by Brenda Hiatt
"Dina," he whispered huskily, "you know I don't want to hurt you. Wouldn't it be better—"
"No." Her voice startled him with its firmness. "It would not be better to wait. I'd hoped, after what you've learned of me over the past few days, you would realize I am not nearly so breakable as you had feared. Let me prove it to you."
She looked up at him, her lips slightly parted, wet and swollen from his kisses. A shudder of overwhelming desire went through him, but still he tried to protest.
"Not breakable, no. But you must be sore, bruised—"
"Do I act as though I am sore?" she asked, pressing against him again. "If Silas's deliberate attempt to hurt me did no real damage, can you honestly think you are likely to harm me by accident?"
He did not answer, so torn was he between his need of her and his determination to protect her. While he hesitated, she untied the simple knot of his cravat, then began unbuttoning his shirt.
"You won't hurt me, Thor," she whispered. "I won't let you. And you must tell me if I hurt you, for I don't promise to be gentle this time."
So saying, she pushed him backwards with a force that took him completely unaware, given their disparity in size. The edge of the bed hit him behind the knees and he found himself falling back onto the soft mattress. Before he could push himself upright, Dina clambered atop him.
"This would be much easier if we already had our clothes off," she told him, undoing the last of his shirt buttons. "Luckily, this gown fastens down the front." Not until she began unbuttoning her dress did Thor suddenly realize she had not needed his help at all.
"Here, let me do that," he said. With that push onto the bed, she had finally convinced him that she was indeed strong enough to withstand his lovemaking, if he were careful. His decision made, he was eager —more than eager —to begin. Deftly he released her from her bodice, then sat up just enough to pull his shirt off over his head.
"Can I get up for a moment?" she asked. "Do I have you properly subdued?"
He grinned up at her, wondering how he ever could have doubted that Dina was the perfect woman for him. He loved her with all his being. "You have, indeed. I promise not to run away."
"Good." Standing up, she quickly struggled out of her gown, then unlaced her corset and discarded that as well. Thor watched her with hungry eyes before belatedly remembering that he was still half-clad as well.
When she bent to remove her shoes and stockings, he sat up and took off his own, then hurriedly undid his breeches. When he started to stand to pull them off, however, she pushed him back to the bed. "No, you don't. Promise or no, I'm not letting you off this bed until I get what I want from you," she said teasingly.
She tugged at his breeches and he obligingly lifted his hips to assist her in their removal. When he finally sprang free of them, he saw her eyes widen with desire. With a fluid movement, she pulled her shift off over her head. For a moment she stood there, gloriously naked. He drank in the sight of her, feeling ready to explode already.
He started to sit up again, to reach for her. At once, she flung herself at the bed, straddling him as she had before, but this time with nothing separating them. Exultantly, he ran his hands up and down her sides, exploring her curves, then pulled her face down to his for a long, deep kiss that was a mere taste of what was to come.
Her mysterious cleft was just brushing his shaft, and now he slid his hands down to her waist to move her along it, much as he'd done in the pool. She gasped and he could feel that already she was slick and ready for him.
Still, he took his time, sliding her hips back and forth, back and forth, rubbing her sensitive nubbin along the length of him, holding himself back until he felt her body tense with the beginning of her climax. Then, lifting her with both hands, he impaled her, driving upward into her glorious depths.
Throwing back her head so that her hair streamed down her back, she cried out, but this time he had no fear that it was a cry of pain. She began contracting around him and he lost the capacity for thought, burying himself deeper and deeper within her, in that age-old rhythm of ecstasy.
Above him, she rocked, faster and faster, then cried out again, just as he reached his own peak, emptying himself into her in an exquisite rush. He heard himself chanting her name, over and over, as their rhythm slowed.
Finally, she collapsed atop him, her body slick with sweat, her breathing still fast and shallow. He cradled her against him, the most precious being in the world.
Dina had never imagined her experience in the pool could be repeated, much less exceeded. She had to admit, however, that it had. It seemed incredible that she could survive so much pleasure.
"I didn't hurt you, did I?" she murmured sleepily, her head nestled in the hollow of his throat.
He chuckled, a lovely rumble in his chest beneath her cheek. "Not at all. And I won't even ask, because I know you'd have told me if I had."
"Mmm. Exactly. I'd never keep a secret like that from someone I— That is—" She broke off in confusion, panicked by how nearly she had told him she loved him. She had sworn to herself she would not burden him with that knowledge, not until she was sure—
"Dina?" he said softly. "Dare I hope you were going to say, "someone I love?"
Embarrassed, she nodded into his neck.
His arms tightened around her. "I'm glad to know that, because I've been longing to tell you for days that I love you, but feared you might not be ready to hear it."
She lifted her head to stare at him. "Truly, Thor?"
He nodded, a smile playing about his perfect lips. "Truly, Dina. I love you more than I ever thought it possible to love anyone."
Leaning forward, she kissed him. "I love you, too—so, so much. But I was afraid—"
"Shh. No more fears —for either of us. And no more waiting until we have a body of water handy."
They both chuckled, and for a long moment, she lay contentedly in his arms. Then she lifted her head again to regard him quizzically. "I hope that doesn't mean we can't, ah, visit the pool again, when we return to Plumrose?"
"Not at all. I believe I'll always have a special fondness for that swimming pool now," he said with a smile. "But we may not be back there for some time."
"What do you mean?" She'd assumed he would want to go home as soon as they had things in order here at Ashcombe.
"It occurs to me that living with my parents may not be the best way for us to begin our new lives together, nor have I spent enough time at Plumrose in recent years for it to feel much like home to me. Not the way I know Ashcombe feels like home to you."
Sudden delight welled up in her breast. "Do you mean we can live here? Stay to oversee all of the improvements we have discussed? I should like that above all things."
"That's exactly what I mean— assuming we survive Violet's come-out in London next month." They both laughed, and then he continued, "Living here will give me a chance to learn a bit about estate management before the time comes that I will have to manage my own. Besides, newlyweds should have a place to call their own, don't you think?"
She nodded happily, a beautiful vision of the future opening up to her imagination. "I do believe that running away to Scotland was the best decision I ever made."
Keep reading for a sneak peek at Scandalous Virtue, the sparkling prequel to The Saint of Seven Dials series!
Scandalous Virtue
London—Late September, 1814
* * *
Rain beat upon expensively paned windows while in the flickering candlelight within, the boisterous clamor hovered in volume between battlefield and bordello. John Jefferson Ashecroft, equally at home in either setting, relished the wild abandon of this latest celebration of his recent, unexpected elevation to the lofty title of Marquis of Foxhaven.
Lord Peter Northrup, fourth son of the Duke of Marland and his oldest friend, clearly did not share his enthusiasm. "Three near-orgies in three nights is a bit much, don't you think, Jack?" he whispered. "Thought you valued your grandfather's
memory. This would having him rolling in his grave!"
"Mausoleum, dear boy. Nothing so crude as earth for a Foxhaven resting place! But the old fellow's gone now, so there's no one to care what I do with my good fortune—or no one whose opinion matters." Jack turned from the card table and his advisor.
"Here, Polly, lass! Bring me another pint and another kiss!" he called out to a passing maidservant.
Giggling, the girl complied, and Jack slid a hand up her skirts to sweeten his kiss. "Milor' you are a handful!" Polly informed him, wrinkling her freckled nose and winking.
Jack chuckled. "Nay, you're the handful, and a pretty one at that! What say you and I escape upstairs for half an hour? My guests will never miss me." He swept a glance about the sumptuous drawing room at the dicing, dallying throng there assembled. The marked absence of ladies—of the Quality, at any rate—gave evidence that this particular gathering lacked Society's blessing.
Then he caught Lord Peter's eye. "What? Surely you don't begrudge me a bit of revelry after the past few years of privation?"
Lord Peter snorted. "Privation? I don't recall that a light purse ever kept you from revelry in the past. Now you simply have the means to speed yourself to perdition on greased wheels."
"Ah, you have no idea how I suffered during the war," Jack informed his friend with a melodramatic sigh. "Wine, women and song were hard to come by. The sleep I lost in the search . . . ! Ask Harry over there. He has no fault to find with my present lifestyle."
"No surprise there." Lord Peter turned a judicious eye on Jack's second-oldest friend, who was enthusiastically tossing dice with his one remaining arm. The wars had left his other sleeve empty. "Harry always lived for the moment, even before his injury turned him bitter. Now he just wants company on his journey to hell."
Jack shrugged. "And perhaps I'll oblige him. He saved my life in Spain, after all."
"And you his—twice," Lord Peter reminded him. "I'd say the score's more than even."
"Polly, go ahead and take Ferny another bottle," suggested Jack, nodding toward the gesturing Lord Fernworth across the noisy room. "Perhaps by the time you return, Peter will be done with his moralizing. You're quite the spoilsport tonight, you know," he informed his friend when the wench had gone. "I can't think you accepted my invitation merely to cluck over my shortcomings like some brightly colored mother hen."
Lord Peter smoothed his gold and scarlet waistcoat. "I suppose I am acting the prig tonight. Sorry, Jack. It's just—"
A forceful throat-clearing at his elbow interrupted him. The thin, nondescript butler Jack had hired earlier that week announced, "A Mr. Havershaw, milord." The throat-clearer, just as thin as the butler but much taller, hovered behind, scowling.
He'd really have to see about a new butler, thought Jack resignedly. This Carp, or Crump, or whatever his name was, didn't seem to have a grasp of the proper procedures at all.
"Ah, yes, Mr. Havershaw," said Jack with forced cordiality while looking daggers at his oblivious butler. "I do apologize for not keeping our appointment last Wednesday. The press of business, you see—"
"Yes, I certainly do see, my lord." Mr. Havershaw scoured the room with a sour glance. "I would not have presumed to come to you, but some of these papers are quite pressing. If I could have half an hour of your time in the library?"
Jack stared at the man in disbelief. "Now?" He knew that Havershaw had enjoyed an unusually privileged position as both his grandfather's steward and lifelong friend, but this was absurd.
"If you'd be so kind, my lord. I'll not keep you long from your . . . guests."
Aware that Lord Peter, along with a growing number of the revelers, were regarding him with interest, Jack finally shrugged. "I may as well get it over, I suppose. Peter, see that no one's glass goes empty, will you? My staff leaves a bit to be desired. All right, Havershaw, the library's this way."
Havershaw headed for the hallway. "I know, my lord."
How did the man manage to make those two words sound like an insult? He was the marquis now, by God, however unprepared for the role he might be.
Once in the library, he turned to face his nemesis. "I trust you'll make this quick, Mr. Havershaw. It's most irregular for a host to abandon his guests in this manner."
He'd meant to say something far more cutting, but various childhood memories of Havershaw had crowded back. With them came an ingrained respect he was amazed could still constrain him. Other than his grandfather and, more recently, the Duke of Wellington, Jack had never cared about pleasing anyone but himself.
Lord Geoffrey, his spendthrift, gamester father and Lord Foxhaven's second son, had died when Jack was but eight. Two years later, his mother married Sir Findlay Branch, a wealthy, stuffy baronet whose apparent mission in life was to eradicate Lord Geoffrey's influences from his son.
Jack had responded with rebellion, at first subtle, then open, and finally flagrant. Before he reached eleven he was shipped off to boarding school and forbidden to return until he reformed. As a result, he spent all holidays at Fox Manor, where old Lord Foxhaven had become the only stabilizing influence in his early life. There, Mr. Havershaw had been an imposing, authoritative presence, second only to his grandfather in the boy's eyes.
"As I said, my lord, this should take but half an hour, perhaps less," said that former object of awe. Opening the satchel he carried, he pulled out a thick sheaf of papers. "There will be much more for you to go over when you finally see your way clear to visit Fox Manor, of course, but these documents are the most pressing."
Jack eyed the stack doubtfully. "I thought I'd signed all the necessary papers after Uncle Luther's funeral."
"Those to ensure your succession to the title and estates, yes. But Foxhaven encompasses a great many enterprises, some of which have been too long neglected due to your uncle's ill health."
Uncle Luther's ill health. If Jack had known when his grandfather died last spring that his uncle's health was so poorly, he might have been more prepared for the responsibilities which had descended upon him three weeks since. But no one had seen fit to tell him.
Not that he'd ever inquired.
Jack had sold out of the Army a scant six weeks after his grandfather's death—as soon as the public's enthusiasm for the war heroes began to wane, in fact—and left for Paris, where a warm welcome still awaited. He'd nearly exhausted both his funds and the goodwill of those willing to supplement them by the time he returned to England in late August. Though he wouldn't have wished poor old Luther underground, his timing had been Jack's financial salvation.
"Very well, let's get it over with. I imagine I'll feel even less like dealing with all of this in the morning." He hadn't drunk much yet, by his standards, but since his succession not a morning had come that hadn't found him cripplingly hung over. There was no particular reason to believe tomorrow would be any different.
Havershaw managed a chilly smile. "Excellent, my lord. If you would turn your attention to this? It deals with certain investments in Portugal . . ."
Forty minutes later, Jack was heartily regretting his compliance. Not that the various business matters put before him were particularly incomprehensible, or even quite as boring as he'd expected. But being dumped headfirst into Foxhaven business made him far too cognizant of the responsibilities now facing him—responsibilities he had neither the ability nor inclination to take on. Why, the very thought of Jack Ashecroft, family outcast, attempting to play the respectable nobleman was thoroughly laughable. Not that he was laughing at the moment.
He yawned.
Mr. Havershaw regarded him through narrowed eyes. "I believe that will do for this evening, my lord. There is one last thing, however, that you may wish to have now." He pulled a sealed envelope from the satchel. "A personal letter from your grandfather, to be delivered to you in the event of your uncle's death without issue."
Jack took the envelope gingerly, turning it over in his fingers several times before breaking the seal—the seal that was now his
. Odd feeling, that.
The letter was but a single sheet, its brief contents scrawled in his grandfather's strong but careless hand.
* * *
My dear Jack,
If you are reading this, you have succeeded to my title and, knowing your attention to family matters, most likely unexpectedly. Rest assured that to me this event was neither unexpected, nor at all undesirable. Luther, while an estimable man, has the strength of neither character nor constitution to effectively carry Foxhaven into the future. You have. In fact, you have it in you to become the finest lord Foxhaven has known in six generations—if you can find it in you to put aside your ongoing pursuit of pleasure to tap into that inner strength I have long observed and, at whiles, attempted to nurture. It is up to you, Jack, to bring Foxhaven into its own by coming into your own. Consider it my dying request.
Ever your faithful and loving grandfather,
Julius Ashecroft, Marquis of Foxhaven
* * *
Jack sat back in his chair and read it through again, hearing his grandfather's dry, sardonically affectionate voice as he did so. He'd known Jack couldn't refuse this call to action, a call from beyond the grave from the only person he'd ever truly cared for—or who had cared for him.
Clenching the letter in one fist, Jack felt his spine stiffen with resolve. He gave a single nod. "I'll do it," he said aloud. John Jefferson Ashecroft, black sheep of the family, was going to become respectable.
"Very good, my lord," said Havershaw, just as though he knew what Jack was talking about. "He also penned an adendum." He held out a folded slip of paper.
Frowning, Jack took and opened it.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions, as your own father proved repeatedly. To assist you in your effort to reform, I have made certain financial arrangements to act as an incentive. Havershaw will acquaint you with the terms. – F.
