by Sara Ramsey
“Close the door before someone sees you,” she said.
There was paper everywhere — the bed, the floor, her tiny desk, her even smaller dressing table, and both chairs. The only space that was clear was the three feet around the hearth, a small pool of carpet around her feet, and scraps of empty table between her notes and the candelabra she’d set throughout the room.
“It does not matter if someone sees me, you know.” He shut the door anyway, not wanting an audience for this. “You’re safe from my marital depredations.”
He hadn’t been able to say it as a jest, and she didn’t take it as one. “I don’t wish to marry Thorington. I never wished to.”
She looked so sad, suddenly, even though she’d seemed full of purpose moments before. He wanted to pull her into his arms, but she wasn’t his to comfort.
But Thorington would never comfort her either. He knew it instinctively, not because he was jealous, not because he hated his former friend, but because he knew how marriages in the ton usually worked.
He reached her in three long strides, trying to find safe passage through the paper moat she’d created. “It will come out all right,” he said, wrapping her up in his embrace. “We will find a way to make it so.”
She let him hold her for a moment, but only for a moment. Then she pushed him away. “You are still cursed, is that right?” she asked.
He nodded. “There is no need to be afraid, though.”
Prudence tilted her head. “So your studies still matter more than I do?”
He stepped back, ignoring the rustle of paper under his feet. “I want you to matter more.”
“Prevarication,” she said briskly. “They either do, or they do not.”
“I cannot let you matter more,” he said, clenching his jaw to stop himself from saying what was in his heart.
“Then that is a no, which means I am safe.”
There was a dangerous light in her eyes. She was in her nightrail, with a robe over it, but she seemed comfortable with him there.
More than comfortable. She started gathering papers up from her bed.
His eyes narrowed. He was supposed to be there to convince her to wait for him, but she already seemed convinced of something else. “What are you doing?”
“I am being brave.”
“Prudence,” he said, in a voice that was half the warning he meant to give her and half the plea his heart made for her.
She turned. “Do you know, I hate my name?” she said, startling him as she dropped an arm full of papers on the floor. They made a little cloud around her feet before subsiding, a soft reaction to the violence in her voice. “As though everyone who knows me can constantly remind me to be rational. When all I want, really, is to live.”
She said it so fiercely that his heart broke for her. “But you do live, darling.” He called her by the name he wanted to give her, rather than the name she claimed to hate. “You live like a flame in the darkness. You burn even though the odds are against you. If you knew, these past years, how jealous I was of your will to live, you would never doubt yourself again.”
He’d never meant to tell her that. But it still irritated him when she waved his compliment aside, as though she didn’t recognize how serious he was. “I might as well have gone to a convent, for all the good my bravery did me.”
She turned back to the bed to gather more papers, but he reached around her and swept the rest of them onto the floor himself.
“You do not belong in a convent,” he said.
Then he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled them both onto the bed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
If anyone knew how her heart sped up and her body warmed when he flipped her onto the bed, Prudence would have been forever barred from a cloistered life.
She was already affianced, albeit unwillingly. The man in her bed had told her, more than once, that he couldn’t marry her. But for once, her mind, body, and heart were all in agreement.
She would rather share her bed with him than anyone else. And if Alex temporarily felt the same — well, she wouldn’t question it.
Not that she could question it. His mouth sealed against hers, preventing any protest she might have made. He surely tasted her willingness on her lips, knew that she was melting into him.
But she didn’t bother to pretend that she didn’t have a choice. She had the entirety of the choice, one he’d ceded to her. He had positioned her atop him, and while his hands roved over her back and kept her anchored to him, she had all the leverage. She could leave him at any moment…
She could never leave him. She kissed him back, nipping at his lips, making love and war with her tongue. It was as though her heart had been set ablaze that night. She ran her fingers through his hair, imagining him as a fallen god she’d captured for her own. In her proper life, with her proper name, she should be penned up, kept safe, stopped from losing herself to passion or letting her emotions rule her decisions.
Her proper life could go to the devil. She was bound to be a duchess, unless she decided being ruined was better than being Thorington’s wife. There were any number of nights in the future when she would have to be proper. This night was hers.
And this man was hers, if only for a night. He’d come to her. She knew he wanted her. She even knew, for at least a moment, that he loved her.
It was enough. She sucked him into her mouth, an aggressive move that had his fingers tightening on her shoulder blades. She would devour him, keep him inside her soul, a memory that would light all the nights after this when she could never have him.
“Prudence,” he whispered when she paused to take a breath.
“No,” she said. “I shan’t stop.”
She tugged at his cravat, destroying the perfect linen. She wanted to destroy it all. She threw it aside, ignoring the way he winced as the friction burned his neck. She attacked the ties of his shirt next, wanting to bare his throat, to see his Adam’s apple jump in time to her strokes.
His hand closed over hers. “Prudence,” he said again.
She stared down into his eyes. She saw everything there — love, lust, grief, doubt, need, demand. If his eyes were a mirror of hers, she wasn’t surprised to see how deeply he needed her to continue, how deeply he needed her to stop.
“I cannot stop,” she whispered. “Give me a night, before I must live my life without you.”
Her words broke him. He reared up, tipped her onto her back. If there was grief in his eyes, it didn’t show in his touch, in the way his mouth roved over her skin. The man was an artist with his mouth, letting his hands pull away her clothing so that he could carve a path across her with his lips. She knew what he was after. She’d never thought her breasts particularly remarkable before, but the way he worshipped them painted a new picture for her, of beauty that men would write sonnets for, of soft curves that men would die for.
He worshipped them as he had before, as though they were a dream he still couldn’t believe was real. She was content to let him touch her, tease her, because it gave her a moment to watch him. His hair, as he bent to take his prize, was dark against her pale skin. His muscled shoulders bunched up, exerting themselves to keep from crushing her — a crush she might have welcomed, if it meant that she could feel him fully, could engrave this memory into her flesh. She felt him hardening against her thigh and knew, then, that he wasn’t just worshipping her — he wanted to claim her, too, merging the pedestal he’d placed her on with the bed she wanted him to take her in.
She dug her fingers into his hair, hard enough that he looked up and met her eyes. “Alex,” she murmured, “I want you.”
He returned, single-minded, to his task.
She sighed, tugged at his hair, and tried again. “I want you to…deflower me.”
She blushed as she stumbled on the word, blushed harder as he looked up at her with an arched brow. “You are very demanding tonight, Miss Etchingham,” he said, as though she’d asked for an extra serving of blancma
nge rather than ruination.
Then he grinned, more devil than doubter. “But I feel rather demanding myself.”
His hand slid to her leg, grasped her nightrail and pulled it up. The slow slide of cloth served as notice of his intentions. His knuckles trailed under the fabric, brushing against her knee, then whispering across her thigh. Her most private place suddenly ached for him, wanting him to hurry himself along and give her what she wanted…
But he was too patient, too devious for that. “You don’t want to be deflowered,” he said, murmuring against her breast before taking her back into his mouth.
“I do,” she said, when she realized he wasn’t moving forward. “I vow I do.”
“No,” he said, breaking away. “You want to be made love to.”
He switched to the nipple he had cruelly ignored, and she was satisfied for a few moments — but it wasn’t enough. “Ruin me, Alex. Before there’s no time left for it.”
He paused, just for a moment, and she wished she could take it back. The reality, the hopelessness, of their situation was too close to the surface of what they were doing with each other, and she’d let it bleed into the space between them.
But they both seemed willing to pretend — to pretend that this was what they were made for, that he could love her freely, that she could choose him instead of another. He leaned in and kissed her mouth. But as lovely as that kiss was, it wasn’t enough to distract her from the slow stroke of his fingers across her inner thigh. Her skin had never felt so sensitive. His touch was feather light, nearly nothing, and yet everything.
One of his fingers slipped inside her, easing a path into her wetness. She sighed into his kiss, letting her legs spread wider, hoping she could urge him on. His knuckle rubbed against her channel, disconcertingly, deliciously; his thumb stroked around her opening, grazing that sensitive bit of flesh he’d tormented so cleverly with his mouth during his last visit to her bed.
For a moment she could almost pretend that she was an enchanted princess, not an impoverished bluestocking — cursed with a dark lover who could only come to her in the dead of night. But tonight, she wanted it all. She lifted her hips, trying to give him more.
His kiss turned possessive, all heat and pressure. He slid a second finger inside her, teasing her, and she knew she was wet for him. It was probably something she should have been ashamed of, how easily he drew her pleasure from her. But she didn’t want to be ashamed of anything — not her dresses, not her status, and certainly not her love for him.
The third finger gave her a slight twinge of discomfort — not unpleasant, but just enough to wonder whether this had been the best decision. His strokes were slower, suddenly, and his kiss softened again. “I will not hurt you,” he whispered as he paused to take a breath. “No more than I can help it, anyway.”
Prudence closed her eyes. She had almost said that she’d rather it be him than Thorington — a true statement in every way, but not one she could share then. Just as she’d rather give Alex her love, she’d rather share her pain with him. Thorington didn’t deserve any of her, but he especially didn’t deserve this.
But Thorington’s name would only defile the moment. She squeezed her eyes shut and vowed to forget him.
Alex mistook the look on her face. He pulled his fingers out, and she immediately missed them. “Perhaps we should wait,” he said.
“No,” she said, dragging his lips back to her mouth. “No more waiting.”
She turned aggressive again, so intent on winning him back that she didn’t care what he might think of her. He sighed, but his reluctance didn’t last. And he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off her, no matter what he said. He nestled into her hidden curls again, then drifted lower, back to the passage that ached for him.
“Are you sure?” he asked a few minutes later, when their kiss had turned hot again, when the slow stroke of his fingers inside and outside combined to drive her mad.
She looked into his eyes, as deep as she could allow herself before the possibility of unleashing her tears became too great to withstand. “I want it to be you, Alex. Please.”
She had managed to divest him of his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt during their last kiss, but his breeches still blocked him from her. He made quick work of the buttons, though, freeing himself into his hand. In the bright candlelight, she caught a glimpse of his hardened shaft. She knew that this would work; it was what they were made for, after all. But she also realized exactly why and how it might hurt.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tightened her fingers into the bedsheets. A bit of her desire turned to tension — not enough that she would ever ask him to stop, but enough that he sensed it.
He kissed first one eyelid, then the other. “Don’t think about it. Let me make this good for you.”
She was expecting pain, but his fingers began teasing her again, greedy with purpose. Soon she was writhing with real need, not just anticipation; her fingers curled into the sheets, now from an excess of pleasure. His hand moved faster, his palm creating friction against her as his fingers pumped in and out. Her breath turned to gasps, little sounds of pleasure that he swallowed as he kissed her again.
There was an unbearably still moment as she hovered just on the edge. She arched up to him, her whole body tensed and ready. He pinned her lips to his, holding her in place with her hair, and she thought for an awful moment that he wasn’t going to finish. The kiss left her breathless, stealing whatever air she had left, and her dizziness somehow heightened her agonizing need. She dug her nails into his back, needing him to stop, needing him to keep going…
But then his fingers thrust harder within her. His thumb flicked against her, turning sensitive flesh into the fuse that ignited her. Everything came apart in a rush of sensation, spiraling and unwinding as her whole body shook from it. And still he kept stroking her, kept kissing her. The shaking, the unraveling, the breathlessness — it continued in a long wave, one that tossed her up on some distant shore.
Like a traveler to a beautiful, dangerous land, she wasn’t going to be the same after this. Even if the rest of her life was safe, and staid, and perfect, she would dream of this secret adventure. She would crave it. Just as she craved the man who gave it to her.
She felt him waiting at her entrance, the head of his shaft poised to take her. If she tensed, it was minimal; her body was too sated, her thighs too jellied to brace against him. He leaned up over her, one hand left behind to guide himself into her.
“I love you,” he said. “Even though I shouldn’t.”
The words might have stung a week ago, but she accepted them — realized that she’d read his heart correctly all along, despite the lies his mouth had given her. She didn’t doubt he loved her. It wasn’t enough, and it was too late, but it was exactly what she needed now.
“I love you, Alex,” she whispered. “Even though I can’t any longer.”
His eyes darkened, but he didn’t stop. He stroked her breast instead, a gesture she found odd as a response until she realized that he was trying to distract her from the slow slide of his shaft into her waiting channel.
There was a moment of pain that was close to blinding, but she ground her teeth together and willed it away. He was slow, as slow as she guessed it was possible for him to be. She read his mood in the contrast between the glacial pace of his advance and the fast, demanding caresses he gave her breasts.
He was trying hard to make it good for her. Just as he’d tried hard to make her life good, despite her desire to spurn his charity and the curse that kept him from marrying her. He had her best interests at heart, even above his own — so much that he seemed to know that he would hurt her more if he denied her in this moment than he would by risking her life to the curse.
It was a silly thought, one she would renounce later; she didn’t want to die. And yet her heart wouldn’t have stopped him even if her rational brain had tried to prevail. She would rather risk it all to be Alex’s for one night than live safely t
o become Thorington’s.
Alex finally sheathed himself to the hilt within her. He paused there, waiting for something — something she didn’t know how to give him. “What should I do?” she asked.
He laughed, but it sounded pained. “Stay still for a moment and learn the feel of me. I am trying to give you time to acclimate.”
She privately thought it was a fool’s errand. But he kissed her again, touched her again at the place where they were joined, and she realized she had relaxed around him. When he withdrew, she clenched on instinct to keep him there — giving her the first hint of how good he could feel.
She drew a groan from him. “Careful, darling,” he said, retreating, then sliding slowly into her again. “If you do that too often, I’ll lose myself too soon.”
He withdrew again. She closed around him again, liking how wicked she felt. They settled into a rhythm, conquest and retreat, giving up and taking back. His breath was hot against her neck as he kissed her; her hands were urgent as they roved down his torso to spur him on. He rocked into her again, and again, until she felt a quiet echo of the climax he’d already given her — soft and trembling, a promise of greater pleasure to come.
A promise she hoped to redeem before they had to leave each other forever.
His thrusts turned urgent, his kisses across her collarbone demanding. He drove into her once more, harder than he had before, and shuddered as his seed emptied inside her. She clenched around him again, acting on instinct, wanting to keep every bit of him inside her for as long as she could.
But she couldn’t keep him forever. She was already, in her mind, making lists of what she had to do before he recovered enough to roll off of her.
She turned onto her side, curling around him as he lay on his back like a man just barely rescued from drowning. She brushed a piece of hair out of his face. “Thank you, Alex,” she said quietly.
He let his head drop to the side so that he could look into her eyes without moving his spent body. “Don’t thank me. You’ll have me feeling like a man of ill repute.”
