When he began to remove the pins that held her shako hat in place, Eleanor raised her eyebrows. “I thought you said we would remain dressed.”
“We will, but I want to see your hair loose.”
Tossing her hat down, he wove his fingers through her curls and held her head still as he gazed down at her.
His face was filling the sky above her, blotting out the bright sun, but she could clearly see his eyes. The possessive hunger in the dark depths made heat uncoil inside her.
“What are you waiting for, my lord husband?” Eleanor queried, the question almost taunting.
He smiled, a promise, and answered by kissing her. Capturing her head between his hands, Damon slanted his mouth over hers and took her lips in a searing assault.
The very rawness of his male desire stole Eleanor's breath and set her heart racing. And that was before he guided her backward until she was pressed up against the trunk of a very large beech tree.
Those fervent kisses kept on coming while his hands dropped to her riding jacket and made short work of the buttons there. Then lifting her skirts, he pulled them up to bare her naked thighs.
When his fingers searched out the heart of her, he found her feminine entrance slick with the liquid evidence of her own need. Eleanor gasped as he slid his fingers into her ready wetness, scarcely believing how damp and swollen she already was for him. Her state of arousal evidently satisfied Damon, for when he broke off his kisses and drew back, his eyes smoldered darkly.
Something deep inside her flared in response to that primal look, and she fumbled for the front buttons of his breeches, fighting the reckless urge to rip them away. When she managed to open the front placket, his rigid phallus sprang free.
He was rock hard, magnificently long, Eleanor thought dazedly, curling her hand around him. Damon groaned as her fingers cupped his sex, and when she raised her face to his again, searching blindly for that clever mouth, he gave a growl of approval and took her lips hard.
His mouth was hot and fevered, devouring hers while he pushed aside the lapels of her jacket. His hands roamed her bodice, covering the swells of her breasts, as if all he cared about was touching her, exploring her.
Eleanor moaned, arching into his possessive caresses. Damon was stirring an aching pool of want inside her, making her long for him with a kind of primitive ferocity. But she needed more, craved more from him.
As if sensing her unspoken entreaty, he obliged her, moving his hands lower, gliding over her hips to grasp her buttocks. Bending his legs slightly, he lifted her up and slowly slid the engorged crest of his erection into her pulsing cleft.
The sensation of his claiming her was exquisite. Shuddering, Eleanor whimpered against his mouth and opened to him fully, desperate to take him deeper, to fill herself with his essence.
When he buried himself all the way inside her, she melted into him with a seizure of need. Her arms tightening around him, she wrapped her legs around Damon's hips hungrily, clutching him to her as he thrust into her.
His whole body was hard with demand, commanding her passion and giving his own in return. Yet Eleanor met him with the same sweet fierceness, her hips moving in an elemental, primitive, needful rhythm as he drove his powerful length deep within her hot, throbbing flesh.
Another keening whimper escaped her throat. Damon was possessing her so completely that she felt mindless, lost. There was so much heat and need and pleasure that her whole body was shaking.
And then the heat between them became too much to bear. The blaze erupted into a firestorm, violent, fierce, raging. An instant later, Eleanor cried out, convulsing wildly as wave after wave of ecstasy buffeted her.
Damon captured the muffled screams of bliss tearing from her throat, but then a hoarse groan ripped from him as he rode his own explosive climax. Shuddering, his body contracting savagely, he spilled his seed deep within her.
She was still pulsating around him when he slumped weakly against her, letting the tree at her back support them both. Eleanor clung to him, her legs wrapped around his thighs, her face buried in his throat. They remained there for a long while, their ragged breaths mingling, their frantic heartbeats slowing.
Eleanor began to recover her shattered senses moments before Damon did. His passion had been devastating, shaking her to her very soul. And when finally she managed to draw back and look up at him, she discovered his eyes glazed with spent desire as he stared back at her.
She felt him move then. Still joined intimately to her, still holding her tightly, he turned and carried her from the protective shelter of the trees, into the sunlight.
When they reached a flat slab of rock on the hillside, he eased her down gently and stretched out beside her, then gathered her close.
As they lay there, tangled in each other's arms, a peace stole over Eleanor. She breathed a contented sigh of exhaustion and satisfaction, wishing she could stay this way forever, lost in the pleasure of Damon's embrace on this beautiful, joyful morning.
Damon, however, did not feel quite the same peace as he watched her. Twice now he had made fierce demands on her body even though she was unaccustomed to such harsh usage.
Yet Eleanor seemed utterly content-in sharp contrast to the agitation stirring inside him. His need to claim her, to possess her, was overpowering, overwhelming, threatening.
He wished he could draw back from her allure. If the fire between them continued to burn this hotly, this fiercely, he would be in grave peril.
And yet… this was exactly what he craved just now. What he needed. This tenderness. This quiet intimacy.
His fingertips tracing the length of her spine, Damon savored the feel of them lying together as he tried to make sense of his warring inclinations.
Part of him hungered fiercely for Eleanor. Part of him wanted desperately to run. And still another part-an intensely insistent part-was beginning to question his long-held convictions. He'd sworn never to let himself love anyone, to let himself become so vulnerable to pain again.
But was loving Eleanor something he needed to run from any longer?
If so, then why did it feel so good just to watch her? Her face was soft, lazy, sleepy; her mouth evocative and passion-bruised. Her hair was a wild, curly tangle, glistening ebony in the sunlight, the heavy fringe of her lashes brushing her cheeks.
Almost without volition, Damon moved his hand upward over her shoulder to stroke the delicate curve of her cheekbone.
Without even opening her eyes, she smiled softly.
Her response touched him, warmed him… unnerved him.
Wanting Eleanor, desiring her, needing her as he did, was precariously close to love.
Love.
Flinching, Damon clenched his jaw as he fought the unwanted emotions swelling inside him. He ached to be inside her again, to bury himself so deep he could never break free; to absorb her healing power and let it renew him. In truth, the feeling was so intense, it shocked him. But so were the voices clamoring in his head, warning him to beware.
The same warning signals he'd heeded two years ago.
Circumstances now were not the same as then, however. Eleanor was not merely the beautiful, spirited heiress he'd become obsessed with two years ago. She was his wife now. Their marriage alone changed the stakes.
Damon grimaced as the battle inside him escalated. He'd known from the first that there was something special between them. Eleanor was his perfect match in so many ways. She was all woman. A woman he admired and respected.
Any man fortunate enough to win her would be a fool to let her slip away. Which was precisely what he had done the first time.
Was he so consumed with the risk of pain that he would ruin his future with her? Damon wondered.
Certainly he knew Tess was right: He'd built a protective shell around himself. Held too much inside. Walled himself off too completely. He feared caring too much, losing too much.
He wanted to flee back into that protective shell right now.
Yet
he'd acknowledged another important truth without any help from his cousin: When Eleanor was not in his life, he felt only half alive.
Was it also time to finally admit that he'd made a grave mistake when he drove Eleanor away two years ago? He'd been ruthlessly determined not to fall in love with her, but he'd lost something very precious that day.
Perhaps it wasn't too late to rectify his mistake. For both their sakes.
He greatly missed the camaraderie and friendship he'd had with his twin brother. That bond had been shattered by death, yet he'd been set on destroying the fragile bond he shared with Eleanor himself.
She could end his emptiness, though, if he could bring himself to lower his defenses. She could be his friend and companion as well as lover and wife. She could banish the cold loneliness he'd let fill his life. Elle was the essence of what was absent in his existence: joy, friendship, laughter, feeling. He hadn't let himself feel in so long.
Did he dare to reach for more than a cold, emotionless union of convenience with Eleanor?
Did he have a choice any longer?
It was becoming clear that there was no defending himself against her, no denying his need.
No, the simple truth was, he wanted a genuine marriage with Elle. He wanted to watch her laugh in joyful exuberance as she'd done at the end of their race. To hear her cry his name as he satisfied her desire, just as she had a short while ago when he'd made love to her. He wanted to give her the family she yearned for. He wanted her happiness, her love.
Damon shut his eyes, breathing her in, absorbing the warmth and fragrance of her, finding a rich pleasure in no more than holding her close.
He could imagine himself loving Elle… always, forever.
A soft, incredulous laugh whispered from his throat as he realized how far he'd come in a few short weeks. He'd always vowed never to let anyone close enough to put his emotions, much less his heart, at risk. This time, however, he intended to take a chance on making a real marriage with Eleanor.
He would have to earn her trust, though. He had to prove himself deserving of her before she would entrust her heart to him.
But for the first time since he'd stood over his brother's grave, railing against fate, he was resolved to overcome his trepidation.
To seek a real future with Eleanor.
To share his life fully with her.
To let himself love her as she deserved to be loved.
You may feel possessiveness or jealousy but take care not to show it. Gentlemen want to feel free to flit from flower to flower, like honeybees. -An Anonymous Lady, Advice…
Damon had every intention of spending the entire afternoon with Eleanor, and the evening as well. When he'd informed her that she would sleep in his bed tonight, she made no demur. Yet when they returned home to Rosemont, outside events conspired to interfere with his plans to romance his wife and make a real marriage with her.
After leaving Elle at her bedchamber door to change out of her riding habit, Damon went to his own rooms, only to find Cornby eyeing him with a look of severe disapproval.
“This was delivered by messenger an hour ago, my lord,” the valet said stiffly, handing him a folded note of lavender-scented vellum with the words “Viscount Wrexham” neatly penned across the front.
Damon frowned upon recognizing the familiar handwriting and form of communique.
What the devil? Why would Lydia Newling be writing him just now? And why would his former mistress come back into his life just when he had resolved to build a future with Eleanor?
My dearest Wrexham, the inside message read. I truly do not want to interrupt your house party but I desperately need your help. Please, I beg you to spare me a half hour of your time and meet me at the Boar's Head Inn in Brighton. No doubt you would prefer to grant me an interview there, as you do not want me to thrust myself upon Lady Beldons distinguished gathering.
Your fond servant, Lydia.
Damon felt his gut clench. Was Lydia's last sentence a veiled threat to barge in on him at the house party if he refused to comply with her request? Or merely her attempt to be considerate of the social consequences? A Cyprian knocking on the door of a noble estate searching for her former patron would horrify the company and create fodder for scandal.
But scandal be damned, it was Elle's response that concerned Damon. At the very least she would be shamed and hurt if his former paramour made such a brazen appearance.
Ordinarily he wouldn't suspect Lydia of resorting to blackmail, since she was kindhearted and generous and not the scheming sort. Yet he couldn't take the chance of destroying Eleanor's fragile trust so soon after vowing to win it.
Cornby, however, clearly did not approve when Damon said he would be going out again for an hour and would change when he returned.
“Are you certain you wish to take this step, my lord?” the valet asked unhappily as Damon turned to leave.
“What step?”
“Visiting Miss Newling. Is that not what you intend? If so, I feel compelled to observe that Lady Wrexham could take your assignation as an insult. I should not like to see a repeat of two years ago when she terminated her betrothal to you because of Miss Newling.”
“Neither would I,” Damon said emphatically.
The age lines in the valet's face deepened with his frown. “Then why would you risk incurring her ladyship's wrath? Particularly now so shortly after your nuptials? You have not been in the petticoat line since returning from Italy.”
Cornby was well aware that Damon had spent all his nights since at home, alone, in strict celibacy. He also knew that Lydia had been the catalyst in Elea nor's explosion two years ago, and he was evidently worried that a similar furor would result if Damon chose to visit his former mistress now.
But explaining the delicate state of his marriage to his valet was not something he wished to be drawn into just now. “You are being irritatingly close to avuncular, Cornby.”
“Perhaps, my lord, but I see it as my duty to champion Lady Wrexham's interests. Also, I confess, I do not wish anything to bring her pain or sorrow.”
“Nor do I. But better that I meet Miss Newling elsewhere than have her show up here uninvited.”
“I do see your point, my lord.”
In truth, Damon was pleased that his longtime manservant felt protective of Eleanor. But he meant to meet Lydia as she'd requested to forestall any visit here. Moreover, he couldn't just glibly dismiss her request for help. After their long relationship, he probably owed it to Lydia to at least determine why she needed him, in her words, so “desperately.”
“Tell Lady Wrexham I will be delayed in joining the company for a while since I must see to a business matter.”
“Very well, even though it is unlikely to be a business matter,” the valet returned pointedly.
“It will be,” Damon assured him. “I mean to keep my visit strictly business.”
Seeming slightly comforted, Cornby remained silent as Damon let himself out and headed back out to the stables.
He had just reached the stableyard when he encountered the Earl of Haviland.
“Well met, Wrexham,” Haviland said at once. “You saved me the trouble of searching for you. We need a moment of your time.”
Damon noted both the seriousness of the earl's expression and that he was accompanied by Horace Linch, one of the Bow Street Runners hired to see to Prince Lazzara's welfare.
“Yes, of course,” Damon replied.
“There has been an interesting development in the case,” Haviland said quietly as he led the way along one stable block. “Mr. Linch believes he has identified a possible suspect in the accidents that befell the prince. I shall let him explain.”
When they halted at the far end of the stables, Damon regarded the Runner with a quizzical look.
Linch kept his voice low as he spoke. “Milord, you asked me to keep an eye out for any suspicious characters. I think per'aps I found one. See that Italian cove over there?” Surreptitiously, Linch p
ointed around the corner of the building to where an ebony-haired, wiry-looking fellow with an olive complexion was grooming a pair of carriage horses.
Damon's gaze narrowed as a spark of recognition struck him. He was almost certain he'd seen the man before-on a crowded street outside the Pantheon Bazaar. After staring another moment, Damon drew back, out of sight, so he wouldn't be recognized in turn.
“That chap is Paolo Giacomo,” the Runner murmured. “This morning I caught him skulking about the grounds, there is no other word for it. But when I confronted him, he demanded to speak to Signor Vecchi-claimed to be in his employ. The signor was not happy to see him, that much was clear. I couldn't get close enough to overhear since I'd been dismissed, but they looked to be arguing. So naturally I thought it odd when Signor Vecchi arranged for Giacomo to be lodged in the grooms’ quarters here above the stables.”
Giacomo could very well be the pickpocket who'd assaulted Lazzara and pushed him into the street before fleeing from sight, Damon decided.
When he said as much to his colleagues, Haviland eyed him sharply. “It's doubtful Giacomo acted on his own.”
Damon nodded slowly. “Vecchi is likely behind the attacks. Even before this I wondered if he might be the culprit. He was nearest the prince when his highness took a tumble down the stairs of the Opera. And he was present the night the prince's punch was drugged. Vecchi could easily have relied on his minions to execute the other incidents such as sabotaging Lazzara's carriage wheel.”
“You will need to find proof of his guilt,” Haviland said. “It wouldn't be politic to accuse a high-ranking diplomat of nefarious deeds without evidence, let alone of attempting to murder his cousin.”
Damon couldn't dispute the observation. At the moment it was sheer speculation to suspect Vecchi of masterminding the mishaps. Yet all of Damon's instincts told him he wasn't mistaken.
“Any suggestions on how to find proof?” he asked Haviland.
“An obvious one. We should begin by searching the signor's rooms.”
Linch spoke up then. “Begging your pardons, milords, but I wouldn't care to attempt such a search. If I was caught out, it could go very ill for me. I could be taken for a thief and sent to prison or worse.”
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