He withdrew, marginally. The way his chest labored for breath told her that this was not easy for him either.
But then he plunged inside, shunting deep, taking her cry into his mouth. Her gaze turned watery and his image blurred, her nails biting into his shoulders. Neither of them moved. In fact, they weren’t even breathing now, but went still as statues.
At the thought, a gasping laugh bubbled out of her. “I imagine . . . we look like . . . a pair of naughty statues at the moment.”
A choked sound left him, his body jolting inside her. After he kissed away the tears clinging to her lashes, she saw that his expression was part smile, part grimace, his fingertips toying with the locks of her unbound hair.
“Very naughty statues, indeed.” His nose nuzzled hers, pressing her into his nook, earning a sigh.
He kissed her slowly, teasing her mouth open with his tongue, licking inside bit by bit. She tried to press harder, to welcome his lips. But he eased back, keeping it light, nibbling relentlessly.
He was making her crave him again. And he was doing it while whispering shameful things and wicked promises until her entire body tingled with need, pulsing around him.
To assuage the low, thudding heaviness, she rolled her hips and pressed against his pubic bone. He rolled his hips, too, and deepened his kiss, making her gasp at both sensations, the languid, wet slide. This torment continued until they were no longer statues but bodies undulating together.
She didn’t know how it happened, but all at once a frenzy started happening inside of her, out of time with his slow, measured movements. She was restless, ready to burst, clawing at his shoulders, wanting to arch, to scream. But he plodded onward, sweat gathering on his brow, keeping her coiled tight, and tighter still.
Then he lifted her hips higher, mouths inches apart but gazes still locked. His muscles flexed as he thrust forward, stretching her, stroking a place inside that made her jolt with a spear of pure ecstasy. She shuddered out an Oh.
He agreed. Oh, indeed. And then he did it again. And again. Until her eyes went blurry. Was she crying?
The answer came on a sob. The low, desperate sound tore out of her throat as he drove into her, his name tumbling from her lips on broken whimpers, her body clamping around him without any give. Without any release.
“Briar.” Her name was a raw plea between clenched teeth, a last request from a dying man. Temple pressed to hers, he growled reprimands, telling her she was too wet, too tight, too perfect, and it was all too much.
“Let’s stay here. Forever,” she moaned, helpless as the first quakes finally claimed her. She broke wondrously, neck arched, and saw starlight behind her eyes, blinding and fierce.
Above her, Nicholas cursed, issuing a guttural shout as he drove deeper. His hips jerked hard, in and in and in, following the greedy pulls of her body until the very last tremor subsided.
* * *
Nicholas was unable to move, his body sluggish, drugged. Briar made it even more difficult by fitting her leg over his waist, her soft hands trailing a constant caress over his shoulders, throat, arms, and chest. A man could grow accustomed to this.
But no, he’d better not think like that. It was far too dangerous.
He’d been raised with the firm belief that when a man took a woman’s virginity, he married her. No matter what. But he had been down that road before and it only led to hell. He wouldn’t do that to Briar.
Damn! He was a bloody fool. He hadn’t been thinking clearly when he’d arrived.
Out of his mind with desperation to get here, he’d nearly killed himself in the process. But all he knew was that he’d needed to see her, and when he saw her, it wasn’t enough. He had to kiss her, to hold her. And then that wasn’t enough either. He had to have her. All of her.
At the thought, an awkward sense of panic staggered through him.
He realized he didn’t know how to proceed from here.
Not only had he taken Briar’s virginity, but he’d spent himself deep inside her as well. Where he was still, his cock happily twitching in the hot, tight clutch. What does a man do when he defiles a virgin but doesn’t want to ruin her life with marriage to him? Let her marry someone else?
No. Definitely not. Every part of him railed against that solution.
Her eyes—a soft, unworldly blue—gradually drifted closed, a whisper on her lips. “I love you.”
Nicholas stilled, his musings going silent. His lungs stalled midinhale, his heart midbeat.
“It is common to confuse affection with the notion of love in such moments. Do not worry. It will fade in time.” He’d learned that lesson the hard way. And by telling her, he was only trying to protect her. After all, she had so much to learn. She was too idealistic and affectionate, too wonderful and selfless. Too soft and warm.
He felt his heart start up again as his gaze swept over her drowsy features, the fringe of golden lashes resting against her cheeks. He pressed a kiss to her temple, breathing her in.
A man really could get used to this.
She smiled drowsily, eyes still closed. “That may be true for some people, but you love me, too. You just haven’t resigned yourself to it yet.”
Nicholas could argue with her, explain that he had no heart to give . . . but even an irredeemable rake knew when faced with a losing battle.
Chapter 26
“. . . they say every body is in love once in their lives, and I shall have been let off easily.”
Jane Austen, Emma
“I love you? Did you honestly say that aloud?” Briar asked the reflection in the full-length mirror stand. She was thoroughly irritated at the woman who gazed dreamily back at her, her cheeks flushed, lips bee-stung and tilting softly at each corner.
She threw the toweling at the looking glass and stormed away, naked after a cool standing bath, and angrily jerked on fresh clothes. The duchess and the other guests would return from the picnic soon.
As for Nicholas, once she’d awoken from a cozy nap, snuggled up and limbs entwined with his on the chaise longue, she’d abruptly remembered what she’d said to him.
I love you . . . And Nicholas had listened to her with the equanimity of a priest hearing a confession. There was no rant from him about breaking the rules of their bargain. No argument about the possibility of marrying her for the sake of her honor or reputation. No reciprocation of her regard—either passionate or resigned. Though she’d imagined a brief scenario involving the former. It was lovely.
But no. Instead, he’d given her another lesson.
It is common to confuse affection with the notion of love in such moments.
Briar wasn’t confused. She knew her own heart, and it had demanded that the truth was bared between them.
But you love me, too.
In response, he’d said nothing. Granted, he might have done, but she’d drifted off to sleep. However, when she’d awoken curled in his embrace, he had not acknowledged it. And while he was affectionate—his fingertips trailing down her bare arm, his hand covering hers where it rested above his heart—part of him had gone distant, contemplative. But whatever thoughts were turning inside his mind, he did not say them aloud. Clearly, he had far more control than she had.
“How should we proceed?” he’d asked, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
It was ingrained in her to remove awkwardness from any situation, and so she’d made a jest. “Since we are not naughty statues any longer, I suppose we should don our clothes.”
“And after?”
She’d ducked beneath his scrutiny, pressing her forehead against his chest. The consequences of her actions were slowly creeping in, cooling her skin, and making her all-too-aware of her nudity, the slickness between her thighs. He, while still shirtless, had refastened his breeches and still wore his boots.
This had not been planned, on either of their parts.
Not only that, but there was a faint red smear discoloring one corner of the placard. Her blood. There was likely more of
it in other places.
He’d been right—there was no going back from this.
“You shouldn’t be here when the others return from the picnic. We’ll discuss this the next time we meet, after we have clearer heads,” she’d said, her tone calm and rather worldly. If she did say so herself.
He’d agreed with a “very well” and another kiss to her temple.
As he’d been after their illicit carriage encounter, he was soothing and attentive. He’d used his handkerchief to bathe away the brightly colored residue from between her thighs before helping her dress.
During this time, they’d spoken in short bursts of conversation, her telling him about how fine the weather had been these weeks, him telling her the same, but adding that he was worried about how little rain they’d had. He told her of the irrigation trenches on his estates, and she’d listened with genuine interest.
But they did not speak about the reason he’d ridden here in such haste, why he’d been angry about reading Mr. Woodlyn’s name in the letter, what had happened between them, or what was to come. It was like a parlor game of guess what I’m not saying. And the person who spoke the answer was the one who lost.
Hearing the jangle of carriages now, Briar tucked the final pins in her hair and went down to greet the party. However, halfway down the stairs, she stopped, her heart rising to her throat.
Nicholas was here, and with the Duchess of Holliford.
Her Grace lifted her chin as a maid untied her lavender bonnet, keen eyes alighting on Briar. “My dear, look who we found in the village. Can you believe the luck? Lord Edgemont said he’d gone from Blacklowe Manor without a set course in mind, but I don’t believe him, for he was too easy to persuade to join us.”
Briar felt a blush creep to her cheeks, guessing that he’d been spotted in the village and then badgered into attending.
“I believe it was I who insisted, and rather rudely,” Nicholas said, disproving her assumption, and stealing her breath all at once.
The duchess clucked her tongue at him, then smiled up to Briar. “The instant he met Mr. Woodlyn, Lord Edgemont stated that if he himself did not attend dinner, there would be an uneven number. And he refused to allow me to endure it.”
Mr. Woodlyn! Drat, but Briar had forgotten all about him again.
Her gaze flitted to Nicholas and she saw his onyx eyes glimmer darkly. “How generous of you to think only of your godmother’s happiness, my lord.”
“I wouldn’t say that was my sole reason. You and I were never able to finish our discussion.”
“I don’t know what you could mean,” she said in a rush, gripping the railing and fighting the urge to press her hand against the pulse pounding at her throat. “Since it has been such a very long time since we’ve met, I’m sure I cannot remember the topic.”
“Well, it must be regarding the matches for his cousins, dear. Unless”—the duchess turned to Nicholas—“he is thinking about becoming a client of the Bourne Matrimonial Agency. Are you, Edgemont?”
“Well, I do have questions regarding how one would proceed.” Arching a single brow, he boldly dropped the question—which she’d cleverly avoided earlier—directly into Briar’s lap. Again.
She slid a panicked glance to the duchess, not wanting to have this conversation now, and wondering why he was doggedly pursuing it. “I’m certain I’ve answered all your questions.”
“Perhaps,” he said with a weighted pause. “But I seem to recall the mention of a certain rule that you have at the agency.”
Ah, so that was it. She narrowed her eyes in keen understanding. All of this had to do with her declaration, which had clearly unsettled him. Did he truly imagine he could talk her out of loving him?
Silly man. “We have only one rule, and that is to never fall in love with the client. But I’m certain that will not be an issue.”
Because she knew very well that he was never going to become a client.
“Good. I look forward to discussing it later.”
Oh, indeed. She would make sure of it.
* * *
Nicholas undressed in the bathing chamber, situated at the end of the hall from his room at Holliford Park. The duchess was kind enough to have her servants send up a few pails of hot water and a clean dressing gown from one of her footman to wear while he waited for his valet to arrive from Blacklowe Manor.
Just as he sank into the copper tub, he heard a faint scritch at the door and a familiar whisper of his name. Unbidden pleasure washed through him in a shiver. He knew he was tempting fate by being here, but they still had a matter to settle. “Enter.”
Looking over her shoulder, Briar slipped through the door, and closed it quickly, pressing her back against it. Then she raised her eyebrows at him and grinned, keeping her voice hushed. “Am I interrupting?”
“Not if you plan to wash my back. I’ll wash yours in return, and your front.”
She tapped her finger to her lips, cheeks flushed. “Hmm . . . tempting. However, the others are all in their rooms resting, just down the hall. There’s no telling if any one of them might stumble past and hear . . . splashing.”
“Then lock the door,” he said, already warming to the idea, the shallow level of the water doing nothing to conceal that fact. They could always have their discussion later. Much later.
“There is no key for this door. The duchess has always had a fear that someone might slip and fall in this room, so she doesn’t allow it to be locked.”
“Pity that. It leaves me at a disadvantage for our discussion.”
“You at a disadvantage?” She arched her neck to peer over the side of the tub, eyes greedy as they roved over him, teeth digging into her bottom lip. “I cannot imagine that ever being the case.”
“Come here, then.”
She shook her head. “I can say what I planned to from this spot.”
“Then at least pour that pitcher over my head. Just tuck that flannel beneath the door. It will keep the sound from traveling and be something of a deterrent from intruders.”
“Oh, very well.” And she did just that, coming to his side to lift the pitcher. “That was very clever of you to put the agency’s one rule between us. I imagine it is your design to ensure that I am more careful in what I say when we are alone together.”
He noticed that she did not say what I feel and he wondered if she was still under the misguided assumption that she really did love him. “I want only clarity between—”
She doused him with water, not letting him finish. “You have made your beliefs amply clear. And I want you to know that I have no intention of dragging a man kicking and screaming to the altar. I’m too aware of the damage a one-sided marriage can do. So you do not have to be afraid of my intentions or even what you are feeling toward me.”
“I’m not afra—”
More water. Damn it all. How much did that pitcher hold?
Behind him, he heard her giggle, and a grin tugged at his mouth. She wanted to play, did she? Taking hold of the sides of the tub, he stood quickly, water sluicing down his body in rivulets. He turned, stepping one leg out.
Briar set the pitcher down on the floor and backed away, wagging her finger at him. “Now, Nicholas, I’m already dressed for dinner.”
Then the other leg. The room wasn’t overly large, so she couldn’t get far. As he took a step toward her, she zagged to the side. He lunged. But he lost his footing.
The next thing he knew, he was lying flat on his arse, elbows hitting smartly on the floor, teeth jarring.
Briar rushed to his side, kneeling. Her soothing hands worried over him, even as she pressed her lips together and her eyes danced with suppressed laughter. “Oh, my love, are you hurt?”
My love. He felt a twinge in the center of his chest at the endearment and all other aches receded, though he refused to acknowledge it. “Only my pride.”
Cupping his face, she kissed his damp temple, cheek, nose, lips, lingering briefly. “Can I help mend it?”
Bright curiosity lit her gaze as she perched her hands on his shoulders, followed by a shadow of trepidation. “And I won’t hurt you?”
He chuckled, drawing her closer, his hands on her bare hips. “Quite the opposite.”
“You aren’t the least bit . . . tender?”
“Ah, right.” He pulled back and looked at her, chagrinned. He was so hard and ready to bury himself in her snug heat that all other thoughts fled. “I’m a cad. I wasn’t even thinking that it had only been a few hours. You’re so small and sensitive to every touch, of course you will need time to recover.”
Her delicate brow furrowed. “Am I so different from the other women?”
“Yes.” In so many ways, but when he saw her frown, he knew it hadn’t been the right thing to say. He clarified, swallowing first and feeling oddly shy. “I’ve never been with a virgin before, so everything was different and new and sublime.”
“Surely your wife . . .”
He shook his head.
“Oh,” she said on a breath, musing over this information for a moment as she glanced down at her hands, her fingers weaving through the damp hair on his chest. Then slowly she gave him a cheeky smile. “Did you say sublime?”
Chapter 27
“My dear Emma, your own good sense could not endure such a puppy when it came to the point.”
Jane Austen, Emma
The following day, Nicholas walked past the edge of the garden, staring off at the lake where Briar was currently sitting in the rowboat, anchored near shore.
Ten Kisses to Scandal (Misadventures in Matchmaking) Page 26
