The Earl's Perfect Match (Sebastiano series)

by Nee, Kimberly

  He tightened his hold on her, both arms wrapped about her now as if he was afraid she’d disappear. As he lay back, he drew her atop him, her body flush with his. Prone, they aligned perfectly. Hip to hip. Chest to chest. Her breasts—those firm, wonderful mounds—brought a groan to his lips.

  She kissed him with abandon, her lips parting to welcome him, to bid him entry into the sensuous wet heat of her mouth. Her hair, that wild fall of black gossamer, spilled around them, and he brought up a hand to bury it deep in the waves. Soft as silk, smelling sweetly of what he’d come to think of as the islands, and inflaming his senses beyond all reasonable capacity. Dear God, he wanted her, wanted her with a fury that bordered on maniacal. His body responded, straining against fabric to seek her out, and he knew she felt it when she shivered against him.

  Her mouth opened wider, her tongue teasing as it caressed his with a heady fire. He twisted his fingers in her hair, not too tightly, but enough to hold her in place so he could thoroughly explore every sweet bit of her.

  Dew dampened his back, but not his ardor, and it was all he could do to not flip her onto her back and pin her beneath him. His body begged for him to do so. His desire urged him into it. And when her hand, curious and hesitant, slid down over that aching part of him, he arched into her touch.

  Her caress became bolder, her hand curving to meld to him. The relief she offered wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, and his hips rocked to meet her again, and again, desperate to seek her out.

  “Elena…” He couldn’t hold in the heavy whispered moan. He had to touch her, had to curve his own hands against her. His left hand slipped from her hair, caressing her neck as he grazed down over bared skin, and he caught her gasp as he cupped her right breast. It was her turn to arch, pressing her breast deeper into his hand, and when his thumb slid over the tiny bead of her nipple, they shivered as one.

  She caught the falls of his breeches, but at the first pop of the top button, he reached down to catch her by the wrist and halt her, whispering, “We shouldn’t do this.”

  “Why?”

  Her voice, so breathless, was as much a caress as anything else, but his head slowly stopped spinning, and reality returned. His body screamed its disappointment at him, but he had to stop before it got out of hand.

  “Because”—his voice sounded odd to him, thick and husky—“we can’t.”

  “But I thought…” Her words trailed off, and when she gazed down at him, the confusion in her eyes sent a pang of regret coursing through him.

  “I beg your pardon, Elena. Truly, I do. But you would hate me come the morning, as I hate myself now.” He gently untangled them from one another and helped her to her feet. With a grimace, he bent to brush off any debris that might have clung to her gown.

  “My lord?”

  Her whisper sliced through his fog, jerked him back to the moment, and he cleared his throat. “We should go in.”

  “I don’t understand.” Her forehead creased even as she allowed him to clasp her by the hand and draw her up beside him. “I thought you wanted—”

  “I do want, but what I want is immaterial. What matters is what I need to do and I’ve made my position clear, or so I thought.”

  “You wish to marry someone you don’t care for.”

  “No,” he said, his stride brisk as he steered her from the maze without once making a wrong turn. “I wish to marry someone who would never care for me.”

  “That’s silly.” His arm was jerked behind him, wrenching his shoulder with a sharp burst of pain, as she dug in her heels and stopped dead.

  He winced, rubbing his shoulder with his free hand. Unspent desire mingled with the frustration of not being able to have the one thing he wanted had him aggravated to the point of snapping without thinking, “I don’t expect you to understand. You know nothing of these things, Miss Sebastiano. Tradition. Lineage. Bloodline. They mean nothing to you.”

  “No, they mean something, but I don’t let them rule my life.”

  “You have no need to allow them to rule. I, on the other hand, have no choice.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in curses?” she asked, hands balled into fists, resting on her hips. “Isn’t that what you told me?”

  “That doesn’t mean I can shirk my duties.” How did he make her understand? She was a woman. If she didn’t marry, it wasn’t her family that would die out. And from the sounds of it, titles and the like meant little on her small island home in the West Indies. She was free to do as she wished, just like the rest of her family.

  And the rest of his, as well. They were all free to live their lives however they wished and marry as they wanted. There was no fool cloud hanging over any of that lot. He scowled, his chest growing tighter with the indignity and unfairness of it all. “And I hardly expect you to understand that.”

  “And why not? Do you honestly think we are all such savages that we know nothing about these things? You might be surprised if you came to St. Phillippe. Not only do we understand the ideas of duty and responsibility, but we even understand the little things. Why, just this last year, we discovered clothes to replace our loincloths, and learned some table manners to boot!”

  Her eyes flashed as her voice rose, and Bennett wanted to kick himself for starting the argument in the first place. To make matters worse, he couldn’t stop himself from snapping, “It must have been a grand discovery indeed, because one would never know it from the way you appeared at dinner this eve!”

  She sucked in a painful gasp, her eyes as round as plates. At once, every bit of aggravation, of frustration, drained away in a hot rush of shame. What the hell was wrong with him? How stupid was he? She stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. Her lips clamped together until they were almost invisible, and hurt filled her eyes.

  “Elena, I—”

  “I apologize, Lord Dunning.” Her voice was crisp as she held up a hand. “I know I’ve reflected badly upon your home and name, and I promise I will try my best to crush my savage urges. The last thing I should wish to do is embarrass you further.”

  He reached for her, but she was too quick, stumbling but regaining her footing almost immediately. “I beg your pardon, of course, and I bid you a good evening.”

  She calmly stepped around him and then stormed off, shoulders square, head high. He stared after her, long past the time when she vanished from sight and a door slammed in the distance.

  “Bloody hell!” He had a special talent for mucking things up, or so it seemed. Only this time, he hurt the one person he’d come to never, ever wish to hurt. He wanted to go after her, to take her in his arms and apologize, to kiss her breathless if that’s what it took to convince her he was sorry for being so cruel, for taking his frustration out on her.

  But, if he did go after her, it would only make matters worse. His situation hadn’t changed. One night wouldn’t be enough. He’d want more. He’d want the rest of her life, the rest of his life—and that simply wouldn’t be long enough. Better she hurt now than grieve later.

  She was not for him. He was not for her. The sooner he accepted both, the happier they’d both be.

  Accepting it and believing it were two completely different things.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The thing about fury was it didn’t wait for the proper moment to emerge. Instead, it dropped down over Bennett, enveloped him in a red haze, and set forth an overwhelming urge to explode the moment he returned to the ballroom and his gaze fell upon Huxley. His hands balled into tight fists, tension corded the muscles along his shoulders, up into his neck, and when that door slammed in the distance, it propelled him forward.

  He barely saw the rest of his guests. Barely heard them. They all faded into the woodwork, into the recesses of the ballroom as he caught sight of both brothers at the bar in the far corner, drinking and laughing, and Bennett paid little heed to the stares as he shoved his way through the dancers. With a sudden screech of a bow across violin strings, the music came to
an abrupt halt. But all Bennett saw was the two men who at once became the objects of his fury.

  “How dare you?” he sputtered, marching up to Huxley to grab a handful of his shirtfront. “How dare you?”

  The glass fell from Huxley’s grasp to explode against the parquet tiles, splashing spirits in all directions. “What the deuce are you about, Dunning?”

  “Think it funny, do you? Amusing, to paw one of my guests? She’s not some dockside trollop, you bloody idiot! What in hell’s name were you thinking?”

  “She didn’t seem to mind when I pulled her close, so I saw no harm in—”

  That was as far as he got before Bennett gave into animal instinct and buried his fist in Huxley’s gloating face. One of the ladies shrieked—he didn’t see whom—as blood spattered from Huxley’s mashed nose.

  “Dunning, have you gone mad?” Huxley spat, clutching his nose with both hands. “I think you’ve broken it!”

  “It’s only a pity I didn’t break your bloody fool head to go with it,” Bennett growled, biting back a wince as he flexed his left hand. It was already sore. Come morning, he probably wouldn’t be able to move it. There were several cuts on the backs of his fingers—from Huxley’s teeth, most likely.

  He never saw the blow coming, but the inside of his skull lit up like fireworks and he staggered back, going to one knee as bells clanged obnoxiously in his ears. He didn’t know who hit him, but in a flash, Shelton threw himself into the fray and Mr. Angsley crumpled in a heap not too far from Bennett.

  Bennett didn’t wait for the bells to fade before heaving himself up and at Huxley. He caught the viscount in the midsection and their momentum carried them halfway into the dance floor, which was now empty of dancers and full of spectators. The red haze before his eyes grew thicker and mistier, and he had no idea how many blows he landed before someone—Shelton, most likely—dragged him off and away from Huxley, who lay battered and bruised and still spitting venom like a snake that refused to die.

  “I want him out of here. Now!” Bennett thundered, pointing at Huxley and then at Angsley. “Both of them.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Matthews appeared, along with several footmen, who none-too-gently grasped each Angsley by a wrist and marched them from the ballroom.

  Shelton caught Bennett beneath one arm to steady him and guided him toward a chair along the perimeter of the parquet floor. “What the devil was that about, Dunning? I don’t remember the last time I saw you pop off that way.”

  Bennett jerked away from him. “I’m going to bed,” he said, not caring how rude it was or how many stares fell on him. He had to put as much distance between himself and the ballroom as possible. “Tell Matthews that under no circumstances are either of those men to set foot on the property again. Shoot them if you must.”

  Shelton offered up a knowing grin. “Of course.”

  “Good evening.” Bennett managed to hold off limping until he was out of the ballroom. Then his right knee, which had borne the brunt of his weight when he and Huxley had fallen, complained loudly and he favored it the rest of the way above.

  …

  A more restless night never existed. Every time Bennett closed his eyes, Elena’s face floated before him. He couldn’t sleep. Desire warred with pain, and both kept him wide awake, staring up at the canopy. For the first time, he realized just how big his bed was.

  How empty it felt.

  No woman ever shared it. None had seen the inside of this room. He never brought a woman home to Dunning Court, preferring his townhouse in London for such assignations, which were rare these days. Even then, he seldom had anyone stay the night. He couldn’t imagine something as intimate as sharing sleeping space.

  At least not until now.

  His wife would expect to share his bed. At least, she would until a child was conceived. Then he imagined she would likely move into the adjoining room, which was cozier and warmer in the winter months. Once that happened, he’d most likely move to his London residence—no matter how he’d prefer to not live there. But when he thought about Elena, the way she’d felt, her body tight against his…

  If she was his wife, he couldn’t imagine not having her within reach. Couldn’t imagine ever leaving her. But he would leave her. That was the whole trouble.

  Damn. Was she a witch? Had she cast some sort of spell over him? Six weeks ago, when she and Claudia and the rest of their lot arrived, he hardly paid her any mind.

  But he had noticed her.

  He had most definitely noticed her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elena rolled over and squinted at the clock on the mantelpiece. Not quite eight o’clock. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d passed such a restless evening. To make matters worse, she didn’t know with whom she was more furious—Lord Dunning for his callous remark or herself for not convincing him right then and there that he was being silly with his bridal requirements.

  He wanted her. Even before he kissed her, even before she felt his desire for herself, she’d known it. She had read it in every line, every angle of his face, in the way his eyes dilated until they seemed to be all pupil, in the way his breath hitched when he pressed her hand firmly into his chest and she murmured his name.

  She wanted him as well. More than she’d ever wanted any man. Not that there had been many before him.

  Last evening, as she’d held his gaze, she knew he had to feel the crackle between them. She certainly hadn’t imagined the way his thumb brushed along hers. It had sent a wonderful shiver rippling through her. And that was only a thumb. Then he’d kissed her, and it had been every bit as wonderful as she’d imagined it would be. The only thing more wonderful was the feeling of his hand when it had curved about her breast.

  When she had felt his desire, felt his raw reaction to her touch, she’d known it would only be a matter of time before he was reaching for the cord of her corset. Anticipation had tingled through her. He would be her first. He would be her only.

  Then he had stopped.

  Now she’d never know what happened next.

  Damn.

  With an irritated sigh, she kicked off the blankets and swung her legs off the mattress. The bare floor was cool, but not uncomfortable, and she frowned as she neared the mirror above the washstand. Black smudges marred the skin around her eyes. Kohl.

  “If curses did exist, I’d put one on you in a heartbeat, Lady Rosamund Brookstone,” she muttered to her reflection, and trudged out to retrieve the ewer of water left outside her door.

  She poured some into the china basin accented with small red and yellow rosebuds, and then cupped a handful to splash on her face. It did little to revive her, but after a few splashes, the last remnants of kohl were gone, washed away into the past and patted dry with a scratchy towel.

  The bellpull hung in the corner just beyond the top bedpost, and she padded over to give it a tug. Within minutes, a maid was there to help her dress and comb her hair, and to frown when Elena insisted on a simple braid.

  “I’m supposed to be going riding and I don’t want it all in my face.”

  “Yes, Miss Sebastiano.” The maid bobbed her head and scurried from the room. With a grumbled sigh, Elena returned to her dressing table and wound the braid herself.

  The mirror glass was flawed, her face having a slight ripple right through the middle, but that wasn’t why she stuck her tongue out at the woman staring at her. No, she was irritated at the woman in the glass because she had to find herself attracted to the one man who didn’t want her in return. Or it wasn’t that he didn’t want her, but that he wouldn’t act upon wanting her, which was just as frustrating. She liked the way she felt when she was with Lord Dunning, liked the way her belly churned and her heart beat faster whenever she looked at him. Those feelings were so…delicious…and no one else ever made her feel them before.

  That was the worst part. It was so much easier when she thought he was nothing more than a pale, stuffy, stone-faced lord. Then she hadn’t heard his lo
w, rumbling laugh, or seen how his eyes brightened when he explained Ascot to her. It was all so much easier before she’d felt his lips, his hands on her body. Now, he was no longer Lord Stoneface. He was a man. A warm, witty, charming, considerate, kind man.

  A man who made her stomach churn in the best way, who made her heart skip a beat when she so much as caught a glimpse of him across the crowded dining table. She rather liked the way her belly churned and the way her heart skipped that beat. Those feelings were quite delicious and she savored them. But he would marry Lady Rosamund, who could never love him nearly as much as she would love her countess’s coronet, who thought nothing of embarrassing another person for a laugh at their expense.

  Who would be the one he would take to bed, where he would do all sorts of wonderful, magical things to her. And with her.

  She sighed, propping her chin on her fist as she stared at her rippled self. She knew they’d be wonderful, magical things, because she had a sister and sisters-in-law who defied custom and had made sure to fill Elena in on every little question she had. According to Aidrian’s wife, Vanessa, her toes would curl. Rafe’s wife, Katie, liked to add that her eyes would probably cross, which didn’t sound all that pleasant, but according to Katie, it gave pleasure a whole new meaning. Even Claudia and Serena weren’t shy, telling her that kissing was only the beginning, and there were plenty of other parts that could be kissed aside from lips.

  That came as a bit of shock to her, but she had to admit she was curious about this and when she said as much to Claudia, Claudia had been quick to inform her that, although it began awkwardly, she was pretty sure the earth actually moved when she allowed Galen to—

  Elena shuddered. One should never imagine one’s brothers, or sisters, in-law or otherwise, in such situations. Still, the thought of feeling the earth move was an intriguing one. Would Bennett make the earth move for her? Did that happen for everyone or was it something bordering on magical? And how would she know? Of course, it seemed to her that if she had to ask, chances were, it didn’t. And if that was true, could she learn to make it happen?