But that long shared adversity, when it seemed she and Danny only had each other, had bound the siblings together. Just as Danny had worried she was making a mistake by breaking off her engagement with Henry the grocer, he would be violently alarmed if she disappeared for the night. If he ever discovered Liam was involved, Bathsheba didn’t doubt that her brother would call him out. Therefore, as little as she liked lying to Danny, she would have to do it, and do it well.
She concocted a story: her childhood friend Estella, who used to live near them but who had recently removed to a farm on the outskirts of London, had invited her to visit—perhaps to help with a sick child. If Danny ever asked Estella, Bathsheba knew her friend would support her story, but fortunately Danny did not like Estella much and was unlikely to seek her out. Of course, if she were going to Estella, she would likely leave early in the day, while Liam had never sent a carriage for her before eight in the evening. It was a vexing problem, and Bathsheba felt more than a little frustration that she couldn’t come and go as she pleased.
She was still debating when Danny solved it for her. “I’ll be away tomorrow evening,” he told her at dinner the day before Liam’s week was up.
“Oh?” Her pulse leapt, but she tried to maintain her calm. “Business?” Danny had built up a business printing select commissions, having discreetly put his name around after the runaway success of Fifty Ways to Sin. Thanks to that increased business—and Bathsheba’s secret income from Lady X—they were comfortable again, but poverty was too recent a memory for her to feel secure.
“Yes.”
“That’s good,” she said, immediately wondering if she could use this to her advantage.
Danny was pushing his fish around his plate. “It’s a good distance from town. I’ve been invited to dinner, and then to stay the night.”
Her mouth dropped open at this gift from God. “You have?”
It almost looked like her brother was blushing. “The job is a gentleman’s private library, Mr. Edmund Brown. He was a collector, and it was discovered in some disarray when he died last year. Some texts are old and must be reprinted, and most require binding. The family solicitor engaged me to bind a few, and Mr. Brown’s widow was pleased enough with my work to offer me the rest of the library. It’s a healthy commission, but will take a great deal of time. The dinner invitation is so that we may spend the day and evening assessing the scope of it.”
“Well, it sounds like you should take it, including staying the night if necessary.” She smiled, her heart thudding fast inside her chest.
“Yes!” He beamed at her in relief. “I shall. You won’t be worried to be alone?”
Bathsheba waved one hand. “Of course not. Where is it?”
“Greenwich. I may need to spend plenty of time there, as many books are too fragile to be transported to London and back.”
Greenwich—excellent. That would make it so much easier for her to say she was going to visit a friend and give the servants the night free tomorrow. Her stomach tightened at the realization that she was actually going to do this, slip away like a wanton and spend the night with Liam.
She said good-bye to her brother in the morning. He was clearly eager to be off, barely pausing to give her a wave before he disappeared into the traffic at the end of the street. Bathsheba closed the door and looked at the clock. Barely half past seven. She had an entire day to prepare, and she needed every moment of it.
By eight o’clock that evening, she had had time to make daring decisions, time to talk herself out of them, time to fret, and time to recover her bravado. Mary had gone home an hour earlier, pleased to have an extra evening free, and Bathsheba was able to prepare in solitude. The whole evening felt unreal, but never more so than when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looked a complete stranger to her own eyes.
But that was appropriate; she was different inside as well. She had thought Liam would teach her about seduction, but she’d never guessed he would teach her about herself. After two nights in his arms, not to mention all the days in between when she daydreamed of making him fall in love with her, she was learning that she was more sensual and lustful than expected. His touch was branded on her skin, and the slightest touch of her own hands seemed to rouse all the hunger he had awoken within her. She had only asked him for seduction and pleasure, but it was impossible to deny that she wanted more—and she was willing to make a bold play in pursuit of it.
When the coachman rapped at her door she breathed a sigh of relief. Even though she’d never sent Liam word that she wasn’t coming, part of her had feared he wouldn’t send the coach after all. She put out the last lamp and locked the door behind her, keeping her cloak close around her against the cool night air. The coachman took her small valise and helped her into the carriage as usual, and then she was off, headed toward what felt like a turning point in her life.
Chapter Nine
This time the door of the cottage was closed, although light glowed in the windows. Bathsheba’s heart lurched into her throat as the carriage rolled down the narrow drive toward that closed door. Sudden doubt assaulted her. What if she had mistaken the matter? She’d assumed, because he sent the carriage, that Liam wanted her to come tonight—but if he were still angry from their last meeting and intended something different—
Too late. There was no time to change her plan. The vehicle stopped and the driver opened the door. Clutching her cloak in one hand, she stepped down and took her valise before turning to the door. Her shoes crunched on the gravel, and her breathing seemed just as loud.
The door opened and she stopped in her tracks. Liam gazed at her, his expression aloof. He was dressed as informally as before, the silk banyan over his trousers and shirt, but there was no welcome in his eyes.
“Good evening,” she said.
He gave a short nod and held the door for her. Bathsheba stepped inside and let him take her valise. In the moment his back was turned to close the door and set the bag down, she untied her cloak and let it fall. Liam turned and froze.
“You said to wear nothing at all, but I thought this was quite fetching,” she said, holding her shoulders stiffly back as his gaze slid over her. She wore a nightdress, but one unlike anything else she’d ever owned. It was made of the sheerest, finest cotton lawn, with slender straps over her shoulders, a fitted bodice more meant to push up and display her breasts than conceal them, and a flowing skirt that was slit past her knees in front. It was virtually transparent and had cost more than she would have spent in a month on the butcher bill, but standing there, just shy of naked with her hair streaming loose down her back as Liam stared in open hunger, Bathsheba thought it was worth it.
“Lovely,” he said at last. He stepped up close, so close she faltered a step backward to keep her balance. Defiantly she raised her gaze to meet his. The remote closed look had gone from his face. “And convenient,” he whispered, trailing his fingertips down her bare arms. Bathsheba shivered. His fingers encircled her wrists as he pressed her back against the wall.
She had resolved not to question anything he did tonight. Let him teach her what he would. He knew her body better than she did, it seemed, and she didn’t want the affair to end—not yet, not ever. If it made her a coward or weak, she had already admitted that: she was weak where he was concerned. And for tonight, at least, she wouldn’t fight it.
He pinned her hands above her head with one hand and let his other hand run down her body. He cupped her breast, scraping his nail over her nipple, already erect. She shivered, and a faint, wicked smile touched his lips. Down her ribs, over her hips his hand went, drawing up the hem of her nightdress until it was bunched around her waist. He bent his knees, and for a startled moment she thought he meant to use his mouth again, making her stand this time, but instead he caught her knee and lifted it up, up, up until she was dependent on him to stay upright.
He released her hands. “Hold on to my shoulders,” he commanded, his voice rough and low. “That
Bathsheba jolted. He pressed against her, his weight holding her to the wall as his fingers played on her exposed center. She had to gulp for breath; unlike other times he wasn’t easing her along but pushing her, pulling her, driving her onward. “Liam,” she gasped, her hips jerking involuntarily. “Wait—”
“Stop?” He went still, and a spasm of longing shook her. Without a word she shook her head. He resumed, resting his cheek against her temple and murmuring that she should scream as loudly as she pleased, there was no one to hear but him, and he wanted to make her scream, he wouldn’t stop until she did, he knew how to make her come so hard she wouldn’t be able to stop herself—
Panting, her head buzzing, Bathsheba shook in his grip, feeling her climax building with frightening speed. He had pinned her open and defenseless to his wicked fingers but she wouldn’t have stopped him for the world. If he stopped she would have fallen to her knees to beg, so long as he gave her what her body wanted—needed—
It hit her like a wave. She arched her neck and gave a long, thin cry of release. Liam adjusted his hold on her, yanked at his trousers, and then her cry was cut short as he thrust inside her, hard and deep and so thick, she gasped in astonishment. “Go on,” he growled, and thrust again. Again. Bathsheba saw stars even before he resumed that firm insistent stroke on what felt like the nexus of every nerve in her body. Another wave slammed into her, knocking her breathless, and another. He was panting, too, and yanked his arm from under her leg to curl around her shoulders as he drove into her, harder and faster until she was clinging to him with arms and legs and oblivious to anything but the scorching pleasure of his body moving with hers.
On the last ripple of climax, Liam swore violently under his breath, and slammed her against the wall one last time, holding himself deep within her. Wrung out and dazed, Bathsheba could only hold on and wonder what had happened.
After a moment, he lifted his head. “Brisk and efficient,” he whispered, his words hot on her ear. “As you wished.” She was too weak to do more than give a slight nod of acknowledgment. “Do you want lesson three now, to compare?” he added, with a swipe of his tongue on the sensitive skin beneath her ear.
Oh God. Lesson three. More pleasure. More of Liam. He was still inside her, remarkably big. He had invaded and conquered her, almost without a word, and even though she would never admit it aloud, he had stolen her heart as well. Again she gave a slight nod.
He stepped away, disengaging from her before he fastened a button on his trousers, then to her surprise he caught her up in his arms.
Liam carried her up the stairs to his bedroom. The way she curled her arms around his neck and rested her cheek against his chest drove the final stake into his heart. He was mad for this woman. It was like she’d been made for him. His last resistance, his last doubt, had disintegrated when she took off her cloak to reveal a transparent nightdress that would have incited riots. Her breasts, so pert and perfect; her soft belly and round hips; the dark curls at the apex of her thighs. And her long silky hair, falling over his arm. She might only want him for what he could give her in bed, but he could build on that until she agreed with him: they were meant for each other.
He set her down on the thick carpet in front of the fireplace and stripped off his clothes. Her nightdress was barely clothing at all, so he left it on for the moment. Bathsheba watched him, her gaze fascinated but somehow vulnerable.
“No questions tonight?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. Whatever you want to teach me, I want to learn. Your way has been better than anything I could have asked for.”
His heart jumped. That was promising. “I am glad it met your hopes.”
Something flickered in her eyes. “You must know it has surpassed every one of my hopes.”
Do you know it has only raised mine? He didn’t say it, not yet. He wanted to give her one last lesson in pleasure before he broached the topic that had bedeviled him all week. If she didn’t like his proposal, at least he would have this night with her.
“Come here.” He reached for her hand, then tugged her closer. He folded his arms around her, her back to his chest, and took a long inhale with his face against her lavender-scented hair. When he prepared the room, before he’d been fully confident she would arrive, he had lit a pair of lamps. Now he wished he’d lit every lamp in the house and placed them all in this room so he could see every fleeting expression that dashed across her face, every inch of her body as he made her his. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “For what happened downstairs.”
She stiffened. “There is no need—”
“You dropped the cloak and blew apart my plans.” He slid one finger under the strap of her wispy-thin nightdress and eased it down her shoulder. “This is bewitching.”
The tension melted from her shoulders. “Do you like it? Better than my brown velvet or green cotton?”
“Much better.” He applied his mouth to the slope of her bare shoulder, letting his finger drift down to her breast. The gauzy cloth did nothing to obscure how rosy and pert her nipple was. “You should patronize that modiste for your entire wardrobe.”
“Oh my.” Her laugh was shaky and more like a sigh of pleasure as his palm cupped her breast, his thumb teasing the peak. “I could never afford Madame Follette’s for everything…”
“It would be worth it.” He slipped the other strap down and undid the ribbon holding the bodice closed. Another tug and the ribbon that ran beneath her breasts came loose, letting the garment slide down her body to puddle around her feet.
He urged her down onto her knees, then onto hands and knees. Her head fell forward as he ran his palms over her back, smoothing over the firm plumpness of her hips. This time he lingered over her, testing and teasing in search of every sensitive spot on her body. He wanted to know every inch of her and discover every little thing that made her sigh. This was Bathsheba, who never hesitated to tell him exactly what she thought, whose mind worked the same way his did, and whose passions ran as hot as his.
And now she was in his bedroom, his conquest, his conqueror, his equal.
Liam didn’t believe in luck; luck was the word lazy people used when hard effort and preparation finally paid off. It hadn’t been luck that saved the Intelligencer when he almost went bankrupt, it was a wise choice of investors—namely Arthur Wilde, who left his twelve percent share to his widow Madeline. It hadn’t been luck that made his subscriptions grow after Madeline began writing a gossip column for the newspaper, it was the deliberate cultivation of mystery around the anonymous but highborn columnist who reported the most scandalous, choicest gossip in London. It wasn’t luck that made his side business printing novels and poetry enormously profitable, it was a clear-eyed evaluation of the demand for the sort of books that Bathsheba wrote.
But he didn’t have a good explanation for this. What had made Bathsheba bring her proposition to him? For all that he’d been shocked by it, he’d known from the start that he didn’t want her turning to someone else: don’t you dare, he’d said when she suggested it. He could tell himself he was concerned for her safety and her reputation, but there was more; he didn’t want her to be like this with someone else. Until that moment she had kept their relationship cordial and professional, and he had been satisfied with that—but the moment the prospect of more was dangled in front of him, Liam snatched it. Had he wanted her all along? Or had he been blind? He didn’t know. But now that he did see quite clearly, he didn’t want it to end.
Even though he knew what she liked already, he took his time, making her writhe and arch beneath his hands and mouth. He turned her over onto the floor and she spread herself before him like a feast, inviting him to gorge himself on her pale skin and pink nipples and silky curls. Her dark eyes glowed with desire and he realized she was lovely—not as most in London thought of beauty, but the way he did. Her intelligence had won his respect, her talent won his admiration. Her dry humor made him laugh. Perhaps he shouldn’t feel any astonishment that he was falling in love; rather, he should wonder why he hadn’t fallen sooner.
If Bathsheba had thought lessons one and two were satisfying, she was rapidly realizing that Liam hadn’t shown her everything, not by half. This night, knowing they had hours, he seemed bent on destroying whatever resistance her heart had left. His hands began so gently, roving over her body as if smoothing the way for his mouth. But the hard, rapid coupling against the wall downstairs had been so erotic, so needy, her body was already humming with anticipation. “Harder,” she whispered to him, and he responded. “Faster,” she moaned to him, and he complied. Take me, she begged silently as he pulled her toward ecstasy. I’m yours if only you can love me.
She was crying, shaking, on the verge of eruption, when he pulled away from her. Roughly he spread her knees wide, and thrust home. Instinctively her body tightened around him, and his face grew fierce. Deliberately he hiked her knees up, until she curled her legs around his waist, and then he planted one hand behind each of her shoulders. His first thrust made her clutch at his arms. The second made her back arch; he angled his hips so that every invasion raked across the most sensitive nerve endings in her body. At the first rush of climax she bit back a scream and squeezed her eyes shut, her breath catching in anticipation.
“No,” he rasped. “Look at me.” His gray gaze bored into her, pupils dilated. His hair swung around his face as he moved.
Bathsheba started to shake. She was coming, her climax boiling up inside her, from her toes through her thighs through her belly until it seemed to seize her lungs. Her eyes widened as it broke; Liam’s blazing gaze had mesmerized her until she couldn’t blink or look away.
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