Unable to repress a forlorn hope, he said, "You didn't want to lie with me in Maggie's house... but we're not in the house now."
"Oh, Robin, Robin, you're a wicked, silver-tongued devil, half angel and half rogue." She gave a soft sigh that held both gentle reproach and laughter. "What am I to do with you?"
He shut his eyes, embarrassed that she knew him so well, yet grateful that she could still speak with affection.
Her hand brushed his hair, then fell away to skim his face. Her fingers were cool against his heated forehead and cheek.
She stroked her thumb across his parted lips, then put her hands on both sides of his head and pulled him down for a kiss. As their mouths joined, her hand slid downward, gliding over his chest and hips. When it reached the fall of his breeches, her palm curved, clasping the hard ridge beneath the taut fabric.
He went rigid as fire coursed through his veins.
She murmured, "I hope no one else decides to come outside for a walk." Her fingers went to the top button of his breeches.
After a stunned moment, he unfastened the buttons himself, his fingers tangling clumsily with hers. When he had freed himself, he touched her, trailing his fingers through the soft curls to the sweet female secrets below. The silky, pliant folds were fever-warm and swollen with moisture.
She gave a longing sigh that maddened him. He raised her right leg and wrapped it around his hips, then did the same with her left. She was so open, so yielding.
As he prepared her for his entry, she whimpered and her calves locked around him. Further restraint was impossible. He buried himself inside her with one fierce thrust.
She gasped, on the edge between pleasure and pain. Panting, he forced himself to hold still so she could adjust. Just being within her was almost enough to bring him to culmination. Every part of his body was throbbing. He felt as if he had entered a safe harbor, yet at the same time a tempest raged in his blood.
The musky scent of sex surrounded them, as intimate as their bodies. Using his right arm to support her back, he slid his left hand between them until he was touching her just above where they were joined. He found the sensitive, hidden nub, then gently rubbed with his knuckle.
She moaned. As her hips began grinding against him, a long, slow shudder convulsed her and she buried her face against his shoulder. A series of swifter contractions triggered his own release without his moving. Violent pleasure suffused him, yet in the center of his scouring, chaotic climax was peace.
Gasping, he pressed his forehead against hers. "Oh, Lord. Maxie. I wish... I wish there was something I could do to give you the kind of comfort you give me."
Comfort. She sighed, glad he couldn't see her expression in the dark. When she had recognized the depth of his despairing need, she had given solace freely. In return, she had received mind-drugging rapture. It was not a bad exchange. Yet she could not help wanting to be something more than a source of emotional comfort and sexual release.
That wasn't fair; Robin was giving everything he could. It was not his fault that he did not love her.
Hoping that her muscles were working and she wouldn't collapse back onto the stone altar, she eased away from him. "I think I've ruined your cravat."
"If so, I'll keep the remnants pressed in a book of poetry for the rest of my life." He followed the gallantry with a kiss.
As his lips caressed hers with gentle affection, she gave a superstitious shiver. She had promised herself that they would make love at least once more. Had that swift, heedless encounter been it? She tried to look forward, to believe that there was a lifetime of lovemaking ahead of them, but she could sense nothing except the black fog of despair.
When she shivered again, Robin said with concern, "You're cold. Time to render ourselves respectable enough to walk back into the house." He disengaged their bodies, caught her around the waist again, and gently set her on the marble floor. As he produced a handkerchief for her to dry herself, he added, "Semirespectable will do. If we looked immaculate, no one would believe it."
"Immaculate is not a possibility." She smoothed down her crimson skirt. Luckily the shawl had protected her gown from the coarse stone. "I hope everyone will give us the benefit of the doubt and assume that all we've done is steal a few kisses."
"Naturally that's all that happened," he said in his best peddler's voice, saturated with unreliable sincerity. "After all, you're an innocent maiden and I'm a gentleman."
"Strictly nominal in both cases." Her hair was falling down. She located the hairpins and secured it again, hoping the result wasn't too wild, then draped the shawl over her shoulders.
Robin put his arm around her and they began strolling back toward the house. "One reason I took you to Ruxton was to see if you liked it," he said hesitantly. "I've always been fond of the place, even though I've only stayed there half a dozen times in my life. Do you think you could be happy living at Ruxton?"
She thought of the warm stone, the rolling green hills, and the house's gracious, welcoming air. Ruxton wanted to be a home, and she was a woman who had wanted a stable home all her life.
Her voice almost inaudible, she said, "Yes. If... if things work out between us, I could be happy there."
Such a very big if.
Chapter 33
On the carriage ride home, Desdemona and Giles had talked casually, in words anyone could have overheard, but his large strong hand enfolded hers and she felt quite absurdly happy. She had not felt such a sense of bubbling anticipation since she was a child.
When they reached her home, Giles escorted her up the steps, then rested his hands briefly on her upper arms, his expression intent. His grasp tightened for a moment. She wondered if he was going to kiss her, right there in Mount Street.
Then her parlor maid opened the door. He dropped his hands, saying simply, "Good night, Desdemona. It was a lovely evening."
Yes, and it was too early for it to end. She said, "It isn't really late. Would you like to come in for a few minutes? Perhaps have some brandy?"
The marquess hesitated, clearly on the brink of refusing.
Amazed at her own temerity, she smiled up at him. "Please?"
"For a few minutes, then," he said after an unflatteringly long pause.
She sent the servants off to bed, then led Giles into the drawing room and poured them each a brandy. Sitting in facing chairs, they talked idly for a while, but the earlier ease was gone. The marquess watched her with a dark, brooding expression that made her uneasy. Though she had thought his regard was flattering earlier in the evening, now she was not so sure. Perhaps, she thought with profound depression, his interest in her had been a momentary aberration and now he was wondering how to disengage gracefully.
He finished his brandy and stood. "I think it's best that I leave now."
Desdemona stared at him, sure she had done something wrong.
Humor lurking in his eyes, he said, "Don't look at me like that, as if I've just cast my vote against your apprentice protection law."
She glanced away, struggling to control her expression. A proper female would have learned not to wear her heart on her sleeve by the age of seventeen. Yet here she was, on the shady side of thirty, acting like a naive fool.
Giles swore under his breath. "The problem isn't you, Desdemona, but me," he said bluntly. "If I stay, I am going to have a great deal of trouble keeping my hands off you, which you will probably find upsetting. It will certainly raise havoc with the slow, genteel courtship I have been planning."
Courtship? Hearing that filled Desdemona with relief. "I don't think you're likely to turn into a lust-crazed beast. And if you do"—she gave him a shy smile—"it's a risk I'm willing to take."
Giles smiled but shook his head. "Perhaps I'll manage to behave as a gentleman, but I can't guarantee it."
"Good!" she said recklessly.
He laughed, lines crinkling the tanned skin around his eyes. "Do you realize how much you've changed in the last fortnight?"
"I h
ope it's for the better."
"I certainly think so." He leaned against the fireplace mantel, his arms folded across his chest, his expression serious. "This may be too early for a formal offer of marriage, but I'd like you to consider the possibility."
Desdemona stared at him, her relief ebbing away. She had been drifting, delighted by his company and his admiration, but now that he had actually spoken, painful reality closed in.
He raised his brows at her expression. "Surely you aren't surprised. The prospect was first raised in Daventry."
"I guess I thought that after you had a chance to consider, you wouldn't really make an offer," she said in a small voice.
He gave the wry half smile she loved. "I'm not sure whether that shows lack of faith in me or in yourself." His smile faded. "You are living proof that a woman doesn't need a husband to have a worthwhile life. Even if you do wish to remarry, I can understand that you might prefer more promising material. Just... just tell me now, and I won't mention the subject again."
His statement reminded her that she was not the only one to feel uncertain. "I have no doubt that you would make a marvelous husband. The problem is—" she swallowed hard, "I don't know if I would make an adequate wife."
He caught her gaze with his own. "You are honest, beautiful, have a kind heart, and do not suffer fools gladly. To me, those seem like excellent qualifications for a wife."
She smiled at what he considered important, but her eyes slid away. "I don't know if I can give you an heir. It's true that my husband and I did not share a bed for very long, so perhaps I am not barren, but I am past thirty now—"
He cut her off sharply. "That doesn't matter. I'm offering for you because I want you to be my wife, not a brood mare. It doesn't bother me to think that Robin or a son of his will have Wolverhampton after me." Painful bleakness showed in his eyes. "My mother and my first wife both died in childbirth. I would not want to see that happen to you."
Desdemona looked down to where her hands were frantically twined in her lap. The trouble with half-truths is that they were not much protection after they were demolished. She should have known that the real truth could not be avoided.
She forced herself to look at him. "There is another, more basic reason why I fear I would not be the wife for you. You are a warm, passionate man. Surely you want a wife who is the same. But I don't know if I am capable of being that kind of woman."
She hoped he would understand what she was trying to say, but no such luck. After a long pause, he said quietly, "Could you explain what you mean a little more clearly?"
Her shoulders bowed and her voice broke. "My husband... he used to say that lying with me was like bedding an icicle. That any trollop on the streets was warmer than I."
Giles crossed the room and sat on the arm of her chair, then put his arms around her. "Hush, love," he said, rocking her gently, his cheek against her hair. "Few women are passionate in a miserable marriage. Don't condemn yourself because of the words of a selfish brute."
She clung to him, shaking, but his words eased some of the tight knot inside her.
He smoothed back her hair with a gentle hand. "You are so incredibly fair-minded. There is probably not another woman in London who would so conscientiously spell out her presumed failings when a marquess offered for her."
She leaned back in his embrace to look him squarely in the eye. "I'm not interested in marrying a marquess. I'm interested in Giles Andreville, who is the kindest, most amusing, most attractive man in England."
A slow smile spread over Giles's face. "It seems that we both think marriage is a good idea, so when shall we do it?"
Before she could answer, he bent his head and pressed his lips to hers. The desire that had ebbed while she was revealing her fears began to return. She kissed him back, wishing that she were more experienced.
He lifted his head and smiled into her eyes. "You don't kiss like a cold woman." He stood, then pulled her to her feet for another, longer embrace.
She loved the feel of his broad, muscular body. He was the only man who had ever made her feel delicate and feminine. She pressed against him, losing herself in his kiss.
He broke away, his breath coming quick and hard. "I think we can work matters out to our mutual satisfaction, don't you?"
Perhaps he was right, but she did not want to risk the unknown. Her gaze dropped to his cravat as she said haltingly, "Marriage is forever, Giles. It might be better if we don't do anything so irrevocable until we are sure. Or rather," she qualified, "until I am sure that... that I can fulfill my part of the bargain."
"There will never be any guarantees, Desdemona," he said gravely. "I think it is enough to trust that love will carry us through." He touched her cheek in a gossamer caress. "And I do love you, very much."
"I love you, too," she whispered. "But I don't have as much faith as you. I think it would be better if we... tried first."
He stared at her. "Desdemona, are you propositioning me?"
She nodded, blushing, and ducked her head again.
He wrapped his arms around her and began to laugh. Humiliated, she tried to jerk free.
He held tight, not letting her escape. "Do you have any idea how alarming it is for a man to be told that his whole future depends on one night's performance? The thought is paralyzing!"
When she realized that he was laughing not at her, but at himself and the splendid absurdity of human nature, she was able to laugh with him. "It doesn't have to be only one night. We can take as long as necessary." She smiled mischievously and wriggled closer. "And while it's been a very long time since I've been this close to a man, if my memory serves, the indications are that you don't seem the least bit paralyzed "
Giles gasped, his arms tightening. "Shall we see if I can convince you that you will make the best of all possible wives?" He bent over for another kiss that left them both breathless.
Wordlessly she guided them upstairs to her room, her head resting on Giles's shoulder, more happy than she could ever remember being in her life. Somewhere during that last kiss, she'd realized that he was right, that the powerful attraction she felt for him meant that she really was capable of being a warm and willing wife.
But it would be a pity to skip the proof.
After closing the bedroom door behind them, Giles said softly, "Let me look at you."
Her maid had left a single lamp burning on the bedside table. It gave enough light to show the intentness of his expression. Shyly she stood still while he circled around her. He unfastened her pearls, pressing a kiss on her nape when he was done. Then he used his fingers to roughly comb her hair down over her shoulders. He buried his face in it, murmuring, "I've wanted to do this for so long. Your hair is all fire and silk, just like the rest of you."
His breath warmed her throat; his admiration warmed her heart. With dawning confidence, she said, "I want to see you, too, Giles."
She untied his cravat, then unfastened his collar buttons so she could lay her hand on the warm expanse of his chest. Brown hair tickled her palm and she felt the acceleration of his heart.
Garment by garment, they took turns undressing each other. They moved with deliberate slowness, feeding the fire between them with soft words and gentle touches.
When her shift whispered to the floor, leaving her naked except for her stockings, he said huskily, "You are beautiful, so splendidly beautiful. Boadicea, the ancient British warrior queen, must have been like you, all red-gold hair and blazing womanly strength." He smiled. "Ever since Daventry, I've been thinking what a magnificent neck you have."
She blushed. "Is that what you were staring at all evening?"
"Of course it was your neck. Am I not a gentleman?" He slid his hands under her lush breasts, lifting and molding them. Breath rough, he said, "I've wanted to do this as well." He rubbed his face in the deep, warm cleft, then began licking and kissing her nipples, worshiping her with his touch.
She gasped and arched her head back. For the first time in h
er life, she loved her harlot's body, for it gave him such pleasure. More than anything on earth, she wanted to please him, to return the joy that was blossoming in her.
When they lay down together, it was as partners. When they joined, it was at her frantic urging, her need to have him become part of her. And when they cried out, it was together.
It was a night of shyness and discovery, passion and laughter, too precious to waste on sleep. She discovered that she was not a cold woman, not at all, and in the process she convinced Giles that only a complete ninny could have found him boring.
When not making love, they lay in each other's arms and talked, sharing their thoughts as intimately as they had shared their bodies. It was with the greatest of reluctance that Giles acknowledged the lightening sky outside. "Dawn comes too early at this season." His breath stirred her tangled hair. "I don't want to leave but it's time."
She rolled over so that she lay half across him, her chin on his chest. There was no trace of the angry, defensive woman who had first exploded into his sedate life. Now she was all soft welcome. "Why leave? The servants will already have deduced what is going on."
"Except for my coachman, not necessarily." He smiled. "I admit that for persons of our advanced years, propriety is not of first importance, but I prefer there be no gossip around your name."
Smiling impishly, she wiggled her lush curves to such good effect that he drew her down for another kiss. When it was necessary for survival's sake to stop for air, he panted, "You're a shameless woman. And I'm a lucky man."
Her pale redhead's skin colored rosily again.
He said with interest, "Your enchanting blushes go much farther than I realized."
That made her blush even more. By the time Giles had finished investigating exactly how far the blushes went, another half hour had passed. After, as they lay twined together, she said softly, "I didn't know it could be like this."
Angel Rogue: Book 4 in the Fallen Angels Series Page 32
