The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  He had a smooth, beautiful chest. Except for a very fine dusting of blond curls just in the center, there was no other hair, and the color of his skin was a pale golden brown. He was muscular, but not at all bulky. He was taut and lean and beautifully sculpted.

  “Julian,” she whispered in awe, her hands stroking, exploring. “You’re so beautiful.”

  “A man does not usually care to be called ‘beautiful,’ brat,” he said with wry gruffness, “but if it pleases you to say so, I will endure the adulation.”

  “It doesn’t just please me to say so, it’s very true,” she assured him. She slipped the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, and tossed it on the bed. Then she braced her hands at his waist and bent to cover his chest with kisses. He cupped her shoulders, his fingers pressing into her skin as she traced each rib with her mouth and tongue, then nuzzled, nipped, and suckled at each of his small, wine-colored nipples.

  “I can stand this no longer, you imp!” he said on a moan, pulling her against him and claiming her mouth in a passionate kiss.

  Every nerve in Sam’s body caught fire. Her bare breasts against Julian’s hard chest created sensations she’d never imagined. It was so intimate, so thrilling, so right. And when Julian’s hands reached up and cupped her breasts, caressing and stroking her hard nipples with gentle, erotic deliberation, she thought she would swoon from the pleasure.

  Several kisses later, breathless and dizzy, Sam pulled free and gasped, “Maybe I’d … I’d better finish undressing you.”

  “I thought you would never get around to it,” Julian teased.

  But when Sam reached down to unbutton Julian’s breeches, her hands were shaking. “I’m positively cow-handed!” she complained with a chagrined smile. “Perhaps you’ll have to do it after all, Julian.”

  Julian smiled understandingly and Sam watched as he undid the buttons of his breeches and pulled them off, carelessly and most uncharacteristically kicking them to the side when he was through. With his hands negligently propped on his hips, Sam got her first hard look at Julian “in the buff.”

  With his broad chest, narrow hips and long, leanly muscled legs, Julian looked like a flesh-and-blood Michelangelo statue. He was perfect. He was glorious. He was everything she’d imagined … and more. Helplessly, she stared at his manhood, large and hard and nestled in a triangle of tawny-colored hair. Yes, much more.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Have I frightened you, sweetheart?” Julian inquired with tender amusement.

  Sam tore her eyes away from that most impressive part of his anatomy and looked her guardian in the eye. “I’m … I’m not exactly frightened,” she said. “Rather I think I’m a bit awed!”

  He laughed and reached for her, saying, “I assure you, the feeling is entirely reciprocated.” Then they tumbled onto the chaise longue in each other’s arms and lay side by side, kissing and caressing.

  Sam couldn’t get close enough. She couldn’t touch him enough. She stroked his chest, his flat, taut stomach, and finally she wrapped her curious fingers around the velvety hard length of his manhood.

  He gave a moan of pleasure and slipped his leg between her two, pressing his erection against the rise of her mons. Honeyed heat surged through Sam’s bloodstream.

  Their kisses grew deep and greedy, their breathing sharp and labored. He shifted atop her, his weight supported by an arm on either side of her, his manhood heavy and tumid against her stomach. He lowered his head to her breast to suckle there, to tease and tantalize with his clever tongue.

  Sam felt a rising tension in her stomach, a tremulous languor in her legs. Her woman’s core was suffused with heat and pleasure. She wanted him to fill her, to assuage the need that seemed to be taking her at breakneck speed toward a state of blissful madness.

  She instinctively rocked her hips against Julian, and he whispered in her ear, “Are you ready, Sam?”

  “Yes. I … I think so,” she whispered back, trembling with both fear and excitement.

  “Then I will prepare you,” he murmured. She felt his hand slip between her thighs, his fingers tangling in the curls there. As he slid one long finger into her weeping center, she gasped with astonished pleasure, grasped his shoulders, and arched against him.

  “What … what are you doing, Julian?”

  “I told you, brat. I’m getting you ready to receive me,” he explained in a hoarse whisper as he moved his finger inside her, probing, stretching, preparing her for their joining.

  “But I want you … all of you, Julian,” she begged, consumed by a need she didn’t understand and felt powerless against. “Please, Julian, love me now!”

  Julian heaved a ragged sigh and eased himself between her thighs, then slowly entered her. He watched her face and saw the tiny furrow of pain appear between her brows. She was trying to be brave, and he loved her even more for pretending it didn’t hurt. He waited with each slight forward thrust for the tight channel of her womanhood to adapt to him, but he wanted consummation as much as Sam did, and it was hard to hold back. For Sam, though, he could and would do anything.

  “I know it hurts, sweetheart, but soon the pain will go away and there will be nothing left but pleasure.”

  “I know,” Sam said, smiling weakly. “I trust you, Julian.”

  Presently he asked, “Does it still hurt?”

  She lifted her hips and took him deeper inside her. Oh, so deep … For a panicked moment, Julian thought he was going to lose control, but he held on, taking delight in the sight of her as her eyes fluttered shut and a gasp of utter enjoyment broke from her lips.

  “No, it doesn’t hurt anymore,” she finally said, gazing up at him wonderingly. “In fact, it feels very, very good.”

  Julian couldn’t agree more. He began to move, setting a slow, gentle pace to their lovemaking, but she was as needful as he, as eager to satisfy the yearning that had been part of their lives since almost the moment they met … a yearning they had denied and ignored. Or, at least he had denied and ignored it! And he always fancied himself so wise…

  Sam’s hips rose eagerly to meet his thrusts, her innocent desire setting a much faster, much harder rhythm than Julian had intended.

  He was losing control. Yes, Julian Fitzwilliam Montgomery, the marquess of Serling, was losing control … and loving it. He was filled with joy … filled with the wonder of loving Sam.

  Sam had wanted this from the moment she’d first clapped eyes on Julian, that day he’d shown up on Thorney Island with Jack and Amanda. She didn’t understand then about making love, but she’d instinctively known that she needed to belong to him, to be as close to him as two human beings could be. She’d wanted to take the starch out of his reserve, to ignite the passion she knew he’d tidily buried beneath his cynical and ultra-elegant exterior.

  And she had succeeded. She saw that success now in his face, in the ardent flush spread over his beautiful, patrician features, and in the love that shone from his eyes.

  He hadn’t said so, but she knew he loved her. And that was enough. For now…

  A tear trickled down Sam’s cheek, and Julian kissed it away. She was losing control, being swept away by emotions that were stronger than she’d ever imagined or wished for.

  Then, suddenly, there were fireworks … bright sparks against the black backdrop of her spinning consciousness.

  Julian cried her name and strained against her, and she against him, as ripple after ripple of debilitating pleasure seized them in its velvet grip.

  Later, wrapped in each other’s embrace, they slept.

  Julian awoke to the disconcerting aspect of Madame Genevieve DuBois, still wearing her dramatic theater makeup and black wig, staring down at him. Knowing himself to be have been completely naked when he fell asleep after making love to Sam a third time, he fumbled about, hoping to assure himself that he was not exposed. He was quite relieved to discover a quilt covering him from the waist down. Holding it securely in place, he pushed himself to a sitting position in
the chaise longue and sleepily inquired, “Where’s Sam?”

  “That’s what I was just wondering,” Genevieve admitted, chewing her lip. “She’s nowhere in the house. None of her clothes are about … only yours. You didn’t quarrel, did you?”

  “Hardly,” Julian drawled, raking a hand through his disheveled hair.

  “I see you enjoyed the strawberries and the champagne,” Genevieve added, gesturing toward the nearly empty bowl and the absolutely empty bottle.

  “Yes, thank you,” Julian murmured, rubbing his eyes. “Your plan was very clever, and very effective.”

  “But did it work? Did you talk?”

  He peered at her out of one bleary eye. “Did you really intend us to talk?” he inquired laconically.

  “Yes, of course … among other things,” she answered impatiently. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist each other if left alone, but I counted on you coming to some understanding of each other’s feelings. You did propose, didn’t you?”

  “Not exactly,” Julian hedged, starting to worry about Sam’s absence, too. He wasn’t especially concerned about her safety; she was quite resourceful, and he assumed she’d hailed a hackney coach and had gone back to Montgomery House that morning before he was awake. He was, however, becoming just as worried as Genevieve that perhaps they hadn’t communicated sufficiently last night. In fact he knew Sam was laboring under some profound misunderstandings. Misunderstandings, moreover, that he had intended to clear up, but had not got around to.

  “You did, at least, tell her that you loved her, didn’t you?” Genevieve demanded.

  Julian sighed. “No.”

  “Good God! Why not?”

  “I thought she understood that.”

  “Oh, you men are all alike! You have to tell a woman that she’s loved, Serling! We can’t read your minds, you know!”

  “Yes, I do know,” he snapped, his guilt making him testy. “But I thought I had plenty of time to talk to her this morning about … all that. I was more concerned with other things last night.”

  She raised a fantastically arched, kohl-black brow. “Indeed, I’m quite sure you were.”

  “You misunderstand me, madame,” he growled. “I was not even sure till last night that Sam truly loved me. Everything happened so suddenly, and my head’s in a spin.”

  “Well, screw it on tight and go after my daughter,” Genevieve exhorted him. “She probably thinks of herself this morning as a loose woman, a femme fatale. You must tell her at once that you’re going to marry her!”

  “And what made you so sure I would?” Julian inquired. “How did you dare leave us alone last night? Did it never occur to you that I might be a libertine and intended to have my way with your daughter, then abandon her?”

  “No, of course not!” she scoffed. “The thought never entered my head. If I hadn’t thought you completely honorable, I’d have never left her alone with you. I knew you’d never compromise her unless you meant to marry her. Now, do get up, Serling! Haul your aristocratic arse out of bed and go after my daughter!”

  “I might be persuaded to haul my aristocratic arse out of bed if only you will be so kind as to leave the room,” he advised her acidly.

  She “tsked.” “Oh, very well, but I daresay I shan’t see anything I haven’t seen before.”

  Julian gave a bark of laughter. “But since you are destined to be my mother-in-law, Madame DuBois, I think the more decorum we practice, the better.”

  She smiled brightly. “You’re quite right, of course. I’ll send Smead up with some hot water so that you can wash up a bit before you go.” Then she abruptly left the room, shutting the door behind her.

  Julian stared at the closed door and acknowledged with some considerable amusement that he was going to have his hands full with that one for a mother-in-law. Like Sam, she seemed to be completely unimpressed by the dignity that was due a marquess.

  Julian looked ruefully at his crumpled clothes scattered on the floor and the bed, at the strawberry and whipped cream bowls, and at the empty champagne bottle. Then, he dwelled briefly and painfully on the fact that he had been awakened that morning by the mother of a young woman—his ward, no less—with whom he had spent the better part of the night cavorting. He was naked, unshaved, unbathed, and, no doubt, smelled of sex. What dignity could he be thinking of?

  But he was too in love to consider his loss of any consequence. There was plenty of time to reclaim his dignity, he decided, throwing off the guilt and reaching for his pants. First, he had to find Sam.

  It bothered him more than he’d admitted to her mother that, after a night of tender lovemaking, Sam had not been there when he woke up. As far as he knew, she still believed that he and Charlotte were engaged. In view of this, what must she be thinking, doing? He had to tell her that he loved her … and the sooner the better.

  “We thought we heard you come in, dearest. But who are you writing to so early in the morning?”

  Still dressed in her white gown from the night before—though considerably worse for the wear—Sam peered over her shoulder at Nan and Priss, who were standing at her open bedchamber door. Garbed in nightcaps and gowns, they looked like they’d just crawled out of bed.

  Sam chuckled. “My dear aunts! My darling chaperons! I never made it to the McAdamses’ soiree last evening, and I’ve been out all night, but all you want to know is who I’m writing to?”

  Nan and Priss looked at each other and shrugged. “We weren’t worried about you, Samantha,” Nan said. “We knew you were with Julian.”

  Sam shook her head and smiled affectionately at her aunts, then returned to her task without answering their question. She needed to get the note written and sent as quickly as possible.

  Nan and Priss ventured into the room and stood just behind her as she scribbled away at her desk. “You seem in rather a cheerful mood this morning, Samantha,” Priss said. Sam looked up just in time to see Priss slide a coy glance at her sister, as if hinting at some secret understanding.

  “I am cheerful,” Sam admitted with a contented sigh … then followed it with a frown. “But I have no right to be! I’m just about to break someone’s heart.”

  Again the aunts exchanged glances, but this time they looked concerned. “Oh dear,” said Nan. “Whose?”

  Sam folded her note and sealed it with wax. “Jean-Luc’s,” she said soberly. “But since I don’t want him to be publicly humilated, as well, I’m writing to tell him not to send an announcement of our engagement to the papers. Despite my promise to him, and Julian’s given permission, I cannot marry him.”

  The aunts had been listening with identical expressions of patent disbelief.

  “You are incredulous,” Sam said, chagrined. “Is it so very bad to break off an engagement when you find your heart is not … not committed to that person? Do you think me awful, aunts?”

  “My dear girl,” Nan exclaimed, “I assure you, Priss and I are not the least surprised to hear you do not wish to marry Jean-Luc. How could you do so when you are so obviously in love with someone else?”

  Now it was Sam’s turn to be dumbfounded. Could they possibly know…? But before she was able to ask Nan what she was talking about, Priss forestalled her, saying, “Indeed, what surprises us, Samantha dear, is that Julian gave his permission to Jean-Luc in the first place. Are you quite sure you heard him correctly? Perhaps you misunderstood?”

  “How could I possibly misunderstand him on so important a point? Although I don’t exactly recall him saying outright that he had given Jean-Luc permission, I’m sure it was implied.” She stood up and hurried to the bell pull by the fireplace and gave it a tug. “Now I must get this note to Jean-Luc as soon as possible.”

  While Nan and Priss watched with fretful faces, Sam handed the note to the footman, who had almost instantly appeared at the bedchamber door. She directed him to take the note to Jean-Luc’s address immediately. He bowed and left, and Sam sank onto her bed with a relieved sigh.

  “I
don’t think that was really necessary, Samantha,” Priss said, wringing her hands. “I daresay the poor man will be quite confused when he receives your note.”

  “But why, Priss? I had to tell him right away that our engagement was off, so he wouldn’t advertise it.”

  “But I’m sure there never was a positive engagement, Samantha,” Nan said. “I’m sure Julian wouldn’t have agreed to a betrothal.”

  “Why not? He knew I wanted to marry Jean-Luc,” Sam said. Or, at least, he thought I wanted to marry Jean-Luc. The only reason Sam could think of for Julian to refuse to consent to an engagement between her and Jean-Luc was that he was in love with her himself. And while she had great hopes that he would fall deeply in love with her eventually, she was not at all convinced that he already loved her. After all, even though he’d made passionate, tender love to her last night, he had not once said that he loved her.

  The aunts raised their brows at each other and pursed their lips. “Is it possible she doesn’t know?” Nan whispered out of the side of her mouth.

  “Sometimes the woman is the last to know,” Priss said consideringly.

  “In this case, however, I believe he was the one entirely in the dark … up till the day of the Wilmots’ ball, at least. It was then that I noticed the difference in him. But men—especially brilliant ones—tend to be quite stupid about knowing their own feelings. But surely, when they did not show up at the McAdamses’ soiree last night, I assumed they had come to some understanding!”

  “Come, my dear aunts, you must realize that I can hear everything you’re saying,” Sam informed them with amusement. “And since you are discussing my affairs, I demand that you speak directly to me. What is it, pray tell, that I don’t know?”

  The aunts again communicated with a look and seemed to come to an immediate mutual agreement.

  “We had better get dressed, Nan,” Priss said briskly.

  “Yes, we had,” Nan concurred. “And so had you, Samantha. I’ll send Dorcas in and have Sally bring up water for a bath. Make haste, my love. I daresay you’re going to want to be presentable when your visitor arrives.”