Ravishing the Heiress ft-2

by Sherry Thomas

  At the edge of the mantel, another familiar object. “Is this the music box I gave you for your seventeenth birthday? Looks much better than I remember.”

  He lifted the lid of the music box. It emitted the same thin, slightly discordant notes. Still worked. Who would have thought?

  She watched him. But when he looked at her, she glanced away immediately.

  “Where is your maid?”

  “I told her not to wait up for me.”

  She dropped her fan onto the seat of a nearby chair. The gesture was determinedly casual. Yet as she stood next to the padded armrest, her throat wobbled with a swallow. The sight of it—the implication of it—made his blood hot.

  “It won’t be disagreeable,” he said. “It can be made quite enjoyable.”

  “Oh, it had better be,” she said tartly. “I’ve heard plenty over the years on your amatory prowess. If I’m not on the roof crowing, I will consider myself disappointed.”

  He smiled and put the music box back on the mantel. “Into the bedchamber with you then, lady.”

  For a few seconds she stared at her dropped fan without moving. Then she went for the switch and turned off the electric sconce on the wall. The lamp in the bedroom had been left on, illuminating the path. She walked past him and disappeared inside.

  So, we come to it at last.

  A mundane marital task, was this not? An obligation he’d put off for too long. Why then, as he advanced toward the bedroom, did he feel as if he were being swept out to sea? That the tides and currents would be unlike anything he’d ever known in the calm estuary that had been his marriage?

  She turned off the light the moment he’d closed the door behind him. He supposed he shouldn’t be too surprised—he was dealing with a virgin after all. But they knew each other so well it seemed she shouldn’t be shy at all.

  “Wouldn’t you want me to see what I’m doing?”

  “No.”

  He smiled. “Not even when I have to wrestle with tricky bits of your gown?”

  “There is nothing here you haven’t encountered enough times elsewhere.”

  The darkness was impenetrable: Her windows had been shut and shuttered, the double curtains tightly drawn.

  “This will be a first for me,” he murmured. “Fumbling about in the dark. I ought to have you sing a hymn so I can find you.”

  She snorted. “A hymn?”

  “The heavenly host rejoice tonight: At last I am doing something ordained by God and immortalized by Christ’s love for his Church—et cetera, et cetera.”

  “What should I sing? ‘Hosanna in the highest’? Or maybe we ought to really make our rector proud and recite the Lord’s Prayer, too.”

  He knew where she was now: by her vanity table. She jumped as his hand settled on her shoulder. Had she not heard his approach in the dark?

  “All right, so you found me. Your turn to hide now and mine to seek,” she said, her voice just a bit squeaky.

  “Some other day. We’ve business to attend to, Lady Fitzhugh.”

  She wore long kidskin gloves that extended well past her elbows. They were fastened at the top with three ivory buttons each. He popped the buttons—one, two, three—pushed one glove down and pulled it off.

  “I forgot to say so earlier, but you looked quite lovely tonight,” he said. He slid his palm along her now-exposed arm. So much of her was a mystery to him.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice barely audible.

  He removed her other glove. “Did I ever tell you, when we first married, I never quite knew what you looked like? Your face changed every time I saw you. And when you came back from America, I had to look twice to make sure it was you.”

  Ruffles on her gown brushed the back of his hand.

  “So…if I’d been away for a little longer, I’d have been able to walk past you without you recognizing me?”

  “I quite doubt it. Your eyes do not change. Your gait does not change. And your footsteps—I can always tell when you pass by my door.”

  She let out a breath.

  He touched her hair, the careful crown of it her maid had constructed earlier in the evening, pulled out two of the amethyst pins, and tossed them aside. They landed with small, muffled thuds against the carpet and the lace cloth spread upon her vanity table.

  How long had he been curious about this day, this hour?

  Since the Italian trip, certainly. Though if he had to be precise, he would guess it to have been that crucial meeting during which they wrested control of Cresswell & Graves from Mr. Graves’s subordinates.

  He’d firmly buried that curiosity: A pact was a pact. They’d shaken hands on eight years and eight years he intended to keep his hands to himself.

  But buried things had a funny way of sprouting roots and feelers just beneath the consciousness. So that when he did at last acknowledge it, he found himself facing not the same small seed of desire, but a jungle of lust.

  And she, who felt as deeply and relentlessly as any other mortal, but kept such a serene facade, had she, too, hidden nuggets of yearning in the least frequented corners of her mind?

  She kept a decided silence, but beneath his fingers there were tremors: She, with her ladylike, tightly laced ways, did not want to give in to something as common and vulgar as lust.

  But he wanted her to. He wanted to break apart her facade piece by piece.

  The very thought of it took his breath away. Eight years of platonic friendship, of keeping to affable yet firm limits of conduct, of not thinking about how it would be when they at last came together—

  A subtle perfume rose from her skin, rich, golden, and mouthwatering. Lavender honey, that must be it: Their soap was made with not only distilled lavender essence, but also the lavender honey from their fields.

  He inhaled her. It was only natural that next he bent his head and kissed her on her bare shoulder.

  A white-hot heat pulsed from her shoulder to her fingertips. The intensity of it stunned Millie. Had he wrought permanent damage to her nerve endings? Would she wake up in the morning with no sensation at all in her extremities?

  But no, he kissed her again, at the base of her neck, and liquid fire scorched her once more.

  Faintly she became aware that he was still extracting her jeweled hairpins. They fell soundlessly upon the carpet. Equally faintly she saw the need to ask him not to do that. Or she’d have to remember to gather them up before Bridget came in the morning with her cocoa.

  It would be too embarrassing for Bridget to know what had taken place during the night, especially as in six months’ time he would be doing exactly this with Mrs. Englewood, touching her arm, kissing her shoulder, taking down her dark, glossy hair.

  Except he’d be at it with much greater fervor and impatience, wouldn’t he, driven by a desire that had smoldered for more than a decade? None of this courtly consideration, these deliberate little touches that annihilated her but affected him not at all.

  She was thankful for the dark. He might yet feel the tremors beneath her skin, but at least he would not glimpse the parting of her lips, or the closing of her eyes—involuntary reactions that she could not quite control, which would completely give away her pretense of amiable indifference.

  He kissed her on her ear, a kiss with the barest hint of moisture to it. She could not breath for the electricity of it, a violent spark of pleasure that shook and scarred. His fingers caressed her shoulders. His lips pressed into her exposed nape. Dark, hot sensations spiked into her.

  She clenched her teeth tight. Make no sounds. Do not, under any circumstances, make any sounds. If she remained as silent as the night, he would not know how she felt. He would not.

  The buttons on her back gave away as if before a Mongol horde. The small cap sleeves at her shoulders sagged. He pushed them down, his hands lingering on the inside of her elbows.

  The skirt of the ball gown was a monument of ruching and pleating. It contained so much understructure that even with the bodice of the gown
hanging limply in defeat, it still stood upright on its own, stalwartly defending her virtue with silk ramparts and chiffon moats.

  He simply lifted her bodily and—good Lord—did he kick her magnificent and costly ball gown out of the way?

  Now he turned her around to face him. “Should be easy from here on,” he said.

  She shuddered. Indeed, it was easy for him. Her corset cover evaporated. Her stockings melted away. He passed his hands down the front of her corset; the steel busk fasteners split apart as if he’d said “Open sesame.”

  “Stop,” she said, as he undid the first button on her combination. “I would like to keep it on.”

  And not just for modesty, but for pretense. There was too much honesty in nakedness. Skin heated, heart pounded, and God knew what other reaction he’d provoke from her. Best keep a layer of deniability between them, however thin.

  He paused, as if considering. “Certainly.”

  She was struck dumb. By relief, of course. And perhaps, a bit of chagrin that he did not even want her naked.

  “You may keep your combination,” he continued. “And in exchange I will turn on the lights.”

  “No! No lights.” No lights under any circumstances.

  He undid another button on her combination. His thumb traced a line down the center of her cleavage, his knuckles brushing against the side of one breast, his signet ring coming dangerously close to her nipple.

  A kiss landed lightly on her jaw, just below her ear. Then he bit her on her earlobe; the pressure of his teeth singeing her. She clamped down on her lower lip and barely managed to swallow her gasp.

  He dropped kisses on her cheeks, her chin, and at the corners of her lips. She could scarcely breathe, but with each breath she inhaled his scent of open fields and wide skies. He went on unbuttoning her, his finger trailing down her torso. Dear God, he dipped one fingertip into her navel—she was practically naked.

  Ten seconds later she was naked, the combination pooled at her feet. Darkness was the only thing that separated them. A moment of hush descended; neither of them moved—or breathed, it seemed.

  Then his palm slid across her nipple.

  Make no sounds. Do not, under any circumstances, make any sounds.

  She faltered. A whimper of unutterable pleasure escaped her tightly clenched teeth.

  Deep inside her, a dam that had been ceaselessly reinforced crumbled. Years upon years of pent-up desires flooded her. Suddenly she couldn’t care less that she must remain quiet and pliant.

  She wanted. She wanted. She wanted.

  She gripped him by the lapel and yanked him to her.

  But he kissed her before she could kiss him—hard, the way he’d kissed her in his long-ago hallucination, when he’d thought her his Isabelle. She whimpered with pleasure and gratification. She wanted this ferocity, this vehemence.

  His hands cupped either side of her head, holding her in place for the onslaught of his lips and tongue. She thrilled to it: It was exactly how she wanted to be secured. And the kiss, God, wild, unrefined, full of raw, barely leashed needs.

  She did not know until she heard the pinging of buttons flying everywhere that she was ripping off his waistcoat, tearing apart everything that separated them. He pulled away from the kiss to help her. She slapped his hands away: She would do it.

  He tumbled them both into bed.

  His rasping breaths aroused her. His ungoverned hands aroused her. And his erection, pressing insistently into her thigh—oh, yes. She’d thought she’d be afraid of it. Or at least wary. But she only gloried in its dimensions and its hammer-hard rigidity. This was how it ought to be. He ought to want her this much. He ought to swell and extend to the limits of his endurance.

  She pushed off his braces and yanked his shirt overhead. And then she went for his trousers.

  “My God, Millie.”

  Yes, every utterance of her name should be preceded with such an imprecation, an uttering of the Lord’s name in vain.

  He certainly did not slap her hands away, but helped her to release the fastenings and get rid of both his trousers and his linens. Immediately she set her hand on his cock. It pulsed in her grip. He sucked in a breath.

  “Take me,” she ordered, impatient, imperious.

  He touched his hand to the seam between her legs. She was utterly sleek.

  “Take me now.”

  “Shut up, Millie.”

  “But I want—”

  He silenced her with a harsh kiss. “Shut up or I’ll make you wait longer.”

  She shut up.

  He stroked, teased, and plucked her. Every touch was unbearable pleasure. She wanted more. She wanted him. She wanted this emptiness inside her pounded to oblivion.

  She kissed every part of him she could reach. She bit his shoulders and his neck. She plunged her hands down the length of his back and grabbed his firm buttocks.

  He retaliated by licking her nipple. She moaned, a long, keening admission of enjoyment. He rolled her nipple around his tongue, grazed his teeth across it, and pulled it deep into his mouth. Her cries of pleasure ricocheted about the room.

  His fingers, which had not been idle a moment since they descended between her legs, chose this moment to flick a most gloriously sensitive spot. Her breath hitched, snagged, and disappeared altogether. He flicked the spot again and she convulsed involuntarily, a fast, juddering slide of pleasure.

  On the heel of that, he centered himself between her knees and pushed into her.

  It was the most incredible sensation, a splitting open of her person, widening, deepening. But he was so frustratingly slow, as if advancing against an opposing army. At least he sounded as impatient as she felt, his breath catching with each minute movement forward.

  The thrust came all of a sudden. One moment he was on the cusp, the next moment he was deeply embedded in her, the two of them locked together by the force of it. He gasped. She gasped, too.

  It hurt. But she welcomed the pain—good riddance to her virginity. And the pain was nothing compared to the rightness of it. This was what they should be doing, nightly, daily, hourly.

  She raised her hips, wanting more. He held her still with his hand on her abdomen. “Are you not hurt?”

  “Not enough to stop,” she answered in complete honesty. “Not even enough to want a reprieve.”

  Still he withdrew. Just as she was about to cry out at the unfairness of it, he drove back into her.

  How did one describe a sunrise to the blind? Or the sound of rain to the deaf? How could words ever adequately express the pleasure of lovemaking? Each thrust was a voluptuous surge of sensations. Each plunge both compacted her and expanded her.

  “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

  She didn’t know whether she was issuing a command or a prayer. But he must not stop, not yet. Not when the pleasure was so new and acute, and she so ravenous.

  Six months.

  Suddenly she was convulsing, her back arched, her person shaking, her heart in pieces.

  T hey’d barely started. And yet here he was, on the verge.

  Don’t stop, she begged.

  Everything about her was such pure decadence. Tight, sleek, hungry—an overload of sensations. Her skin was too soft. Her legs, clamped about him, too smooth. Her mouth, which he couldn’t stop kissing, too delicious.

  Don’t stop, she begged again.

  All those rampant urges threatened to crash upon him. He held back. Slow. Slower. But though he moderated his pace, he couldn’t help taking each stroke to the hilt.

  His climax began gathering again, rising toward a point of no return. He didn’t know if he could restrain himself this time: He was too close, too near to being overwhelmed.

  She cried out, trembling exclamations.

  He lost all control, his release hot, violent, and endless.

  M illie touched her husband’s hair—a first time for her, after all these years. It was thick, a little wavy, and just slightly damp at the roots with perspiration. His he
art beat fast and hard against hers. His breathing, like her own, remained tattered.

  So…this was how one made babies.

  No wonder the population was ever increasing.

  Her fingers continued their exploration: his ear, his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose. He nuzzled her on her shoulder, her throat, her cheek—and claimed her mouth once more.

  The kiss was slow and leisurely. He’d never left her, now he hardened again inside her.

  Yes, she thought, more. As much as possible.

  He located innumerable obscure nooks and crannies of her body that needed only a caress to reveal themselves superlatively sensitive and starved for attention. Each touch was luxuriant, every nibble unhurried.

  But this was lovemaking for people who had years—decades—ahead of them. They did not have that luxury. Each slow brush of his hand reminded her of the ticking clock. Every measured path he kissed only made her that much more aware of the end drawing nigh.

  She did not want to remember; she only wanted to forget.

  She bit into his shoulder. She touched him most indecently. She writhed against him, pagan, shameless, driving him—and herself—into a renewed frenzy, a dizzying peak of obscene delights.

  And then, at last, the next all-obliterating paroxysm.

  CHAPTER 15

  C onsciousness returned with a vengeance. Millie’s eyes flew open. The room was still somber, but it was definitely morning.

  She’d best hurry. There were all her amethyst pins to be collected from the carpet, not to mention the buttons she’d ripped off his clothes. And of course the sheets must somehow be made pristine again—baby-making was a messy business.

  “Good morning.”

  Her head jerked toward the foot of the bed. Fitz, in his riding jacket and breeches, gloriously stylish in the dusky light.

  “Morning.” She yanked the blanket higher over her person and thanked God that he could not see her flush. “What time is it?”

  She’d given instructions to her maid to wake her at eight—an hour and half later than usual. Fitz typically left for his ride as she was drinking her cocoa in bed. But since they were up quite late, engaged in rather exhausting activities—her face heated again—perhaps it was half past seven rather than half past six.