He turned. In an instant he caught her face in his hands, his mouth descending on hers in a punishing kiss. With two steps he bore her back into the wall behind her. Celia melted into him, meeting his unspoken desire with her own.
She reached for him. He caught her wrists and pinned them to the wall beside her head. His mouth moved down her throat, sucking lightly at her skin. Celia sagged backward, held up only by his hands at her wrists and the weight of his body pressed into hers. Yes, she thought in exultation, yes…
“Celia,” he breathed, catching the lobe of her ear between his teeth for a second. “Stop me.”
She thrashed her head from side to side. “No.”
He rested his forehead in the curve of her neck and moaned. “You must.” He moved against her, his knee sliding between hers with a slow, delicious rhythm. His lips brushed the hollow at the base of her throat. Celia closed her thighs on his, pushing her hips into him. She didn’t need to hear the answer to her original question. His body was telling her what he wouldn’t say out loud.
With a strangled curse Anthony jerked away from her. For a moment he stood there, hands in fists at his side, chest heaving, eyes dark. They stared at each other, then Celia threw herself at him. She clutched handfuls of his shirt, resisting when he tried to set her away. She pressed her lips to his throat, and he froze. When she took his arms and pushed him back into the opposite wall of the alcove, he let her. “Celia,” he said helplessly. “Please.”
“Shh.” She put her fingers on his lips and gazed up at him steadily. “You don’t have to say anything.”
After a moment he closed his eyes, letting his head fall back in surrender. His arms, taut and flexed in her grip, relaxed. Cautiously Celia released him, but he didn’t move. Anthony stood tamely in front of her, at her mercy. Her heart skipped a beat and a tingle rippled across her skin in anticipation.
She pushed the dressing gown off his shoulders, sending it to the floor. She reached for his shirt, pulling the soft linen folds free. His chest filled for a second as the last of the shirt came out of his trousers, but he said nothing. Celia gazed at his face as she worked at the buttons on his trousers. In the dim light his features were harshly shadowed, but with desperate longing. He looked so alone then, and she remembered what he had said to her so many times: it doesn’t matter. But some things did matter, and she wasn’t leaving until he understood her.
His erection sprang free. Celia took him in her hands, stroking the full length as his breathing changed, becoming deeper and slower as her fingers slid up and down. She wrapped her hands around him, caressing him; his breathing stopped altogether for a moment until he inhaled sharply, his arms twitching. Celia smiled softly and sank to her knees.
He was hard and warm under her lips. She flicked her tongue tentatively, and his hips jerked. The muscles of his legs were like stone, rigid and braced. She licked again, and his whole body seemed to spasm. Feeling utterly alive and wicked, Celia circled her tongue once more over the tip before taking him all the way into her mouth.
Ever since he made love to her with his mouth the other night, Celia had wondered, in a deep, secret way, what it would be like to do the same to him. The thought of driving him to the same ecstasy had made her so restless and hot, she’d had to press her hand between her legs. And now here she was, on her knees before him, making him tremble. His hand came up to tangle in her hair, his fingers tensing as he showed her the right rhythm. Celia just wanted to please him; she moved under his hand, reveling in her effect on him and growing wet herself remembering what he had done to her.
Abruptly he shoved her back on her heels, then yanked his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Breathing hard, he fell to his knees before her. His eyes were almost black with desire and the tendons of his neck stood out. “You should have left when you had the chance.”
Slowly she shook her head, her skin prickling under his intense, hot gaze. His jaw tightened, and he reached out and stroked her cheek. Celia turned her face into his hand, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his palm, swirling her tongue over the base of his thumb. Flames seemed to leap in his eyes.
He thrust his hand into her hair and pulled, baring her neck. Anthony put his lips to the arch of her throat, hard, hot kisses that made her moan. She gripped his arms, digging her fingernails into his flesh. He growled deep in his throat. With sharp, short movements he unfastened her bodice, yanking it down. “Untie your chemise,” he commanded in a rough voice. Celia pulled the ribbon loose, almost gasping with relief as he dipped his hand into her corset to raise her breast, then bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth. Celia arched her back, shamelessly offering herself to him, begging, demanding, as he laved one breast and then the other. The bodice was still tight around her arms, preventing her from doing more than clinging to his waist. Without lifting his head, he took her hand and brought it to his erection, wrapping her fingers around him. She stroked him firmly with both hands, imagining that it wasn’t her hands he was sliding between.
He tore his lips from her aching nipples and pushed her backward, onto her heels and then onto her back. Her skirts bunched in a tangle around her legs between them. With ruthless efficiency, Anthony shoved the mass of fabric out of the way. Her delicate pantalets came off in the blink of an eye. He loomed over her, dark and sensual, staring between her legs as he pushed one of her knees up and to the side.
“How beautiful you are,” he murmured. “So soft and wet.” He stroked her there, and Celia arched off the floor, gasping. “So beautiful,” he breathed. “Hold.” When she moved too slowly, he swept his hand up behind her knee, pushing her thigh back onto her chest and completely exposing her. “Hold it there,” he said again, and then he thrust inside her.
It was hard and dominant and fast. There was no seduction or tenderness, only raw want. Somehow her leg worked its way over his shoulder as he stroked into her, hard and fast. She cupped her breasts, rolling the nipples between her fingers, as aroused by the feeling of her own hands on herself as by the taut expression on Anthony’s face as he moved above her, his arms rigidly braced beside her and his gaze locked on her hands.
“Vixen,” he gasped, his thrusts growing even harder. “What you do to me…” She raked her fingernails down his chest, and he grunted, slipping his hand between them to tease her, stroke her there. He pushed her leg higher, farther apart from the other. Just when Celia thought she might split apart, pleasure ripped through her. She threw back her head and slammed her hands down on the floor. Her hips jerked off the floor, straining closer to Anthony as he thrust deep inside her once more and stayed there, pouring his own pleasure into her with a hoarse exclamation.
Anthony’s head cleared slowly; he came back to himself when his knees started to hurt. The black haze that had overcome him dissipated, leaving him feeling naked and exposed. Celia was still on the floor beneath him, her chest heaving, her legs still around him. Her hair lay in a tangled golden veil over her face. He brushed it away, his fingers lingering on the satiny smooth skin of her jaw, and she quivered—but she didn’t move away.
He closed his eyes. He had told Celia to leave as a last effort to preserve the option, for both of them, of walking away. Now he didn’t see how he could let her go, not even after he’d all but thrown her to the floor and made brutal love to her without consideration or restraint or even a sheath. He’d lost control, the first time in many, many years he’d taken complete leave of his senses and been ruled entirely by his passions. No, he’d lost more than his control. He’d lost everything—his heart and his very soul—to her.
Percy had been right. He was mad for her, and always would be.
“Celia,” he said, her name just a sigh. Slowly she turned her head to look at him, her eyes bright and unfocused. Anthony released her and got to his feet, tugging his trousers back into place for the moment. “Come, darling,” he told her, helping her to her feet before scooping her into his arms. “Come to bed.”
“With you?�
�� She smiled dreamily at him, looping her arms around his neck. “Always.”
He laughed softly as he carried her to the bed. “Do you realize we’ve never been naked together?” She laughed, too, as he finished undoing the fastenings of her dress and lifted it over her head. He raised an eyebrow as he slipped off her shoes, the beautiful blue silk slippers he had sent her, and Celia laughed again. When he had stripped her, he discarded the rest of his own clothes and joined her in the bed, pulling her into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“For what?” She twisted to look at him over her shoulder.
“For being…indelicate.” He shook his head. “It was not what I intended to happen.”
“No,” she said softly. “But it’s what you needed.”
Anthony closed his eyes and rested his forehead against her shoulder. She understood—or thought she did, which he supposed was good enough. She cared for him, at least enough to want to understand. Could she possibly know what that meant to him? “May I try to do better?” he asked instead.
“Better?” she repeated with a startled little laugh. “If you didn’t notice, I found it quite enjoyable.”
“That’s why I said better, impudent wench,” he retorted, laughing with her. “An improvement on good—”
“Very good,” she murmured.
“I accept your challenge,” he said, flipping her onto her stomach and ignoring her delighted shriek as he rolled on top of her. It felt as natural as breathing to move between her thighs and slide back inside her. She was still slick from before. “Trust me,” he told her, kissing the back of her neck.
“You know I do,” she replied with a little kick of her feet.
He made love to her tenderly this time, but no less thoroughly. For a while he simply held her, whispering endearments as he stroked and caressed her body. He was inside her, but mostly holding still; every few minutes he would withdraw almost entirely, then leisurely slide back home. It was entirely intimate without being demanding. And Celia found that that intimate connection, even without the pleasure associating with motion, was no less arousing and warming than their frantic, needy coupling on the floor had been.
After a time he rose onto his knees, pulling her to her hands and knees. Now he started making love to her, but still leisurely, his hands exploring without hurry. Once, twice he brought her to the brink of climax, only to retreat at the last moment. When she was almost begging incoherently, he brought her to completion, driving inside her as she heaved and sobbed her release until he reached his own, and both collapsed on the bed, exhausted.
And in the quiet moments after, while their bodies still twined tightly together and the blood surged hard and heavy through her veins, Celia realized what had brought her to Anthony’s room tonight, what had made her stay when he told her to go: it was love. Not the giddy, effervescent infatuation she’d felt before, but real love, the deep, true feeling for another that didn’t need poetry and flowers to thrive. It was not the hothouse plant her affection for Bertie had been, but a strong and vibrant thing. It hadn’t withered and died at the first storm but had grown only stronger with each trial it endured, until the roots of it spread through her entire being. She could never rip it out without ripping out a piece of herself. And Celia knew, with the same certainty, that what Anthony felt for her was just as strong. She didn’t need to hear him declare it when he had proved it to her so many times.
“Yes,” she whispered, hardly hearing her own voice over the thump of her heart. “Yes.”
He kissed the nape of her neck, his breath on her skin sending a shiver through her. “Yes, what, darling?”
“Yes,” she said again. “I’ll marry you.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Marcus accepted her news without blinking an eye. “I wish you very happy,” he said, kissing her cheek.
She beamed at him. “Thank you.”
“Would you like me to tell your mother?”
“No,” she said, still smiling uncontrollably. “I know she’ll be pleased.” Marcus raised an eyebrow but said nothing more. Celia went to find her mother. Of course her mother would be reluctant, but surely once she saw how happy Celia was, Mama would relent. She always did.
Rosalind paced the room several times with her hands clasped before her as if in prayer, eyeing Celia worriedly, after hearing the happy news. “Dearest,” she began very carefully, “are you certain?”
“Yes, Mama, I am.”
Her mother sighed. “Then—But—It’s not that I do not want to see you happy, but I worry…”
“I know. You must trust me.”
Agony flickered across Rosalind’s face. “I trust you. I do. But I do not trust him.”
“Now, Mama,” said Celia in reproach.
Rosalind quickly sat in the chair opposite her. She took Celia’s hands in her own. “Before you accuse me of being unfair and judgmental, listen to me,” she begged. “Celia, I am your mother. I saw you miserable in marriage before, after being so certain Bertie was the one man you loved, and I cannot bear to see it again. Will you please, just for a moment, hear my concern?”
Celia thought to herself that this circumstance was nothing like when she had married Bertie, and she couldn’t stop a twinge of irritation that Mama had to mention that now, but her mother’s distress kept her from saying it. She nodded.
Her mother gave a tight, bright smile. “Thank you. I don’t wish to cause you pain; on the contrary. But you must know, dearest, that Mr. Hamilton is not a respectable gentleman.”
“Haven’t you always told me not to listen to gossip?”
Rosalind flushed pale pink. “Yes. I have. And mostly I am right, but in this—Celia, you have been away from town for four years. You can’t expect to know what he’s done in that time.”
“Do you?”
“Of course I would not condemn a man based only on gossip,” Rosalind went on, ignoring the question. “But many of the stories I know to be true. He is not a faithful man, dearest. I doubt he has told you of all his lovers. I can name four women who shared his bed, and mind you, they were not the sort of women a man marries. There were rumors, quite supported by facts, that he seduced wealthy women in order to gain access to their funds, and then threw them over once he had wagered their money away. His gambling habits are beyond the pale. It is no secret that he frequents the most notorious gaming dens and has done for years, mostly because it is widely believed he is not honorable at the tables. Your godmother, Lady Throckmorton, told me—in confidence, mind you—that Mr. Hamilton was in such dire financial straits only a few years ago, he was almost taken to the Fleet for debts. Lord Throckmorton saw the warrant himself. There is even evidence he killed a man in Bath last year over a dispute at the hazard table. Darling, is this such a man you wish to marry?”
Celia met her mother’s anxious eyes evenly. “There is more to him than you know—and less. If there is proof he killed a man, why is he not in prison? If he gambles so intemperately, why did Lord William have to bait him into joining a simple hand of casino the other night? And I think, if society were to turn out every man who’d had debts in his life, there would be precious few dancing partners for the ladies.”
Rosalind closed her eyes in despair. “I knew it,” she said, her voice breaking. “I knew it! He’s seduced you and cast some sort of spell over you to make you agree to this!”
“For what purpose, Mama? He’s already made his fortune. He shall inherit an earldom.” Celia paused. “And he has not tried to coerce me at all.”
Her mother gazed sadly at her. “You would make him respectable,” she whispered. “And that is something he cannot inherit or create himself.” Celia bit her lip, and Rosalind reached out to cup her cheeks in both hands. “I cannot bear to see him break your heart.”
“Send for David,” Celia said, recognizing that her mother’s fears were too great to be set aside by her own declaration. “If he, who knows Anthony so well, will condemn him, I shall delay. But if h
e vouches for Anthony, you must reconsider, Mama.”
Rosalind didn’t appear entirely pleased with this, but she nodded and rang for a servant. “Tell Lord David I should like to speak to him at once,” she told the maid who answered. “I am not certain David’s opinion will be the most objective,” she muttered.
“But neither is yours.” Celia smiled sheepishly. “Nor mine.”
When David appeared, Celia got to her feet. “David, we would like your opinion.”
“Oh? On what?” he asked easily. Suddenly Celia recalled how ferociously her brother had attacked Anthony the night they were discovered in the library, and felt a prickle of apprehension.
“Of Mr. Hamilton,” said Rosalind. Celia was grateful that she didn’t say more.
David’s eyes shifted from Celia to Rosalind, then back. “Why? What’s he done?”
“Nothing,” Celia said swiftly as her mother opened her mouth to reply. “You know him best. What sort of man is he?”
Her brother continued to watch her guardedly. “He’s a decent fellow,” he said at last.
“Is that all?” she burst out. “You’ve known him for fifteen years and that’s all you can say for him?”
“No,” said David. “But I think you have more to say about him as well, and if you don’t care to say more, then neither do I.”
Celia glared at him as her mother exhaled in obvious satisfaction. “He has proposed marriage to Celia.”
“Ah.” David nodded. “And I suppose Celia wants to accept him, while you want her to refuse him.”
“We would like your opinion,” said Rosalind very civilly. “Is he an honest man? A kind man? A respectable man?”
David glanced at Celia for a long moment. “Yes.”
A Rake’s Guide to Seduction Page 23
