Grimacing, he turned the corner in the hall, and ran into a warm, soft body. Undeniably feminine, even in the darkness. The Latin book he had been holding thumped to the floor as he steadied the woman. She was fortunate he had not been holding a brace of candles to light the way, else she would have walked straight into the flames.
“Do forgive me my clumsiness,” she said, her hands flitting to his chest as the scent of lavender and citrus hit him.
He knew that sweet, dulcet voice. Knew these generous curves, the flare of her waist. He knew those hands.
It was her.
Devil take it, did the universe have a vicious vendetta against him?
Chapter Six
Then
Graham had a dilemma.
Or, to be more specific, he had three.
The first was that he had somehow fallen desperately in love with Lady Hannah Saltisford. The second: she was his friend’s sister. The third: her father, the Duke of Linross, had not appeared enthused in the slightest at the prospect of a mere second son courting his eldest daughter, who was a recognized diamond of the first water and only on her first Season.
But none of those problems were keeping him from meeting with Lady Hannah in secret in the woodland surrounding the Falwyck Abbey park. He waited beneath the shade of a particularly massive beech tree, its gnarled branches reaching skyward. She had not yet arrived, and already, his heart was beating faster than the hooves of a spooked horse.
Rides were excellent pretenses for slipping away from the rest of the company at the house party. Occasionally, Sundenbury wanted to accompany him. But it had not taken Graham long to realize that if he planned his rides early in the morning, his friend would still be abed, sleeping off the aftereffects of giving the bottle a black eye the night before. A furtively placed note in a book he offered to Lady Hannah—or as he had come to think of her, Han—left her the details of where she should meet him and when.
They had met each other clandestinely five times now since that day at the apple tree. It was wrong, and he knew it. His sense of honor demanded he cease his furtive actions and court her directly. But when he had broached the subject with the Duke of Linross immediately following the kisses they had shared, her father’s disapproval had been apparent. And Graham had ceased all further inquiries, fearing an outright rejection.
If Linross denied him, Graham would have no choice but to let her go.
But he could no sooner cease pursuing the woman he loved than rip out his beating heart. He wanted Han as his wife. Graham could not shake the hope that if he was certain of her, that if he won her heart as well, she would be able to persuade her father to see reason.
The sound of hoofbeats thundering alerted him to her presence just before she rode into view in the clearing at last. She had come, and he could not quash the yearning to have her in his arms. Where she belonged.
He started for her before she had even dismounted. Han was a skilled horsewoman. Her riding habit was a vivid shade of emerald green that complemented her pale, lush beauty to perfection. Persephone come to life, a goddess within his reach.
For now.
For this moment.
He refused to think about what would happen if Linross denied his suit, because in the next instant, Han had slowed her mare and slid to the ground. She went racing to him, arms outstretched. And he jogged to her, meeting her halfway.
What else could he do but take her in his arms and swing her in a full circle. The joy of this bright, unfettered morning and the woman he loved looking up at him with dark, glittering eyes and what he could only pray was her own tender feelings reflected.
“Han,” he greeted her, but the rest of his words were lost. She rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his.
Her mouth.
Good God, it was heaven. She was heaven. Paradise in skirts. In his arms. Everything he had ever wanted, right here, within reach. And yes, too good to be true. That went without saying.
He pulled her closer, bringing her curves into delicious contact with his body. Soft, full breasts against his chest. The supple flesh of her hips pressed to his. His cock was rigid and erect, and he was terribly ashamed of his state, but also helpless to control his reaction. His breeches did nothing to hide the effect of her nearness, he feared. He was burrowing into her skirts, little better than any rakehell.
Graham’s restraint—worn even thinner with every secret meeting they had shared—snapped. His tongue searched the seam of her lips for entry, and she surrendered with a moan that made him harder still. She opened to him, and he plundered. Delicious. She tasted of hothouse pineapple and sweet, ripe strawberries from breakfast and Hannah. Honeyed, seductive, innocent, wondrous Hannah.
He could not get enough. Graham kissed her until the restless sounds of her mare intruded upon their idyll, reminding him the horse was not yet tethered. He broke the seal of their lips at last.
Hannah gazed up at him, her hat terribly askew, lips rosy and swollen from their kiss, eyes glistening. “Why did you stop?”
Indeed.
He could kick himself for ending their kiss so prematurely. However, there was the matter of her mare. And of the necessity that their meeting remained a secret. For the moment, at least.
“If your mare wanders off, how shall we explain where we have been?” he asked, tracing a finger down the soft curve of her cheek. “We must see her settled, and then we can enjoy our time together, however brief.”
A smile quirked her lips. “How right you are. I fear I quite lost my head just now. What must you think of me?”
He did not hesitate in his response, which was torn from the deepest vault of his soul. “That you are the other half of me, the half that is too good, the half I fear shall forever remain out of reach because I am undeserving.”
“Graham,” she said, her countenance going utterly serious.
All the mirth and the happiness had fled her. She was the picture of solemnity.
“Yes, darling?” he asked, unable to keep himself from kissing her again.
Just one sweet, stolen brush of his lips over hers.
Chapter Seven
Now
Of all the men with whom she could have unexpectedly collided on her return from escorting Adele back to her chamber for the night, she had managed to find him.
“Graham,” she said his name aloud, breathless.
She told herself the breathlessness was because her collision with his rigid chest had taken her by surprise. Robbed her of her ability to speak. Not because his nearness stole her breath. Not because the sear of warm, male strength through his shirt—heavens, he was not even wearing a waistcoat—sent the desperate urge for him to kiss her again rushing over her.
Of course not.
“Lady Fawkesbury,” he acknowledged coldly.
His formality, too, was a shock to her senses. A reminder that she did not know him. That she had never known him. It had been five years since he had been her lover. Since he had disappeared from her life when she needed him most. And it had been only hours since their lips had parted.
She was still his fool.
How she hated the bitter truth.
She attempted to step away from him, but his hands remained upon her waist, anchoring her to him. “Do let me go, my lord,” she demanded.
“What are you doing, wandering about in the darkest depths of the night?” he asked, keeping his voice hushed and low, lest they be overheard.
Even so, with every moment they lingered, anyone could come upon them. Ruin loomed.
She must think of Addy and Evie, she reminded herself.
Her chin went up, a new defiance overtaking her. “What I am doing is none of your concern, Haven. Release me, if you please.”
“Where is your chamber?” he asked instead of heeding her. “I will escort you to it.”
The scent of him made an unwelcome heat flare deep within. Longing slid through her. She told herself to stop touching him. However, her hands refus
ed to obey. He had always been a large, strong man. But he had filled out the promise of his broad form. His muscles flexed beneath her touch now, as if he sensed the wicked direction of her thoughts.
“I do not require escort,” she managed to say past lips that had gone suddenly dry. “I can manage on my own, Lord Haven.”
Still, she did not move. Nor did he. Whatever he had dropped in the commotion—something heavy, from the sound of it—remained unheeded on the floor. He seemed in no hurry to retrieve the fallen object.
His head lowered incrementally. She saw his shadow drifting nearer, felt the hot sweep of his breath over her lips like a phantom kiss. “Damn you, Han.”
Anger vibrated in the decadent rumble of his baritone.
She knew the feeling. She was furious with him, too. How could she hate him, rage against him, and yet want him so? How could every instinct within her be screaming to rise on her toes and slam her mouth against his?
The attraction between them had always been thus. Magnetic. Profound. From the first time she had ever been introduced to her brother’s Eton friend, she had felt as if she had found the other half of herself. And although he had proven her desperately wrong, that same, visceral connection remained.
She could not deny it any more than she could deny him.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
But in truth, she did not. How she wished her feelings for him were so simple, so uncomplicated. Love did not dissipate with ease. Her love for him had remained constant and true, despite his betrayal and four years of misery as Fawkesbury’s countess.
“You want me,” he murmured back.
Not a question, but a statement. An accurate one. He was the other half of her. He always had been. A deep, desperate understanding reached her in that moment, standing in his arms in the blackness of the night, here in the inner maze of the grand house’s halls, where no windows aided in lighting the way. Until she breathed her last, she would always long for him.
“No,” she denied, even as she could not seem to muster the desire to tear herself from his grasp.
Because part of her wanted him to hold her forever.
Instead of pushing her away or releasing her, he hauled her nearer, crushing her breasts into his chest, her legs tangling in his much longer ones. Against her rose the proof of his ardor. His cock was a prominent, thick ridge digging into her belly. More heat pooled inside her. She slammed her thighs together, trying to drive away the sensation.
All she did was discover the evidence of her own desire: she was wet for him. Each movement only seemed to stoke the fires of her need even more.
“Yes,” he countered. “Tell me the truth, Han.”
Their lips were almost grazing now.
“Tell me you want me as I want you,” he persisted, his voice a sensual promise of what was to come.
And that was the trouble with being beneath the same roof as him. The trouble with listening to his voice, with standing near to him, with kissing him in the garden and touching him in the inky murk of the night. It all brought back memories. A flood of remembrance.
“Yes,” she admitted, much to her shame. “I want you.”
His mouth was on hers, hard and demanding. Almost punishing. The kiss was deep, carnal. This was a bedchamber kiss. A kiss that claimed. A kiss that promised.
She opened, desperate for him, hating herself even as she melted beneath the ferocity of his lips. Her fingers clenched his shirt, and before she knew what she was about, she was grasping handfuls of it, hauling him closer still. She wanted to be as near to him as she could be, bare skin on skin. Him atop her.
Her marriage with Fawkesbury had been passionless. Thankfully, her husband had been more concerned with gambling than he had been with bedding her. But on those awful occasions when she had suffered his touch, often after he had hurt her first, she had lain painfully still and endured.
Graham brought her to life in the way only he ever had. And for one mad, selfish moment, she wanted him to banish all thoughts of what had been. She wanted to feel desired again. She longed for passion. She wanted him in her bed.
One more time, whispered a voice of sin within.
What would be the harm?
As if he had heard the question, he withdrew, ending the kiss. But he did not retreat far. The heat of his breath taunted her. She could close the distance between them with such ease. Put her mouth back on his.
“Take me to your chamber,” he said in a soft command.
Once again, there was no question in his words, only statement. But she did not fear Graham, not in the sense of his physical strength. He would not hurt her in that way. She could trust him with her body. Just not her heart.
She hesitated, trying to make the right choice. Trying to put Addy and Evie ahead of herself. But then the creak of another door opening down the hall sliced through the moment. She no longer had time to decide.
The knowledge she did not dare allow herself to be caught kissing him after midnight trumped all other thoughts. She released his shirt, took his hand in hers, and pulled him after her.
In a handful of steps, they were at her door, a slice of light visible beneath from the lamp she had left burning within when she had left to return her sister to her chamber. It seemed a lifetime ago now as she tugged Haven inside with her, closing the door hastily at his back.
Addy had been correct. The distance between their chambers had not been far at all. But enough steps for trouble. Enough steps for everything to change.
She and Graham eyed each other in tense silence. The low light of the lamp was a warm shock after the darkness of the hall. Their breaths were similarly ragged. He was sin personified, clad in nothing but his shirtsleeves, sans cravat, the short line of buttons at his throat open to reveal a delicious glimpse of the chest she had been admiring with her hands not long ago. His breeches hugged his muscular thighs, and his cock protruded in blatant invitation. He looked at once indecent and wonderful, so handsome, she ached. Their kiss had affected him every bit as much as it had her.
An answering pang echoed in her core.
The golds in his red hair were alight, dancing, it seemed, making him look as if he were Helios come to bless a mere mortal with his blinding beauty. His eyes were the shade of a summer sky, burning into her.
“I still hate you,” she told him, daring him to contradict her.
His jaw hardened until she imagined it could slice right through anything it touched. “Our enmity is mutual, madam.”
Fair enough. He did not like her. She did not like him. Hannah still failed to see how he could possibly harbor a grudge when he was the one who had trespassed against her. But that was a question to ponder later.
Because she had already made her decision the instant she had decided to bring him to her chamber. She was going to lie with him. One more time. She was going to remember what it felt like to be wanted. She needed to exorcise the old memories of hands that gripped too hard, of fingers pulling her hair, of the humiliation she had endured at the hands of Fawkesbury.
For tonight only, she was going to indulge. To give herself what she wanted.
“I brought you here to avoid being discovered,” she told him, as if it mattered.
They both knew she was prevaricating. Bluffing. He had always understood her body’s responses to his. He had always known her better than she knew herself. And that was why she was so defenseless, so weak.
“Tell yourself that, darling.” The smile he gave her was one-half snarl.
He gripped his shirt in his fists and pulled it over his head, baring his chest.
Her eyes devoured him. Little wonder he had felt strong. His chest was superbly defined. Lean and long, slabbed with muscle. He did not have the wiry body she had once known. Nor did he have the thick, hairy middle Fawkesbury had possessed, which had only grown as his love of vice spiraled increasingly beyond his control.
No indeed, Haven bereft of his shirt was a sight to behold. She swallowed
, tamping down the urge to close the distance separating them and touch him.
“I am not your darling,” she said, snapping herself out of the erotic spell he had cast upon her.
“No.” His voice was sharp, his gaze penetrating. “You never were, were you, Han?”
Once more, she sensed a deeper meaning hidden in his words, one she failed to comprehend. But his fingers had traveled to the fall of his breeches now. And one by one, he was slipping buttons from their moorings.
Her breath grew alarmingly shallow, her pulse erratic. “Nor were you mine.”
But she was loosening the belt on her wrapper. The knot came undone. Her dressing gown gaped. She shrugged it from her shoulders.
His gaze seared her, head to toe, skimming over her with as much power as a touch. “Perhaps we were both lying to each other, all those years ago.”
She knew without a doubt he had been lying to her. She, however, had meant every word she had said. Every touch, every kiss, every caress. She had loved him then. She loved him now, though she knew him as a careless rakehell who had stolen her innocence. In the wake of his betrayal, she had been left with no other choice than to believe that was what he had been.
Tonight, she was no longer certain.
What she did know was that the past had no place here.
She wanted to forget.
“Perhaps,” she agreed, for it mattered not. “One night, Haven. One night only.”
He had yet to completely undo the fall of his breeches. Without plucking another button free, he stalked toward her instead.
“Tonight only, Lady Fawkesbury.”
She flinched at his use of her title. Pressed a finger over his lips now that he was close enough to touch. “Do not call me by that name. Not tonight.”
Tonight, she was his Han. She was the lady she had once been, wild and free. Unafraid. The lady who turned to flame in this man’s arms.
He kissed the pad of her finger. “Hannah.”
And she was lost. She flung herself into his arms. Their lips reunited. The kiss was beautiful in its wildness. She gave herself over to sensation, to Graham. The years fell away. The anguish, the pain, the betrayal. She was doing this for herself. Rekindling the memory of who she had once been, resurrecting the passion which had been so glaringly absent from her life all these years.
Wooed in Winter Page 5
