by Stacy Reid
She was being inexcusably reckless following him, even if he had rescued her, even if she had wanted to be away from the crush of the ball. She inhaled to steady her anxiety and was once again buffeted by a hint of something disturbingly familiar. Breathing deeply of this elusive scent, she felt a jolting response…a familiar one that only he had been able to rouse in her.
She stumbled to a halt, jerking her fingers from his clasp.
“What is it?”
It couldn’t be. The voice of this man was deeper, rasping against her nerve endings with potent sensuality.
“Alasdair?”
“Lady Willow,” he drawled with an icy bite.
Good heavens. “How…I…”
Had it been a jest when he introduced himself as Lord Westcliffe? Had he been mocking her? She forced herself to stop the frantic churn of her thoughts.
“For a moment I thought you had not recognized me, Lady Willow.”
Without the noise of the ball, everything sharpened into painful comprehension. A gentle caress against her cheek had anticipation shivering low in her stomach. Had he touched one of her tendrils? “Of course I recognized you,” she said huskily.
“I recall how fleeting I truly was in your life, hardly someone worth remembering. It seems I was mistaken.” His voice was laced with soft menace.
She stepped back a pace. Hardly worth remembering? She had dreamed of him at the crest of each dawn and nightfall for years. Memories of past kisses, shared dreams, and nightmares rushed through her, causing her heart to tremble in both fear and joy.
Then relief crashed into her. He was alive! Her older brother Quinton had marched to war and she knew Alasdair had bought a commission as well. No matter how she had hinted, then outright asked her brother of Alasdair’s well-being, she had been met with tightlipped silence.
Happiness gathered in a sweet ache in her chest. Alasdair. But he had introduced himself as Lord Westcliffe. Bewilderment churned inside, but she struggled to show an unaffected mien. She could only pray she succeeded with the depth of emotions twisting through her, confusing in its intensity. Horror clashed with joy, shame burned with delight. It took enormous will to just keep breathing.
“I knew you to be more loquacious. I never thought it was possible to render you speechless.”
She liked the cadence of his speech, the deep sensual wash of his voice. It was hardly a thing to notice against the coldness of his tone.
“I—” The reality of being so close to him, speaking with him, after years of yearning for the impossible made her light headed.
She swayed.
His hands gripped her, warm, strong, and the pleasure of his touch burned her. She drew back, startled, and slammed her hip into a wrought iron table. A hiss slipped from her lips, and she thrust her hand backward gripping the table to steady herself. He was suddenly there, hands lightly circling her waist, supporting her.
“Are you hurt?”
Though her side throbbed, she shook her head, trusting he would see her clearly from the dozens of torches she knew lit the stone balcony and the inner alcoves.
“Are you truly the Marquess of Westcliffe?” she managed to ask.
She felt the tension that sifted through his frame.
“Answer me,” he demanded. “Are you hurt?”
She tried not to read too much in his concern. “No. Are you truly the Marquess of Westcliffe?”
“Yes.” His voice held a hint of pain and darkness.
She shifted in his embrace and grasped for his arm. He clutched at her, and she slid her fingers through his. “I am deeply sorry for your losses. I cannot imagine the torment your family has endured.” He had been a third son. What had happened for him to now hold the title?
His grip tightened briefly on her fingers before releasing her. Then he stepped away.
She instantly felt bereft of his warmth. “Thank you for whisking me away. For a moment, I thought I was about to swoon. My brothers would never let me forget if I had behaved so delicately,” she said softly, ignoring what she really wanted to say. The questions jumbled inside her, and she had to grit her teeth to prevent them from spilling out. Why had he not returned? Where had he been? Did he have an attachment? She wanted to know everything that had happened in his life for the past six years. It was very silly of her to have such a desire. He had left without looking back…not once. If he had, he would have known how much she had needed him.
“You were never a lady to indulge in histrionics. Why were you so affected?”
She gave an unladylike shrug. “I have found that the attention of Society can be intimidating.”
“Enlighten me.”
Willow paused, annoyed with her slip. Society’s perceptions of her inferior circumstances were the last thing she wanted to discuss. “I have not seen you, we have not seen or spoken to each other in six years, Alasdair.” Her throat tightened so the words begging to tumble from her lips could not escape.
“And?”
I missed you.
Yet the words would not come. It would be utterly foolish to reveal her affection after the disregard he had shown her. She should return to the crush of the ball and escape to her room. To be alone with him was highly improper. Society would not care they had been close friends, and he would certainly be livid if he was forced to marry a young lady in her circumstances. Though knowing all of this, she was compelled to continue their conversation, to hear his voice, the cultured yet roughened tone, and possibly once again hear that soft chuckle of pleasure whenever he was amused or delighted.
Oh, if she could only make out his features. He seemed so cold and distant, very different from the laughing young man she had known. How much had he changed? What was he now like? At twenty-one he had been striking. She clearly remembered his swarthy masculine beauty. Eyes that were the grey color of a winter storm, the slant of his cheekbones, the sensual curve to his lips, and dark golden hair that he normally wore in a messy way. His frame had been lean and hard from his many outdoor activities. Did he possess that same arrogant tilt of his head when he spoke?
Confound it.
The need to touch him, to learn his face, arose hot and thick inside her. It was this desire that allowed her to regain her senses. “I must return inside. Will you escort me, Lord Westcliffe?”
She knew the placement of every piece of furniture, the location of every window and door and every inch of grounds of Hadley House; yet tonight’s ball had disconcerted her. Nothing was as it should be. Even the scents that normally guided her were overpowered by the flowers that decorated the ballroom.
“I have missed you as well, Willow.”
She froze.
“You have learned nothing of hiding your emotions. I can see the desire and questions,” he admitted softly, a curious undertone of fascination and something darker evident in his voice. “I would be a veritable liar if I did not admit to missing you.”
She struggled to understand the dip in his voice, the intent that saturated his words. Intimate. Though his words were innocuous, they rasped with intimacy. But beyond the intimacy there was anger, and it scraped along her nerve endings.
“You are angry,” she said blandly. It made no sense for her to pretend.
His soft chuckle was mirthless. “Why are you not married, Lady Willow? Your Duke Salop, was he not all you dreamed of? Could it be he found out behind your beauty lay a heart as cold as the winter?”
She flinched but looked to the direction of his voice. “I will not rehash the past with you, Lord Westcliffe. We were both young and foolish…and this is now.”
Footsteps crunched on gravel as he moved closer. Too close. His heat seemed to reach out and caress against her skin.
“I was young and acted like an imbecile, Lady Willow, you were a fickle and unfeeling bitch.”
She gasped at his crudene
ss, and a wave of sadness rolled through her because underneath his anger she heard the pain. She closed her eyes for she understood, even after all these years, she still hurt whenever she thought of the times they had spent together. The hopes and love that beat inside of her for him. It had caused her torment, to know he had been driven away without knowing the depth of affection she held for him. It had been expected that she would snare a duke. Third sons, no matter how charming, gallant, and handsome had been forbidden to her.
“This may not mean much to you now, but I loved you, Alasdair. My family told me you were not suitable. I was almost persuaded not to love you, and I never got the opportunity to express my regret. My father fought against the idea I wanted to be your wife, and I caved in to his demands because of fear.”
“Almost persuaded?”
She could hear the derision in his voice and wondered if his lips twisted in that way they normally did when he was disgusted. Unable to help herself she reached forward and her fingers bumped his chin.
He froze.
The need to make him understand burned inside of her. She had longed for such an opportunity for years, never really believing she would see him again. “Yes, almost. I regretted my harsh words, I regretted conceding to my father, and I tried…I tried to visit your home because I—”
“Liar,” he breathed softly against her lips, and her heart jerked. She had not felt him move.
“Alasdair, I—”
“No,” he growled, placing his hands on her hips. “Sweet lies once again spill from your lips, and I am a damnable fool because I want to believe you cared enough to travel to Westerham Park. The only thing I am interested in is to claim what you denied me, denied us.”
Shock made her stiffen and anger surged in her veins. “I was young, but I loved you with every breath in me. I drove you away with foolish words because I feared my father would destroy you, if I did not relinquish the idea of us. But if you loved me as ardently as you professed, why did you not try to persuade me to run away with you to Gretna Green? You left,” she whispered in outrage. “I denied us nothing.”
He jerked her to him, and disconcerting sensations rushed through her. She was acutely aware of him, his size, his hardness, and most of all his scent.
“Unhand me, my lord.”
“Never will you refer to me as lord,” he drawled with an icy bite. “I will only hear Alasdair from your lips when I take what I have long dreamed of.”
“I beg your pardon?” she whispered furiously and pushed at his chest. He released her, and her anger spiraled because she wished for the strength of his embrace to return to her body.
“I want you to understand my intentions, Lady Willow. I will be exorcising you from my thoughts. It has been six years, and I still dream of your smile and laughter, of your taste, of your kisses and gentle opinion. No more. I will make you want me until it is an unrelenting ache, and then I will bury my cock deep inside you. You will sob my name and claw my back, begging for the sweetest of pleasure never to end, I will brand your soul with me, and when I am finished, I hope you will regret, as I do, the loss of us.”
Utter shock had her hand fluttering to her throat. Then startling hope rose, pushing aside all other emotions. Was this not what she wished for every day? To feel passion, to taste it, to indulge in it? To be daring and independent of Society’s derision and her family’s overprotectiveness. But not like this…not with anger and pain, the voice in her heart whispered.
She stepped in closer to his warmth. “I am intrigued by this method you would use to make me beg, to make me ache so relentlessly.” The words slipped from her before she thought of the consequences of being so bold.
He became so motionless, she fretted she had said the wrong thing. Then her ears picked up the hitch in his throat, the softly shuddered breath. She affected him just as he did her, despite the anger. The realization filled her with delight, and for the first time in years Willow felt wicked…and wonderful.
A touch. A whisper of air passed over her lips, and she knew he had dipped closer than what was considered proper. A fleeting caress. She savored it, though their lips barely touched. Another breath puffed across her cheek. Every touch, whisper was a torment. But such a sweet torment. His scent flooded her senses, and acting on instinct, she rose on her toes and leaned forward. The taste of his lips were like spiced wine and strawberries.
He stilled, and blood roared in her ears. She had kissed him! How shockingly improper and scandalous of her. She parted her lips to his entreaty. A soft groan slipped from him, then his tongue stroked the edge of her teeth. Not once did he draw her closer or press his body against hers. But she felt the heat of him, tasted the strength of him, and lost a bit of herself that she had sworn to keep protected, after enduring what had seemed like an endless nightmare.
His tongue glided over her lips and into her mouth. Though he had never touched her with such boldness, she reveled in his embrace. For once she pulled from this forbidden and exhilarating encounter, she would never allow herself to be in his presence again. How could she? While his promise filled her with scandalous temptations, she would not lead herself into more heartache. Not with this man.
A shiver cascaded down her spine. She itched to thrust her fingers through his hair, but she did not want to shatter the moment. Their kissing without touching seemed more intimate, than if they had been grasping each other. She fixated on the taste and texture of his lips, learning and enjoying him. His lips were rough, hard and possessive. Instead of frightening her, Willow leaned more into his tantalizing warmth. Something hot and confusing unfurled inside of her. It created a throb that started from her breasts, down to her navel and even lower to her most intimate valley. His touch coaxed, tempted, and teased. Unable to resist, she ran a single finger against the hard length of his jaw.
He pulled his lips from her, breathing raggedly, and she sucked in an unsteady gulp of air when he nipped at her neck.
“Sweet,” he murmured roughly. “You taste sweet.”
She traced his brows, his nose, learning him, appreciating him. She sank her fingers into the length of his hair, her fingertips gliding through the thick yet silky strands, and she noted his locks were shorn much closer to his scalp. Removing her fingers she asked, “What are we doing, Alasdair?” Her voice came out husky, shaky, and heat climbed her cheeks at the undisguised need in her tone. But she needed to understand what they were really thinking. It was inconceivable that after meeting each other for the first time in years, they were doing this, whatever this was.
He kissed her lips tenderly, then whispered against her throat, “I do not know. This was not my intention tonight. Far from it, but you are temptation incarnate, so damn beautiful.”
Willow’s breath hitched. Beautiful? Did he not see her scars? Her thoughts derailed as he claimed her lips again. A moan slipped from her, and she swayed closer. She was losing herself, drowning in his scent and taste, needing him, and fear curled through her.
She would never allow herself to need another again.
Willow drew back from the warmth of him, overwhelmed by the pleasure elicited from only a kiss. “My lord, I—”
His hands cupped her cheeks. “I need to know. Is this why you kiss me with such passion, Lady Willow, passion you have never shown me before?” He touched his lips to the corner of her mouth. “Because I am now a marquess…not so low and insignificant to kiss, to touch?” he whispered, but the soft contempt in his tone flayed her.
No, she could not do this, not with so much pain between them. Her body railed at her for rejecting something she had long hungered for and never thought she would experience. But if she hurt so much now, what would she feel when he was through with her body and heart? She pulled from him, shifting left, and her hip slammed into another table, or was it a chair? A moan of pain slipped from her. Devil take it!
“You need to be more caref
ul,” he said. “Here let me help—”
“No! Please, I need a moment without your touch.” Not caring what her admission revealed, she reached out and felt for the chair. Cold iron brushed against her skin. Grasping the back of the chair, she moved toward it and stubbed her toe.
“Bloody hell,” the unladylike curse slipped from her in frustration.
“Are you always this accident prone? He asked, soft amusement evident in his tone.
“Forgive my clumsiness,” she said through gritted teeth.
“It is I who should beg your forgiveness. It was not my intent to disparage you. The lights from the terrace and gardens do not provide much illumination.”
His footsteps shifted and moved from behind her to stop at her side.
“May I be of assistance?”
Tell him. She was being a coward, yet the words stuck in her throat. She wanted his escort to the library. They would never make such a journey without at least a few bumps and stumbles. The added tables and chairs and the crush of people were confusing. “I cannot see. I am blinded,” she confessed thickly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me,” she said softly.
A cool breeze nipped at her. Willow waited, feeling awkward and exposed.
“Blind?” his voice was neutral, all emotions buried. She could feel the heat of his gaze as it roamed over her features, no doubt looking deep into her eyes. Did he notice the scarring at her temple?
“Yes.”
There was a swift intake of breath and then dreadful silence.
“I suspect you wish to take your leave, my lord. I only ask that you escort me safely to my grandmother. I will not hold you accountable for wanting to end our tryst.”
“Our tryst?”
Her cheeks burned. That was how she had indeed been romanticizing their encounter. Foolish.
He slipped his fingers over hers, linking their hands together.
“Willow, I—”
She pulled from him and straightened her spine. “No, Lord Westcliffe.” She thought he flinched at her formality, but she pressed on. “I think we both needed tonight to happen. I am glad we spoke. While your offer to exorcise me from your dreams was indeed tempting, I fear I must decline. I propose you will have to find another method. I can feel the need in you to know what happened, but this is private for me, and it is not something I will share. Please do not press me, but I would appreciate you escorting me to the library, my lord.”
