Until suddenly the tension peaked, sending her soaring into a realm of pleasure she’d never, ever known.
A cry erupted from her mouth. . . his name, over and over. That seemed to encourage him further. He went on fondling her until she peaked again more fiercely, her hands tearing at his shirt, her throat hoarse from her cries.
Only when her knees buckled did he stop, drawing his hands from beneath her chemise to steady her. His mouth left her breast, and his eyes shone with need as he gazed up at her. She reveled in it. Who would have ever guessed that Lord Warbrooke was capable of such intensity? Or that he could show a woman such pleasures?
She cupped his face, fumbling for words to express how wonderful it had been and how eagerly she anticipated the rest, but he jerked away from her touch.
Her heart caught in her throat as he rose slowly to his feet. To her shock, he pulled the chemise back up to cover her breasts. Reaching for the ties, he began to fasten them again, and she caught his hand. “Stop that! What are you doing?”
He stepped back from her, his breath coming in unsteady gasps. “You’ve had your taste. That ought to be enough.”
“But. . . but we’re not finished!” She knew enough about lovemaking to know that, for pity’s sake.
His eyes glittered in the stark hunger of his face. “Yes, we are. That’s as much as you’re getting from me tonight, Bella.”
She blinked. It took a few seconds for his words to register, but when they did, her heart dropped into her stomach.
How could he make her want him, then turn around and refuse her so cruelly? She’d begun to believe he wasn’t the man she’d thought, that he wasn’t at all the calculating creature eager for power that she’d assumed.
But perhaps she’d been wrong to trust all his kind words and sweet attentions.
“Why?” she whispered. An awful possibility suddenly occurred to her. “Is it because I did something wrong? I failed to excite you?”
“God preserve me from stupid women!” He threaded his fingers through his hair in clear frustration. “I can hardly stay on my feet for the weight of my arousal, and you can ask such a bloody foolish thing?”
Her gaze shot to his trousers, which did seem to be rather. . . filled out. “Then why not satisfy your urges? And mine?”
Hot, wanton need flared in his face. “Good God, woman, don’t you understand? Any satisfaction of your ‘urges,’ any pleasure you might feel if we make love, won’t last beyond tonight. Not for a woman like you.”
A chill went through her. A woman like her? Could he have guessed that she was Lady Kingsley? Could all of this be just his way of tormenting her?
No, how could that be? Surely if he’d guessed, he would have said something by now. Lord Warbrooke would never have kept silent on such a subject. And the way he’d kissed her and caressed her. . . well, she couldn’t imagine Lord Warbrooke taking such liberties with a woman he’d always seemed to dislike.
Still, to be safe. . . “What kind of woman do you think I am? What could you possibly know about me, aside from the fact that I’m a masked widow who participated in a scandalous auction?”
He averted his gaze from her. “I don’t have to know–I can easily guess it. You’re a lady of breeding. It’s in your speech, your bearing, your superior attitude.” Striding over to a tray of brandy and glasses, he poured himself a generous portion. “I’ll wager you spent your childhood at a country estate under your father’s tender protection, then went straight to London for your coming out, where you met your ‘amiable’ man who never lifted a hand to you a day in his life.”
He gulped down some brandy, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And after the man you loved died and left you alone, you couldn’t bear the emptiness of your life without him, so you got some maggoty idea in your head about this bloody auction.”
He whirled on her, eyes flashing. “But you aren’t the kind to dally with men for sport. You’re the kind to feel shame after it’s done, to torture yourself for giving in to your ‘wicked’ impulses. And frankly, I don’t want to be the one you hate for encouraging them.” Knocking back another swig of brandy, he shifted his gaze to the fireplace. “I don’t want to be the man to defile the memory of the husband you seem to have worshiped.”
She wanted to laugh. Him and his noble impulses–he was worse than Henry. In fact, she began to think he might even be a better man than Henry, in more ways than one. But that made her yearn all the more to share his bed.
“Oh, Justin, your protectiveness is very sweet, but entirely unnecessary. Yes, I did worship my husband. Shall I tell you why?”
A muscle tightened in his jaw. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Too bad. I think you should hear. Especially when you persist in these strange notions about me.”
She took a steadying breath. She’d never told a soul in good society these things, and it wasn’t easy to relate them now. Especially to him. If not for the safety of her disguise, she could never say it. “I worshiped my late husband because I was grateful for what he’d done for me. You see, he’s the one who saved me from a life of drudgery in a cotton mill.”
His gaze swung back to her, confused, incredulous. “What?”
“This ladylike faÇade you see before you is precisely that. A faÇade.” Bitterness crept into her voice. . . and regret that she could never be a real lady, no matter how much she tried. She would always be an impostor. “This image was built through years of education and countless lessons in etiquette and deportment. It took tutors and dance instructors and–”
“I don’t believe you.”
She let herself fall into an accent long in disuse, a manner of speaking as foreign to her now as her “proper lady” role sometimes felt. “Well, sir, it ain’t my problem if you believe it or no.”
Jerking off her gloves, she approached him and thrust her hands up to his face. “See the scars? They ain’t from workin’ needlepoint. Them scars come from startin’ work in the mill at the wee age o’six. After twelve ’ours of work, a child starts to nod off an’ can’t keep up with the machines. So ’er ’ands catch the rough end an’ take a slice ’ere an’ there. I know a girl wot lost ’er thumb. An’ there was a boy–”
“Enough,” he whispered. Catching her hands in his, he fingered her scars. Revulsion mingled with pity in his face.
She could hardly bear to see it. It was difficult enough exposing her true nature to him, but to have him pity her for it. . .
Tugging her hands free, she turned her back to him and reverted to her usual manner of speaking. “Not quite the childhood at a country estate under a father’s tender protection that you envisioned, is it?”
A ragged oath erupted from him. “But how–”
“I was an orphan. And not the secret child of noble parents that you see in children’s tales either, in case that’s what you’re thinking. Just a plain, ordinary orphan who lived with a poor aunt. I worked at the cotton mill in Lancashire until I was twelve.”
Though these were painful secrets, she felt an odd relief in being able to tell someone–anyone–who she really was. After all, she’d hidden it for so very long. Apparently anonymity did have its uses, one of which was allowing her to unburden herself without fear of the consequences.
She went on more easily. “That was the year a reformer came unannounced to inspect the mill.” She smiled, remembering that day. “He caught the overlooker dunking a child’s head in the cistern to wake her up. He acted on impulse: he punched the overlooker out and then bought the mill. And the first thing he did was ban children under the age of fourteen from working there.”
Lost in the bittersweet memories, she balled her gloves up in her hands. “But by then my aunt had died, and I had nowhere to go. I’d been taking care of myself in her cottage, but without the work at the mill. . . ”
She shrugged. “I threw myself on his tender mercies. I asked to be a servant in his house, a kitchen maid, anything.” A lump filled he
r throat. “I still don’t know what he saw in me, but he took pity on me and brought me back to his estate. He had me educated as a gentlewoman. He told me if I worked hard to improve myself, I could have a shop or even be a governess. I think it pleased him to watch my progress.”
“You lived alone with him?” he asked in an uneasy voice.
“It’s not how it sounds. His second wife had only recently died, but his sister lived with him. It was all very proper, believe me.”
A long, awkward silence filled the room. He was the one who broke it. “So how did you come to marry him?”
“As I grew older, I began helping him with his work. I suppose we sort of. . . fell into marriage. I don’t think he would have bothered to marry again at all except that he hadn’t yet fathered an heir. He was a man of property, a gentleman, and he needed a son. And it occurred to him. . . ” She trailed off, loath to reveal these intimate secrets about Henry.
“What occurred to him, Bella?”
It wasn’t as if Justin would know whom she spoke of, was it? Justin had barely known Henry, and few people talked of Henry’s previous wives. “Well, his first two wives had been the refined sort. He always said the aristocracy was overbred, and that it was killing them. He thought perhaps an infusion of the stronger blood of peasant stock, as he put it, might help him produce a son.”
“And you didn’t mind providing him with the ‘peasant stock’?” he choked out.
“How could I? He’d done so much for me–the least I could do was marry him and try to give him an heir.” Her gaze dropped to the gloves she kept twisting in her hands. “But I failed in that respect. Doesn’t say much for the power of my stronger blood, does it?”
“You can’t blame yourself for that.” The thrum of his low voice washed over her like a caress. “These things happen. It might have been his fault, after all. Either way, no one is truly to blame except God, and He isn’t apologizing. So I don’t see why you should.”
She faced him with a wan smile. “An interesting point and one I’d never considered.”
He didn’t smile at her echo of his earlier statement. Indeed, the look on his face was so full of sympathy and concern that it brought tears to her eyes. How had she ever thought this man incapable of true feeling?
Ruthlessly she blinked her tears back, grateful for the mask that helped to hide them. “In any case, I’m not the well-bred lady you thought I was. That’s all I was trying to illustrate. So your balking at making love to me is entirely unnecessary, you see.”
“Oh, no, you’re wrong,” he said fiercely. “If anything, your tale has made it even more necessary. I’m sorry, Bella, but I won’t make love to you. Not now, not ever.”
6
Though Justin knew he’d made the right decision, it cost him a great deal to hold to it. Especially when she stood there looking so lost.
But what she’d told him explained so much. It was no wonder she’d reacted violently to his proposal at the governing board. If he’d been in her place, he’d have done the same.
Unfortunately, it also explained why she worshiped Henry Lamberton. She would never accept another man in Lamberton’s place. And who could blame her? What man could replace a real saint?
That must be why she’d participated in the auction instead of just looking for a husband–she didn’t want a man to replace Lamberton. Except for one night. And Justin couldn’t be only that to her, not now that he’d seen how truly rare a woman she was.
“I should take you home,” he said.
He regretted the words when he saw tears leak out from beneath her mask. Bloody hell, he hadn’t wanted to make her cry! Not after all she’d endured.
“I-I see,” she stammered. “Now that you realize how very far beneath you I am–”
“Don’t be absurd.” It hurt that she could even think that of him. “Your origins have nothing to do with it. If anything, they make me respect you more. Indeed, I respect you too much to take advantage of you when you still have only room for your husband in your heart.”
She blinked at him. “What? You think. . . ” She laughed harshly. “Dear heaven, so that’s what this reluctance is all about.” She stepped nearer, her face full of supplication. “Oh, Justin, didn’t you understand what I was saying? My marriage wasn’t like that at all.”
“Like what?”
“A love match. Yes, I was grateful to my husband for what he did, but–” With a sigh, she glanced away. “Have you ever heard the myth of Galatea and Pygmalion?”
He sifted through the years of his Eton education. “Pygmalion was the one who created a statue of a woman so perfect that he fell in love with it, right?”
She nodded. “He suffered for his love, but Venus took pity on him and turned Galatea into a real woman. Then Pygmalion and Galatea married.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re saying that your husband was Pygmalion, and you were Galatea.”
A bitter smile touched her lips. “Exactly. Except that my Pygmalion hardly ventured beyond adoration of his statue. He had no idea how to be Galatea’s husband. All those lovely things you just did. . . the way you touched me and kissed me? Hen–my husband would never have done any of them.”
He couldn’t fathom such madness. “Why not?”
She strode up to him, her eyes glittering beneath the mask. “My husband considered that sort of behavior too wicked for his precious creation. Despite all his talk about peasant blood, once he made me into the image of a perfect wife, he didn’t want to defile that image in any way.”
Justin stared at her, wanting but hardly daring to believe what she was saying.
She went on relentlessly. “He couldn’t avoid committing the actual act of love–not if he wanted to sire a son–but he made it. . . ” She halted, no doubt reluctant to speak of the intimacies of her marriage. Then she went on. “He made it as short and perfunctory as possible. There was no enjoyment, no pleasure, none of those heavenly feelings you gave me. Just a few painful thrusts while he apologized for inconveniencing me.”
“Bloody hell,” he whispered, the truth slamming into him. There were men with such proper ideas, but he’d never guessed Lamberton would be that sort. How could the man have wasted his hours with her in such a stupid fashion?
Though Justin hadn’t been much better. When he could have been showing her how wonderful lovemaking between two people could be, he’d been acting like a pompous idiot, ignoring her protests, sure that he knew better.
What a fool he was. “I’m sorry, Bella, I didn’t realize–”
“And I thought that was all there was,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “I thought that was all I could expect of a husband. Until my friend told me it didn’t have to be like that. I was sure she was wrong–that perhaps I was flawed–”
“You’re not flawed.” He grabbed her by the shoulders, needing to reassure her, to touch her, now that he knew he could. “You’re not flawed in any way.”
“It might be better if I was! Then perhaps you men would stop putting me on a pedestal where I don’t belong! I don’t want to be Galatea anymore, blast it!”
She twisted out of his grip, but he caught her about the waist and tugged her back against his body. When she froze, he pressed his mouth to her ear. “You can’t stop being Galatea. It’s who you are, whom he made you into. You couldn’t return to being that orphan millworker even if you wished to.”
A strangled sob erupted from her, and he went on hastily before she could misunderstand. “But it might not be so bad on that pedestal if you have the right man there with you.”
“Th-the right man?” she echoed.
“Yes.” It was time he showed her what Lamberton had not. She might only want him for tonight, but he’d give her that, no matter what it cost him. It was the least she deserved after risking so much for one wanton night. He lowered his voice to whisper. “If you ask my opinion, what Galatea needs is a lover.”
She turned her head to gaze up at him, and the lo
ok of hope in her face nearly shattered him. “Where do you suggest I find this lover?”
“Right here.” He cupped her cheek in his hand. “I’d be honored to fill the position.”
“But what if I really am flawed–”
“The only flaw you possess, my darling Bella,” he murmured as he turned her fully to face him, “is a deplorable inability to appreciate how wonderful you truly are.”
A sudden smile broke over her face. “Oh, Justin, you say the sweetest things. Tell me, have you a method for ridding me of my ‘deplorable’ flaw?”
“Indeed I do.” Feeling his hunger well up inside him, fierce, undeniable, he pushed the sleeves of her chemise off her shoulders. “What you need is to see yourself through the eyes of a man who does appreciate how wonderful you are. Like me, for example.”
She sucked in a shaky breath as he dragged her chemise lower.
“First, there are your breasts.” His voice thickened with need as he exposed them fully. “So beautiful and soft to the touch. I love having them in my mouth.”
Dropping to his knees, he kissed them in turn. “I love tasting them and teasing them and. . . ” He trailed off as he seized one in his mouth, giving free rein to the urges that had plagued him endlessly all night.
But only for a moment. There was more of her he wanted to “appreciate.” Sliding the chemise down farther, he smiled to see her slender waist. Lamberton must have been blind to ignore this angel’s delights, to treat her body as something shameful when he should have been worshiping it.
Well, Lamberton’s loss was his gain, and he’d make up for the man’s stupidity if it took him all night. “Then there’s your smooth belly,” he rasped through a throat gone raw with desire. “One day, if you’ll give me the chance, I intend to spread this belly with jam and spend an afternoon licking it all off.”
Her skin quivered at his words, but her hands reached to caress his hair, and that was all the encouragement he needed. He kissed her navel, then pressed open-mouthed kisses in widening circles around it, inching lower and closer with every one.
The Widow's Auction Page 6
