Marrying the Rebellious Miss

by Bronwyn Scott

  She brought her eyes up briefly from her pages to skim him, the strong jaw, the long, straight nose, finally admitting what she’d known for a while. She wanted Preston Worth. All of him. In all ways. But to have him would require breaking her rules. Both of them. And then what? What happened after the having? Was she brave enough to find out?

  Those were the questions that occupied her on the evening drive, cutting down the distance to London and expanding the distance between them and Alton. ‘To claim the high ground,’ Preston had explained to her parents. ‘We will be in place before Alton can reach us.’ He’d also counselled Dimitri not to have their response to Alton delivered until tomorrow, knowing full well that a delayed answer kept Alton trapped in Little Westbury that much longer. But it was hard to think about Alton when Preston sat across from her, inviting a different direction of thought until they pulled in to an inn.

  A night on the road. A night out of time where they were not accountable to anyone but themselves. The wicked thought came to her as she recognised the place; the same inn they’d stopped at just a few weeks ago on the way home. Preston handed her down from the coach as temptation whispered: could there be an exception to her rules? Did she dare find out what lay on the other side of having Preston? If she did dare, it would have to be tonight.

  * * *

  The innkeeper remembered them and was glad to see them, giving them the same room. The inn was full of memories, Bea thought nervously; the private parlour and the birthday dinner. The room and that first kiss, the acknowledgement of their attraction. Had it really been only three weeks ago? So much had changed. It seemed like an age. Or was it she who had changed?

  They ate in their room due to the lateness of the hour, saying little, the conversation from the coach still lingering between them. ‘Trust me,’ he’d said. Did he have any idea what he was asking with those words?

  Bea finished her stew and set down her spoon, picking up the conversation as if it had occurred a moment ago instead of three hours. ‘It’s more complicated than that. I made myself two promises, rules really, when I had Matthew.’

  Preston nodded, setting down his own spoon. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Well, first, I promised myself I’d stay away from men. They’ve proven to be dangerous creatures where I’m concerned. Second, I promised myself I wouldn’t seek out passion.’ Would he laugh at her? Would he argue with her?

  Preston did neither. ‘Celibacy is a difficult life, I think. I’m not convinced our bodies are born to it although some of us aspire to it.’ He paused and studied her, his intent gaze creating a warm flame at the core of her. ‘How is that working out for you?’

  Beatrice drew a breath. Time for some honesty. ‘Fine until you came along.’ She waited for him to gloat with masculine arrogance, to lord the confession over her. But Preston took it in his stride, only a flicker in his eyes betraying any emotion.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now, I wonder if it isn’t time to break those rules and see what’s on the other side of this thing between us.’ A woman could not be any bolder than that. She waited, watching the flicker in Preston’s eyes, wondering if he’d ever been so blatantly propositioned before.

  ‘It is time.’ His voice was husky as he rose from the table, offering her his hand, raising her up. His lips skimmed her knuckles as he breathed his vow. ‘You can trust me, Bea. Let me show you that not every man is Malvern Alton.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m worried about,’ Bea whispered, letting him draw her to him. ‘I’m worried what you’ll show me is that not every man is you.’

  He silenced her with a kiss, long and hard, giving her no chance to question her resolve, only a chance to tremble, a chance for her body to take over and she let it. Tonight, it was time they both owned what lay between them for their own good. It might be the only time they could.

  His hand rested over the flutter of her pulse at the base of her neck, his hazel eyes dark with desire as he reached for her hand and placed it over the pulse at the base of his neck. ‘Do you feel that, Bea? Don’t think for a moment you’re the only one who is frightened by this.’

  ‘What are you afraid of?’ she breathed. It was hard to imagine Preston afraid of anything, least of all his feelings. He knew himself completely. Her other hand slipped between them, spreading flat against his trousers to press against the hard length of him.

  He gave a sigh at the pressure of her hand on him. ‘I could fall for you, Bea. But it’s not enough to stop me from wanting you, from wanting to see what’s on the other side.’

  She kissed him then, pulling his head down to hers. ‘Tonight, that makes two of us.’ Just this once she could want him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Just this once he could have her. It was a midnight promise he made himself, the kind easy to make in the heat of the moment and harder to keep in the hours that would follow. Preston breathed in the scent of her, inhaling the lavender of her hair, her skin, and exhaling a groan of desire.

  They should have started here. He should have seduced her first and reasoned with her later. Giving Beatrice too much time to think was dangerous. But even as he thought it, his mind was already laughing at him. Did he really think Beatrice would have allowed a seduction for no reason? She was much too cautious, much too protective of her son and of their friendship to risk such a thing for pleasure alone. She was only permitting it now, perhaps, out of desperation. It wasn’t the best recommendation, but he would build on that, change that.

  His lips hovered just above hers, his words a hoarse confession of desire. ‘I want you, Beatrice.’ His mouth tasted her; the lingering tannins of the wine on her tongue. She gave a moan, low in her throat, a cry of encouragement and surrender, an acknowledgement that she didn’t want to fight them. Her body leaned into his and he held her there, his hands resting low at her hips, his thumbs pressing evocatively against the curves of her.

  His mouth slid to the column of her neck, to the vee of bare skin left unprotected by the gauzy fichu at her bodice. She smelled intoxicatingly like England in spring; all lavender and wildflowers, underlaid with the more sensual scent of a woman in arousal. She wanted him. The knowledge of it spurred him on, another groan welling in his throat as her mouth found his ear, her teeth nipping at his lobe with tiny bites that sent a shockwave through him as she cupped him in her hand. Desire had him hard in its clutches now, weeks of wanting coming to fruition.

  He lifted her to the edge of the table, kneeling before her, running his hands up the smooth length of her legs; over calves, over thighs, pushing her skirts back until she was exposed to him, until his hands rested high at the juncture of her thighs, his thumbs bracketing the warm core of her, feathering the secret places of her womanhood with their touch, feeling the dampness of her for him. He groaned aloud, nearly undone at her readiness, despite all of his self-made promises that he would make this good for her, that he would exceed what had passed for lovemaking with that bastard Alton.

  He brought his mouth to her, there in the warm vee of her legs, his breath gentle on her dark curls, at odds with his racing pulse as he breathed in the intimate scent of her, heard his name on her lips voiced in question, unsure of what he intended, felt her hands anchor in his hair as he licked, felt them tighten as he teased the nub within the folds with the tip of his tongue, tasting the sweet cream of her, heard her gasp with honest shock at first, then honest pleasure as her legs widened, giving him complete access, her breathing coming hard and fast, her body arching up to him, wanting the pleasure, searching for it.

  And he gave it—oh, God, how he gave it. Her pleasure was his pleasure, their breathing intermingled in a ragged rhythm, her gasps coming hard and fast now as conclusion neared. She bucked hard against him, a near-scream of release wrenched from her throat as she gave herself over to it, followed by sobs of panting disbelief as he knelt before
her, his own breath coming hard, her hands rooted in his hair. He wouldn’t have moved for the life of him, savouring this moment, this knowledge. She’d not known. She’d not known there could be pleasure such as this. Not until him...

  He’d not understood until now how much it mattered to him that he be the first to show her pleasure. He rose slowly and stepped back, taking in the tousled look of her, wanting to capture this moment in his mind, this incredibly erotic, evocative moment: Beatrice on the table’s edge, her hair falling down, her skirts pushed up, her legs spread, the candlelight and dinner behind her, her eyes blazing in comprehension, a comprehension he’d put there.

  He found her eyes and held her gaze, his hand going deliberately to the bow of his cravat. He tugged, the linen falling away as he shrugged out of his coat. His fingers moved to the buttons of his waistcoat. Beatrice’s tongue wet her lips, her eyes obsidian dark and glittering as understanding dawned. He folded his waistcoat and made a show of laying it aside before his shirt followed. This was not new territory for them. But what followed would be. ‘Look at me, Bea.’

  He rested his hands at the waistband of his trousers, watching her eyes follow the gesture to his hips. ‘I want to stand before you naked, stripped to the bone for you in every way possible. When a man offers the protection of his body, a woman should see what she’s getting.’ Nakedness was the ultimate honesty, the ultimate intimacy. A man who could not come to a woman thus was no man at all, but a façade, reliant on tailors and illusions to support his image.

  He flicked open the flies of his trousers, watching her watching him as the fullness of his nudity was revealed to her, watching her gaze drift to lean hips, to long thighs, to the ruddy proof of manhood his body offered. ‘It’s not a perfect body, Bea. A bullet wound or two and a knife scar have put paid to that. But it’s mine and it’s yours. If you’ll have it.’ His throat was dry. The seconds stretched between them as he waited for her answer.

  Bea’s eyes held his, her hand pulling out the fichu at her bodice, in a gesture that mimicked his earlier one at his cravat. ‘I suppose it’s my turn, then.’ She let the gauzy fabric drop as she slid from the table, her fingers working the fastenings of her gown. He thought those fingers trembled as she slid the gown from her shoulders and let it fall. The candlelight caught the shadow of her body beneath the thin linen of her undergarments and he went hard, harder than he’d thought possible. God, how he wanted her. The wanting had him sweating and his heart pounding.

  She hitched hesitant, trembling fingers beneath the straps of her chemise as she considered the required action. In those brief moments she was the quintessential Beatrice Penrose, the brash girl he knew, moulded into the bold woman she’d become—a woman who understood even her bravery had consequences, but forged ahead anyway, knowing the actions outweighed the outcome.

  Her voice was reminiscent of midnight whisky and fledgling confidence as she stepped towards him, pulling the chemise over her head, ‘My body’s not perfect. I’ve had a child. But it’s mine and it’s yours. If you’ll have it.’

  If he’d have her? Did she really think there was any chance he’d refuse? He let his eyes speak for him, lingering on her breasts with their dusky nipples, the curve of her hips, the soft plane of her stomach, the dark shadow at her thighs: a goddess’s body, a lush, earthy body that gave life and nurtured it. To think childbirth had been unkind to her was an overstatement. It had been exceedingly kind to her. ‘Beatrice, you’re beautiful, a druid queen come to life. For me.’

  Bea let Preston’s words wash over her, let them wash away the self-consciousness that swamped her as she stood before him. She was acutely aware she could not claim to look as lovely out of her clothes as she did in them. Her breasts were too full, her hips streaked with red fingers where skin had stretched beyond the healing powers of witch hazel. Yet the gaze Preston lavished on her said he found her otherwise—beautiful, a druid queen. She wanted to believe that.

  He reached for her, drawing her close with his hands, with his kiss, his mouth murmuring hot words as their bodies met, bare skin to bare skin, feeling the planes of one another without any hindrance between them. She felt the heat of him, the strength and desire of him as his length pressed against her stomach, hard and insistent, a reminder of where all of this was headed: to bed. They were naked body and soul now and far past the point of no return.

  His hands cupped the undersides of her breasts, lifting them, letting the heaviness of them fill his palms as his mouth murmured promises of pleasure to come. More pleasure. The interlude on the table proved her hypothesis true. There was indeed more and Preston knew the secret to it. But that wasn’t why she was naked in his arms, letting him waltz her to the big bed. This choice she made tonight had nothing to do with curiosity satisfied and hypotheses proven. This had to do with them and only them. Hadn’t they been wondering and wanting for weeks now?

  Preston swept her up and carried her the last few feet, depositing her on the bed before following her down, his long body rising up over her, his arms bracketing her head, his sweep of dark hair falling forward over his face. She kissed him then, long and hard. But he was the master here and when he drew back, eyes open, she saw the intensity of his need for her. Reverence mixed with desire. He was burning. For her. If she hadn’t been beyond reason the sight of Preston Worth in the throes of desire would have pushed her there.

  She opened to him, relishing the feel of him settling between her legs, the caress of his open palm against her breast, the nudge of his phallus against her entrance and the way her body responded, slick and ready for him once again as he slid within. She arched, hungry for this, for him. Nothing mattered in these moments but joining him in the search for pleasure, a search that she was intuitively certain could not be reached by one person alone. She heard Preston groan in disbelieving awe as he thrust once more, his body starting the rhythmic slide and thrust of lovemaking, urging her to join him, to find him in it.

  And she did. She wrapped her legs about him, holding him close, willing him to stay deep inside her. Her hips matched his, her body matched the rhythm he set, kept that pattern as the pace began to surge towards completion, she as eager as he to reach the glorious finish. His skin was slick against hers now from exertion, his muscles straining taut in an effort to keep his weight from her, an intuitive gentleman even at the height of pleasure, even with the rest of him unleashed and exposed in the very best of ways.

  Preston’s body tightened, gathering itself for a final effort above her and she gasped out loud with the pleasure and joy of it, of seeing him so entirely undone, that she had given him this. Oh, that was happiness indeed to know she was not alone in this chance. He was there with her as they fell, pushed over pleasure’s brink together, and she clung to him as she shattered, suddenly born into an entirely new world where her rules were shattered and nothing could be the same again; Least of all her.

  * * *

  Comparisons were inevitable. Perhaps because she was a scientist at heart. Perhaps because she’d long suspected she’d been cheated in her earlier encounter with sex. Or perhaps, simply because she was human and comparison was the natural way of the mind when encountering the new and discarding the old. Even so, those comparisons were slow in coming and Beatrice was in no hurry to seek them out. This was new territory, new luxury, to lay in her lover’s arms with no expectation of movement, no need to rush, no fear of discovery.

  When they did come, they weren’t entirely the comparisons one might expect. Lovemaking with Preston so far exceeded the rudimentary experience with Alton as to not even provide grounds for fair comparison. This had been entirely different, not only in the quality of the physical engagement—there’d been no awkward lifting and shifting of clothes, no furtive coupling—but in feeling. She’d not wanted this to end, she’d wanted to hover in the space between finish and fracture, where her body yearned for the pleasure that existed just beyo
nd the finish, but wanting to hold off the fracturing that would come for as long as possible because she knew what waited for her on the other side of completion when she came down from pleasure’s hill. It waited for her now, here in the dark, while Preston dozed beside her, one arm flung over her waist in sleepy possession.

  A drowsy part of her mind pushed forward the question of what happened now. They’d indulged their passion and now they were on the other side of it. What next? Would Preston insist on being her husband now in truth? A lot of things might have changed tonight, her rules had been broken, but not that. No matter what they’d discovered in this room, she still had to give Preston up if it came to that. It was the right thing to do and she always did the right thing, even in the face of adversity.

  Her hand drifted across her belly below Preston’s arm, recalling the early days of her pregnancy when it had been possible to end it, encouraged even. She had not been able to bring herself to take the easy way out when it required taking a life even though her own life would likely be more difficult because of it. That same logic pushed to the fore now. She would not take Preston’s life even if he insisted on it. He was meant for so much more.

  He shifted beside her, moving his arm to prop himself up and look at her with eyes banked with latent desire. ‘You should sleep.’