by James, Syrie
“Ask away.”
“You implied that only a woman could have written this novel. Let us suppose that the author was a member of the nobility—maybe even a duchess—what would you think then?”
He chuckled, as if he could see where this was going. “I would think the duke in question had a very talented wife.”
“You wouldn’t think it scandalous that a duchess had written a novel?”
“Hardly.”
Madeleine let go a long sigh. Here was further proof of the connection they shared, and why this man had become so dear to her.
Saunders sat back in his chair. “Let me guess. You ask because you are worried what Oakley might think, when he discovers what you have written?”
“Oh, my worries on that count are over. Lord Oakley knows all about it. Last night, he shared his opinion on the subject.”
“Last night? But how? I thought he was out of the country.”
“He returned from Europe quite unexpectedly in the company of my mother, who had apparently told him I was ready to accept his proposal.”
Saunders’s mouth dropped opened in surprise. He closed it again. “And . . . did you?”
“I found I could not.”
He nodded slowly. Madeleine thought she detected relief in his eyes. Even though that made no sense at all. He was marrying Sophie. Why should he care who she did or didn’t marry?
“May I ask why not?” he asked softly.
Madeleine stared down at her hands where they gripped the blanket. Because I don’t love him, she wanted to say. Because I love you. But how could she tell him that? It would only make him feel guilty, or prompt a rash of explanations as to why it could not be. “For a variety of reasons,” she said finally, “one of which was his clear declaration that he wouldn’t countenance a wife who wrote novels. Such an indulgence, as he called it, would not do for a future duchess.”
“I am sorry.” Saunders turned to her as he said it.
Their chairs were so close that his thigh inadvertently bumped against hers. Despite the layers of blanket and clothing separating them, that touch sent a jolt careening through Madeleine’s body. He must have felt it, too, because that distracted look returned to his face and he cautiously moved his leg aside.
Madeleine’s heart began to race in tempo with the beat of the rain on the stones outside. She stared at the empty space that now existed in between where their thighs had touched, wishing she would could feel the weight of his hard limb against hers once more.
If she were honest, Madeleine wished she could feel far more than just the pressure of his thigh. She wished he would stand and pull her into his arms, that she could once again feel the length of his body pressed against hers. That he would kiss her again. Only this time, she wanted more than kissing.
She wanted him to free her from all the clothing that stood between them. She wanted to feel his hands and mouth on her breasts, on every part of her body, until this feeling of wanting inside her was sated at last.
She loved this man. She couldn’t marry him, but that didn’t stop her from loving him. And wanting him. She knew it was wrong to want him. But she wanted him all the same. Just this once. No one will ever have to know.
“Oakley is a fool,” Saunders was saying.
“I don’t think him a fool.” Madeleine swallowed hard and raised her eyes to his. “He’s just not the right man for me.”
Charles caught his breath as three thoughts crossed his mind.
One: Oakley was a fool. He didn’t know what he had with this woman. It wasn’t just her beautiful face and perfect body. It was her mind and her spirit. She was, in every way, extraordinary. Oakley had lost a rare gem.
Two: She was free of obligation to Oakley.
Three: She wanted him.
In the blue depths of her eyes as she looked at him now, Charles read undisguised emotion. A powerful blend of affection and desire that made his heart skitter like a jackrabbit, and that part of his body which he’d been struggling so desperately to keep in check to once more rise up at attention.
He knew, from the heat of her response during kisses they’d shared in the past, that she was just as attracted to him as he was to her. She’d told him so that night in the kitchen. I feel the same way about you. But he had explained the way things stood. They had agreed that they should never act on those impulses again. They had made a pact.
Damn that despicable pact. He wished he had never agreed to it. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to kiss her again. More than kiss her. He wanted to carry her up to his bed and make love to her.
Don’t even think about it, a voice warned. You can’t, and you know it.
He repeated that mantra silently to himself, trying to drum up the will to stand up, cross the room, and put some distance between them.
But there was no ignoring that look in her eyes. She wanted him, too.
And before he could act, she leaned in and pressed her mouth to his.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Charles responded with a slight intake of breath. Then, unable to help himself, his hands rose to cup her face and he was returning the kiss with feeling.
Both blankets fell to the floor. They stood in unison and Charles enveloped her in his embrace, one hand cradling her head, his other hand sweeping along the slope of her back and curves. This was wrong, so wrong, but she was luscious, he was on fire, and there was no resisting her. Her lips opened willingly, her tongue meeting and caressing his own. Dear Lord, she tasted so sweet.
Her hands were on his shoulders now and he drew her more tightly to him, pressing her softness against his hardness. She let out a small gasp—no doubt she’d felt the evidence of his arousal. But he wasn’t going to hide it. How could he? He was only growing longer and harder with every kiss.
He kissed his way across her cheek, then down past her chin. The high collar of her blouse impeded further progress. He made quick work of the top few buttons of the garment, opening it to gain access to her throat. As he pressed a shower of kisses against the tender skin at the side of her neck, her body pulsed and trembled and he heard her breathing hitch. God, she was so responsive, it excited him even more.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, a voice was struggling for attention, feebly bleating out What are you doing? Have you forgotten—But he ignored it.
Her breasts were pressed tantalizingly against him. Charles brought up a hand between their bodies to cup one soft globe, massaging it through the layers of her clothing. She let out a small moan of pleasure against his lips as he continued the motion, his thumb finding the rise of her nipple beneath her blouse and corset. His mouth moved lower still, down from her throat to press kisses against the creamy expanse of flesh at the top of her chest. Damn all this clothing.
Her blouse was still damp but only semitransparent now. He wanted to see her. All of her. Charles undid a few more buttons, exposing her corset and chemise and the upper swell of her breasts, just inches from his view. He wanted those breasts in his mouth.
With the weight of his hand, he pushed one breast up until its rosy peak was visible above her corset and chemise. Her areola was pink and round and perfect, her nipple a soft temptation just waiting for his tongue. Dipping his head, he lapped at the luscious point until it hardened. She let out a gasp, arching against him, her body pressing against his erection, eliciting an answering gasp from him. His heart was hammering now and he gently rubbed himself against her, but that primal motion served to increase his arousal to such a dangerous level, he had to stop.
Forcing his lower body to remain still, Charles concentrated on the breast in his mouth, then moved to her other breast to give it the same attention, licking and suckling her and reveling in the sensations that danced inside his body, knowing from the guttural sounds that escaped her throat that she was riding a similar wave of feeling. He was breathing hard now and so was she, almost as if his touch was giving her more pleasure than she could bear.
He knew that he sh
ould stop this now, before things got entirely out of hand. That tiny voice was nagging at him now: Are you out of your mind? This is Miss Atherton. Stop stop stop. But he couldn’t stop. Not yet. There was so much more pleasure to be had. He didn’t know how far she was willing to go, was afraid to speak, afraid to break the spell.
One hand slid down the length of her torso and stopped just above the juncture of her legs, waiting to see her response. Charles felt her stiffen slightly, and he thought she was going to call things off right there. But she didn’t.
Through the fabric of her trousers, he pressed his hand lower still, until it rested against the most intimate part of her, an action he had only performed with her in his dreams. With a rhythmic motion, he moved his fingers against her, feeling for that spot which he knew would give her the most pleasure. She moaned again, more deeply now as he continued his ministrations. Her head fell back and he felt her begin to sink in his arms, as if she couldn’t support herself any longer.
“Wait,” she said huskily.
This was the moment she would to tell him to stop. But she did no such thing. Instead, she gazed up at him with a look heavy with meaning and said, “Can we do this . . . more than this . . . without me conceiving a child?”
Charles paused, his heart pounding. The question reminded him of what he’d refused to acknowledge in the heat of the moment. She was a virgin. She had no idea what she was getting herself into. And he had no business doing this with her. What on earth was he thinking?
He hadn’t been thinking, that was the problem.
He exhaled a long breath. “Yes, we could,” he replied softly. “But that doesn’t mean we should.” With regret, he released her and stepped back.
“What if I want to?” She undid the few remaining buttons on her blouse.
“Don’t.”
It was too late. She slipped out of her blouse and let it drop to the floor, standing before him in her trousers, corset, and chemise. Her eyes were dusky as she wrapped her arms around him, then kissed him again.
Charles’s body stiffened slightly as, all at once, he was overcome by a strange sense of déjà vu. Unaccountably, the image of another woman and another time and place infiltrated his brain: the night he had spent with Elise Townsend. Why was he thinking about Elise Townsend? He banished the notion, only to have it replaced by that damnable voice chanting No no no.
This is a bad idea, he reminded himself. For so many reasons. But his thoughts began to scatter as the woman in his arms pressed her delectable breasts against his chest, and her lower body molded against that part of him that was hot, hard, and aching.
Who was he to turn down what was so willingly given? She was a grown woman. And he was no saint.
Charles melted into the kiss, overwhelmed by the need to get his hands on her naked body, to thrust into her sex, to feel her wet heat wrapping around him, until he satiated the burning desire that had been building inside him for weeks.
“Are you sure?” he asked quietly against her lips.
“I’m sure.”
Without further deliberation, Charles lifted her in his arms and carried her up the stairs to the loft.
Madeleine felt like a bride being carried across the threshold. There had been no wedding. There never would be with him. But she loved him as dearly as any bride had ever loved her husband. And she wanted this, wanted to know what it felt like to make love to a man whom she loved with all her mind and heart and soul.
When they reached the loft, he set her gently on her feet and kissed her again, a long, lovely melding of lips and tongues that hinted at the union to come. He spun her slowly in his arms and began unlacing her corset, all the while pressing kisses up and down the side of her neck from behind, kisses that sent tremors up and down the length of her body and made her feel weak in the knees. She’d never realized that the skin at her throat could be so sensitive, or produce such a feeling of wanting.
When her corset was undone, he flung it aside and tugged at the hem of her thin chemise. Madeleine raised her arms above her head and allowed him to remove this last vestige of clothing from her upper body. With her breasts now free, she felt a moment of shyness and an urge to cover them with her arms, an impulse she resisted. He had just been suckling those breasts in his mouth, and oh, it had felt so wonderful, she wanted more of the same.
Turning her again to face him, he stopped to stare at her breasts. With a slow smile and glittering eyes, he said, “You are so beautiful.”
The heated look in his gaze matched the glow that lit her own body like a wildfire. Her gaze drifted down, past his sculpted chest to the spot below his waist, where the evidence of his desire thrust against his trousers like a bolt of steel. The sight made her mouth go dry, as she tried to imagine that appendage fitting inside her. Yet she wanted it, yearned to experience that intimate connection with him.
His hands moved toward the waistband of Madeleine’s trousers but she got there first, unbuttoned and slid them down, then stepped out of them. She wore nothing underneath, and again had to fight the urge to cover herself. Her cheeks grew hot as she removed her stockings, and then stood entirely naked to his view.
He said nothing, but the glimmer in his eyes told her that he very much liked what he saw.
He took her in his embrace again, his hands running up and down her back and buttocks, as her own hands smoothed along the muscles of his back. Pressing her against him, he kissed her hair, her forehead, her cheeks, and then reclaimed her mouth. She gasped at the feel of his hard manhood encased between them through the fabric of his trousers, anxious now for him to remove the last barrier that stood between them.
He broke the kiss, both of them breathing hard as he drew back the covers on the bed and gently maneuvered her down to sit down beside him.
Quickly divesting himself of his boots and stockings, he stood to remove his trousers and smalls in one downward swoop. His erect manhood sprang free, and he turned to stand before her in perfect nudity. The sight made her breath catch and heart beat to a new cadence. She’d never seen a naked man before and the sight fascinated her. He was beautiful. Her fingers ached to touch him. Everywhere.
He tumbled her back onto the bed and stretched out beside her, gathering her in his arms. And then they were kissing again, their naked bodies pressed together like two pieces of a puzzle, as if they were made to fit this way, mouths and tongues entwined, hands and arms everywhere. He moved down to pay tribute to her breasts again.
“Your breasts are so perfect,” he said, his voice low and deep.
She moaned in ecstasy as his mouth and tongue sent titillating electric shocks zinging through her body, resonating in her feminine core. I love you. I love you. I love you, she wanted to say. The admission rang in her mind and heart, even though she couldn’t utter the words aloud. She knew he’d never say those words to her, but it didn’t matter. The tenderness she felt in his every touch and the adoration in his gaze spoke of feelings she knew he possessed but couldn’t voice. Being with him this way now, today, even knowing it could never happen again, was enough. It would have to be enough.
His hand moved lower to recapture a place he had touched before, the V of the curls between her legs. Except now there was no clothing between her body and the fingers that were working some kind of indescribable magic against her flesh, and evoking such wondrous sensations.
“My God,” she heard herself murmur.
He had found a sensitive spot she didn’t even know she had. She was wet there, so incredibly wet. She guessed what it must mean: that her body was readying itself for him, and for something else as well. She didn’t know what.
It was as if her body were mounting toward a precipice, as if every nerve she possessed were centered at that one spot deep within her. Madeleine’s mind reeled. Her breath was coming in ragged pants as the core of her femininity began to throb, and then she gasped and felt herself stiffen. A bolt of lightning shot through her body, her head tossed back and forth, and trem
ors pulsed through her legs as a burst of exquisite pleasure continued and continued, until she thought she might die from feeling.
“Oh,” she murmured as slowly, gradually, the pulsing dissipated and her mind and body came down from heaven. “I had no idea. . . .”
She felt and heard his low chuckle vibrate against her as he kissed her mouth, then raised his head to gaze at her. “Did you like that?” His breath was warm and sweet against her lips.
“Yes.” All the ecstasy she’d just experienced was encompassed in that single syllable. She felt spent, dazed, sated. At the same time, she was hazily eager, because she knew this was not yet over. His steely manhood was pressing against her thigh, reminding her that he had yet to be satisfied.
She wanted to touch him. Boldly, she took hold of his member. He inhaled sharply, then covered her hand with his own and showed her how to please him with upward and downward strokes. Soon, eyes glittering, he stopped her hand and slid on top of her, until she felt the hard length of him resting against the part of her that was hot and wet and waiting.
“Madeleine,” he said huskily.
It was the first time he’d called her by her given name. She loved the way it sounded on his lips.
“Charles,” she murmured in response.
With infinite slowness, he moved up and back along her feminine folds, his breath growing increasingly ragged. “I love the way you feel.”
She loved the way he felt, and the way he was making her feel, but was too replete in sensation for words. He paused just outside her entrance. She was ready for this. She wanted him inside her, craved the completion of their union.
But suddenly his arms and shoulders tensed. Struggling to control his respiration, he rose up slightly and gazed down at her, doubt in his eyes. “Madeleine,” he began again.
Madeleine raised a finger to his lips. “If you say pineapple, I will never forgive you.”
A low chuckle escaped him. Then he said more soberly, “I don’t want to take your virginity, love. I cannot. I should have stopped long before this.”
