She nodded. “Everyone who knows me.”
He kissed her nose. “They are right.”
Feeling surrounded by him, protected, she looked up at him through her lashes. “My stepmother and sisters might return soon. I don’t wish you to get caught.”
“Nyet. They won’t be home for another hour, at least. The dinner was very elaborate and there was talk of whist being played afterward.”
“You’re certain?”
“Positive. People were quite animated.”
She eyed him up and down. “I can’t believe you pleaded a headache and anyone believed it.”
“To assuage any suspicion, I hinted to my host that I had an assignation with a willing housemaid.”
“So you came to visit me . . . and nothing more?”
His gaze raked over her. “I will not pretend I don’t wish to touch you, Bronwyn. I will not pretend you haven’t been tormenting my thoughts.”
She, the most nonthreatening woman on the face of the earth, had been tormenting the thoughts of a handsome prince? She fought the desire to smile. “There are far more beautiful women out there than me. Sorcha, for instance.”
“You are beautiful in the way I like. Sorcha is not.”
“You can’t deny her beauty.”
“Why not? You are denying yours.”
She stared at him, surprised. “I . . . I suppose I was.”
“Roza, every time I look at you, I see your shining hair, your warm eyes, the light of your smile, your full breasts, your—”
“Yes, yes.” Her face felt as if it were afire, for his eyes had followed the progression of his speech. “That’s very flattering. But my stepmother has hopes you’ll notice Sorcha.”
He couldn’t have looked more uninterested. “Roza, do you not understand? This attraction we have is rare. This spark we have, it does not happen often.”
“Spark?”
His eyes darkened. “When I do this . . .” He traced a finger along her collarbone, lingering in the hollows, his skin warm against hers.
She shivered, her breasts peaking, a sigh escaping from her lips.
His arm tightened about her. “That is what happens between us. I have met your sister several times, and there is nothing between us. You cannot make a spark where none exists.”
He rested his hand on her knee, his voice warm. “Enough about your sister. We have too little time, my sweet. Far too little.”
Though there were layers of skirt and petticoats between his hand and her skin, the warmth and weight of his hand set off a reaction so strong, she nearly gasped. Her body had tightened, her skin prickled awake, and her breasts tingled as if aching for his touch. Good God, I’m lost.
He cupped her chin, turning her face toward his, then removed her spectacles and placed them on the side table. “I would see you without these.”
Humor, passion, and intelligence shone in his eyes. His jaw bespoke a strong character, while the gentleness of his hands left her aching for more. There was so much about this man that she liked. He’d called the way her body reacted to his a spark; she’d call it an out-and-out fire.
She yearned for him like a woman starved. And suddenly, looking into his eyes, she didn’t care about doing the right thing. She didn’t care about the future.
She grasped his coat, leaned up, and kissed him.
Roland, hidden in the shrubs, looked toward the noise. Lucinda was walking through the roses, her fingertips brushing the petals of the flowers. He watched as she came closer, ever closer to him and farther away from the dangers of the dark castle, her gown tugged by the playful wind, her long blond hair tossed about her face. Soon he would reveal himself to her, and watch her eyes light with love and— A crunch on the pathway made him crouch lower.
Someone else was coming. And just like that, the moment was lost.
—The Black Duke by Miss Mary Edgeworth
Alexsey’s large hands grasped her waist as he slid her into his lap without breaking the kiss, and she shivered and pressed against him.
This is it. This is what I want! Everywhere he touched, everywhere she wished him to touch, was aflame with longing and desire, answered need and unanswered yearning. She wound her arms about his neck, pressing her chest to his, trying to get closer.
His lips covered and offered, gave and took. Bronwyn shivered against him and offered herself without reservation.
Each kiss tantalized and teased, and washed away more and more of the haze the medicine held over her. His caresses grew bolder, stronger, his hands moving over her back, her hips, to her breasts—
She gasped as his thumb found her nipple even through her gown and chemise, and she pressed her breast into his hand, wanting, needing—
His kiss turned fierce, letting her know that he, too, was aflame with need. She moaned against his mouth.
He broke the kiss to nuzzle her neck, his breath harsh. “Roza, Roza,” he murmured, punctuating the words with kisses. “You feel so good. You belong in my arms.”
She opened her eyes. She belonged in his arms? No, no, no. He was supposed to feel as if he belonged in her arms. Blast it, she’d forgotten her purpose once again.
How could she switch this, turn this into her win and not his? What had she learned in her books . . . ? Oh yes.
But would that really work? There was only one way to find out. “Alexsey?”
Aching with desire, he captured her hand and kissed the palm. “Yes, my sweet?”
With her hair mussed about her face, her cheeks flushed from their kisses, and her eyes half closed, she looked like a woman who’d just been thoroughly loved. One day she will look this way because of me. Pleasure raced through him at the thought. God, he loved the feel of this woman, of her full curves, and the—
He frowned. What was she . . . was she humming?
He pulled back and looked at her.
She smiled and, with an archness at odds with her usual expression, her humming changed into a song.
She was singing to him.
He managed a smile, though it took some effort. Was this a Scottish tradition? A way to woo that he’d somehow missed? Or was she just being . . . Roza?
She must have taken his silence for approval, for she sang louder. Her voice alternated between husky sweet and painfully flat, and yet somehow it didn’t matter. She was here, in his arms, singing to him. Only to him.
He didn’t know why that mattered, but it did.
He tightened his arms about her, a fierce surge of passion thrumming in his veins. Her lips pouted over a vowel, and then pressed together to make a p, and with each movement of her soft lips, he was newly enthralled, newly charmed, more deeply stirred.
When she took a breath to begin a new stanza, he kissed her with all of the pent-up passion she’d roused. He kissed her to let her know he wanted her. To let her know he’d been thinking of her, and dreaming of her, and that this—holding her in his arms and tasting her, sent his senses reeling—
A door opened and then closed somewhere in the house and she started, breaking the kiss and staring out at the foyer.
He had to curl one of his hands into a fist to fight back the passion she’d left hanging in his soul. After a second, he could speak. “Roza?”
“I thought—” There was the sound of the door opening and closing again, followed by footsteps disappearing. She relaxed in his arms. “It is just Mrs. Pitcairn leaving for her cottage.”
Bronwyn ran a finger over his lips, her eyes bright with passion. “You . . . you liked my singing?”
“It stirred me.” With a wink, he gently bit her finger. “Too much.”
She chuckled, the sound warm against his chest. “I am glad you left the dinner early, but this is a crazed idea, Alexsey.”
“I know. But I will not go until fate forces me, or you ask me.”
She lifted her lips to his ear and whispered, “I don’t want you to go. Not yet.” With that, she slid her lips to his jaw, kissing a path to his eager mouth
.
Bozhy moj, she was so succulent and sweet. He held her to him, taking and giving, awash in waves of passion unlike any he’d ever experienced.
Bronwyn reveled in the urgency of his kisses, of his hands. Ah, this. This is what I wanted.
His hands were splayed over her back. As he kissed her, he slid one of them down to her waist and along the curve of her hip. It was such an intimate touch, shivery shards of longing danced through her. He slid his hand down her leg over her gown to her knee, then below; she could feel each of his fingers as they slid over her ankle and held it.
Through the haze caused by his kisses, she felt his hand slip up under her skirt to cup her calf. She gripped fistfuls of his coat, pressing against him.
His tongue brushed hers and she opened for him. He thrust his tongue against hers as his hand slid up over her knee, above her stocking. His palm lay flat against her naked thigh. She gasped eagerly against his mouth, opening her legs, moving restlessly, yearning for all she’d never known. Never wished for. Until now.
He held still, breaking the kiss, his breathing as ragged as hers. He rested his forehead against hers. “Bronwyn, do you—”
She grasped his wrist and tugged his hand higher, sliding his hand up her thigh, his fingers dangerously close to her core.
Breathless at her own daring, she waited, her heart pounding furiously. All of her life, she’d read about passion. Because of Alexsey, she was at this very instant living the moments that before now had only been pale, vague words upon a page.
She was really living now, tasting life, feeling the wind and the joy and the passion. She closed her eyes, her body quivering on the brink. The freedom of this moment was almost unbearable. With hands that shook with desire, she guided his hand higher, until it rested there, tucked under her gown and chemise, warm against her womanhood.
As he felt her thighs part, Alexsey clenched his teeth against a crashing wave of his own desire. She was so sweet, so passionate, so his. She was everything he’d thought she was—wildly passionate, vibrantly alive, sharing herself with him in a way that made his wild Romany blood sing with joy.
She moved restlessly against him, pressing herself into his hand. He massaged her gently, smoothing the slick folds with his palm. She moaned against his neck, writhing against his fingers, moist and swollen, ready for him.
Alexsey’s breath caught, his cock swelling in instant response. God, he wanted her with an insistence he’d never before felt. Wanted her under him, in his bed, and no one else’s.
He stroked her slowly, trailing his fingers over her, stroking her lightly at first, then with increasing pressure. She gasped, grabbing his coat, his shirt, twisting in heated need, her sweet, hot breath trailing over his jaw and sending shivers through him. He trailed his fingers again, and again, feeling the center of her desire harden against his fingers, her arousal increasing with each movement, each touch—
With a startled cry she arched against him, calling out his name as she clenched her thighs on his hand, wave after wave of passion washing through her. He crushed her to him, holding her close until her movements ceased, fighting his own desire. This moment was for her.
As her breathing stilled, he was shocked to see a single tear roll from the corner of her eye, a diamond drop against the dewy softness of her skin.
“Roza?” he asked softly.
She rested her forehead against his. “That was—” She gulped back a sob. “That was—”
He kissed her gently, his heart tight with an unnamed emotion.
Bronwyn’s mind was too abuzz to think. Her eyes wet with happiness, and her body humming. She’d never felt more alive, more complete, more herself. She snuggled closer to him.
He gave a muffled laugh that ended with a moan. “Please do not move, my Roza. This embrace has stirred me, too, and I cannot continue without—”
She waited, looking at him.
He moaned, his voice husky with desire. “I will explain it later. Ah, Roza, what you do to me. No one has ever tied me in such knots.”
“Never?”
“Never,” he declared, his breathing slowing slightly.
Deeply happy, wrapped in his arms, she felt . . . treasured. And yet, she couldn’t keep a small thought from creeping into her cocoon. Where does this end? And how? Desperate to think about something else, she asked, “Do you enjoy being a prince, Alexsey?”
He looked surprised. “No one has ever asked me that. I suppose I do, as much as I can.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Do you enjoy being a daughter? A sister? We are what we are; we do what must be done. And if it is what we’ve known since we were children, then we do not imagine other ways or lives.”
She eyed him curiously. “But you do imagine other things. I know it.”
He gave a reluctant smile. “Sometimes I do. But never for long.”
She sighed, thinking of her own life, of how they all worked to reach their goals—Papa’s patents and Sorcha’s season. “All we can do is the best we can do.”
“Now you sound like a Gypsy. My grandmother would be proud.”
“I wish I really were a Gypsy, and you really a huntsman.” It was such a lovely fantasy, better than any book. But it was just that—a fantasy. She sighed.
His eyes were half closed as he watched her, a pleased smile on his lips. Who had won that round? He’d certainly taken her much farther down the path of seduction; her body still trembled with aftershocks.
But she also saw a warmth in his gaze that was more . . . intimate. Then I made some inroads, too. “Alexsey, do you think—”
The sound of a carriage arose outside, the jangle of a bridle and the crunch of wheels.
Bronwyn sat upright. “Oh no! My stepmother and sisters!” She was on her feet in a trice. “You said they wouldn’t be back for hours!”
“So I thought.” With a great sigh, Alexsey stood. “I must go.”
“But they will see your horse and know you’ve been here!”
“Do not worry; I tied the horse to the side of the drive. They will not see it in the dark.” He bent and kissed her soundly. “I will go out the window.” He swiftly pulled on his coat.
Outside, Bronwyn heard the coachman’s voice and the opening of the carriage door. “Hurry!” she whispered.
He collected his hat and then bent to kiss her one last time, sweetly and insistently.
Despite the danger, she clung to him.
The sound of the carriage door closing made her release him. “Go!”
“I will see you soon, little one.”
As he went to the window, she headed to the sitting room door, shutting it behind her and reaching the foyer just as her family entered.
“How are you feeling?” her mama asked.
“Much better, thank you. How was the dinner?”
Sorcha, rosy-cheeked from the wind, untied her bonnet. “Oh, Bronwyn, I’ve never seen such wondrous food!”
“There were courses and courses and courses,” Mairi said. “And the desserts—” She kissed her fingers to the air the way their French tutor did whenever he was pleased with something.
Bronwyn laughed and helped them remove their pelisses. “Tell me all about it, for I couldn’t help but think of your wonderful dinner when I wasn’t napping.”
“It was lovely,” Sorcha said, her eyes sparkling. “The dining hall was decorated with pine boughs and it smelled heavenly.”
“But Sorcha was forced to sit next to Viscount Strathmoor at dinner,” Mairi said.
“That was unfortunate,” Mama agreed, hanging her pelisse on a coat hook.
Bronwyn led the way into the sitting room, glancing at the windows, which were all closed. “Was Strathmoor rude?”
Sorcha made a face as she sank onto the settee. “He only spoke to me twice all through dinner, leaving me completely to the gentleman to my left, horrid Mr. MacInnis.”
“Who is a thousand years old and can’t hear.” Mairi snic
kered. “Sorcha had to yell for him to hear her.”
“He says the most inappropriate things, too,” Sorcha said in a huffy tone. “He told me he liked ‘younger women’ like me, and he spent the entire dinner leering at me in a very disgraceful way.”
Bronwyn shook her head. “A pity. I hope the two things Lord Strathmoor said to you during dinner were pleasant?”
“No. First he asked for the salt dish. Then, before the men retired for port, he told me he’d had the pleasantest dinner conversation of his life.” Sorcha’s lips thinned.
Mama sniffed. “He’s not worth your time and he knows it.”
“The prince spoke to Sorcha,” Mairi added.
“He was most kind,” Sorcha said. “He asked about you, Bronwyn, and said he hoped you would feel better soon. Then he told me which of the dishes he’d enjoyed most and asked me the same.” She absently smoothed out a pillow on the settee.
He is kind. And passionate, too. The thought made her face warm.
“It’s a pity he didn’t stay after dinner,” Mama said, a dissatisfied look in her eyes.
“Oh. Where did he go?” A flutter of happiness arose despite her attempts to quell it.
“His grandmother said he had a headache,” Sorcha said. “She seemed quite unhappy with him about it, although how he could avoid a headache, I don’t know.”
“Her Grace talked to Sorcha, too,” Mairi said from the fireplace, turning so her back now benefited from the warmth. “For nigh on a half hour.”
With obvious satisfaction, Mama said, “Her Grace was quite kind to Sorcha.”
“Yes, but I felt like a horse at auction. She kept looking at me, as if she wished to pinch me and see if I were healthy enough.”
Mairi chortled. “I thought the same thing! I expected her to ask to see your teeth.”
“I believe Her Grace is a Romany,” Bronwyn said. “Perhaps that explains her behavior.”
Mairi said, “She makes me shiver! When I laughed aloud, the look she sent me—I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up and find myself turned into a toad!”
The Prince Who Loved Me (The Oxenburg Princes) Page 17
