She did not wish to.
Neither did he. “How often I have dreamed of this,” he whispered, pulling his shirt over his head and sending it to the floor where his coat already lay, before spreading her corset wide and placing kisses between her breasts, down the soft skin covering her ribs, speaking to her body in a way he might never have spoken to her face. “How many nights have I taken myself in hand, thinking of this,” he went on, the words echoing around them in the starlit dome, the shock of their truth setting her aflame. “How many have I spent alone, ashamed, desperate for you?”
“Not more than I,” she whispered, immediately regretting the confession.
His head shot up, his eyes finding hers in the darkness. Refusing to let her go. “You have dreamed of me?”
It was one night. One night of truth. One night to exorcise the past and pave the way for a future free of their demons. Her hand slid to his face, to the shadow of his beard on his strong, firm jaw. “Every day.”
His eyes closed at the confession, as though it had struck him like a blow. “Sera,” he whispered.
“You haunt me,” she said, the words unlocked. “You have haunted me every day since I left.”
“I wish I had,” he said. “I would gladly have been made spirit to watch over you. Christ, I ached for you. I ached for this.”
He pushed her gown over her hips, following it with his kisses, and she recalled the marks there, on the place that had once been taut and smooth and ideal. She covered the soft, round swell of her belly with her hands.
Silently, he kissed the backs of her fingers, running his tongue along the seam where she hid herself from view, tickling there, just enough for her to move, for him to find purchase in that private, secret place. And then he said, “You are so beautiful here, more than ever.”
The tears threatened again at the reminder of how she somehow belonged to him there, of how she would never be free of him where she was marked in white, puckered lines by their past.
He stopped, and she looked to him, finding his eyes, filled with the same emotions that consumed her—too many to name, and all overpowered by an intense understanding that she had never thought to find in another. But of course, she found it in him. It had always been him.
He rose over her, strong arms holding him, corded muscle in his shoulders reminding her of his immense strength. And he kissed her again, long and soft and beautiful, until her breath was caught in her throat and she was ragged with agony and pleasure.
She lifted her hands to his face, her soft touch ending his kiss, pushing him back to look at her, eyes dark and full of sin. “You are perfect.”
She closed her eyes at the sting of the words. “I am deeply flawed.”
He stayed still and silent until she opened them again. “Your flaws are perfect. A map of where we have been.” She caught her breath at that we. At how much she wanted it to be true. He went on, “I have dreamed of you here. Look up. Look at us. Look at how beautiful you are. Watch how I worship you.”
Her gaze flickered past his shoulder to the domed ceiling, black and bright with their image as he returned to his worship—to her worship—the scrape of his teeth and the silk of his tongue along that flawed place sending heat through her, agony and pleasure, regret and promise, the emotions crashing through her as she watched him in the domed ceiling, consumed by their reflection, her hair spread wild beneath her, her breasts and body bare, one hand spread wide over her ribs, holding her still as he moved lower, his broad, muscled back, hiding her stomach, then her thighs.
“Do you see it, Sera?” he asked, the words low and dark. “Do you see how we are together?”
She took a deep breath, air shuddering through her. Bit her lip. His words promised so much—they tempted her with forever. But this was not forever. This was tonight.
He nipped at the soft skin of her stomach and he soothed the bite with his tongue when she gasped. “Do you see?” he repeated.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He moved lower, speaking to the dark hair that covered the place that had only ever been his. “What do you see?”
“Mal.” The word came out sounding like she was begging. And perhaps she was. She simply didn’t know what she was begging for.
He did, though, parting her thighs and settling himself between them. “What do you see, Angel?”
“I see—” His fingers came to her core, warm and firm, and she gasped again. “Mal.”
He stopped. “Tell me.”
She looked up at the ceiling. “I see . . . I see you.”
He spread the soft folds of her sex then, like a reward for her honesty. “Yes,” he said, the word licking like flame against her. She could not stop herself from lifting herself toward him. “And what else?”
Desire pooled, thick and desperate. “And me.” He set two fingers to the center of her, sliding them up and down her sex, up and down, again and again, until she thought she might die of the pleasure of it. Of the teasing. She writhed against the touch, desperate for him to find purchase—to stay in one place—to give her what she wanted.
What she needed.
“Mal . . .”
He removed his hand. “Tell me what you see.”
“I told you already, dammit.”
He laughed at that, the bastard. The feel of it nearly did her in. “Tell me more.”
“I see you,” she said sharply, irritation and desire in the words. “I see you touching me.”
And, like magic, he touched her. One finger, circling that magnificent place where she was desperate for him. She gasped her pleasure. “Dear God.”
The finger slowed, and she instantly spoke, desperate for him to continue. “I see you touching me,” she repeated. “Exploring me. Finding all the places I want you.”
And he did, sliding one finger into the hot, wet core of her, the sensation sending her arching into him even as her eyes widened, riveted to the wicked, wanton image above.
That’s when she saw what he was doing. “Merope,” she sighed.
His grunt punctuated another long, languid slide, this one with a second finger, the sound deep and dark and demanding that she say more.
“I see her, as well,” Sera fairly panted. “You planned this.”
“I did,” he said, and he was so close to her, whispering the words at the place she needed him most. “I wanted you here. As beautiful as she is.”
“You wanted me naked with her.”
“I always want you naked, love.”
The words sent heat curling through her, pooling deep. “I see that,” she said, her gaze sliding over the mosaic nymph, breasts bare as her own, twisting and turning in the tilework as though Malcolm touched them both. As though in bringing pleasure to Sera, he was pleasing Merope as well.
Sera believed it as his fingers worked their magic . . . that he might be enough to please a goddess.
“Mal,” she whispered, unable to keep herself from lifting into his touch as he stroked deep once, twice, a third time. Unable to keep herself from saying more. From taking everything he offered. “I see you looking at me,” she said, and he stilled, pulling back and looking up at her, finding her gaze instantly, waiting for her to say more.
The thrill of the moment was undeniable. Her power, unmistakable. She could ask him for everything, and he would give it to her. “I see you wanting me,” she whispered.
Without breaking eye contact, he pressed a kiss to dark curls. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
She understood that—felt the same want coursing through her own body, aching for him. She canted her hips toward him, and still he waited, as though he would wait an eternity for her to ask him to touch her. For her to give him permission to take her. She whispered his name, and still he remained frozen, locked in rapt attention, waiting for her command. “I see you kissing me,” she said, the words coming more firmly than she would have imagined.
That low groan again, like she’d given him the only thing he
’d ever wanted. And then he moved his hand, spreading her wide, revealing the swollen, pink heart of her. She stopped breathing, the anticipation unbearable.
“Tell me again,” he said. “I want you to be sure.”
Her whole body went bow-taut at the words. At the promise in them. At the meaning in them—that he would never take what she did not give. That he would follow her, Orion after Merope, but only while she wished to be pursued.
The realization was like no freedom she had ever known.
She did not hesitate. “Kiss me.”
He rewarded her with his glorious mouth, spreading her thighs wide and lifting her to him, his lips and tongue taking her with complete certainty and no hesitation. She cried out at the feel of him, the way he discovered every curve of her, his tongue exploring as his fingers stroked and she opened, widened, offered herself to him without pause.
He took her offering, closing his lips around her most sensitive place and sucked, pulling her to him with magnificent skill, until his name echoed through the space as she gave in to the pleasure, writhing against him, bucking into him, her fingers sliding into his hair to hold him to her, to show him where she needed him most.
His tongue swirled against her, giving her everything for which she asked, and she closed her eyes, barely aware of the tears that came with the sheer, wild pleasure he wrought. Her whole body bucked and writhed against him as he delivered his unrelenting worship, and she gasped, again and again, the emotion rioting through her until she lay beneath him and wept with it, unwilling to let him go.
This man, whom she had once loved so much, who had always known how to wring pleasure from her.
This man, who gave her power beyond her ken.
And even through her tears, he did not stop, slow circles becoming faster, tongue working against her, licking and sucking in lush motions as he slid his hands beneath her and lifted her up to him like she was a feast. Redoubled his efforts. Claimed her.
She gasped as the feeling rolled toward her, stiffening, nearly fearful of what was to come—of how he might own her if she let it come. Still, he persisted, giving her no purchase, worshipping at the pulsing, magnificent place where she most wanted him, making love to her until she cried her pleasure on his name—the only word she could find the ability to say.
He held her as she returned to the moment, to the magnificent space, the underwater dome looming above them like sky. And when he lifted his head, his face flushed and his beautiful eyes wild, the keen, unbearable want she’d kept at bay threatened to consume her.
No. She would not want him.
She could not have him.
She knew better.
She scrambled beneath him, pushing him away, and he was off her instantly, releasing her as though he’d only ever existed to do her bidding. The realization threatened to shatter her as well as his touch had.
So Seraphina did what she could, reaching for her dress, scooting back across the floor with it clutched to her. “We cannot go further.”
He did not move from where he sat, bare from the waist up, one arm resting on a bent leg, clad in dark, soft buckskin. “I did not ask to go further.”
“But you wish to.”
“I’m a grown man, Sera, and I have waited for this—for you—for years. Of course I wish to.” His gaze was hot and honest. “But I shall wait for you. Until you are ready.”
She hated the words. Hated the way they tempted her. The way they whispered a promise that he understood. Of course, he couldn’t. “I shall never be ready.”
“Perhaps not. But perhaps you will. And when you are, I shall be here.” He said it as though he had nothing to do but languish here, in his underwater lair, waiting for her to wander in and ask him to make love to her.
And something about that, about the certainty in his words, as though he would wait for her forever, unsettled her more than anything else could. “That particular act has never served us well,” she said quietly. “Or do you not remember?” She hated the words, loathed that she gave voice—even in a vague, small way—to their past. To the child they had not planned. That he had not wanted. And to all the others they would never have.
She stood, too bare and revealed to remain still, and turned her back to him, pulling her dress over her head and wrenching the two halves of her bodice together in a fruitless attempt to erase the last hour of her life.
“Take this.”
She nearly jumped from her skin. He was behind her, close enough to touch, holding his coat for her, as though it were all perfectly normal.
She took the coat and willed herself calm as she pulled it on, the broad shoulders dwarfing hers. She crossed the fabric over her chest, and her arms over that, like armor. He stepped back, hands spread wide, as though to show her that he was unarmed. Of course, it was not true.
They had always been armed with each other.
“I remember, Sera,” he said, and the words seemed wrenched from him, as well, impossibly so. She could still hear his vow never to have a child. She could still feel the sting of it now, years later, and the ache of it after she discovered he would have one, nonetheless.
Just as she could still feel the quiet happiness that had consumed her when she’d known she would never be alone, even if she never had him.
And then, the devastation when she realized that alone was all she’d ever be.
“Let me go,” she whispered, the words ragged, shot through with fear that he might resist them. That he might try to keep her there.
That she might choose to stay.
He took another step back. And another, until the path to the exit was clear for her. “You are free,” he said.
“We’re neither of us free,” she said. “But we can be.”
Lie.
He watched her, unmoving, his beautiful broad chest gold in the firelight, his face all light and shadows. And then he threw his weapon. “I never asked to be.”
His aim was true, thankfully, pushing sadness from her and filling her with anger, reminding her of her plans. Of the Sparrow. Of her future. Without him. Without the past. Without the memories that she could not escape here.
“What a lie that is.” She narrowed her gaze on him, and let her anger fly. “It was you who ended us, Duke. Not I.”
Before he could reply, she escaped.
Chapter 20
Hoodwinked Haven’s Shocking Surprise
Three Years Earlier
London
He sensed her before he saw her.
He should have expected that the Countess of Liverpool would invite them both to her famed summer soiree. Should have assumed that the Soiled S’s would be welcomed at the woman’s mad garden party with its China-themed decor and the hostess herself dressed like one of the fish in her famed fishpond. Lady Liverpool had never once shied away from the dramatic, and the Talbot sisters were nothing if not dramatic.
Not Sera.
He did not turn to face her, knowing that all the world watched and whispered beneath stiff brims and behind fluttering fans. Instead, he resisted the urge to tug at his cravat, too tight around his neck in the hot, humid summer breeze, knowing that he was too much the focus of attention as it was.
Hoodwinked Haven caught by a Dangerous Daughter, the laughingstock of the gossip rags, made example for the rest of the eligible men of the ton. Never be blinded by beauty.
God knew he had been blinded. Like damn Orion.
Doomed.
It had been more than two months since he’d seen her—having left her, summarily, after their minutes-long, barely-there wedding and thrown himself into his work, doing all he could to forget the fact that he had a wife.
A wife whose nearness shattered his calm, and whom he knew he would find more beautiful than ever, if only he would turn to face her.
Coward.
The thought spurred him to action and, steeling his emotions, he turned, his gaze finding her, as ever, immediately. She was several yards away, in a cluster of j
ewel-toned gowns—her sisters gathered around her like a protective shield. And Sera in red shot through with gold thread. Of course she wore red. There was nothing in the world more desirable than Seraphina Talbot—no, Seraphina Bevingstoke, Duchess of Haven, his wife, his duchess—in red.
It did not matter that he would give anything to no longer desire her.
He would sell his damn soul to forget her.
And then the hens fluttering about her parted, and he saw the gown in full, chasing the lines of her breasts and hips, falling in lush waves to the green grass below. He raked his gaze over her, breathing her in, a cool breeze on the summer day. And that was when the blow came, wicked and unexpected.
She was with child.
She was with child, and she hadn’t told him.
The emotions that coursed through him were myriad. Disbelief. Pleasure. Hope. And fury. A keen, unyielding anger that she had once again hidden the truth from him.
He was to be a father. He was to have a child.
And she’d hidden it from him, like penalty for past sins.
He steeled his countenance, refusing to show her how the truth consumed him. How it struck like a blow. A devastating punishment. And then he turned on his heel and went to find a way to punish her, as well.
September 1836
The next morning, Malcolm received word from his matchmaking wife that he was to ride with Lady Lilith and Lady Felicity Faircloth. No doubt Seraphina thought that it was time he come to know the remaining two candidates for future Duchess of Haven—as Miss Mary had left for Gerald’s warm embrace, and Lady Emily’s soup aversion was too overwhelming a character trait.
Not that he had any intention of marrying either of the women. Indeed, the notice from his wife—perfunctory and without even the hint of reference to the night prior—had him immediately considering storming the breakfast room and summarily dismissing all the houseguests, finally jettisoning the stupid plan he’d concocted to keep Seraphina at hand while he wooed her once again.
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