halls.” Realizing her error, she shook her head. “Forget that. What I mean to say is that you should not be gadding about the halls at all as an innocent lady. It is most unseemly, and you are behaving quite recklessly with your reputation. This is not a promenade, my dear, and whilst the rules are a trifle relaxed because of the nature of a country house party, you cannot afford to allow yourself to be ruined. Trust me on this.”
Her sister appeared undeterred by her chastisement. Adele swept toward her, catching her hands and giving them a reassuring squeeze. “As I said, it was nothing more than a few steps and round a bend, Han. But I needed to see you, because I wanted to be certain you are well.”
“Me?” Hannah frowned, for if anyone ought to be concerned about another, it was her about Adele.
Her sister had been notably withdrawn thus far over the course of this house party. This morning, in particular, she had been pale and wan. “It is I who should be worried about you, Addy. You scarcely ate more than a few bites this morning at breakfast, and at tea, you were napping. Are you ill?”
