Held tightly against him, his fingers stroking inside her body, his tongue delving inside her mouth, his hot, hard shaft pressed against that magically sensitive female part of her, she simply came apart in his arms.
Molten pleasure pulsed through her, dragging a cry from her throat. He broke off their kiss and with a cry of his own he buried his face in the curve of her neck, whispering her name over and over in a voice that sounded as if he'd swallowed broken glass.
For several long seconds they remained locked in place, both breathing hard, and Julianne reveled in the strength of his arms around her. The feel of his rapid heartbeat thumping against her chest. The scent of his skin mixed with the musk of their arousal. She'd never felt so warm and protected and utterly, beautifully alive. And for that, she loved him.
Everything inside her stilled as those words echoed through her mind, their truth becoming clearer with each repetition. She loved him. She loved him.
God help her, she loved him.
Hopelessly. Stupidly. Impossibly.
Irrevocably.
For the space of a single heartbeat she tried to deny it but realized it was hopeless to do so. He'd captured her imagination the instant she'd seen him two months ago, and every minute since had only built on those initial feelings.
She felt him lift his head, and she leaned back, wondering if she should confess the depth of her feelings, wondering if she'd even need to, for surely he'd see them reflected in her eyes. Wondering if she might see in his eyes even a fraction of what she felt toward him.
The instant their gazes met, that hope died a withering death. Instead of glowing with tenderness or affection, his eyes looked like flat stones. His mouth was pressed into a grim line, his expression hard.
Without a word he set her away from him. Her rumpled skirts unfurled, brushing down her unsteady legs. With a lump lodged in her throat, she watched him use his handkerchief to wipe away the evidence of his release from his stomach. He then shoved his wrinkled shirt back into his breeches and fastened them, uttering an obscenity when he realized one button was missing, obviously ripped off in his earlier haste. She saw the button on the floor, next to her shoe, and bent to retrieve it. As Gideon didn't notice she'd done so, she slipped the flat disk into the pocket of her gown.
When he finished, he raked his fingers through his hair, hair she'd mussed with her impatient fingers. He then dragged his hands down his face and let them fall limply to his sides, as if he were too exhausted to hold them up any longer.
"I'm sorry," he said through obviously clenched teeth. "I didn't mean to…" He drew in a slow, deep breath. "That shouldn't have happened."
A cold numbness crept into her, pushing aside all the warmth she'd felt just heartbeats ago. "Why?"
Finally a crack showed in the granite of his expression, and disbelief showed through. "Bloody hell, there are more reasons than I have breaths to name them."
"I'll settle for one."
"You know them as well as I do."
"Because I'm getting married."
He shook his head and again stabbed his fingers into his hair. "That's only one of them, the one that has to do with my honor." A bitter sound escaped him. "Or what's left of it." He grasped her by the shoulders, and she saw that his eyes were no longer flat. No, now they were filled with unmistakable anguish. And anger. Although she couldn't tell if he was angry with her or with himself. "I told you—I don't take things that don't belong to me, Julianne. It's a point of pride and honor to me. And as much as I might wish it otherwise, you do not, cannot, will not ever belong to me."
"You are not the only one who would wish it otherwise, Gideon," she said quietly.
He released her and stepped back. "It doesn't matter what either of us might wish. The fact remains you are engaged—"
"Not officially—"
"Irrelevant. It is only a matter of papers to be signed. But even if you weren't betrothed, this … attraction between us is completely impossible. You're an earl's daughter. An aristocrat. A wealthy member of society. I am so far below you socially, I need to stand on a ladder and look up just to squint at the hem of your skirt."
"I told you, the trappings of wealth aren't important to me."
"It doesn't matter. You cannot change who you are. Who I am. And who I'm not. Fancy balls and gowns and jewels might not be important to you, but they're a part of your world. And that is something I'll never be—a part of your world. Your duty is to—"
"Marry according to my father's wishes?" she said bitterly.
"In your world, yes."
"And what is your duty, Gideon?"
"To let you do it. To not steal your innocence—or what bloody little I've left you with. The innocence that belongs to you." A muscle ticked in his jaw. "And your future husband."
"You've taken nothing I haven't freely given."
"Nonetheless, I shouldn't have taken it. I'd resolved I would never touch you. Then, after I did, I resolved it was a mistake, one that couldn't be repeated." He shook his head, closed his eyes, and blew out a long, slow breath. Then he looked at her again. "Clearly it is one thing to resolve not to do something and quite another to follow through on that resolve. But I won't fail again. I will not, cannot make the same mistake again."
Mistake. That's all she was, what they'd shared, to him. "You must think me a terrible wanton."
He shook his head. "No. I take full responsibility. I completely lost control of myself."
"A generous and noble offer, but I cannot allow it. I am just as responsible, if not more so, as I desperately wanted you to lose your control."
Julianne reached out to touch him, but he stepped back, shaking his head. She pressed her empty hands against her midriff, realizing that it wasn't just her hands that were empty. It was everything. Her life. Her heart. Her soul. She felt as if she were trying to hold water in her clenched fists; no matter how hard she gripped, it still trickled through until only emptiness remained.
"Gideon…I have so little time left." She kept her gaze steady on his, fully aware of the desperation creeping into her voice and not caring. "I've been happier in these stolen moments with you than I've ever been in my entire life—"
"Stop. Please." He moved toward her with jerky steps, then cupped her face in his hands. His eyes looked tormented. "God help me, I have no defenses against you. So please don't share any more of yourself, your feelings, with me. Please don't let me see any more of your heart. I don't deserve it, and it's making an already impossible situation even more so." He squeezed his eyes briefly shut then said in a rough whisper, "You have no idea how close to impossible it is for me to walk away as it is."
She reached up and clasped his wrists. "Then don't walk away, Gideon." The words sounded like a desperate plea, but she didn't care. "Let us be together for the next fortnight, until I must leave. I agree it is all we can have of each other. But let us have that much."
His gaze searched hers, and she made no attempt to hide her feelings from him. She let him see all her hopes and wishes, all her wants and needs and desires. All her love. And with her insides jittering with anxiety, she prayed.
Several long seconds passed in silence. Then he slowly released her. And stepped back.
"I can't," he said. "I can't do it to you or myself. If anyone caught wind of this, the scandal would ruin you. You could lose everything."
"And you would lose your honor."
"Yes."
A bitter sound escaped her. There obviously was no point in telling him that, except for creature comforts, she had nothing.
Dear God, how was it possible to hurt so badly when she felt so numb? She managed to jerk her head in a tight nod. "I … I think it's best if I retire now." She pushed the words past the lump clogging her throat, but with the tears pushing behind her eyes she knew her hold on her emotions was tenuous.
Walking as swiftly as she could, she made her way to the blue bedchamber. She heard Gideon walking behind her, heard Caesar trotting next to
his master, and Princess Buttercup panting as she jogged to keep up. When they reached her chamber, she scooped up her dog and waited in the corridor while Gideon checked the room.
"All is secure," he said a moment later. "Caesar will remain outside your door. No harm will come to you."
"Thank you," she said tonelessly. No point in telling him the harm had already been done.
And that she'd never, ever be the same.
* * *
After seeing Caesar settled in the corridor outside Julianne's door with a command to guard, Gideon entered his bedchamber. He shut the door behind him then leaned back against the oak panel.
Bloody hell. What a night.
He closed his eyes, a mistake, as he was instantly bombarded with the images he desperately wanted, needed to forget. Of Julianne smiling. Laughing. Teaching him to waltz. Lifting her face for his kiss. Succumbing to her climax. Looking at him with her heart in her eyes.
And what had he done to deserve such an adoring look? He had treated her no better than a common doxie and disgraced himself like a green lad to boot.
He forced his eyes open and scrubbed his hands over his face. Damn it, he'd tried not to touch her, but his resistance had worn down, and he'd thought what harm could there be in a simple dance? And he might have made it through the evening without falling on her like a rabid dog, but then she'd shown him that damn box. Her Box of Wishes and Dreams.
Looking at those items that hadn't cost so much as a single shilling, those things she regarded as her most valued treasures, had forced him to « font acknowledge that which he'd adamantly tried to ignore: Julianne was as lovely on the inside as she was on the outside. That she wasn't spoiled and vain but a unique, kind, admirable, vulnerable, and lonely young woman. One with a romantic nature who longed to break free of the social confines she found so suffocating. It was an insight into her character he hadn't wanted to see, to acknowledge, but once it was staring at him so blatantly, he could no longer ignore it.
Any more than he could have ignored her plea for him to kiss her. He pressed the heels of his palms to his forehead. Bloody hell, the way she'd looked at him, touched him, brushed her body against his … it was as if he were gunpowder, and she'd tossed a lit match on him. His control had exploded in a flash fire of want and need and desire so strong, he'd been helpless to stop it. Yet even as he'd given in, dishonored himself and her, a tiny voice in the back of his mind kept chanting, Just one more touch then I'll stop. The problem was that when he perhaps could have stopped, he didn't want to. And when he finally realized he had to stop, he couldn't. His need, his desire had been so sharp-edged, so deep, he'd been utterly helpless against it.
And then her offer… that heart-stopping offer… that they be together, as lovers, until her marriage. Until she left to start her life as another man's wife. Where he'd found the strength to refuse, he didn't know. God knows he'd wanted nothing more than to take what she offered and damn the consequences—which for him were negligible. But Julianne … she stood to lose everything, her innocence being the least of it. The scandal that would erupt, should anyone discover she'd taken a lover, would ruin her. It would only be that more salacious and sordid if the lover proved a lowly commoner like him.
And what did he stand to lose? Nothing.
Well, nothing except his heart.
You lost that two months ago, his inner voice informed him with a hollow laugh. He blew out a long sigh, tried to deny it, then shook his head. What was the point in lying to himself? He'd taken one look at those eyes, that face, and he'd lost his heart right then and there. He hadn't been the same, felt the same, since the moment he'd met her.
But unlike two months ago, when he merely desired her because she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, now that desire had turned into something so much deeper. Yes, he wanted desperately to make love to her, but now he wanted more than that. He wanted to simply be with her. Talk to her. Look at her. Laugh with her. Walk with her. Wanted it all with a bone-deep yearning and an ache he'd never felt before. Not even for Gwen, a woman he'd loved. A woman he'd planned to marry and make a life with. Julianne touched something deep inside him, a spot he hadn't known was there until she came along and proved its existence. Which could only mean one thing.
He didn't merely lust after her. No, he'd bloody well gone and fallen in love with her.
"Arghhhhh," he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. Perhaps there was a bigger idiotic fool in the kingdom, but he sincerely doubted it.
Fallen in love with a woman he could never have. A woman who in a matter of days would be married to another man. Another man who would touch her and bring her to his bed. A man who didn't love her but who would have every right to her. A man who would take her far away to Cornwall. A man who could give her everything—except the things she truly wanted.
His hands fisted as a wave of white-hot jealousy washed over him. The thought of that bastard Eastling touching her made him want to break things. An image of his fists rearranging the duke's perfect nose flashed through his mind; yes, that would be a bloody well perfect thing to break.
The image faded, and a sense of sheer despair and exhaustion washed over him, leaving him physically and mentally drained. He badly needed rest but doubted sleep would come. He crossed the room and looked out the window to the gardens below. The moon cast the area in a silvery glow. Would the "ghost" attempt to enter the room tonight? He hoped so, so he could catch the bastard and put an end to all this. Then he could pick up the pieces of his life that had scattered like feathers in the wind on that fateful day he'd first met Julianne. How he was going to do that, he didn't know. Especially right now, when it hurt to merely breathe.
Determined to focus on why he was here, in this room, he crossed to his portmanteau and withdrew a spool of black thread. Moving back to the French windows, he tied one end to the brass doorknobs, then trailed the spool back to the bed. The darkness in the room rendered the thread invisible. After removing his boots, he lay down on the counterpane then tied the other end of the thread around his wrist. He was a very light sleeper, but because he was so tired, he didn't want to take any chances. If he fell into a deep sleep and the door opened, the string would pull on his wrist and awaken him.
He settled himself in the bed and stifled a groan as her scent surrounded him, inundating his senses. Closing his eyes, he turned his face into her pillow and breathed deeply. Vanilla. And Julianne. Bloody hell, he'd never get any sleep.
For a long time he lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening for the least sound that might be out of place, his thoughts a torturous swirl of recalling moments he needed to forget, futilely yearning for things he couldn't have, uselessly wanting things to be different. If only Julianne were the daughter of a barber or baker. If only he were a nobleman.
If only things were different.
Eventually his eyes grew heavy, and he must have slept, for the next thing he knew, he was bolting upright in the bed, breathing hard, sweat dampening his skin, the dream so fresh in his mind, so vivid, he had to blink several times to realize it was indeed a dream. His gaze flew to the French windows. They remained closed and locked, a filter to the first mauve streaks of dawn staining the sky. Then he looked at his wrist to which the thread remained tied and undisturbed.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran shaking fingers through his hair, widening his eyes to keep them from closing. Because he sure as hell didn't want to see the image in his dream again. The image of Julianne, trapped inside a glass coffin, screaming and pounding on the glass, begging to be set free. And himself, tossing shovelful after shovelful of dirt onto her glass coffin.
Chapter 18
With the disturbing dream ®
"So the princess still sleeps," he murmured, pushing aside an image of Julianne in bed.
Caesar licked his chops and sent a longing look toward the door, and Gideon shook his head. "Ah, I see. You thought I was referring to your princess rather than mine." He frow
ned at his unfortunate choice of words. Mine was the one thing Julianne could never be.
"I'm headed to the kitchen, where I'll scare up something good for you. Then you can go outdoors for a while and smell every blade of grass you care to smell. Does that sound good?"
Caesar made a noise that sounded like a grunt of approval.
"Excellent." Gideon stood, murmured, "Guard," then made his way to the kitchen where he was greeted by Mrs. Linquist, who was very relieved to hear his report that there had been no disturbances the night before.
Gideon had just finished his breakfast of eggs, ham, and coffee when Ethan entered the kitchen. "Someone to see ye, Mr. Mayne," the footman said. "Says his name is Mr. Henry Locke. I showed him to the morning room. Are ye available?"
"Yes, thank you." Hopefully Henry had some news for him. After securing Mrs. Linquist's promise to see that food was brought to Caesar, Gideon followed Ethan from the kitchen. The footman escorted him to an elaborately decorated chamber with a distinctly feminine flare. Henry sat perched on a ridiculous little chair with a pink velvet cushion, eyeing the multitude of trinkets in the room. Gideon could almost see him running a tally in his head as to their value.
"You have news for me?" Gideon asked the moment the door closed behind Ethan.
"Yes," Henry said. His gaze scanned the room. "Quite the palace yor set up in here, Gid." His eyes glittered, and he flashed a smile. "Best ye not get used to it."
"Don't worry. I know where I come from. What have you found out?"
"Been checking the names on the list ye sent me. Nothing out of the ordinary with any of the servants. All have been with the family for over a year, some for more than a decade, except a footman named Ethan Weller, who was hired on eight months ago."
SEDUCED AT MIDNIGHT Page 22
