by Lenora Bell
Including his heart.
He removed all of her clothing, and his, until they were naked together. He stroked his hands all over her, everywhere he wanted to roam.
No area forbidden. No signposts warning him away. They would find their way together through this uncharted territory.
The curve of her belly, and the soft hair between her legs, a mahogany reddish color, not as fiery as her head.
Holding her gaze as he dipped his fingers inside her wet heat.
He built kiss upon kiss, guiding her toward ecstasy.
He loved the halo of coppery curls spread against the white sheets. Those rosy-tipped nipples begging for his lips again, cheeks flushed and eyes lit by desire.
Take. Drink deep. Give.
Starry sky over the prow of a ship. Journey into the unknown.
He kept his fingers inside her as he kissed her breasts, and moved lower, shifting down the bed until he could taste her again.
She held still, tensing, as he lapped at her sex softly and slowly. He used his free hand to stroke her belly, quieting the muscles there.
She relaxed against the bed, giving herself to the pleasure.
Hearing her soft moans and feeling her clench around him as she climaxed gave him an intense pleasure. After her crisis she lay limply against the bed. His cock throbbed.
She opened her eyes.
“Still want ravishing?” he asked.
“Very much so.”
Tongue to tongue, hot blood now, fire in his veins. He shifted his weight onto his hands. He pushed forward gently, pausing to give her time to adjust, listening intently for any cry of displeasure, of pain.
When he was fully buried inside her, he began to move, rocking deeper. It was everything he’d imagined.
“Beatrice, it feels so good. I never want to leave.” He splayed her thighs wider and reached beneath them to cup her firm little bottom with his palms, guiding her into his rhythm.
“Then don’t, Ford. Don’t leave.” She kissed him fiercely and held on to his neck, right there with him, matching his movements. It was too much. Pleasure built and clamored for release and he slowed a moment, prolonging the sensation.
Her arms twined around his neck, their sweat mingled, her hair damp and spiraling around her face. Breasts crushed beneath his chest, cushioning him, pleasure building in his bollocks.
All of this was familiar.
All of this he knew, and knew well.
How to give and take, when to ease off, allow his partner to breath, and when to ride hard, racing for the finish line. He’d had many of these moments before—the soaring plateau before the plunge into pleasure—but this felt different.
The stars on this horizon were thicker, closer together, covering the sky with pinpricks of light.
This welling of emotion wasn’t supposed to roll over him every time he kissed her soft lips. His heart wasn’t supposed to clench along with the muscles of his abdomen as he thrust deeper inside her heat.
Tears weren’t supposed to escape his eyes as her sex clasped him, squeezed him, in a warm embrace as if she’d never let him go.
He stopped and took her face in his hands. He stared into her eyes and she gazed boldly back, and the look in her eyes was the most beautiful, tender, terrifying thing he’d ever seen.
“Beatrice, I love you,” he whispered, emotion roughening his voice to gravel.
She smiled, her eyes shimmering with tears. “I love you, too, my rogue.”
She moved against him. Tentatively at first, just a slight rolling of her hips, sheathing and unsheathing an inch of him at a time.
Her face changed, grew more focused. She furrowed her brow, biting her lip, setting the pace.
All he had to do was be fully present with her. Hold firmly to his control. Not allow himself to go over the edge.
“Oh, oh, my,” she said on a sigh, and her inner muscles gripped and released and gripped again.
“Yes, Beatrice,” he moaned. Now he could ravish her.
He took her with deep strokes, joining their bodies together to make something wholly new.
Beatrice wound her legs around Ford’s hips and dug her fingernails into the solid muscle of his shoulders as they moved together.
Her body had a new purpose. Build and be built.
Love and be loved.
He used his body with the same focus and skill he applied when he used his tools. He demanded equal participation; she had no chance of keeping any part of herself hidden away.
She owned this house—she wouldn’t let Foxton take it away—and now for the first time, she owned her body. It was hers to give. Not a burden, a gift.
This body with its damaged nerves and eager mind. This body with its urges and desires and responses.
How could a man with roughened, callused hands touch her so gently? There was no more potent combination. He sawed and hammered and built things, repaired roofs and refinished floors. But when he touched her, it was with reverence, a whisper of a caress, butterfly wings on her lips, the brush of a rose against her inner thighs.
And then this.
She’d never imagined this. These long, slow strokes, filling her, joining them as one.
She tilted her head back, unable to see the portrait clearly but knowing it was there. She had a feeling her scandalous aunt would approve of these wanton goings-on in her bed.
The pace of his movement increased and she held on to his sweat-slick shoulders, twining her legs around his taut bum and holding on for dear life.
He was going to drive this bed halfway into the wall.
He was going to drive her insane. “Ford,” she moaned. “I’m yours. Make use of me.”
He growled against her throat, filling her again and again until, with one last mighty stroke, he collapsed against her chest, crushing her against the bed as pleasure took him.
His breathing slowed. He slipped out of her body. He threw the coverlet over them and encased her in his strong arms.
“Ford?”
“Mmm?”
“I have to wash up.” He lifted his arm and she hopped off the bed. She threw one of his shirts over her head and went to the washroom and bathed between her thighs with shockingly cold water.
When she crawled back into bed, he’d moved onto his side so she held him from the back, her face pressed against the hollow of his shoulder blade, her arm circling his torso, hand over his sternum. She felt his heart beating beneath her palm, strong and steady. “Are you asleep, Ford?”
He turned and cradled her in his arms, folding her head against his neck. “I may have been dozing.”
“If you stay here in London, you’ll lose your naval career. All those things you told me about being at sea, swimming in the ocean, the pride you take in your work, in keeping the ship in top shape—all of that is your freedom. I don’t want to take it away from you.”
“I painted a rosy picture of my life at sea. There are other aspects to that life. Dark, painful memories. It’s not all sparkling seas and frolicking in the surf. I know my experience of war was mild compared to other conflicts, but sometimes I wake up gasping for air and drenched in sweat. I lost friends, too many friends, to the one battle I saw in Greece. And even the enemies . . . I still see their bodies falling into the ocean. Each one a millstone around my neck. My job was to keep our ship afloat, and I fulfilled my duties with flying colors . . . but at what cost? We lost half our crew. I’ll never be rid of those memories. I was already having doubts about going back, but I couldn’t see any other path. I can see now that I’ve been running away my whole life and what I was looking for was always around the corner, over the next horizon. But I’ve found what I was searching for.” He kissed her lips. “You.”
“We’ll find a new path together.”
He kissed the top of her head. “But first we have to find a way to save this clubhouse.”
“We will, I know we will.”
“My mother’s arriving at the coaching inn soon an
d I must be there to meet her, but I’ll return after that. I have to warn her that I revealed to Foxton that she secretly visits with her sister.”
“And I need to go home and confront my mother about what she did.”
“She thought she was acting in your best interests.”
“I know. And I’m prepared to face her anger.” She kissed him. “Let’s meet back here in three hours. Foxton said he’d return at noon. That will give us time to decide on a plan, on the best path to take.”
He cupped her cheek with his palm. “I don’t want to leave you, Beatrice. Even for a few hours. There’s so much to talk about, so much to decide.”
“And what about ravishing?” she asked, with a roguish wink.
He gave her the answer to that question with a passionate kiss that left her breathless, and left little doubt about his intentions for the future.
There would definitely be more ravishing.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Beatrice found her mother propped up by pillows in her bedchamber.
“Why, Beatrice?” her mother wailed. “Why humiliate yourself, and me, in such a public fashion?” Her head dropped back against her pillows. “I can see the scandal sheets.” She painted a headline in the air. “‘The Wallflower’s Revolt.’”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t want to wear the gown?”
“It was a last moment decision. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I was only going along with your plans to soften the blow. I thought that if I failed yet again, you might let me go more easily.”
“Let you go? But Beatrice, where would you go if not into marriage?”
“I never had any intention of marrying.”
“You’ve always been difficult.”
“I’ve always been different. At the ball I embraced that difference. I celebrated it.”
“Did you have to celebrate it quite so openly? I’ve been very tolerant, Beatrice. Until now.”
“Mother, you will feel more free if you allow me my independence. You’ve been living your life through mine. You’re not dead yet. You could remarry. You could build a new life.”
“What a strange thing to say to your mother when you just told me you have no intention of marrying.”
“I said I’d had no aspirations toward matrimony. Now I have hopes and I have dreams.”
“No, Beatrice. Don’t do this.” Her mother clutched a pillow against her chest. “Don’t do this to me.”
“You had a conversation with Stamford Wright in this very room recently. How could you offer him money to leave?”
“He’s nobody.”
“He’s the man I love.”
“Society forgives men when they make an imprudent marriage. They won’t forgive you.”
“How is it any different?”
“Men hold the power in this world, Beatrice. And the men with money most of all. They set their own rules.”
“I’ve decided to break the rules.”
“If your father were alive he’d put a swift stop to this madness. He’d have something to say about his only daughter throwing her life away.”
“He’d say what he always said. That I was a cripple, that I was deficient and unlovable.”
“You heard him say those terrible things?”
“Of course I did, Mama. He shouted them. And I absorbed his words and I believed them. Until I met Ford and decided to start living my life, instead of watching it from a distance. There’s pain in this world, and there’s joy. I’ll taste both, but I won’t hide from life anymore.”
Her mother turned her face away. “So you love him?”
“With all my heart.”
“And you’re ruined?”
“Utterly.”
“Oh, Beatrice. My little girl.” Her mother started crying then, and it broke Beatrice’s heart to hear her sobbing.
“Can you be happy for me, Mama?”
“I should never have allowed you to go to that bookshop.”
“Probably not.”
“I was going to announce your engagement to Mayhew at the ball. Oh,” she moaned, pressing her fingers to her eyes. “This is a nightmare.”
“Mayhew’s not a worthy suitor, mother. He is a known degenerate.”
“He’s an earl, Beatrice. Once upon a time, I’d hoped you might wed a duke, as I did. But an earl would have sufficed.”
“And was your marriage so blissful that you wanted the same for me?”
“My marriage with your father may not have been a loving one, but he provided all of the material comforts and protection that any lady could ask for.”
“I don’t want the same things you want, Mama. You think you can mold me in your image, that the heavy pendulum of societal mores and expectations will move me into my proper place.”
“We all have our duties to fulfill.”
“But I was never able to fulfill mine, was I, Mama? I’ve never been your perfect daughter. I can’t even smile. How am I to attract a mate?” She used her mother’s own words, the words she’d overheard her saying. The words she’d written in the diary entry that Ford had read.
“Why can’t you see that everything I’ve done has been for your own good?” asked her mother. “It will break my heart if you are cast out from society.”
“There are many kinds of happiness, Mama. Aunt Matilda was happy.”
“She was scandalous. I wasn’t even allowed to speak to her. My Beatrice, I don’t want you to suffer. I don’t want you to become an outcast.” Tears slid down her mother’s cheeks, and Beatrice moved closer to her bedside and wiped them away with a clean handkerchief. “I wasn’t able to protect you. Not when you were a baby, when they pulled you out of me with their metal instruments and marred your face. And not now, when you’re making such an enormous mistake. Consider the consequences of your actions.”
“Mama,” Beatrice said gently. “I know you want the best for me, but you must allow me to lead my own life. It’s my life.”
Her mother turned away. “Perhaps I’ve pushed you too hard. Pushed you away.”
“We’ll find a way through this. We’ll find a way to forgive each other.”
Her mother sighed. “The scandal sheets won’t be forgiving.”
“They never are.”
“Your friends will cut you.”
“Not if they’re my true friends.”
“So you’ll marry that man?”
“His name is Ford, Mama. And yes, I’ll wed him if he asks me.”
Her mother sat up. “He hasn’t asked you yet? What’s wrong with the man? He ruins you and doesn’t offer you the protection of marriage?”
“We haven’t arrived at that conversation yet.” It was time to change the subject, distract her mother. “Rafe looked well at the ball.”
“He did.” Her mother perked up. “He’s not limping as much now. Do you think he took an interest in any young ladies last night?”
“I’m sure the young ladies took an interest in him,” said Beatrice. “Now that he’s back in London he’ll be the most eligible bachelor, besides Westbury, that is.”
“That’s true. I could plan another ball in Rafe’s honor.”
Beatrice hid a smile. “Our family will survive this scandal, Mama.”
“I only wanted life to be easy for you. I wanted you to become a countess so no one could laugh at you anymore.”
“Let them laugh. At least they’re laughing, and not crying. Now dry your tears, Mama.”
Her mother sighed heavily. “You’ve always been headstrong. You’ve never listened to me, not really. I don’t know why I thought matters of the heart would be any different.”
Ford embraced his mother in the yard of the coaching inn.
“Why, Ford, what’s wrong?” She’d always been able to read his mind.
“Come inside and I’ll explain.” He lifted her small trunk, waving the porter away, and carried it into the coaching inn. When
they were seated in her rooms and she’d splashed water on her face and taken some refreshment, Ford sat down beside her.
“There’s no easy way to say this. I made a mistake. I hope you can forgive me.”
“Of course, my darling, I would forgive you anything.”
“You can’t meet with Phyllis while you’re here. You should return to Cornwall immediately.”
“Why, what’s wrong?”
“I told grandfather that you two were secretly meeting.”
“Ford! Why would you do such a thing?”
He ran a hand through his tangled hair. It had been a long night and morning. “Pride. Anger. I was lashing out because I wanted to hurt him—he was so hateful. Sitting there, lording it over Beatrice and me.”
“Lady Beatrice? Ford, slow down. Your poor mother can’t read your mind.”
“And all these years I thought that you could.” He smiled at her. “You know Lady Beatrice from Thornhill House.”
“Thorndon’s sister, yes.”
“She recently inherited a bookshop and hired me to renovate it into a clubhouse for her friends. Grandfather covets the property. He wants to tear it down and build a garment manufactory.”
“I see. None of this surprises me, I suppose. I saw that you had developed an interest in Lady Beatrice in Cornwall. I didn’t think anything would come of it. And my father being cruel . . . well, that’s nothing new.” She gave a bitter little laugh. “And now that he knows I’ve been defying his decrees, he’ll find a way to stop me from seeing my own sister.”
“I’m sorry, Mother.”
“It’s not your fault. I knew that there was the risk I could be caught, that Phyllis and I would have to stop meeting like this. She’s been trying to convince me to talk to him in person. She has some silly idea that reconciliation could be staged at this late date. I’ve no such illusions.”
“Nor I. Mother, he’s truly a monster.”
“He knows who you are?”
“We locked horns.”
“Enough about my father. I want to hear about you and Lady Beatrice.” Her expression turned hopeful. “Is there to be a wedding?”
“We haven’t had that conversation yet. We spoke of finding a path together. It’s . . . complicated. We’re from such different stations in life.”
