Bared to the Viscount (The Rites of May Book 1)

by Lara Archer

  “What decision?”

  She pulled her hands free of his. “I understand completely. There’s no need to break any of this to me gently. I know what you have to tell me. About your...your discussion with Lord Lawton this afternoon.”

  “You...do?” If she knew he’d ended the arrangement with the Lawtons, then why was she pulling away from him? His heart began to sink.

  “Yes. And I—I approve entirely. You will be much happier for it.”

  She approved of the end of his agreement with the Lawtons. Well, that was a good sign, at least. So why was she only talking about his happiness, not her own? “I will be far happier,” he affirmed. “As shall Annabel, I have no doubt.”

  “Good. That’s excellent. It’s absolutely the best possible—” Her words broke on a sob.

  “What? Mary, what’s going on?” He reached for her, but she ducked out of his way.

  “No,” she said, wiping at her eyes with a fist. Her voice came out choked. “Don’t mind me. I’m—I’m delighted for you, truly. Annabel Lawton is the perfect bride for you.”

  He stopped dead. “What?”

  “You and Annabel. She’s your proper match. It’s no wonder at all you’ve fallen in love with her.” And now the tears flowed more freely. “But that doesn’t mean I have no feelings at all, John. It doesn’t mean you should flaunt your happiness in front of me! There are limits to the charity I’m capable of.”

  Annabel? His bride? Mary thought that was what he’d brought her here to tell her?

  He couldn’t help himself—he laughed.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake!” Mary cried, hitting him on the arm with her fist. “You don’t have to laugh at me!”

  He laughed harder. “Are you mad? What do you think I’ve been trying to tell you?” She thought he was engaged to Annabel—and she was in tears about it? Hope soared inside him. “Sweetheart, I don’t love Annabel Lawton. I can’t love her. I never will love her.”

  Mary stiffened in surprise. Her eyes flew wide and she blinked at him as though she couldn’t quite absorb the meaning of what he’d just said.

  Her mouth moved tentatively several times before she spoke, as though she were weighing her words. “But...you’re marrying her anyway?”

  “Please stop saying that. Just listen to me. Hear me, Mary, the only thing that matters, the one and only thing: I’m going to follow my heart.”

  Color flooded back into her cheeks. An extraordinary series of emotions flickered across her features—surprise, relief, joy, consternation. “But, John—you’re meant to.... Annabel thinks you.... Everyone expects—”

  “I don’t care what everyone expects. I don’t care what the world thinks of me.”

  “Oh, but....” She gasped for breath. “I’ve told you, you owe me nothing. We haven’t done anything that requires…”

  This had gone on more than long enough. He took hold of her by the shoulders and backed her up against the broad trunk of an oak tree.

  And kissed her.

  He pressed his body to hers, his mouth to hers, and suddenly everything was right. For just a moment, she resisted, flattening her hands against his ribcage, but then she stilled, and she softened against him and opened her lips so his tongue could slip inside and tangle with hers. The shape of her mouth fit perfectly against his, the taste inside of it sweet and warm. Her arms went around his neck and he felt the swell of her little breasts against his chest, and the slight curve of her belly against his cock.

  A delicious heat spread through his limbs, and he could tell it was warming her too because her back arched, and she rose up on her toes to press against him, and her fingers slid up his chest to curve and tighten over his shoulders. Her mouth became urgent against his.

  He kissed her long and hard, and when he finally released her to let her catch her breath, he said, “There. That’s what requires it.”

  She let out a heartfelt sigh, and the sound made his insides flip over.

  He brushed back the hair that had fallen against her cheek, and looked deep into her bright eyes. “When I say I’m going to follow my heart, I meant my heart is yours, Mary,” he said. “I need to be with you. Not because anyone or anything else is telling me, but because I feel this when your arms are around me.”

  “Oh, John,” she said, and her voice quavered with emotion. “Oh, John, John, John.”

  His heart pounded at the sound of his name on her lips. Relief and joy flowed into him like sunlight. He couldn’t help himself: “Not Sam, Sam, Sam?” he teased her.

  “Not Sam,” she whispered back fervently. “Never Sam. You. Only you.”

  She robbed him of breath.

  So he set his lips to hers again, and pressed her back against the tree, and she tangled her fingers in his hair to draw him closer against her. Fire lit inside him—blazing in his heart as surely as in those regions lower down.

  How could he ever have missed how passionate Mary was, how lovely and silken and warm? She hid so well in those plain gray sack-like dresses of hers, making her body so unobtrusive, concealing the flaming beauty of her hair.

  He’d so very nearly missed seeing her for what she was, so very nearly stayed blind to the beauty within her. His whole life could so easily have been thrown away on his father’s plans for him. Only a convenient strand of blackberry vines had saved him.

  God, he loved her.

  He had to have her now—finally, fully.

  He seized her by the hand again. “Come deeper into the woods, Mary, where it can be just the two of us. The moon is full, it’s the first of May—magic awaits out there.”

  She hesitated only a moment, and then she laughed suddenly, bright and joyous. And they ran together, hand in hand, finding their way down the paths as easily as if it were broad day, as if elemental forces guided their steps.

  A canopy of shimmering leaves seemed to bow over them, fretted by starlight. No sound from the village reached them here—only the breeze through the treetops and the sweet shrilling of young frogs in the shallow spring ponds.

  Even the moonlight seemed brighter, purer, than before. It dazzled against the surface of Mary’s neck and shoulders, turning her to pearl.

  He pulled her into the shelter of a small circle of evergreens, where a bed of fallen pine needles made a sort of natural bower just the right size for the two of them, as though fairy creatures had prepared it for them specially.

  As though she were his Fairy Queen.

  For pagan creatures, they were both wearing far too much clothing.

  He smiled down at his beloved. “I need to see more of you,” he said. “All of you.”

  And he set his hands to her laces.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mary’s head swam.

  John’s hands were tugging at the back closure to her dress, loosening it with expert speed. His fingers trembled slightly, though, and his breath came in hard pants; a strange energy pulsed through them both, and she fancied she could hear his heartbeat thundering. Certainly, her own beat wild.

  She hardly knew what to think. He wasn’t going to marry Miss Lawton? He didn’t love beautiful, lush, radiant Annabel? He didn’t want a woman like that?

  Was it really possible a man like Viscount Parkhurst wanted Mary Wilkins, clergyman’s daughter, clergyman’s spinster sister, instead? Was it possible he would choose her, willingly?

  Apparently he did. Even as he drew apart the back of her gown, baring her shoulders, John feathered kisses along her brow, over her ears, down the line of her jaw. And while he kissed, he murmured extraordinary things: “My Mary. Sweet Mary. My sweet, lovely Mary.”

  “Lovely?” she said, astonished. “I’m not lovely.”

  “Lovely,” he insisted.

  “I think the moonlight is addling your brains.”

  He stilled. He placed his palms on either side of her face, forcing her to look straight at him. “Lovely,” he repeated firmly, his eyes gleaming with emotion. “You are beautiful, Mary. I don’t know how you
hid yourself so long, in those awful dresses, with your curls bound up, refusing to dance, hiding the light inside you. But I see that light shining now. And I swear to you, I will never fail to see it again.”

  Her pulse tripped. He couldn’t mean it. And yet, he was here with her, not with Annabel, and his hands were warm against her skin, and such passion heated his gaze, it seemed impossible to deny that he meant it very much indeed.

  He dropped his hands to her shoulders then, slid the gown down and off her arms, down and off her hips, dropping her petticoats after it, until she was standing in only her shift. “No more hiding, Mary,” he said. “No more.”

  Mary inhaled deeply. All around them, the sweet scent of hawthorn blooms and early musk roses filled the night with a rich, caressing perfume that muddled all her senses. This was madness—but such a sweet, seductive madness, Mary couldn’t stop herself from falling right into it.

  Little by little, he undid her. His quick fingers pulled the last of the pins from her hair, and combed the long strands out until her curls flowed in a nimbus around her.

  Her stays went next, and then her shift and her stockings, whispering down into the pine needles, until she stood quite naked. John kissed and caressed as he went, stroking her everywhere, tasting her, and the unseasonably warm breeze seemed to kiss and stroke her, too. The glow of the moonlight seemed palpable on her skin. Before long, she was shuddering with the pleasure of it, and with a hotter desire.

  John went to his knees, still stroking her as she stood above him, turning his attention now to her lower belly, to the small curve of her hips, to her thighs.

  “Sweet wood nymph,” he whispered between the nips and kisses he was giving to her flesh. “Little sylph.”

  When Sam had kissed her, it had been like a pattering rain, and this...this was a thunderstorm, roaring and rumbling through her veins.

  She wanted him to touch her between her legs, in that one spot he’d given such wondrous, lavish attention to that first morning by the blackberries, when he’d made her whole world heat and burst. But now that he had her unclothed and trembling, he was taking his time, exploring her little by little. When they’d been together before, there’d been desperation in the way he touched her, a hurry born of uncertainty, but now something seemed decided between them, and, with no words necessary, he began to take his time.

  His fingers found every rise, every hollow. He was learning her, mapping her. And as he touched her, she too became aware of the shape and outline of her body born anew, as though she had never truly felt it before.

  His fingers traced the subtle outline of her hip, then back to the curve of her waist, and back further still, to follow the cleft of her buttocks, then down under the curve her bottom.

  Oh, his touch on her skin was a miracle. It transformed her. She felt wanted. Cherished. Lush and womanly.

  Lovely.

  She arched against his touch, her belly nearly pressing into his face, and he responded by reaching upwards again, his palms cupping her breasts, rubbing over her nipples. His mouth kissed the soft curve of her abdomen, along the little grooves between her belly and the tops of her legs, nipping and sucking at every curve. Everywhere, everywhere but between her thighs...

  She was floating, trembling; she could barely keep to her feet, and had to brace her hands on his shoulders to keep from falling down.

  He rose up a little then, fitted his mouth over the skin that covered her lowest rib, and sucked against her flesh, sucked harder than he ever had before. It burned a little, just on the edge of pain, and yet the suction seemed to draw pleasure from deep in the core of her, spiraling outwards with a new heat that made her moan.

  He was marking her with his mouth, she understood suddenly—though how she felt so sure of his purpose she could not know. She had never heard of such a thing, but she was sure of it: he was marking her as his very own. John was claiming her.

  And when that was done, at long last, he did what she had most been craving: he pressed his mouth to that sweet, swollen, throbbing place at the very juncture of her thighs. The place he had kissed her that very first morning, and opened up the universe for her.

  He flicked out his tongue, just on that extraordinarily sensitive nub, and light and heat streaked through her, straight to the top of her skull. She cried out, her knees buckling. She didn’t want the contact to stop, but she didn’t think she could hold herself upright against the waves of pleasure shooting through her as he flicked his tongue again.

  She dug her fingers frantically into the muscles of his shoulders. “I—I think I need to...be lying down.”

  She felt his grin against her flesh.

  “You are wise, madam,” he said in a deep, husky voice. “You are wise, indeed.”

  He stripped off his jacket and laid it out over the pine needles, creating a small but extraordinarily inviting bed. She sunk downwards, and his hands came around her waist, easing her down onto it.

  The pine needles made a soft cushion beneath the jacket, their scent resinous and delicious, mixed with the perfume of violets hidden beneath that she and John had crushed with their feet.

  John rose up over her now. “Let me look my fill at you,” he said, his voice rasping.

  Except for his jacket, he still wore all his clothes, and she found herself suddenly self-conscious, stretched out naked beneath him. She put her hands over her breasts.

  “No, Mary,” he said softly. “I told you—no more hiding. And there’s no need to hide from me. I’m meant to see you. And I love what I see.”

  “Do you?” she asked. It still seemed so hard to fully believe. “Do you truly?”

  “You are beautiful,” he told her. “Utterly mesmerizing.”

  She couldn’t seem to remove her hands, so he did it for her. Taking one hand in each of his, he stretched them upwards above her head.

  She squirmed with embarrassment.

  “Relax,” he murmured. He leaned forward, reaching for something just beyond her reach above her head, and tugged at whatever was there.

  Suddenly something was touching her wrists—something like smooth twine.

  “Ivy,” he said. “Just to remind you not to cover yourself.” He was winding the long strand of ivy around and around her wrists, the sleek vine and the soft leaves tickling her flesh. She felt a little tug and realized he had wound the ends of it around something solid—the trunk of a sapling, no doubt. Nothing so strong that she couldn’t free herself if she truly wanted to. But just at the moment, she didn’t want to be free.

  “There,” he said, chuckling. “That should hold you for a bit.”

  “Good Lord, John,” she said. “You are still a pirate.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “And you are my captive for the evening, to have my wicked way with.”

  The pulse of pleasure that went through her at his words turned her almost to liquid.

  He began to stroke her once more, down the sides of her face, over her breasts, over her belly. She had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable...and so adored. His gaze was utterly worshipful, utterly loving.

  He looked at her as though she were made of magic.

  And so was he. His touch was sending sparks through her as he made his way ever further downward, caressing her hips, caressing her thighs.

  “Now open your legs,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Let me see the treasure I’ve won.”

  Shuddering with desire, she complied.

  It felt so strange, so daring, to expose herself to him so fully, there under the moonlight, in the fresh breeze. But he seemed delighted by her. His eyes sparkled at they gazed down between her thighs. “Luscious,” he said.

  And, as if drawn by magnetic force, he bent low and set his mouth once more to her cleft, sending shock waves of sensation through her, making her hips buck upwards against his touch.

  His fingers and tongue together made a feast of her, licking and stroking, swirling and sucking, and she felt as if every joint and sinew in her wa
s softening and melting away, even as a great surging pressure built between her thighs.

  Oh, his touch was heavenly.

  She pulled at the ivy twined about her wrists, but he’d done a better job of tying her than she’d first thought—the vines wouldn’t release her any more than the blackberry vines had the first time they’d come together like this.

  So she grasped him with her knees instead, squeezing his ribcage, urging him closer to her, letting him know her pleasure and desire.

  He moaned in response, and slipped a finger into her cleft.

  She gasped and her back arched, her hips trying to drive him further inside her.

  “Easy now,” he whispered, lifting his head for a moment. “A little at a time.” He slipped another finger inside, pushing gently against her walls. He wasn’t trying to preserve her chastity this time, she knew. He was readying her for his ultimate possession.

  And she wanted that. And she didn’t want to go easy, she didn’t want a little at a time. They’d been building towards this moment for so long, and she wanted him inside her. She wanted him to lay claim to her once and for all.

  With maddening slowness, though, he kept up his steady, gentle pace, a third finger joining the others, sliding deeper into her slick wetness, firing her almost beyond endurance. She lifted her hips again, finding a primitive rhythm as his fingers pushed into her and withdrew again and again, slowly building in pressure, while his thumb and his tongue worked together to play with that sensitive nub at the front of her, making her writhe and whimper beneath him.

  She gazed up at the dark sky, at the stars, at the dancing leaf-shadows above her head. The world seemed to be changing shape around her; her head swam, her pulse beat hot and hard inside her—everything, everything was pulsing, shifting, heating, rising.

  Now four fingers were inside her, thrusting in and out, and the whole palm of his other hand covered her sensitive nub, the heel of it pressing, working, driving her upward, upward.