by Gaelen Foley
She longed to go up, but she felt like a trespasser on hallowed ground. She could almost hear the Patronesses’ hissing their disapproval. When Robert walked over and stood next to her, she turned to him in distress.
“I don’t belong here.”
He said nothing, but smiled chidingly and offered her his arm. Taking courage from his calm steady strength, she slowly rested her hand on his arm, then he escorted her up the famous staircase where, for the twelve Wednesday nights of the Season, only those of the most pristine reputation and most graceful refinement were admitted.
She felt him watching her fondly as she marveled at every trifling detail, though Almack’s simple elegance was no match for the opulent grandeur of Knight House. There was a vestibule at the top of the staircase; on either side of it were card rooms that Robert told her were also used for suppers and banquets, but straight ahead lay the holy of holies—the ballroom.
Nearly breathless with amazement, Bel walked in and stared all about her. The ballroom appeared about a hundred feet long and half that width, with a flat white ceiling that soared thirty feet above them. A cream-colored frieze, much gilded, circled the room; below it were pale celadon green walls and enormous arched windows, regularly spaced. The moldings and carvings all were in white, medallions and festoons. There were benches against every wall, and an elevated bandstand at one end with a gilded latticework. Her eyes widened as she noticed the musicians waiting politely, standing at her entrance.
Bel nodded to them uncertainly. “Good evening.”
“Good evening, miss,” said the conductor with a genial bow. “Is there anything in particular that the young lady would care to hear?”
“W-whatever you usually play, thank you.” She turned to Robert in amazement as the gentlemen of the orchestra sat down and picked up their instruments.
He smiled as their charming divertimento spilled through the ballroom.
She walked into the center of the ballroom and laughed aloud, twirling this way and that, merely trying to take it all in. There were dazzling mirrors and glittering chandeliers and two life-sized classical gods holding candelabra.
“I can’t believe you did this for me. Robert, it is the most wonderful gift!”
“I remembered how wistfully you spoke of this old place that first day we walked in Hyde Park. Besides, I want this night to be perfect for you,” he said in a low, intimate tone, then he lifted her hand and gave it a kiss. “Won’t you do me the fair honor of a dance, Miss Hamilton?”
She let out a cascade of starry-eyed laughter. “Oh, good sir, let me ask my chaperone!” she trilled, playing the debutante.
He laughed at her and led her out to the middle of the vast echoey ballroom and ordered the orchestra to strike up a waltz.
They turned and faced each other. He bowed to her; she gave him a low and very correct curtsy, both of them fighting smiles.
Bel laid her right hand upon his left; he placed his right hand on her waist, and the music began.
They danced until she could not remember any reason in the world not to laugh. They finished a bottle of finest champagne and danced again, their revolutions around the uneven floor like the hands of the clock passing two, three hours, until, in the middle of a turn, Robert caught her up against his chest, cupped her chin, and slowly lowered his mouth to hers.
Bel closed her eyes, slipped her arms around his neck, and accepted his tongue into her mouth in warm, loving invitation. She ran her gloved fingers through his hair.
Her head was so light, her blood so hot, it seemed minutes before they were back at Knight House, kissing endlessly as they progressed by fits and starts down the hallway to her chamber, stopping frequently to savor every touch. Their gloves were off. His cravat was untied.
He felt around for the doorknob, not breaking their kiss, then opened her bedroom door, sweeping her inside. She pirouetted past him into the room, kissing him with feverish urgency all the while.
A path of moonlight led straight to her canopied four-poster bed, but they lingered by the door. She pressed him back against it, grasping the lapels of his velvet coat. He spread his legs wider and she stepped between them, for his kisses had made her boldly impatient.
“You taste like champagne,” she giggled, then stroked his luscious tongue with her own in another soul-deep kiss. She pulled his undone cravat off his neck and started on the buttons of his waistcoat.
He hooked his finger inside her gown at the shoulder and followed her décolletage down to the front, grazing her aureole as his touch passed over her breast.
“Mmm,” she panted, feeling her nipple instantly harden.
He stroked her throat upward in a feathery caress. Rounding her chin, he touched her lips. She closed her eyes and took his fingertip into her mouth, kissing and sucking it with lavish care. He watched her, his breathing deepening in the dark.
With his other hand, he grasped her hip and pulled her closer against his big, quivering body. She could feel the pulsating length of his hardness against her belly and knew he was holding himself in check; she took rich pleasure in his obedience, his almost passive obliging as he let her have her way with him. More brazen still, she cupped him through his formal knee breeches. He moaned and dropped his head back against the door.
Her hand climbed up the length of his arousal, then up his flat belly to his chest, and then she curled her fingers around his nape and stared at him. He looked at her in tormented ecstasy.
“Come and teach me the pleasure you promised,” she whispered, “because I am so ready to learn.”
He gave her a half smile so seductive, it sent a thrill all the way down to her toes.
He sauntered over to her bed, leading her by the hand. She sat down on the edge of it and waited, leaning back on her hands. He bent down and stole her breath with his kiss, petting her breasts gently through her gown, then he kissed her chest and withdrew with a suave bow to light the candles.
She smiled at that, feeling cherished as he chased away the darkness, lighting every candle in the room. Her chamber blazed with warm, orange light from the candelabra on the mantel, the taper on the vanity and the one on the little table near the bed, then Robert drifted back to her, smiling softly with the low, intimate glow of the flames molding the beloved sculpture of his face with mysterious shadow.
Standing in front of her, he slowly pulled off his unbuttoned coat and dropped it behind him. Bel’s admiring gaze took in the breadth of his wide shoulders, the clean sweep of his taut waist. The gold buttons on his waistcoat winked in the candlelight as he popped the last few open and shed it, as well.
His loose white shirt of fine lawn had a small frill down the front, which Bel parted as she came up off the bed, baring his muscled chest and kissing the V of bronzed skin. She trembled with anticipation as he gathered his shirt in his hands and slipped it off over his head.
Their eyes met. He stared tenderly at her, his moist lips swollen with kissing, his hair tousled.
She stroked and kissed his fine velvety flesh, exploring his powerful chest and sculpted belly. His eyes were closed as he just stood there, languidly enjoying her exploration.
She rested her hands on his broad shoulders and indulged herself with a leisurely caress down his arms, savoring every elegant, rock-hard curve of his biceps and strong forearms.
“You are a... magnificent specimen, Hawkscliffe.”
He laughed softly, lifted his lashes and captured her hands when her touch reached his wrists. He wove his fingers through hers and bent down, kissing her.
For the longest time, they stood like that beside the bed, holding hands and kissing.
“I want to see you,” he whispered at last.
A blush rose to her cheeks, but, though shy, she was eager to proceed. She turned around and lifted her hair out of the way; he unfastened her gown in the back and unlaced her light stays.
Her heart beat faster as he gently slipped the gown off her shoulders. The soft muslin sliding down ag
ainst her skin felt incredibly sensuous. It was followed by his hands, lightly skimming her body. She shivered with desire as he sat down on the bed behind her, grasped her hips, and kissed the small of her back again and again through her nearly transparent chemise.
When her gown was naught but a pool of white silk on the floor, he sank to his knees and reached under her chemise. His warm, sure hands moved up her calf to her lace garter and he applied himself to removing her stockings.
He peeled them down and she stepped out of them. He stood again, his magnificent chest heaving with desire. Under his long black lashes his eyes had darkened and glittered like the stars at midnight.
She touched his chest gently. “One moment,” she whispered. “We don’t want you to wind up an accidental papa.”
She started toward the chinoiserie screen so she could make use of the small round sponge with the thread, just as she had been taught, but Robert stopped her with a soft tug on her wrist. He looked deeply into her eyes. “Would that be so bad?” he asked.
Her heart skipped a beat. “N-no.”
“Are you ready for this, Belinda?”
“Yes, I-I’m ready now.” She held her breath nervously and went with him, hand in hand, to the bed, where they finished undressing. He slid under the sheets while she sat beside him uncertainly for a moment, her heart pounding.
She watched him as he touched her midriff in awed tenderness. She drew in her breath sharply when his wandering hand cupped her breast.
He curled upward in one graceful motion and kissed it. Bel closed her eyes. He opened his mouth and suckled her—and then it was begun.
Their hands ran all over each other, gliding, stroking, kneading. He drew her down between the sheets with him and she discovered the powerful aphrodisiac of his nakedness against her. He aroused her almost unbearably as their bodies entwined.
For one fleeting instant she felt a shadow of fear upon her heart, but all she had to do was open her eyes and gaze at him to make it pass. There wasn’t one moment when he wasn’t exquisitely gentle, patient, kind.
“I love you, Belinda,” he whispered as he eased her onto her back, kissing her throat.
Transported with amazed joy, she breathed her answering vow of love as she wrapped her legs around his hips. Now, yes, she thought, holding him tightly as he guided himself to her threshold, but he wasn’t nearly ready to satisfy her need so soon.
He rose onto his hands above her and watched her face while he teased her to the edge of distraction with the tip of his cock, moving in short, provocative little strokes.
She lifted her hips, moaning for more, but he smiled wickedly at her and took it out. Moving down over her body, he bent his head and delighted her for a while with his clever tongue, laving and flicking her rigid nub, sucking it as she moved with him in the most intimate of rites. Again he brought her to pleasure’s sheerest edge, but when her cries reached the verge of release, he stopped, returned, and slipped the tip of his hardness inside her yearning liquid passage. He gave it to her just a little bit deeper than before, but she craved so much more. He alternated this torment several times until she was in agony or ecstasy or both at once.
“Please, please,” she heard herself begging breathlessly.
“Are you sure it’s what you want?” he whispered. “I need you to be sure, Belinda.”
“God, yes,” she groaned, arching wildly to feel his body against her, his hard chest chafing against her breasts. “I want you inside me. All the way inside me, Hawk, please, please.”
He kissed her forehead and slowly acquiesced, inching inside of her.
“Ohhh,” she murmured in awe, closing her eyes at the feel of him filling her so carefully. She wrapped her arms around him and held him, felt the light dewy sweat on his chest when he came down onto his elbows and returned her embrace, barely moving within her.
They were both quite still, only feeling and savoring their glorious union after wanting it for so long.
He kissed her lips and resumed loving her until they had built to a nearly frenzied rhythm. He paused, panting hard.
“Give me a second,” he whispered. He slipped her a luscious smile, his lips plumped and thoroughly kissed. He lay back, pulling her atop him, and his voice was a seductive growl. “Take me, lovely.”
Slowly sitting up astride him, Bel obeyed. “Oh, my love,” she breathed, reveling in it. He was inside her to the hilt, his bronzed, strong hands gently grasping her white hips as she began to ride him.
“You are so beautiful,” he gasped, watching her with dark, glittering eyes.
When he touched the pad of his thumb to her throbbing center, she shuddered and dropped her head back, quickening her rhythm. A few moments later he sat up with a ripple of stomach muscles and caught her bobbing breasts in his mouth. The feel of his taut belly chafing against her mound was her undoing.
Pleasure surrounded her on all sides—inside her, around her—his hands, his thick member, his mouth. She abandoned herself to her shattering climax, heedless of the loud, wrenching cries that tore from her lips. She was conscious only of him enfolding her body in his wild loving bliss.
Even as the throes of her passion started to ebb, he let out a low breathless cry that was muffled against her neck. His chest heaved as he rolled her onto her back and possessed her. Again and again he pulsed within her—he shuddered— and then his straining muscles began to go slack. She felt his heartbeat pounding wildly against her body.
“God, I love you,” he uttered. He sounded almost shaken.
She pulled him down gently; he laid his head on her bosom, his body still sheathed inside hers. Heavy and spent, he pressed a single, tender kiss to her breast and slowly caught his breath.
“I love you, too, Robert,” she whispered, kissing his forehead. “ I love you, too.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Two days’ journey on the Great North Road had brought them through the gentle green farmlands of the shires where Bel saw quaint flatboats bearing their loads along the canals and white smoke puffing from the bottleneck kilns of busy potteries. With the harvest so near, the patchwork fields burgeoned with barley and wheat.
The weather held, with good breezes and skies of intense blue above them; beneath them, the macadamized road was excellent, so the endless hours of riding in Robert’s sturdy traveling coach turned out to be very tolerable.
When they rolled over the bridge into the ancient city of York, where they would spend the second night of their journey, the late summer light still danced in gold spangles on the Ouse River. They collected Jacinda and Elizabeth and went for a stroll through the Shambles to stretch their limbs, stopping to take a turn inside the huge, silent medieval minster. Bel marveled at the towering great east window, depicting the Creation. The field of exquisite stained glass seemed to stretch all the way up to heaven, richly detailed from the imaginations of artisans who had been dead for centuries.
She took Robert’s hand and together they stared up at the great west window, through which the last rays of sunlight beamed in splendid color. They left the minster with regret, for Jacinda was whining and both girls were tired, hungry, and cranky. They retired to the warm hospitality of the coaching inn across the square on High Petergate.
The hearty fare that Robert had ordered to be brought to their rooms consisted of steaming cottage pies with Yorkshire pudding. Bel took an inexplicable satisfaction in watching Robert eat and wash down his supper with a good dark ale from the tap room. It seemed that the farther they traveled from London, the more invigorated he became.
After the good country meal, Jacinda hugged them both good night and Lizzie made her shy curtsy. The girls retired to their room and Robert leaned back in his chair, watching her with a gleam in his eyes that she had come to know.
He left the candle lighted on the table and soon had coaxed her into the bed. She hit the mattress with her arms around him, smiling to think of how quickly she was overcoming her fears. Then he went about furtheri
ng her education.
In the morning they were refreshed and ready to strike out west through the Yorkshire Dales and over the broody moors, arriving in Westmorland County by the end of the day.
“We’re practically in Scotland,” Bel declared, to which His Grace and his sister took offense. She laughed at their indignation as they promised her she had not yet seen the most beautiful scenery in the world. Even the famous painter, Mr. Constable, had said so, Jacinda boasted.
The third day consisted of weaving through the hills and fells and among the sparkling breezy meres. Bel could smell the hint of magic in the air; the hills turned to an emerald so green it made her heart ache. Broad rippling peaks soared around them on every side. The air felt thinner as their elevation rose. Perhaps this was the simplest explanation for the presence of the poets’ muse in these windy haunts, she thought, but beauty greeted her wherever she turned, from the towering magnificence of Saddleback, to the sheep drowsing contentedly next to blue water in the valleys.
When they stopped to admire Lake Grasmere, she glanced at Robert’s hard profile, etched in sun, the breeze riffling his black hair. The rugged hills, brown and green, cloud mottled, were flung out in a panorama behind him, and she realized then that this was his world, his true element—not the stilted opulence of Parliament and Knight House, nor the crowded streets of London under Society’s watchful eye, but these free ranging vistas with their moody skies and rustic comforts.
And when they arrived at sunset before Hawkscliffe Hall, shimmering in the distance, he was the fitting master of the castle they beheld, looming above a mirrorlike tarn. For a long moment, they all stopped and stared at it.
Hawkscliffe Hall possessed such an air of timeless permanency that she recalled again Robert’s whisper on the morning after his duel, Stay forever. For the first time since he’d spoken them, it gave her pause to consider what he had meant by those words. Forever was no idle fancy to a man who dwelled in a castle that had stood for centuries, she realized. For a moment her certainty faltered; however romantic, the arrangement between them was temporary. Wasn’t it?
