“You’ve made me very happy,” Mr. Knight said.
He was, she realized, suddenly close. And as always, he was taking up too much space, breathing too much air, crowding her far too much. “Why is that?” She wanted to edge away from him, yet she didn’t want to abandon Diriday.
“Because this horse was my first choice for you.” Mr. Knight rubbed the gelding’s nose too. The fickle animal recognized a master and responded with an adoring snort.
Withdrawing her hand, Eleanor grasped the top rail of the stall. Very well. Diriday liked Mr. Knight. That wasn’t surprising. If she weren’t in this awkward situation, she would adore Mr. Knight, too. As it was, she pretended to stare at the horse so she wouldn’t gape at Mr. Knight. She’d already noted with one glance his dark blue riding costume, cut precisely to display his broad shoulders, his narrow waist, the broad muscles of his thighs. His black boots shone, and his blond hair had a ruffled appearance, as if he’d discarded his hat and shoved his fingers through the strands.
Nothing in his face betrayed the strain of last night’s attack, while the memories still haunted her. She hated that her heart had pounded as he’d fought, hated that she’d wanted to spring out of the carriage and help him—when, obviously, he had needed no help. He was a strong, capable man, a man with a background she knew nothing about. Lord Fanthorpe had pointed that out all too vividly, and her own response mortified her even now. She had called Mr. Knight refined.
And why? The question haunted her. She told herself it was because she didn’t want a fight between the two men. Because she was timid, and couldn’t bear to be the cause of a scene. It couldn’t be that she worried about Mr. Knight’s feelings. He had proved time and again he had no feelings to worry about.
He was still caressing the gelding, but he was watching her. The silence stretched between them, a silence he obviously didn’t fear.
But she did. Every time words faded between them, she said something stupid. Something revealing. But not this time. In a clipped tone, she said, “Diriday is the perfect mount for me.”
In that low, deep, beastly growl, he replied, “It’s good to know you’ll…ride…as I wish.”
She flushed. Her toes curled, and her nipples tightened into firm beads that ached to be touched.
How had he done it? She’d said the most obvious thing, and he’d made it clear he wasn’t talking about the horse.
He pried her bare fingers from the rail of the stall and kissed them.
“I find Lady Gertrude is a good chaperon,” he said.
Eleanor nodded, stricken dumb by the brief brush of his lips that had sent goose bumps racing up her arms.
He placed her hand on his shoulder. “So good, you and I haven’t had a moment alone together.”
“We’re alone now.” Unwise to remind him!
He crooned with satisfaction, “So we are.”
“So we should go now.” She tried to step away, to obey her instincts and flee.
Mr. Knight maneuvered her so that her back was to the post. “Fortunately, Lady Gertrude doesn’t ride, and doesn’t see that our being together now is a cause of concern.”
“It’s not.” Eleanor tried to speak firmly, yet she ended on a questioning note.
“Lady Gertrude has no imagination.” In the dim light, his eyes watched her relentlessly, like a falcon watches a fleeing morsel. In slow increments, he extended his free hand and wrapped it around her waist. “I find myself wondering about you.”
When had the situation turned dangerous? “I’m easily understood.”
“You’re a mystery, one I find myself compelled to solve. I want to know whether you like to kiss with your mouth closed…or open.”
Her eyes widened.
“If you enjoy being embraced so closely that your breasts press against a man’s chest.”
She gasped in shock.
“Where you find most pleasure when a man’s mouth, my mouth, roams your body.”
She wanted to gasp once more, but the gratification she saw in his face stopped her. Yes, he shocked her. He enjoyed shocking her. But she hated being so craven. She yearned to take him aback, and out of the depths of that need, she found the nerve to reply, “You may ask me those questions, and mayhap, if I wish, I’ll reply. But don’t imagine you yourself can discover the answers.”
“Ask. What a novel idea.” A small smile played across his velvet lips. “Yes, you could tell me, of course, but I find I like to make discoveries on my own.” Pulling her close against his body, he sealed them together.
Discoveries? She could tell him about discoveries. She did like being embraced so tightly that her breasts pressed against his chest; and that, and the amusement in his gaze, were reasons enough to leave—at once.
With a twist, she freed herself and ran.
He sprang after her. Two stalls down, he caught her by the waist. He swung her against the gate and held her hard against him.
She stared into his pale blue eyes and with all her heart wished she had some experience in these matters, for she had never felt so helpless in her life.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” His voice was deep and heated. “I’m not going to ravish you. I’m just going to kiss you.”
Just? Just? She had never been kissed in her whole life, and if he laid his perfectly sculptured lips against hers, she would be marked as surely as if he had branded her. “Not here.” She glanced toward the end of the stable, toward the open door. Surely if she reminded him of the proprieties, he would respond correctly.
Instead, he opened the gate, and with the same finesse he’d used on the dance floor the night before, he whirled her inside the stall. “The straw is clean, and the stall is private. You needn’t worry about the grooms. No one will interrupt us.”
She had had nothing in her mind but putting him off. Now he acted as if she had very properly asked for privacy. “I don’t…we can’t…”
His white teeth flashed in his tanned face, and he pulled her up against him so that she stood on her toes, so that her balance depended on him. “I can’t believe I’ve managed to wait so long.”
What did he mean, so long? They’d met only two days ago.
Then she saw his expression as he lowered his head to hers, and she realized that for this man, two days of restraint were an eternity. The man saw what he wanted and he went after it—and he wanted her.
Her eyes closed as his lips touched hers. Her first kiss. Close-mouthed, gentle, seeking.
She tried to pretend this wasn’t happening. Madeline didn’t want him and wouldn’t wed him, yet it wasn’t right for Eleanor to kiss her cousin’s fiancé.
But the crackle of hay beneath her feet and the scent of the horses gave this moment an unrelenting reality. The buttons on Mr. Knight’s jacket dug into her sternum. His arms handled her with an expertise that bespoke familiarity in handling an unwilling woman, and he kissed…like a beast of sensual powers.
His lips were silky soft, skilled in the art of love, giving pleasure with the lightest touch. He barely brushed her lips, yet she found herself lifting her face, seeking his touch like a flower follows the sun.
For a first kiss, it was very pleasant—and ultimately unsatisfying.
Which surprised her. She had thought Mr. Knight would kiss very well.
Well, not that she allowed herself to think about it, but sometimes the stray wicked idea crossed her mind before she could quash it. Yet it was true; she had expected better of Mr. Knight. She hadn’t expected him to leave her wanting more than these light touches.
So when he drew back, she pressed her lips more firmly against his and coaxed him with soft murmurs and the pressure of her body on his, the pressure of her lips on his. He hesitated as if unsure, then deepened the kiss.
His lips parted slightly, and it seemed that he urged her…challenged her…to do the same. She opened her lips and found herself breathing into his mouth—and he breathing into hers.
It felt as if they were exchang
ing pieces of their beings, of those essential parts that made them human. She could almost taste him in his breath, and that frightened her—and intrigued her. She wanted to know his flavors, his odors, his touches. She needed to know everything about him…at least at this moment.
For this moment would never come again. She must never kiss him again. She would never kiss any man again. And she wanted him so earnestly…
She wanted him.
The words echoed in her mind, and with a snap, her good sense returned. She pulled away from him. She backed against the wall and held her hand over her heart. “You must think I’m…unchaste.”
He didn’t laugh at her, or even look amused. “No, I think you’re lonely.”
“What?” Lonely? “I’m not lonely.” She had her duties. She had her relatives. She lived a productive life.
“You kiss like a woman who stands on the outside, always peering in the window of life and wishing she were there, yet never having the guts to demand entrance.”
“That’s not true.” Curse him, it was exactly true.
He paid her no heed. “Those days are over. Whatever you’re afraid of, you should be more afraid of me.”
He didn’t have to insist. She was.
His brows were lowered, his jaw firm, his eyes flinty. “Listen to me. From now on, you’re going to be at my side every minute. No matter what happens, no matter how objectionable the events, no matter how unhappy you make yourself, at the end of the day you’re going to go home with me. And at night…I’ll show you all the wonders of desire. Our nights will be passionate and grand beyond your wildest dreams, and I’ll take you to the edge of passion again and again. You’ll squirm beneath me and atop of me, you’ll touch every inch of my skin, you’ll live for my kisses. Until one day you’ll wake up and all you can think of is me. Of the pleasure I bring you. Of how it feels when I’m inside you. All the sorrow will fall away, and you’ll be mine forever.”
As she stared at him, wide-eyed, her body throbbed from his touch—and worse, from his words.
She was in such trouble.
She had to tell him the truth. She couldn’t let this go on. Blast Madeline and her clever plot and all the things Eleanor owed to her. If he knew who Eleanor was, he would stop talking to her this way. He would stop parading her around as his fiancée. She could go home—wherever that was now—and huddle in her bed and thank her lucky stars for her escape. And think of him and dream of him and touch her own body and pretend he touched her.
In a furious tone, he said, “You’re not who they say you are.”
She caught her breath on a sharp shard of horror. He already knew! “No.” Her voice squeaked. “I’m not.”
Again he reached for her. Again he brought her up against him. But this time he showed her how very much he’d restrained himself before.
Sliding his hand along the base of her neck, he thrust his fingers in her shorn hair and cradled her skull. He put his open mouth on hers, demanding response at once with the thrust of his tongue, and when she didn’t open to him, he nipped at her lower lip.
She cried out, an incoherent, startled sound.
He was inside.
Their first kisses had been exploration, a chance for him to taste her, a chance for her to grow used to him.
His tongue thrust rhythmically into the cavity of her mouth. Her lips grew tender under his assault. She hardly knew what to think, what to do…but it didn’t matter. He had taken control. The care he’d used the first times he’d kissed her was absent now. This time he sought satisfaction, and he sought it angrily, passionately.
Keeping a tight hold on her, he glared down at her. “You’re different than everyone says. Everything I know about you is wrong.”
She tried to answer, to explain, but he swung her off her feet. She was a tall woman, and he picked her up as if she were light as a feather. Kneeling, he rested her on a pile of straw. He covered her with his body, and it was hard and hot, weighing her down. The stall was warm and dim. The straw crackled beneath them, enveloping them in the dry, golden scent. He ground his hips against hers and against her belly she felt the length of him.
He kissed her again, using his lips to caress hers, using his tongue as an incitement. He buffeted her with passion so strong she tossed beneath him. She didn’t understand how this man of icy composure had so unexpectedly become wild and perilous. She had glimpsed the beast that lurked beneath his civilized exterior, but never had she imagined he would release it to feed on her.
But feed on her he did, without a care for her inexperience. He slid his hands down her arms, lifted her wrists and placed them around his neck. Nothing remained between them but their clothes, insignificant when compared to his obsession, which burned and spread from his flesh to hers.
To her surprise, her own passion rose to meet him. She wanted to claw at him, to tear his shirt from his throat and bury her mouth there, to wrap her legs around him. He had gone mad with passion, and he carried her with him.
And she swore she felt the ground move beneath her.
Or maybe it was something inside her that shifted. Something profound. Something significant.
His palms stroked down her sides, finding the shape of her waist and hips, lingering as if tempted to learn more. His knee slipped between hers; it pressed between her thighs and created a throbbing that spread up her belly to her breasts. Her skin felt feverish. His heart thundered against her breasts, and they ached as if they were swollen. Her body hurt with need, and she wanted the kiss to go on forever.
No. She wanted the kiss to become something more. Everything more.
He threw himself sideways so suddenly that she moaned in shock.
Savagely, he pitched himself onto the straw beside her. “God damn it.” He sounded livid. “I want to mate with you, and I can’t. Not here. Not now.”
And she wanted to mate with him. “Certainly not here and now.”
“I can’t take my future wife in a stable,” he said furiously. “You’re a gently bred young woman, not some trollop.”
“No, definitely not a trollop.” She touched her tender lips. Nothing had changed. She ought to tell him who she really was. She ought to tell him now.
But she didn’t want to. She liked his kisses. She wanted more of them. “You’re angry with me.”
He took deep, harsh breaths. “Not with you. With myself, for taking this too far too soon. I was going to…” He wouldn’t tell her what he was going to do, so he repeated, “You’re a gently bred young woman.”
Eleanor would accept every kiss he pressed on her. More than that, she would seek them out, and come what may, she would accept the consequences of her actions.
She could be foolish. She was, after all, just as much of a de Lacy as anyone else in the family.
Chapter 14
His duchess rode like a woman born to the saddle, moving gracefully with the horse. Here, on the riding path in Green Park, her smooth mask of serenity slipped, and she became a woman saturated in bliss. It was as if the wind in her face and the great beast beneath her made her forget who she wished to be—and instead made her who she was.
Remington wanted her to look like that for him, too. He wanted her to rise and fall above him, her face absorbed in pleasure, as she took him inside her again and again…
And it was damned difficult to ride with a cock-stand. He needed to keep his attention on his fiancée in case she fled, not appreciate the jiggle of her breasts as she rode. For given the chance, she did ride well enough to escape him.
Green Park was close to Berkley Square, a pleasant piece of ground. A pavilion was set in a wooded grove, and there cows grazed in bucolic splendor. Here aristocratic Londoners came to pretend they were in the country, to watch the cows being milked and the chickens fed, and perhaps turn their hand to the tasks themselves. The riding paths provided Remington some security. Here his stallion could outpace her, and Remington would ride posthaste when the stakes were high. But on the streets
of London, with its turns and its traffic, she might well be able to slip away into an alley and disappear.
In the future, he would drive them to the park to ride and have his groom lead the horses.
Of course, once he had attached her to him with the bonds of flesh, he would have control of her—and that thought made him realize his cockstand hadn’t subsided at all. If he could just concentrate on Madeline’s whereabouts and not on Madeline’s person…but she drew him like a single candle flame in a world of darkness.
Drawing up, she patted her horse’s neck, then lavished a smile on Remington. “That was wonderful. Thank you so much.”
That was another thing. She didn’t act like a duchess. Each thing he did for her, gave her, seemed to surprise and dismay her. The horse was the first present she’d accepted without reservation. Most aristocrats lived in a world of privilege where their every whim was indulged. Why was this lady surprised when he catered to her? And when had his previous determination to bring a duchess to her knees changed to the desire to indulge this waif’s every wish?
Her smile faltered. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Why?” If only he hadn’t tasted the loneliness on her lips and recognized the same loneliness that pervaded his soul.
“Because you’re staring at me so grimly.” She glanced down at Diriday, and she patted him more firmly. “He hasn’t been hurt by the exercise, has he? I didn’t notice anything wrong with him, but it’s been long since I’ve ridden so fine a mount, perhaps—”
“The horse is fine.” It annoyed Remington that she so easily transferred her worry from him to her gelding.
The kisses in the stable had shaken him to his core. Before he’d met her, he’d mapped out his seduction. An aggressive pursuit for the first three days, filled with desirous glances and lingering caresses to accustom her to his touch. A first kiss at their ball, and another, deeper kiss after the guests left. From that moment until their wedding night, a barrage of caresses to soften her animosity and prepare her for his ultimate possession. It didn’t matter that he didn’t personally know her; he foresaw no problem wanting her. Impeccable sources had told him that she was pretty and personable, and he enjoyed women: their smiles, their bodies, their chatter, their little furies.
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