She swallowed, choosing her response with care. After all, she well knew she was partially responsible for what had transpired with her ninny-headed question. Why had she had to ask it? If only she had not.“I shouldn’t have pried when I already knew the answer.”
“I don’t want the past to come between us,” he said gravely, giving her spirits even more buoyancy.
“Nor do I,” Tia agreed readily, even if she very much feared it would be inevitable. After all, it already had to varying degrees. Sadness crept through her. Why couldn’t they have met years before? Dash it all, why couldn’t she have met him when she’d been a starry-eyed girl fresh off her comeout? But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d given her heart to Denbigh, and Heath had given his to Bess.
Now they were two halves facing each other. Two halves she wasn’t certain could make one whole. Not when she loved him and he loved another.
“Do you suppose we can begin again?” He cupped her cheek, his bright eyes pinned to hers.
She couldn’t look away. “I wish we could,” she murmured, knowing too much muddled the path before them.
“We can,” he vowed. “I care for you, Tia. Very much.”
“I—” she began, only to falter. She had almost confessed she loved him. Good heavens. “I care for you as well,” she said instead.
He leaned closer, smelling of a maddening combination of himself, leather and the outdoors. “Will you sit for me again today?”
He still wanted to paint her? She hadn’t been certain after last night. But she was certain of so little these days, it seemed. She turned her head, pressing a kiss to his hand. “Yes of course. I would be happy to sit for you if you’d like me to.”
He smiled down at her, looking more at ease than she’d seen him since their arrival at Chatsworth House. “I’d like nothing better, darling.” And then he pulled her to him for a kiss that, while unable to erase the misgivings swirling through her, at least gave her the expectation that perhaps one day he would be able to lay his past to rest at last.
wo months later, Tia sat at her writing desk once more, engaging in her daily morning ritual of reading and responding to letters from her sisters, friends, and family. She and Heath had settled into a routine of sorts at Chatsworth. It was a life of comfort and ease. There had been no more arguments, no more talks of suitors past, living or otherwise.
She wasn’t fool enough to think that Heath had forgotten Bess, or that he even ever would. But for now, the tentative bond they shared was enough. They spent their days mostly together. She sat for Heath while he painted, and their sessions were frequently ended with or interrupted by frenzied bouts of lovemaking.
With a happy smile, Tia flipped through her tray of letters to the next in line and promptly froze as she looked at it more closely. Her heart picked up its pace into a mad gallop at the familiar seal. She turned it over, fingers tracing the precise, masculine script she knew too well.
She tore open the letter and confirmed what she had already known. It was from the Earl of Denbigh. Her first instinct was to tear the note into shreds without bothering to read it. Time had passed but had failed to assuage the pain he’d dealt her in throwing her over. It still hurt to know that while she’d been helplessly in love with him and he’d been sneaking away with her for secret kisses, he’d been wooing another.
Lady Evelyn Landers.
Tia frowned, the name bringing back memories she’d preferred to keep buried. Lady Evelyn’s smug smile after her engagement to Denbigh had been announced. The new Lady Denbigh looking satisfied and with child not long after their nuptials.
But that had all been years ago, which begged the question of why the earl would write her a letter now. She couldn’t help but be curious even though she knew she ought to pitch the letter into the nearest fire. Tia had never been the sort who did what she ought to do. She began reading.
He longed to see her, he wrote. He was out of mourning for his wife and there was an old secret he wished to air. He hoped it would change everything. Would she meet him at her father’s estate?
Hands shaking, she folded the letter as it had been, staring unseeingly into her lap. Lady Evelyn had died. Tia hadn’t even known. But that shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Denbigh had been something of a rare sight in town. He’d retired to his country estate shortly after his nuptials.
She had to admit that the temptation to see Denbigh one last time was strong. But whereas once she would have been elated at the possibility of rekindling their romance, she now felt merely a curiosity for the old secret he mentioned. Her loyalty was to Heath. He was her husband, and she loved him, regardless of whether or not he returned that love. It was her most fervent hope that he one day would.
No, she resolved. She wouldn’t respond to Denbigh’s letter. Nothing he could say would be of import to her any longer. The adjoining door clicked open, revealing Heath. He was informally dressed in a white shirt, trousers and bare feet. Dear God, the man was sinfully handsome. She hastily stuffed the letter into a Trollope book Bella had sent her. The silly woman refused to believe that Tia preferred not to waste her time wading through voluminous manuscripts in her spare time.
“Good morning,” she greeted him cheerily, hoping he wouldn’t notice the letter. It wouldn’t do for him to know she’d received word from an old suitor. The dust between them had largely settled. No need to stir it up once more.
“Have you finished your correspondence, darling?” he asked, sauntering across the chamber to her.
She couldn’t help but admire just how wonderful her husband looked, completely at ease as she’d rarely seen him. “Quite finished. Are you ready for me?”
“Always.” He grinned as he stopped before her writing desk. “You ought to know that by now.”
Tia was at eye level with his very obvious arousal. The imp in her prompted her to reach out and cup him through his trousers. She heard his sharp intake of breath and couldn’t suppress a smile at his response. “I would certainly say you are,” she told him archly.
“Ah, wife. You’ll be the death of me.” He caught her wayward hand and raised it to his lips. “I’m tempted, but I very much fear that if I linger here with your lovely hand on my cock, I’ll forget all about showing you the portrait I’ve finished.”
That caught her attention. “You’ve finished my portrait?”
He nodded, looking suddenly nervous. “I believe I have. I worked on it this morning instead of going for my ride. Will you come have a look?”
“Of course I will.” She shot out of her seat as though someone had pinched her bottom. “You must show me at once.”
“Promise to be gentle on me,” he said wryly, leading the way back to his chamber. “This is the first painting I’ve completed in years.”
Tia smiled at his back. She was more than aware, and she was quite honored to have been chosen as the subject of his first painting since Bess’s death. Surely it had to mean something. She didn’t imagine the passion between them, and she continued to hope that it would grow into something stronger. Love, should she be fortunate enough.
She followed Heath in silence to the work area he’d set up by the large windows on the far wall, the better to catch the most sunlight. When she rounded the easel and caught sight of the canvas, she lost her breath. The painting itself was stunning. He had rendered the oils so effortlessly, the colors he’d chosen all cast with a golden glow. Instead of painting her in the chamber as she’d assumed he’d done, he had painted her draped over rocks in the midst of a beautiful forest. The trees were whimsical, intertwined in a lush landscape. And she scarcely recognized the goddess staring back at her as herself.
“What do you think?” Heath asked, an uncharacteristic uncertainty evident in his tone.
He had painted her with reverent strokes, had made her beautiful. Dear heavens. He’d painted her in much the same way he had painted Bess. She was so moved that it took her a moment to find her voice. “It’s incredible, Heath.”
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“I know it could use a bit more work.”
She turned to him, thinking that if anything, his painting was even stronger than it had been before. Tia wasn’t a stranger to art. In her wilder days, she’d hosted parties for some of the premier young artists of their day. She’d been a steadfast attendant at the Grosvenor Gallery and the Royal Academy both. She knew incredible pictures when she saw them. This latest work just confirmed what she’d already suspected.
Heath possessed an innate talent for painting that was as rare as it was magnificent.
“More work?” she repeated, incredulous. “Why, I believe this is one of the finest pieces I’ve ever seen.”
“Of course it isn’t.” He scoffed. “This is the mere dabbling of a man with too much idle time on his hands.”
“It’s nothing of the sort.” She turned her gaze back to the portrait, wishing that others could see what was before her. Naturally, the fact that he had painted her nude body with nary a stitch of clothing rendered that impossible. But that didn’t mean his other pictures ought to be hidden away forever. “You should exhibit your work. I’ve seen the works of Mr. Burne-Jones, Mr. Millais and Mr. Watts,” she told him, listing off some of the most renowned and revered artists she knew. “Yours rivals any of them.”
“I’m gratified by your flattery, but it isn’t necessary, my dear.” He gave a derisive laugh. “I couldn’t hold a candle to Burne-Jones or any of the others.”
“Yes.” She was adamant on the matter. “You can and do. You must send some of your work to the Grosvenor Gallery for this year’s exhibition. Say you will, Heath.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort.” He was equally adamant. “I paint for myself, not for others. No good can come of opening myself to the ridicule of society and the acid pens of the critics.”
“To Hades with the critics.” Tia looked back to her husband. “You cannot mean to simply continue hiding your pictures away.”
“They’re not hidden.” He raised a brow. “I’m reasonably certain you wouldn’t wish this particular gem to be on display for all the world to see anyway, darling.”
She flushed, thinking of the raw eroticism with which he’d painted her. “Of course not. But the others—”
“Are for me alone,” he finished, his tone firm and ducal. No opposition would be tolerated. “Tell me, do you truly like the portrait?”
“I love it,” she told him, utterly without artifice. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t determined to see that he received the recognition he deserved. He could very well take all his ducal decrees and stuff them. She’d never been terribly good at following orders. Just ask her poor old governess, Miss Hullyhew.
He gave her a rare, unfettered smile. “Thank you. Though I’m afraid I didn’t do the subject one bit of justice. Her beauty far exceeds my poor ability to capture it with oils and canvas.”
“I’m gratified by your flattery, but it isn’t necessary, my dear,” she said, using his own words on him.
His smile turned into a grin. “Touché.” He caught her around the waist and drew her against him, his eyes darkening in a way she found all too familiar. “Would you care to sit for another portrait for me?”
“I would be honored, Your Grace,” she said, fluttering her lashes. “Shall I be dressed for this one?” She palmed his hard cock, feeling an answering blossom of desire unfurl within her.“Or would you prefer it if I disrobed?”
He kissed her swiftly. “Perhaps you ought to disrobe.”
She met his gaze, feeling emboldened by the moment, the way he was looking at her, the way he had painted her. He had fashioned her into a Venus. And she liked it. “Perhaps you ought to help me,” she suggested, presenting him with her back.
The gown Bannock had helped her don that morning was an elegant cream and navy affair, but alas, its buttons were not down the front bodice. But her husband, it seemed, harbored no concerns about playing lady’s maid. His nimble fingers were already halfway to her bottom, unhooking the buttons from their moorings faster than even Bannock. She supposed Bannock hadn’t quite the inspiration for haste that Heath had.
Wordlessly, he stripped her gown and undergarments, making short work of them. When he spun her back to face him once more, she wore only a chemise. His eyes roamed hungrily over the skin he’d revealed, his hands a hot brand on her waist through the delicate fabric. Desire swept through her at the sight of him, so intent, so beautiful. He was seeing her, she realized, through the eyes of an artist. The notion sent a pang of longing directly to her core.
“Something tells me I’m not about to sit for a portrait,” she murmured wickedly. She caught his shirt and all but tore it from his body, desperate to feel him, to see his masculine strength.
“I’ve something else in mind for you first.” He caressed her waist, then higher, cupping her full breasts through her chemise. Her nipples were aching and hard, poking into his palms. “If you don’t mind.”
Of course she didn’t mind. She scraped her nails down the taut plane of his stomach, delighting in the excited groan it elicited from him. “Not a bit.” She opened his trousers, releasing him. He was hard and hot in her hand, and an answering longing shot through her. She stroked him, knowing by now just what he liked.
“Damn it, woman.” He shucked his trousers, divested her of her chemise and swept her into his arms before carrying her to the bed dominating the far side of the room.
When he laid her carefully upon it and joined her, she reached for him, thinking theirs would be a fast, furious coupling. But her husband apparently was of a different mind. He pressed her against the counterpane and knelt at her feet.
“This time, I want to worship you,” he told her in a low, velvety voice that sent a frisson of anticipation down her spine. He pressed a kiss to first one knee and then the other. “God, I love the way you smell.”
She hadn’t known. “It’s merely violets,” she said on a sigh as he moved higher, kissing her inner thigh.
“Mmm.” He continued his torturous trail, leaving her all but squirming beneath him. “And I love the way you taste.” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her other thigh. “Here.” He kissed her again, drawing ever closer to the place she wanted him most. “And here.” Finally, he flicked his tongue against the swollen, slick bud of her sex. “But especially here.” He sucked on her, then traced a path of fire over her folds. “Here, you taste just like pure honey.”
Dear, sweet heavens. She jerked against him, moaning as an unadulterated rush of pleasure assailed her. He continued his sensual assault, sucking and licking, sinking his tongue inside her. She grasped his hair, holding him against her. She simultaneously wanted more, and yet she wanted it to end. Wanted him inside her, his seed deep within her. She wanted that feeling of being one with him, the blissful surrender.
But her husband was determined to make her unravel for him. He toyed with her, alternating between gentle, whispers of touch and firm pressure. When his finger dipped into her sheath, she almost reached her pinnacle right then and there. She tipped her hips, bringing him deeper. His rhythm echoed the pulse of his tongue on her. Fast, then slow and lingering, then fast once more.
Her climax overtook her then, sudden and fierce. She shook against him, crying out, losing all control. Nothing mattered but his tongue on her, his finger inside her, the glorious sensations he evoked from her body.
Heath withdrew his finger, glistening with her juices, and sucked it into his mouth as if he were consuming the finest delicacy. “Pure honey,” he repeated.
The action was so sensual, so deliberate. She was wet and hungry, ready for him. Ready to be taken by him. Tia couldn’t wait a moment more. She clutched his shoulders and pulled him down atop her. His cock nestled against her, his strong chest against her sensitive breasts. He kissed her deeply, and she tasted herself on his lips.
“Take me, Heath,” she whispered. “Take me now.”
He thrust into her, sheathing himself completely. She matched him t
hrust for thrust, clawing at his shoulders, wild for him. When he dipped his head to take one of her aching nipples into his mouth, she came again, tightening on him, the waves of pleasure even more potent this time than the last. In another few thrusts, he too had lost himself, crying out as he filled her with his seed.
He collapsed against her and rolled them as one to their sides, fitting her head neatly into the crook of his shoulder. “Sweet Christ, woman. What you do to me.”
He was breathless. Good. So was she. In fact, she was quite speechless as well. This time, she knew better than to ask questions to which she didn’t wish to hear the answers. She settled against him, kissing his neck.
I love you, she thought. I love you desperately.
She didn’t dare to say the words aloud.
Heath watched his sleeping wife in the early morning’s light, brushing a tendril of golden hair away from her brow. He’d spent the night in her chamber, something he’d avoided doing since their wedding night. But she hadn’t wanted him to leave, and he had been reluctant to revert to sleeping alone in his massive bed. An unsettling emotion curled through his gut as he admired the burgeoning glow of the sun casting her delicate features in a soft glow.
Contentment.
Yes, that was the word for it. He was simply content. More content than he recalled being in years, and he was man enough to admit to himself that the prospect scared the bloody hell out of him. It scared him as much for what he stood to lose as what he stood to gain.
He cared for Tia. What he felt for her had transcended the wild attraction that had initially drawn him to her side. She had become deuced important to him. He woke wanting to see her. He bided his time until she emerged from her chamber and he could touch her again, paint her again, hold her in his arms. Strip her nude for an impromptu lovemaking session. Catch a whiff of the maddening scent of violets.
Damn it all to hell.
He hadn’t bargained for this when he’d wed her. He’d intended to have an uncomplicated society union. They would have mutual respect for each other, share their beds and desire, begin a family. That was all. That would have been—should have been—more than enough. But in the course of the last few months, everything had altered so far from his ideal that he was beginning to fear he’d never find his way back. Good Lord, he’d never meant to care for her so deeply that the mere act of watching her sleep turned him into a maudlin fool.
Reckless Need (Heart's Temptation Book 3) Page 16
