“I’m not running away!” Even in the dimness, he detected the ruddy cast to her features.
“No?” He snorted. “Your departure on the heels of what occurred at Needling’s seems rather coincidental.”
Despite that he stood several inches over her, she somehow managed to look down her nose at him. “I should not be surprised that a carefree bachelor such as yourself would have difficulty imagining motives that are not selfish.” She was good at prevaricating and distracting from what was really afoot. He would give her that. If he didn’t have direct evidence to the contrary . . . if he had not felt just how much he affected her, he would have felt about two inches tall right now.
“Pray enlighten me.”
“Not that my travel plans, whatever they may be, are your business, but I’ve left Clara and Enid to their devices for long enough. I realize you have no concept of duty, but those girls are my responsibility.”
She was trying to shame him. He wouldn’t let her.
“We are something to each other, Ela.” He held her gaze, his arm tightening around her. He wouldn’t say what that something was—perhaps he couldn’t even put a name to it—but it was more than they were a week ago. However distantly she attempted to treat him now, he would not let her pretend he were a stranger overstepping his bounds with her.
She shook her head, looking sad and a little frustrated. “Did you not receive my note?”
“I did. It is what brought me here.”
“And what did you fail to understand?”
Her tone in that moment reminded him of a schoolmaster taking a disobedient child to task. He did not enjoy how it made him feel. He was a man, not a child, and well she knew it.
“My difficulty,” he began, “rests in the fact that you are lying. A reoccurring condition of late.”
“Lying?”
“There is no way you properly considered my proposition. A full day has not even passed.”
She released a single bark of laughter. “I fear your wounded ego is the problem here.”
“My ego?”
“Yes. You’re unaccustomed to hearing ‘no’ from the female gender. I’m sorry to be the first one to say it, but I’m certain I shan’t be the last.”
She was maddening! His temper quickened. “My ego is well in balance. In fact, I am quite self-aware.”
She snorted.
He continued, “You, on the other hand, could use a little self-examination. Why not take a hard look at yourself and admit that you fear your reaction to me? Admit that you fear you might enjoy being with me too much. Admit you’re worried that I might discover that I mean more to you than your late husband ever did.”
She sputtered. “That—that—”
“That,” he heard himself saying, “might shatter the fairy tale you’ve spun for the world? Myself included. Yes.” He nodded. “I’ve observed your pretenses all these years. Never believed them but didn’t believe it gentlemanly to call you out.”
She continued to sputter. “Fairy tale? What are you talking about?” She shook her head, all that dark hair flowing like a banner of rich silk around her.
“I’m speaking of the fairy tale you’ve pranced about in front of your family and for anyone who will listen. The fairy tale that you and the late duke were a love match . . . that you cared for him and he cared for you and you mourn for him every day. It’s an entertaining bit of fiction but why don’t you confess it’s a lie?”
His demand rang out between them, the hard echo felt long after the last word was uttered.
“How could you say such a thing to me?” she whispered, her voice an angry scratch on the air. Indignation hummed along her frame, but he suspected that was because he had called her out on her years-long charade and not because his words were untrue.
“Oh, make no mistake. You play the bereaved widow admirably. Everyone believes it. Hell, Marcus believes it so much he’s blinded himself to just how big of a bastard his father really was. Easy enough to do when his stepmother goes along with the lie. Trust me, you do him no favors. The moment he can acknowledge who and what his father was, then he’ll see everything more clearly . . . Maybe he can even have a relationship with his half brother and generally stop being such an ass.”
“Marcus being an ass is my fault?”
He shrugged. “You’ve created the beast.”
“Let us be clear. You don’t know anything about my relationship with my stepchildren and you certainly don’t know anything about my marriage.”
He took a step closer, but she held her ground. Her eyes burned fire, but call him a masochist because he wanted only to get closer to that fire—to feel it scald him everywhere. This—a furious Ela—was far better than an Ela en route to her country manor and away from him.
“I know your marriage left you cold and that you’ve been hungering for more . . . for warmth and heat and passion. You wanted that even before the old man died.”
She averted her gaze.
He flexed his fingers against her, compelling her to look back at him. Swallowing, he then confessed a memory he’d never forgotten. “I saw you. The moment that you broke. The moment he broke you and you realized you would never have the life you wanted with him.”
Her mouth parted on a little gasp and he knew she understood what he was talking about.
One never forgot the moment of one’s ruin. It stayed with a person. A forever stain that sank past the surface and burrowed deep into bone.
He shouldn’t have been a witness to it all those years ago, but he had been there. At the time he’d vowed to himself that he would never be such a husband to any woman, that he would never dishonor any female in such a manner. That he would never be like the Duke of Autenberry.
“What did you see?” Her soft voice rose up between them, a warble of fear in its depths.
“I saw you. It was a long time ago. After Clara was born. At her christening.”
She went still in his arms, and he knew she remembered. “Go on,” she whispered. “What did you see?”
“I’d just arrived. I saw you heading toward the late duke’s drawing room and followed you so that I could pay my respects. I wasn’t very far behind. I watched as you knocked once and then pushed the door open.”
Her eyes suddenly looked haunted . . . like she wasn’t quite in his presence anymore but somewhere else, lost in that day of her disillusionment. “You shouldn’t have been following me,” she murmured, her gaze somewhere over his shoulder, and he knew that she was no longer with him but back there again, standing in the threshold of the late duke’s study.
“I know that,” he returned. “But I did. I was there, standing just beyond you.”
Her gaze snapped to his face. “You saw him then? My husband.”
He nodded.
“Say it, then,” she commanded, her voice like flint. “You’ve had all the words up until this moment. Don’t let speech desert you now, my lord.”
He nodded once. “I saw your husband shagging a servant girl upon his desk.”
The scene was still vivid in his mind. At the time, Colin had been a young man, with limited experience, scarcely more than a boy. The very carnal image of Marcus’s father bending a maid over his desk and taking her so savagely had shocked him.
“Come, come. It wasn’t simply a servant. Let’s be accurate if we are going to reflect,” she said bitterly, her features screwing tight with contempt. “That particular female was Clara’s new nanny. She was the first in a long line of nannies to warm Autenberry’s bed.”
“Your face when you turned around—”
“I didn’t see you.” Accusation sharpened her voice.
“I ducked behind a large vase of flowers.”
She nodded jerkily, her gaze darting away before coming back to him.
“Seeing him like that wrecked you. Whatever tender emotions you felt for him died then. I saw it in your face, just as surely as a flame snuffed out—”
“Don’t be so dr
amatic.” Her mocking tones shook between them.
“He bade you to close the door on them.” He well remembered the duke’s autocratic voice calling out the command. Damn it all, Graciela. Did no one ever tell you to knock? Shut the bloody door! I’ll be out when I’ve finished.
She flinched and he knew she was hearing it again, too. “I was very young then. I had yet to understand the reality of ton marriages.”
“You were very beautiful with a heart full of hope and love.”
“Yes.” She lifted eyes that shimmered with emotion. “As I said, very young. I now know better than to let such things as hope and love rule me.”
“That tender heart is still in you. It longs for more.” His hands tightened on her waist. “That is what brought you to Sodom. Ill advised, perhaps, but with a friend like Lady Talbot it is a wonder you resisted for this long. I suppose I should be grateful that I was there when you went.”
Her body felt suddenly warmer against him, the proximity too much. Or perhaps he was simply burning for her.
“You’ve known of that day all this time.” She shook her head. “Every time I said something about my late husband, about how wonderful he was or how much I adored him . . . you were laughing at me.”
“No. I’d never laugh at you.”
“Then you pitied me. Even better.” She dropped her head and laughed humorlessly, her expression pained.
“Ela—”
“No,” she cut him off. “Stop speaking to me in that soft voice. Like you know me and care about me. It’s pity you feel for me along with some twisted determination to win.”
“To win?”
“Yes. Ever since Sodom you’ve been badgering me.” She stopped and released a gust of breath. “I wish you hadn’t been there that night.”
Her words did the trick and stung him for the split second he allowed them to. Then he dismissed them, not accepting them as truth for one moment. “Indeed? You wish some other man had kissed you? Perhaps you would have made use of one of Sodom’s private rooms had you met someone else there.”
“Perhaps I would have,” she returned hotly, eyes sparking.
“You really are very adept at lying,” he growled.
He wrapped his arm around her waist and hauled her in closer. He feathered his lips over hers, speaking his words directly against her mouth. “The other night at Lord Needling’s? Do you regret that, as well? You didn’t taste like regret to me.” He kissed her then, slow and deep. She melted against him, her mouth softening under his, sighing open as their tongues met and tangled. “You don’t taste like regret now.”
He backed her toward the bed. Their feet moved until they were falling, sinking together on the luxurious softness.
She gasped, tearing her mouth from his. Desire thickened her voice. “I do regret what happened at Lord Needling’s.” Her hands dove between them, feverishly tearing at his clothing, in direct opposition to her panted speech. “And I shall regret this, too. Make no mistake of that.”
And yet it was finally happening.
He leaned back and shrugged out of his jacket and vest. His fingers worked quickly, tearing loose his cravat. She found the bottom of his shirt and tugged the voluminous garment over his head, then flung it to the floor.
Her palms landed on his chest and skimmed the flat plane of his stomach. “Your skin,” she breathed heavily. “It’s like silk on steel. I didn’t—” She stopped, killing whatever she would have said with a hard blink. She gave her head a slight shake. He knew the almost words likely compared him to her dead husband. He saw that in her eyes. She lowered her gaze as though she had committed some offense.
He tipped her chin back up, forcing her to look at him. “You don’t have to hide from me. Hide from the rest of the world if you must, but not me. Never me.”
She nodded slowly.
He continued, “I’ll never tell you what to say, think or feel.”
In that way he was not like old Autenberry. Indeed not. It wasn’t merely the way his skin felt. It was who he was. He’d never treat her like a possession. Never shame her or dishonor her.
And there was the not so minor fact that he intended to make love to her like her bastard of a husband never had.
He brought his hand up under her nightgown, skating it along her bare thigh. Just the sensation of her. The warm, full flesh giving beneath his hand, the swift intake of her breath, all conspired to unman him.
He nestled his weight deeper into her. “Your skin is like silk.”
He brought both hands under the skirts of her nightgown, sliding them along her thighs, her hips. His hands curved under her lush backside, palming each cheek and lifting her up, grinding her into him. He burrowed his mouth against her neck, hating the fact that he was still dressed at all.
The only problem with getting undressed was that he would have to take his hands off her, even for just a moment, and he couldn’t bear the notion of that.
Her sharp gasp sounded in his ear as he squeezed and fondled the delicious rounds of her ass. This woman was made for him. Never had a female felt so right.
A rhythm built between them, driven by need and instinct. He squeezed her bottom as she simultaneously pushed her quim up against his cock.
They were both groaning and panting.
“Colin,” she pleaded, dropping her hands to tug at his trousers. No words were needed. He felt the same desperation, but he didn’t want this over too quickly. He might not have allowed himself the fantasy of this ever happening between them, but it felt as though he had been waiting his entire life for this moment. He wanted to savor it. He wanted this to be good for both of them.
And part of that was touching her everywhere. Learning her body as surely as he knew his own. He slid his hands around to her belly, delighting in discovering all her secrets.
He dragged his fingertips down her navel. The tender skin of her belly quivered. He longed to press his mouth there and follow the slope down to where he had already tasted her. Where he longed to taste her again.
She tensed, her hand coming to lock around his wrist.
“I—I’m not young,” she murmured, a shake to her voice. “And . . . I—I bore a child. I’m not like the girls you are accustomed to. I—”
He silenced her with a full-mouthed kiss.
Almost at once she melted into the mattress again, kissing him back and looping her arms around his neck. He sank deeper into her, loving how she molded to him.
“The idea of any other female pales beside you. Don’t ever doubt that.” His hands gathered two fistfuls of her nightgown and swept it over her head in one motion, laying her completely bare beneath him.
His gaze devoured her. She was better than anything he had imagined. Wide hipped and narrow waisted. Breasts that would overflow in his hands. Honey skin with dark, penny-sized nipples that made his mouth water.
His cock was painfully hard.
He felt like a green lad, close to spilling himself before they even commenced with the act.
She bit her lip, fidgeting under him, and he knew doubts plagued her despite his earlier assurance.
He reached up and brushed a lock of dark hair off the swell of her shoulder. “I have a confession to make.”
“A confession?” she asked uncertainly, her voice as tremulous as a feather. She looked like she wanted to snatch her nightgown back and cover herself up.
He touched her cheek, his fingertips grazing the soft skin. She was so lovely it offended him that she thought of herself as anything less than that.
His thumb traced her mouth. “I’ve dreamed of you this way before. Naked. Under me. Although the fantasy doesn’t even compare to the reality.”
She stilled for a moment and he wondered if he had offended her . . . if he had gone too far, but then those long lashes dipped, fanning dark shadows on her cheeks. The look was pure seduction. “Tell me, my lord.” Her accented tones turned low and throaty. “When did you have this fantasy? And how exactly did you imagi
ne me?”
“I always thought you beautiful, but I kept a tight leash on my imagination as it concerned you. My first fantasy about you happened one Easter. Marcus brought me home with him from Eton. I was seventeen. Do you remember that time?”
She paused. “Yes. I think so.”
“I remember thinking Autenberry was one lucky bastard during that visit . . . and that he didn’t deserve you.” But he hadn’t allowed himself to ponder much more than that. No lustful wonderings. He’d been careful to keep his thoughts in check. But his dreams had been another matter. Beyond his control. He’d woken gasping her name.
“It was a definite weakness to dream of you, but how can one control one’s dreams?” His eyes roamed over her as he spoke. “I was back at Eton when it happened. In the dormitory. I woke up cock hard and in a sweat. It was wrong . . . the wicked things I had been doing to you in that dream.”
“What things?” she asked breathlessly.
“I was doing this to you.” Bending his head, he closed his mouth around her nipple, pulling it deep and wrapping it with his tongue until she was arching under him and releasing a keening cry.
After some moments, he turned his attention to her other breast, but he didn’t forget the first one, palming it almost roughly. The action only drove her wild beneath him.
“What else?” she demanded, her hands diving through his hair, all her reticence forgotten as heat exploded between them.
His hands dropped to his trousers, unfastening them hastily. “I was doing this, too.”
He shoved down his breeches, gripped his manhood and rubbed it along her folds, wetting himself in the evidence of her desire.
It took everything in him not to slip between her folds and sink inside her.
He rubbed the head of his cock higher, directly against her clit.
A sob broke from her, racking her entire body. Her hands clutched his arms, her nails scoring deep. “What else?”
He moved down and fit the head of his cock at her entrance. “And I was doing this to you,” he gritted out, finally sinking into her wondrous, sucking heat.
It was better than any dream. Better than anything.
The Scandal of It All Page 11
