What a Lady Craves

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  Not yet, not yet. She needed more.

  He must wait for her. This night was for her. Everything was for her. His body, himself. He owed her all that and more for what he’d done. He could spend the rest of his life making it up to her, and it wouldn’t be enough. But in this moment, when he was buried inside her, driving her onward, hearing her moan and sigh, feeling her clench about him, he wanted that lifetime.

  Henrietta arched into his thrusts, striving toward that peak he’d shown her with his fingers. It lurked somewhere in the haze, elusive and tantalizing. His initial entry had pinched and burned, but the pain had quickly dissipated to turn into this experience of being filled completely. Not uncomfortable, precisely, but neither was it comfortable. It couldn’t be when each surge drove her body to seek greater and greater heights.

  He still burned her, but the sensation was different. It came from inside, a voracious fire that demanded more and more fuel. She’d never get enough.

  “Oh, God,” he panted.

  She could feel the desperation building in him.

  “Oh, God.”

  The urgency. His movements quickened, intensified, became more focused.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

  Before she could react, he withdrew completely. He groaned, long and low, and something hot and liquid spurted onto her thigh.

  Empty. She felt empty without him, and strangely incomplete. But she knew what was missing—it was that sharp rush of pleasure he’d introduced to her once.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I wanted this too much. I couldn’t bring myself to last.”

  He brushed his lips against her forehead, stretching himself fully over her. She breathed in the sharp scent of their joining, and the odor, coupled with the hard length of his body atop hers, made her strangely restless. She couldn’t stop herself from wriggling her hips against his.

  His touch. That’s what she needed. His touch, there in that forbidden place.

  And if she took his hand, what would he do? But then she’d already been brazen enough to demand their ultimate joining, and he hadn’t turned her away.

  He answered her hesitation himself in spreading his palm across her lower belly. “I know what you need.”

  She slid further beneath him, her body humming in anticipation, ready to give herself over to the heady burst of ecstasy. His fingers found her center, established a rhythm, while he placed kisses along her neck. Moving with him, she turned her face toward his, and rode the wave as it built. The peak rushed at her, and she arched against him, threw back her head. From deep within, a keening cry erupted in her throat, and she gave it voice.

  “Next time,” he murmured against her skin while the throbbing within ebbed to a low, satisfied hum.

  “Next time what?”

  “Next time, I want to be inside you when that happens. I want to feel your body ripple along me. I want …” His tone held such reverence, she hardly knew what to think.

  “What do you want?” She held her breath waiting for the reply.

  “I want you. I want this. Again and again.” He pulled her closer, his face buried against her shoulder. She heard the long intake of his breath. Breathing her in. Taking her into himself. “It wasn’t the same.”

  She stiffened. “The same?” She couldn’t hold in the question, even though she knew very well what he was referring to.

  He ran his hands down her spine, doubtless in an attempt to mollify her. “With my wife. It wasn’t the same when I was with her.”

  She struggled against his grasp. “I do not wish to hear this.”

  His embrace tightened. “You do not understand. It’s better with you. I cannot describe it.”

  And she had no basis of comparison.

  He swallowed. “I think … I know, it’s because I didn’t care for her the way I care for you.”

  She couldn’t face this conversation now. She’d more than cared, and he’d hurt her. But oh, how she wanted to believe what he was telling her. She needed him to care, needed him to love. If she could believe in that, perhaps she could bring herself to believe that he’d always felt this way. And then she might give voice to the bittersweet ache inside her chest. Just beneath her heart.

  She might admit to him—and to herself—that she loved him. That she’d never stopped.

  No. You can’t do this to yourself again. You can’t live through that hurt again.

  “I’ve hardly thought of anything else since yesterday,” he went on. “Since the first time you came apart for me. And now that I know how it is with us, I’ll never stop wanting.”

  “Oh.” Although he’d still spoken in that hushed, awed tone, his words had the effect of a dousing of cold water. “You want me for the pleasure I can bring to your bed.”

  “No.” He framed her face with his hands. “No, not at all. I want you for my wife and everything that encompasses. You know this.”

  He hadn’t just proposed to her again. Not when she’d spelled out what she needed to hear in order to accept him. She shoved at his chest to move him off her, and pushed herself up on her elbows. “No. The answer is no.”

  “Henrietta—”

  She wriggled out from underneath him and stood. “No, I will not marry you. You had the chance to marry me eight years ago, and we both know how that turned out.”

  “But we’ve just—”

  “No. I most certainly will not accept a proposal made for the sake of honor alone.”

  Limned in the glow from the hearth, he straightened and sat, his legs spread, elbows on his knees, his head hanging, while he raked his hands through his hair. “I do not understand.”

  “You proposed to me the first time out of a sense of duty.” The picture had suddenly become clear in her memory. He’d come close to compromising her, and the next day, he’d gone to her father. Asked for her hand. Worked out the marriage settlements.

  And then another thought struck, like north wind blasting in midwinter. “Is this how it happened between you and Marianne? You fell into bed with her and proposed out of duty?”

  “No!” he roared. “I would never have … She was in love with Harry!”

  “Harry?” Perhaps if she maintained a quiet and reasonable tone, she might coax the story from him. “The man who saved you?”

  “The man who saved me,” he confirmed, “but ask me no more. I’ve already said too much when I’m sworn to silence on some matters.”

  “I suppose that decides it, then. I cannot marry a man who does not trust me to keep a confidence. You value your honor, but you do not value mine, apparently. Or had that detail escaped you?”

  He ran his hands down his face. Without another word, he stood, and rebuttoned the falls of his trousers. Henrietta took the hint and rearranged her bodice. She ignored the stickiness between her thighs. If the hour weren’t so late, she’d order a bath and wash his traces from her body. And to think not five minutes ago, she’d felt so close to him, closer to another person than she’d ever imagined. Heaven help her, when would she learn?

  She should return to her chamber now, rather than endure the awkward silence—for what does one say to the man who has just taken one’s virginity, offered marriage, but whom one has nonetheless turned down? Her governess had never seen fit to address such an important point of etiquette.

  Fabric rustled. No doubt, he’d located his waistcoat and topcoat and was donning them, as well. The only thing missing was his cravat, and his societal armor would be complete. No, nothing untoward happened here at all. Both of us perfectly respectable, fully dressed. Nothing amiss. No, indeed.

  Her clothing set to rights, she turned for the door.

  “You’re right,” he said suddenly. “I do owe you the truth.”

  She raised her chin. Not that he could see her defiance, but he’d have to work hard to convince her his actions were justified. “I’m waiting.”

  “Will you at least come over and sit with me?”

  On the bed where she’d surre
ndered all she had? Body and heart? Not bloody likely. “I think I prefer to remain out of reach. That way, you cannot distract me, should you see fit.”

  She heard the slow rush of an exhalation. “Very well. I want you to know, I did not leave for India with the intention of throwing you over. I fully expected to return home, having made my fortune, and marry you.”

  “Pretty words, but they did not play out into reality.” She tapped her fingers against her arms. “So what changed?”

  “When I arrived in India, my contact there was a man of about my age—Harry Johnstone.” He stepped closer. She sensed more than saw the movement—some current of air he displaced in his approach. “The voyage took months, and by the time I got to Calcutta, I missed everything about England. I missed you most especially.”

  “Yes, I recall this part.” He’d sent her letters in the beginning. Long letters that had arrived months later and detailed his boredom on board ship. The contrary weather, the storms, the bouts of seasickness. His longing for home, while not expressed in so many words, had echoed behind the lines he had written. “Then the letters stopped.”

  “Harry befriended me. He took me under his wing and taught me about India. He secured me invitations to the residences of the other English families there.”

  Here it came, she was sure. He’d never mentioned meeting a woman in particular, but she was sure he must have met his wife at one of these expatriate functions. She closed her eyes and imagined the setting—a white, airy mansion, open to let the breeze through and supply relief against the hellish heat. English gentlemen valiantly trying to re-create home with their starched cravats and topcoats, the ladies in evening gowns and ostrich plumes. Both sexes withering beneath the oppressive air, while pretending they were home consuming turtle soup and quail and steamed pudding. Heavy, proper English fare in proper English surroundings.

  “Harry’s betrothed was in India with him. Her father held a higher position in the East India Company.”

  Something in the way he said that sent a prickle down the back of her neck. “His betrothed?”

  “Marianne Foster.”

  Marianne. Anger boiled up in her veins. “So you not only broke your engagement to me, you came between another man and his intended?” Lord only knew how she kept her voice steady. Gracious, and she’d just allowed the man to make love to her. Nausea roiled through her along with the simmering rage. “How honorable of you, Alexander.”

  “No.” He fairly shouted the word. “No.” Suddenly, he was next to her, taking her by the shoulders. His hands trembled. “No, I did not come between them. Harry was my friend. He saved my life. How could you even think me capable?”

  “The same way you think me capable of not keeping a confidence.” Mean of her, perhaps, but it ought to drive the point home. “I am beginning to wonder if we ever really knew each other. Perhaps Marianne did us both a service by coming between us.”

  “But she did not come between us.” His voice was strangled.

  “And yet you married her.” Anger drove her voice to high notes of hysteria. “You bedded her.”

  “Once, and for comfort only. She was missing Harry and I was missing … you.” He reached out and ran the backs of his fingers along her arm. “You.”

  Henrietta pulled out of reach. “And that’s supposed to make it all right?”

  “Don’t you see now?”

  Her eyes strained to pierce the blackness of the room. “No, I don’t.”

  “If anyone came between us, Harry did.”

  Harry? How was that even possible? “I do not understand.”

  “It’s complicated.” He dropped his hands. “I explained the circumstances of his death to you. That was the first tragedy. The second was Marianne. When I returned from Delhi, she came to me, distraught, with the news she was expecting Harry’s child.”

  The implications of everything he’d just told her finally sorted themselves into sense. Henrietta covered a gasp with her hand. “Helena.”

  “Yes, she is not mine. She’s Harry’s daughter.”

  It explained so much—Alexander’s treatment of Helena, his favoritism toward Francesca. And yet, he could never let on in polite company.

  “I married Marianne to save her from scandal,” he continued. “Before he died I swore to Harry I would protect her. At the time, I thought it meant keeping her safe in a foreign land, but it turned into a matter of preserving her reputation above all else. I could never tell anyone the child belonged to anyone but me. And now I have breached that trust.”

  The irony of what he’d done cut to the bone. He’d always acted with honor first in his mind, and she’d accused him of just the opposite. For heaven’s sake, he’d sacrificed his feelings on account of another, for friendship. How perfectly admirable. How perfectly stupid.

  Henrietta swallowed the jumble of emotion. “I will never tell a soul. You have to know that.”

  “I do. And yet, I have broken that vow.”

  “You’ve only just broken it? But you said you’d written me a letter to explain. The letter I never received.”

  “I kept that vow. In the letter, I did not tell you all my reasons for acting as I did. Only that I found myself inextricably involved in a situation where I was obliged to marry another.”

  “You are not helping your case.”

  “I know. I know that now.” A pause, and she imagined him raking a hand through his hair. “But there is more you do not know. After our marriage, things began happening. Odd accidents, attempted robberies in the market, unexplained break-ins in our apartments, and all our possessions strewn about, the fire. And you know about Marianne’s father.”

  A shiver rushed down her spine. “Yes.”

  “He was found beaten to death. A common enough occurrence if one ventures into the wrong place, so there could be no proof. I investigated, but it was hard for me to be certain the death was connected to anything. I began making arrangements to leave the country.” He paused, and the silence weighed heavily on her. Whatever he was preparing to say, Henrietta wasn’t going to like it. “We had to delay our departure, because Francesca fell ill and could not travel. By then it was too late.”

  “Can I at least hope she is the product of a liaison?” Henrietta knew that statement to be untrue as soon as she voiced it. Francesca looked too much like her father.

  “Francesca is mine,” he said with finality, “the product of that single night of comfort.”

  “And then Marianne died,” Henrietta prompted.

  “Yes, and that was also suspect. My inquiries were fruitless, so I closed out my affairs and made arrangements to return to England. I expected to leave the trouble behind me.”

  “And it turns out you have not.”

  “No,” he said with a sigh. “But I can solve that problem for you. As I said, I’ll be leaving. I should go before first light. The rest of you should be safe, as long as I’m gone.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Alexander woke alone as he had every morning for years. Except this morning he felt the solitude as a cold presence sharing the blankets with him. He shivered and longed for a female body to draw close, to warm him, to comfort and love him.

  Not just any female, but Henrietta.

  God, he’d always known it would be good with her. Perfect. Like coming home.

  But it was all he’d ever have of her. He had to leave to preserve his entire family—Henrietta included—from the menace he’d drawn out of India. Whatever emotion welled up inside him at that thought would have to wait. He’d no time to explore his sentiments now. Not when he needed to gather his meager possessions and disappear.

  First, he needed to inform Satya of his plans. Somehow he’d have to make his way to London. East India House in Leadenhall Street seemed like the best destination. Perhaps the Company had some intelligence. If not them, he could try the Foreign Office, even if they were likely to deny all knowledge. Legacy or no, he’d turn that blighted box over to someone in a
uthority. At any rate, if Alexander wished to lose any pursuit, London’s teeming streets were the best spot.

  He kicked the tangle of sheets from about his shins and reached for his discarded trousers. To judge by the level of light in his chamber, he was already late in leaving. Once dressed, he made his way up two flights of stairs to the nursery. The dim corridor stretched the length of the upper story—entirely empty.

  His heart rate kicked up a notch or two. Satya not at his post? Unheard of. And the girls …

  He lengthened his stride, threw open the door. Empty as the hallway. Christ almighty, not again! Too late. He was too late once more, and once more a member of his family would pay the price. Or two of them. Whatever sins anyone had committed in India, certainly his daughters were innocent.

  Twice as quickly, he retraced his steps, his strides devouring yards of carpeted passageways to the ground floor. Someone must be about. Someone must know.

  Feminine voices floated from the morning room. He jogged in the direction of the sound and froze on the threshold. Relief washed through him like the coolness of a draught of water after an afternoon under the blazing Indian sun. Cecelia sat cross-legged on the floor, her skirts spread over her feet, sipping from an imaginary teacup. Facing her, Francesca and Helena had assumed similar poses. All three of them fairly dripped in jewels from Marianne’s cursed box.

  “Where did you get those?” he roared.

  Cecelia gasped and pressed her fingertips to her throat. “And what sort of good morning is that?”

  In two strides, he crossed the room and snatched a string of pearls from her hair. “It’s the sort of good morning you get when you’ve meddled with something you had no business touching.”

  “But Papa,” Francesca whimpered on the verge of tears, “we only wanted to show her Mummy’s pretty things.”

  He drew in a lungful of air, but it did no good. Neither did a good ten seconds of gazing at the ceiling. “Mummy’s jewels were hidden away in Lord Epperley’s study,” he said carefully. “They were kept there so they’d be safe. They are not playthings.”