The Greatest Lover Ever

by Christina Brooke

  With Smith’s help, she’d ferried towels, robes, unguents, even fruit and cheese and wine for a midnight feast if they felt so inclined.

  The fluttering in her stomach made her think she would not be hungry anytime soon.

  She became aware of the labored breathing next to her. A sheen of perspiration lined Beckenham’s brow above the blindfold.

  “Georgie,” he panted. “Georgie I can’t—”

  He ripped off the blindfold and hurled it from him. With a violent shudder, he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and gasped for air.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Georgie’s satisfaction gave way to horror. “Marcus! Marcus, what’s wrong? Here. Come here and sit down.”

  She put her arm around his waist and half staggered with him toward the luxurious divan that had figured largely in her plans for tonight. He sat down hard upon it, ducking his head, wiping the sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve. “It’s all right. I’m fine.”

  Georgie knelt at his feet, her hands on his knees, her chest cramping at his obvious distress. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, my darling. Was it the blindfold?”

  He shook his head but it seemed to her that the gesture wasn’t a negative, merely an attempt to shake off whatever had descended upon him just now. “Just give me a minute.”

  Head still bowed, shoulders heaving, he put out his hand to her, clasped her fingers in reassurance. Distraught, she pressed his hand to her cheek.

  How could she have so miscalculated? She’d seen he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the blindfold, hadn’t she? Why had she insisted he go through with that part of it? But how could she have known?

  She’d thought his manner indicated leashed desire, not … not this.

  His breathing soon calmed enough that she ventured to put up a hand to touch his cheek. “Marcus?”

  Strong arms lashed around her. With a groan, he lifted her to him, kissed her long and hard, in a way that made it seem as if he were holding on to her for dear life, relying on her breath for air. That if she didn’t anchor him with her kiss and her body, he’d be swept away by some invisible force.

  She didn’t understand his reaction, but she’d give him anything he needed, anything he asked of her. She was desperately sorry to have caused him pain.

  He pulled her up and somehow, she was kneeling on the divan, straddling his thighs, kissing him back with all the love for him inside her, gripping his face between her palms.

  His hands left her hips to fumble at his trouser buttons. Before she could pause to wonder how this would work or what she was supposed to do, he’d found her entrance and driven up inside her, impaling her to the hilt on his thick, swollen shaft.

  She cried out at the wonderful feel of him filling her so completely, in such a novel way that she felt him in places she hadn’t felt him before.

  Riding him was new to her, but after a little guidance she relaxed into the rhythm of it. Despite her concern, Georgie gloried in the feel of him, at the way their bodies worked together, with her setting the pace in the rise and fall of her hips, him grinding into her with his pubic bone on every upward thrust. She reveled in his closeness, at the intimacy of this act, at the sensations that spread throughout her body when he filled her to the brim.

  His hungry, frenzied lovemaking had taken her by surprise. Yet she was so ready for him after all the planning and thought she’d expended on this moment, that her climax overtook her swiftly in a hot, heady rush.

  He gripped her hips, steadying her as she convulsed and trembled, her head flung back, abandoned in her wild flight. Then he collapsed with her onto the divan, rolling them until he braced himself over her.

  She watched his face, a dark flush high on his cheekbones, his eyes glazed with heat. He clenched his jaw and drove into her, over and over, in a hard, hot slide that seemed to go deeper with every thrust.

  Incredibly, she felt the tingle in the soles of her feet again, and the low simmer in her blood as he stoked the flickers of pleasure to a blaze.

  This time, when she came she took him with her. With a smothered shout of exultation, he buried his face in her hair, his big body shuddering with release.

  * * *

  When Georgie lay quietly in his arms and his heartbeat had resumed its normal pace and the panic that had closed his throat and the wildness in his body had subsided, Beckenham finally took in their surroundings. “I’m sorry, Georgie. I ruined your surprise.”

  She shook her head, raising herself to a sitting position. “You haven’t. You just delayed it a little.” She stretched luxuriously. “And most enjoyably, too.”

  He ran a hand down her torso as she arched into the stretch. He’d taken her like the veriest brute. He didn’t feel too guilty about it, however, for it hadn’t escaped him that she’d climaxed. Twice. Lucky for him that Georgie was a strong woman. She didn’t break easily. Not in a physical sense, at least.

  Georgie met his gaze. “Will you tell me what happened to you just now? It was the blindfold, wasn’t it?”

  After a hesitation, he nodded. “It was foolish. I don’t know why I—” But he did know. He did not like total darkness and he liked even less being made to feel utterly powerless in the dark.

  He sat up also. “Nothing for you to worry about. I just don’t like blindfolds, that’s all.” He stood. “Let’s bathe, shall we? It would be a pity to waste all of this.”

  He was playing for time; they both knew it. He thought she might insist on knowing everything immediately.

  To his relief, after a slight pause, she said, “All right. Lovely.”

  Thank God she was one of the few women who knew when a man didn’t want to talk. She’d get it out of him sooner or later, but she wouldn’t press him now.

  Georgie had worn only a shift in which to greet him tonight. He hadn’t fully assimilated that fact until this moment. Now she whipped it over her head and dropped it on the floor. She moved to the enormous bath, completely and unashamedly nude.

  His hands stilled on the waistband of his trousers as he watched her walk with that uniquely feminine gait to the pool. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, reaching halfway down her back. The roundness of her bottom, the dimples at the base of her spine that winked at him as she moved, made him stifle a groan.

  Holding one slender arm out for balance, Georgie dipped her toe in the water to test it. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, a look in those sea green eyes that made his skin hot and tight. “Perfect.”

  She stepped down into the water, sending rose petals drifting and spinning in her wake.

  Beckenham rid himself of the remainder of his clothing in record time. He wasn’t far behind her, but he didn’t miss the frank look of appreciation she cast his naked body as he moved to join her.

  The water was still warm, deliciously so, and the mineral tang of it filled his nostrils as he walked across the tiled floor of the bath toward Georgie.

  He caught her around the waist and kissed her, running his hands over the water-slicked smoothness of her skin.

  “Will you do something for me?” she murmured against his lips.

  “Anything. As long as it doesn’t involve wearing a blindfold.” If he joked about it, he might feel less like a prize idiot.

  She didn’t seize on the reference to probe him further, for which he was grateful.

  “Sit on that ledge.” She indicated a wide step at the other side of the pool.

  He obliged, setting his hands on the ledge and pulling himself up to sit facing her. Now they were of a height. The water lapped around her waist, and her navel played peekaboo with him as the water level rose and fell.

  Those breasts, half hidden by her thick, bright hair, tantalized him, swung against him as she reached past where he sat to one of the small bottles on the side of the bath.

  She poured some of the liquid into her hand, then set the bottle aside.

  It smelled of jasmine and spices. She let some of the golden liquid dribble from he
r hands onto his chest. The contrast between its cool viscosity and his flushed skin made him shiver.

  Then she touched him, working the unguent over him in firm, gentle strokes, kneading at muscles, skimming over the sensitive flesh of his nipples, up and over his shoulders, down his arms.

  The last of the tension from his fight with the blindfold faded away. His bones slowly turned to jelly at her touch, even while his gut clenched with the effort of keeping his own hands to himself. She paid particular attention to his muscles, and he knew a moment’s gratitude for all the punishment he’d put his body through to keep himself fit for boxing.

  “Mmm,” she murmured, framing his rib cage with her hands, then working inward, over the ridges in his belly. Languid, soft caresses that made his cock hard as a pole.

  She made another appreciative sound at the sight of his member showing its interest in the proceedings.

  Georgie glanced up at him, then back down. In a hushed voice, she said, “Can I touch it?”

  “Please.”

  Her fingertips fluttered over his cock, which jerked and hardened further at the contact. She gave a surprised chuckle, but did not let it deter her.

  Slippery with unguent, even beneath the water, her hands explored his contours, made him groan as she touched the sensitive head, investigated the ridge beneath. A feather-light fingertip brushed his balls, making them tighten.

  She closed her fingers around his cock, until she held him in her fist.

  Her voice was husky. “Like this?”

  Beckenham’s body tensed, fighting the urge to spill in her hand.

  “Show me how you want me to touch you,” she whispered.

  “You’re doing a fine job,” he gritted out.

  “Tighter?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes.”

  “Like this?”

  “God, yes.” He made an involuntary thrust with his hips.

  “Now what?”

  He gave in and wrapped his hand around hers, showing her what he wanted, everything she desired to know. His chest felt like it might burst and his head spun as he climaxed in powerful, hot jets of seed.

  He pulled her hand away from his cock, then he kissed her, reversing their positions, standing to swing her out of the pool and onto the edge so that her legs dangled over the side.

  Water sheeted from her body as if she were Venus arising from the waves. Her lovely nipples beaded with moisture, hard and pink and delicious. Kneeling on the step, he tasted each of them in turn, laving, licking, sucking until she’d braced her hands on the floor behind her, thrusting into his mouth, crying out with the pleasure of it.

  Then he gripped her thighs and tilted her to him. Spread her wide to his gaze.

  She gave a shocked little murmur. “Oh, no…”

  He glanced up at her. “You are beautiful,” he said. “Don’t deny me.”

  Her lips quivered. Then she tilted her head back and closed her eyes.

  He took this for acquiescence, sliding his hands up her legs to place them over his shoulders. Then he bent his head and feasted.

  * * *

  Much later, when they lay together in a surfeited daze, her head on his chest, Beckenham said, “I think I know why that happened before. With the blindfold.”

  She didn’t look up at him or speak, just continued stroking his chest.

  He’d felt like a damned fool. He owed her an explanation, though. It was time she knew the truth about him, anyway. Not that he’d concealed anything deliberately, but the blindfold, not to mention the forthcoming confrontation with Pearce, had brought it all flooding back. If they were to be husband and wife, she needed to know about the darkness he carried inside him.

  “You will have heard of my grandfather,” Beckenham began. “Living in this district, how could you not? His … eccentricities were stuff of legend.”

  “Yes. I’ve heard of him. What was he like?”

  He stroked her hair. He couldn’t tell her some of the unspeakable things, but he could give her a fair idea. “He used to strip naked in the middle of the night and take his gun out with him. Hunting poachers, he said, though I’m told all he ever shot was ducks. He drank too much, gambled too much. He gamed away Cloverleigh, as you know. He was incomprehensibly extravagant. At the time of his death, he owned seven hundred pairs of handmade riding boots. Seven hundred. While some of his tenants struggled to keep their children fed.”

  She pressed her palm against his chest. “You changed all of that.”

  Certainly, he had done what he could for his tenants, a process begun by the Duke of Montford when he’d become trustee of the estate. But there were too many wrongs that could never be set right.

  After a pause, she ventured, “Did he … Did he beat you?”

  He shook his head, though she couldn’t see him. “He was never violent toward me. Not directly. I was the heir, you see.” He’d been lucky compared with the others in that household, compared with anyone in his grandfather’s power.

  He thought Georgie lay slightly heavier against him, as if that disclosure had eased some of her tension.

  “No, there was no physical cruelty. But there was always a cruel edge to my grandfather’s exploits. Things were almost bearable when my father was alive, but once he died…”

  Beckenham swallowed hard.

  “The old earl made my mother’s life a living hell. Again, not beatings—strangely, that would have been against his code—but cruelty of the mind. Screaming abuse, threats and the like. A stable hand gave Mama a puppy. It was one of my grandfather’s hunting dogs, the runt of the litter.”

  For a moment, he couldn’t trust his voice. Then, huskily, he went on. “You should have seen how happy it made her, such a silly little thing. We called him Scamper. In one of his rages, my grandfather picked up Scamper by the scruff of his neck and threatened to throw him in the fire.”

  “Oh, no! He didn’t do it, did he?”

  “No, but we thought he would. Only the previous night, he’d forced a bottle of port down one of his horse’s throats and killed it. What would a puppy matter to him?” His grandfather had always kept a horse in the house, like a companion animal. One was always dodging piles of manure in the halls.

  She shuddered. “What happened to your poor mother?”

  He set his jaw. Even now, more than twenty years later, the memory tore a hole in his chest. “She died of a fever. I think in the end, her soul gave out. She struggled hard to stay alive for me. She just wasn’t strong enough.”

  “Poor lady. And poor little boy.”

  He felt hot moisture seep onto his chest. Georgie’s tears, he realized. But she still didn’t look at him, and he was grateful for that. He hated sounding like a puling whiner. He hated being the cause of her tears.

  He would get this over with, though, and then never speak of it again. His throat grew tight, as tight as it had when he’d donned the blindfold. “For, oh, perhaps a month, it was just my grandfather and me and the servants. God, I was only five. I was terrified of him. Even though he never raised a hand to me, just being surrounded by all of that unbridled violence and insanity without my mother to turn to was frightening enough.”

  He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry again. “There was a—a concealed cupboard. A priest’s hole, really. Whenever he went on one of his rampages, I would shut myself inside it and listen and wait for the storm to pass. It was very close and very dark in there.”

  She didn’t say it and he knew he didn’t need to. That must have been why he’d had such a strong reaction to the blindfold.

  A muted wail broke from Georgie then. Her shoulders shook and he held her close while she sobbed, stroking her back and murmuring soothing nothings to her. “It’s all right. It’s all in the past now.” And having finally admitted to her what he’d never said to another soul, he thought he spoke the truth.

  She raised her head, dashing at her lovely eyes with the back of one hand, her anger flaring up. “But my parents, your
other neighbors, your relatives, why did no one do something?”

  He reached up and smoothed back her curls, tucking them gently behind her ear, wondering at his good fortune in having such a fierce champion. She looked as if she wanted to hurl herself back in time and shoot the old earl through the heart.

  “My grandfather was a law unto himself. No one had the power or the right,” he said. “Until my mother died and the Duke of Montford took a hand. I don’t know how His Grace did it. I’ve always thought he must have threatened the old man with Bedlam if he didn’t surrender me. Whatever the case, the duke took me to his estate at Harcourt to live, and when my grandfather died a few years later, the duke became my trustee and guardian and I became the earl.”

  After a pause, she said thickly, “I’m going to burn that blindfold. I could kill myself for putting you through that.”

  “Georgie, you weren’t to know. How should you? I didn’t know myself until the past all came rushing back like that. I am the one who should be apologizing. You made a special evening for us. Thank you, my darling.”

  He pulled her down to his kiss. When she drew back again, her nose shiny red and her face a little puffy, her eyes glazed with unshed tears, he took her face between his hands and smiled up at her. “I love you.”

  The words were inadequate to express the complexities of his feelings for her, and yet they were completely and utterly right.

  A look of half disbelief, half joy spread across her tearstained face.

  “Oh, Marcus!” And then she buried her face in his shoulder and wept in earnest.

  Chapter Twenty

  Beckenham left for Brighton the following morning, without relenting in his determination to leave Georgie behind.

  Any plans she might have had to cajole him, threaten him, or otherwise circumvent his plans might have survived the shocking disclosures of the previous night. They’d died a quick death when he finally related the truth about his history with Lord Pearce.

  “What I didn’t tell you last night,” said Beckenham heavily, “is that Pearce’s grievance stems from something my grandfather did.”