Thrale sat up, holding her, and bent his head to her breast. She threw her arms around his shoulders and held on and against the backdrop of arousal that came with his mouth on her breast, she thrust her pelvis against his, needing him deeper, and he responded to that.
“More?” he asked. A feral light snapped into his eyes, and he held her tighter, tight enough that he controlled the pace. “What is it you want?” She held him, kissed his shoulder. Nipped his skin. “I need you to tell me. Don’t make me guess.” He slowed his pace, going back to that lovely, tender coupling from earlier, and it was not what she wanted. She wanted that look in his eyes again.
“Don’t.” Her fingers gripped his shoulders. “I want you here. With me. Hearing me tell you I want more. More, Thrale. More of your cock in me. I’ll die if I don’t have that.”
“I’d rather you died if you did.”
“Beast. Yes. Please. That sort of death. I’ll tell you if it’s too much. I swear it.”
He grabbed her head between his hands and kissed her, a brutal taking of her mouth, and she reveled in his possession. While he kissed her like that he reached between them and pushed her thigh until there was room for him to settle.
“I want you inside me.”
He kissed her stomach, then her belly and then his mouth was between her legs and she could scarcely believe he would—he set about destroying what chance there had ever been of her not giving in to pleasure. He made her come with his mouth and fingers and his hands on her body, and they tumbled back to the mattress with him over her, stroking into her hard, and it was breathtaking the way he did that, the look on his face, the concentration, the way his mouth tensed and relaxed; the flex of his muscles.
She reached upward, looked to brace herself, and he saw that and shoved her upward until she had her palms pressed to the headboard, elbows straight, and she rocked her pelvis toward him. Her mind emptied out of everything but his male body, and her use of him. He pulled out of her, and she turned onto her stomach and he grabbed her hips and rammed himself into her, and she shouted his name.
Tomorrow she would have bruises, she was sure of it, but he was careful, so careful not to grasp where tomorrow others would see. He was hard inside her, hard against her. His fingers snaked in her hair, curving around the back of her skull, holding her, and with his other around her waist, he fucked her. Hard. At the edge of too hard. She could never get enough of his relentless body. She came just from that, from thinking about him doing this to her, and his actually doing it.
They ended up with him over her again, and she held tight and whispered his name, groaned it, gave into the sounds coming from her and the delirious joy of his body, hers to accept.
He withdrew before she was ready, just when she was on the edge of coming again and if she’d not realized at the last seconds that he was at his crisis, she would have clung to him. As it was, his cry drowned out her moan that was really objection at being left at the peak like that.
“Madam.” He got his breath back.
She touched the side of his face. “Lucy.”
CHAPTER 40
“Lucy isn’t like Anne.” Emily put her hands on her hips and craned her neck to look Bracebridge in the eye. Always an effort, since he was tall, and she was not. Of all her sisters, she was the shortest, and she hated it. She hated being the dainty one. She never felt dainty, but she was. There was nothing she could do to change that fact. Men built on the scale of Bracebridge were always a reminder of why she wanted to be taller than she was; because so many men thought she was helpless.
Bracebridge thought she was annoying, she knew that. Therefore, she did her utmost to disguise her physical reaction to him; the butterflies that swarmed in her stomach, the quiver at the back of her knees, the memory of what she’d felt when he kissed her, the way she’d instantly surrendered to that heady desire.
He scowled at her. “Do you think I’m that daft, that I don’t know that?”
There was nothing worse than being hopelessly in love with someone who disliked you. No matter how hard she tried, her reaction to the man could not be unfelt. She admired his loyalty and his wit. She admired the way he moved, and the way he was vital even at rest. His confidence drew her, and no matter what anyone said about his looks, she found him unbearably attractive.
Worst of all, she’d seen him naked under circumstances both improper and impossible to forget. She hated that she could not set aside those memories, nor the images. Bracebridge. Naked. Glaring at her with his black eyes. While she could pretend it hadn’t happened, privately, she was unable to forget. She had charged into his bedroom, ready to do battle. She’d had no choice, and he had not been alone. Sometimes she was convinced he’d gotten out of bed for the sole purpose of taunting her. If he did not care that she’d seen him nude and in the midst of intimacy with another woman, why would he care about any other feelings she had?
Fact: he did not. He did not care for her, and never had. He was too old for her, or she was too young. She was too happy or not happy enough, too much of everything and not enough of anything. She had long ago given up hope that he’d consider her an equal the way he did Anne. Or Mary. Or Lucy.
“Well, she’s not like Anne, and if it’s true you’re aware, I’d like to know why you treat her as if she is.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and gave her one of those dark looks that would have made a sensible woman run for her life. She had months ago reconciled herself to his contempt of her. Sometimes for two or three weeks at a time, she forgot the unfortunate state of her heart, and then she would catch sight of him, and she turned into to a heap of romantic despair.
“Is that so?”
“Yes. It is so.”
“That you want to know why I do anything.”
She drew a breath. He was being deliberately infuriating, and it was working. “Lucy has always been the quiet one of we Sinclair women.”
“God knows it isn’t you who’s the quiet one.”
She smiled as brilliantly as she knew how. This was not the sort of man she’d ever imagined tugging at her feelings. He wasn’t elegant or devastatingly handsome, and his manners left something to be desired. For heaven’s sake, she’d found him in bed with a married woman, and that was a sin. “You must be patient with Lucy.”
“Why? I’m not the one courting her.”
“Stop being difficult. You and Lucy are perfect for each other. If only you’d stop behaving toward her as you do Anne or Mary.”
“I don’t need lessons in how to behave to a lady.”
She sniffed. “I beg to differ.”
“Beg all you want.”
Just like that, everything went off kilter. His voice slid through her like warm silk, and it didn’t matter how much she resented her attraction to him or how thoroughly she understood they did not suit, she could not stop her visceral response to him. She grabbed fistfuls of her skirts, then realized the picture that must make and released the fabric. She forced herself not to move. “It is not, my lord, as if I think you are not charming. Why, I recall quite well an occasion when you had no trouble at all seducing a lady.”
“I didn’t seduce you.”
She tipped her shoulders back. “I beg your pardon?” Then she realized that what he’d meant, and what she’d meant were not the same thing at all. “No. You did not. No one could call that seduction.”
He held her gaze. “My point, Miss Sinclair. My point.”
“I meant a woman I met at a certain London townhouse. You were both so charming in your utter lack of appropriate dress.” She’d taken a risk confronting him like this, but he always made her feel out of control and off-balance. Lord knows it was dangerous to directly and deliberately recall her encounter with a very naked Earl of Bracebridge.
“Someone ought to take you in hand.”
She made a face at him. “Alas, Lord Thrale declined that honor.”
“Lucky man, then.”
Something in the sound
of his voice tugged at her. She took a step forward and put a hand on his upper arm. He wouldn’t have her, and that was her heartache. He’d already lost the woman he loved, and she could not bear the thought of him bearing another loss like that.
“You and Lucy would suit.”
He gave her a look of such deep scorn that she did not know whether to laugh, be offended, or come to tears.
“I mean it. I’ll help you, Bracebridge. Lucy deserves to be happy.”
“Do you think I don’t know that? Or don’t want that for her? Don’t insult me.”
“If you knew her, you would fall in love with her. You could not help loving her. She’s a secret fondness for bad poetry. She reads that drivel by Coleridge, for pity’s sake. She’s been reading Milton, so that would be a fruitful direction for conversation that will engage her. Oh, and she adores marzipan and prefers orangeade over lemonade.”
“You don’t care for Coleridge?”
She waved a hand. “He can put together a clever rhyme or two, I suppose.”
“He can bloody well do more than that.”
“There’s no need to curse just because you have execrable taste in poetry. I hope you don’t intend to curse at Lucy.”
“No, Sinclair, I do not.”
“At any rate, if you both like Coleridge, then it proves you and Lucy are an excellent match.”
“Do you like marzipan?”
“Not much.”
He put a palm on the wall and leaned his weight on it. “Lemonade or orangeade?”
“Neither. Stop trying to intimidate me when I’m trying to help you.”
“Is it working?” He leaned closer and gave her one of those black glares that were so effective in keeping others away, and that had the opposite effect on her.
“Not at all, my lord.”
“Cakes?”
“Do I like them? Yes. Do you?”
“Not a bit. Mozart?”
“Only a buffoon wouldn’t like Herr Mozart.”
“Can’t abide the man’s music.”
The more he tried to lower over her, the more determined she became not to let him think for a moment that he would succeed. “Have we any common ground?”
“Not so much as a dirt clod between us.”
“We agree on Lucy. That she’s beautiful and wonderful, and she ought to be happy.”
He smiled, and her heart turned in her chest, it was that wicked. “I’ll grant you that.”
“There, you see?” She smoothed her skirts and wished pink were not her color. Lucy could wear dramatic colors while pink was so...so horribly dainty.
He leaned closer and for what seemed like an eternity they stood inches apart. Mere inches, and the longer he stayed silent, the more drawn to him she was. Falling into his black eyes, and it was all she could do not to touch his face, and then she was doing precisely that, her finger slid along the length of his crooked nose and then down to his mouth, and moved along his lips.
The air became still. Nothing but their breath between them. He tipped his head up the slightest bit and then his tongue touched her finger. She ended up with her palm pressed to his cheek.
“You,” he said in that dangerous whisper that never failed to thrill her, “are a brat. A beautiful, sumptuous, vain brat who thinks there’s not a man alive who can resist her.”
“I don’t think any such thing.” She leaned toward him because she’d lost her mind, and he did the same, and when their mouths touched, it was as thrilling as the first time he’d kissed her.
More.
When he kissed her, the world fell away. She knew what they were doing was wrong, and that the way he kissed her was lewd, and that no proper young lady would let a man kiss her as if he meant to devour her.
This was how women ruined themselves.
CHAPTER 41
In the front parlor, Thrale leaned back on his chair and listened to Aldreth reading a letter from an uncle of his who was traveling in Europe. They were leaving tomorrow. All of them back to Bartley Green. There, Lucy would remove to Aldreth’s but would accompany the duke and duchess when they removed to the duke’s seat.
All four of the sisters were sitting on a sofa cater-corner to Aldreth and across from him. Thomas Sinclair sat with a glass of wine in hand, quiet for now. Lady Aldreth and the duchess both had needlework in hand. Bracebridge was slumped in a chair, an unread letter in one hand. Miss Sinclair had a novel open on her lap but was not reading. Lucy, with Roger at her feet, appeared to be counting the strands of silk in one of the tassels of her shawl.
Aldreth’s uncle had a talent for description and amusing stories, a family gift, it would seem. Everyone in the room was smiling, even Lucy, despite her distraction. Bracebridge propped his feet on the fender, listening in his quiet way. The duke had an elbow on the mantle, and he was watching his wife.
As he listened and watched this gathering of friends and family, in a parlor he had robbed of warmth and comfort, he wanted this for himself; the bonds of marriage and family. He plucked at the bottom of his waistcoat while he looked anywhere but at Lucy. None of these people were fools, and he had no desire to find himself obliged to explain himself to Aldreth or Cynssyr when he remained uncertain of what he ought to do in respect of Lucy when any sort of declaration to her might be taken as interference.
Lucy’s shawl slipped off her shoulders and landed in a puddle at the one side of her chair, and he wanted to fuck her again. Though he considered her looks secondary to what fascinated him, the fact was he wanted those long legs around him again, he wanted her breath in his ear, his mouth on her in places it oughtn’t be, and he wanted her to put flowers in his room every day of his life.
He left his chair to pick up her shawl and hand it to her. “Mrs. Wilcott.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Their fingers touched. He was aware the duchess was watching him. She was an observant woman, the duchess.
“Shall we take Roger for a walk?” He held out a hand.
Miss Sinclair said, “Shall I come with you, Lucy?”
Thrale met and held the duchess’s gaze and willed her to understand, and she did, for she smiled and said, “Emily, do please help me with this.” She held up her needlework. “Your fingers are so much nimbler than mine. I can never stitch as small as you.”
“But—”
Bracebridge was glaring at her.
“Please,” the duchess said.
“Very well.”
He glanced at Roger. “Come along, old man. Mrs. Wilcott?”
She put her hand in his. Outside, with the noble Roger walking between them, having decided he could not allow her to leave here with him having said nothing about what he felt, he gathered himself. “Lucy.”
“My lord.”
He smiled through his tension. “You and I have embarked on an adventure.”
“An adventure. Yes. I suppose that’s so.”
They arrived at the spot where Lucy had worked on the marigolds. New blooms were a dash of color amid the greenery. His groundsman had been back, for the lawn here was scythed and trimmed, new gravel laid down, the roses pruned to a less wild tangle. The bench had been scrubbed of grime. “Thank you for this. For the memories of my mother. For beauty where there had been none.”
“You’re welcome.”
He faced her and clasped his hands behind him. He was aware he could be ruining everything with his impatience, with his inability to let another moment pass without telling her how he felt. “Lucy. Lucy. I did not ask you here on a whim.”
“No?”
“I’ve long thought I was no suitable husband for any woman.”
“That is absurd, Thrale. You could not be more suitable.”
“You know why.” He held her gaze until she acknowledged him. “I was resigned to making a marriage that would do.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “A year ago I thought you a beautiful woman and hardly more. When I came to Bartley Green, I had in mind that I might marry yo
ur sister. A vague notion, I grant you that. Then you. Lucy, you were not what I believed of you. In the time we have known each other I have come to admire you more than I can say.”
She pulled free of his hand and fiddled with her shawl again. “I like and admire you, too. You can’t think otherwise.”
“You brought laughter into my life. Color where there was none before. When I understood the woman you are, I was in awe of you. I remain so. In bed, you are my match, and even so, I have endeavored to be a friend to you.”
She looked up from her shawl. “You are my friend. You are.”
He stepped forward and took her face between his hands. “In all my life I have never seen a more tender mouth.” He swept a thumb over her bottom lip. He bent his head and touched his lips to where his thumb had been. No one could call that a proper kiss, and it wasn’t one.
She drew in a breath, and the sound struck to the center of him. The sound made him think of sex, of warm skin, and damp mouths. He tightened his fingers on her shoulder and kissed her again, though he had no intention of doing more. She leaned into him and angled her head, and tension leapt between them.
He kissed her again and slid an arm around her waist while his other hand moved from her shoulder to side of her throat. She kissed him back, melting against him as she did. Tension sang between them, arousal, anticipation. Her mouth was soft against his and then she draped an arm around his shoulder and drew herself closer yet.
That gorgeous tension expanded in him, shivered through him, between them, and he was lost in this moment. She kissed like an angel, soft and sweet, put her arm tight around his shoulder, and settled her other hand on his upper chest, and she kissed him with a gratifying, shocking, marvelous enthusiasm.
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