He watched her silently seethe and knew he was right.
“That is why you started your crusade against rakes and libertines,” he mused as realization dawned. “Because they leave women brokenhearted, as Pierre did you.”
“That’s enough,” she choked.
“While your parents and grandparents were taken from you without choice, these scoundrels break hearts for sport. Is that it?”
“Enough!” Unshed tears rimmed her eyes, and her lips trembled.
She had gotten hurt, and now she was on some ludicrous mission to protect all maidens from heartache. As honorable as it was, she could not rely on her crusade to chase away the grief. Even if she could succeed at the laughably impossible task of destroying every cad in Paris, it would never heal her wounds.
“Not I, nor any of the scores of paramours stalking Parisian ballrooms had anything to do with the death of your parents, grandparents, or Pierre,” he said. “They did not break your jaded heart, Céleste. And even if they did, you don’t stand a chance against them.”
“Perhaps not, but you—” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
“I, what?”
She shook her head and spun, grabbing for the door.
Nick easily reached an arm over her head and braced it shut before she could open it.
“I, what, Céleste?”
What sounded like a sob escaped her throat, and she buried her face in her hands. Nick took her shoulders and turned her back around to face him.
“Go to the devil,” she mumbled into her hands.
“All in due time,” Nick said. He lifted her chin until her hands fell away, and she was looking up at him. “Now tell me, love, what have I done?”
As soon as he saw the pain in her eyes, he realized how utterly thick he was. What had he done, indeed? He had simply torn her apart with all the finesse of a rabid bear, ripping out her grieving heart and smashing it to bits.
He was exhausted, worried sick, and still in a fair amount of pain from Henri’s fists, but that was no excuse for his being cruel. He had never been so careless with a woman’s feelings in his life.
The big, watery brown eyes staring up into his made his heart lurch. He wanted to take her in his arms until the pain eased. He wanted to make love to her until she forgot why she was upset. He wanted to be someone else, someone who could care for her.
He wasn’t at liberty do any of those things, but frankly, he didn’t give a damn. He gathered her in his arms, anyway.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I should never have said those things. I don’t know what came over me.”
This was the third time he had made her cry. If he could beat himself senseless, he would.
“I must go,” she mumbled into his waistcoat.
He pulled back, cupping her face and wiping away the tears with his thumbs. “I cannot possibly chase you back to Paris and save André at the same time.”
“I shall stay with Béarn,” she said thickly. “It will be safe there.”
Nick’s chest tightened painfully, and he dropped his hands. Yes, she would be safe there. Béarn would offer to marry her, as he had said he would the night of Céleste’s June ball, and she would accept. Béarn would give her everything she could ever need, emotionally and physically. He would never hurt her. It was a good match.
Nick had never wanted to kill an innocent man as badly as he did at that moment.
“The roads are not safe,” he said. “Today, the brigands only wanted jewelry and coins. Next time, it may be you they want.”
She bit her lip and looked away. She was going to start crying again, blast him. He could see the tears building on her lashes as she brushed the newly empty space on her finger.
Then he remembered. Imbecile! It was so important; how could he have forgotten?
He felt around in his waistcoat pocket, pulling out a small, gold band. Then he gently captured her left hand and slid the ring on her naked finger.
She stared down at her hand before looking up at him, wide-eyed. “You got it back.”
“Of course I got it back. It is your wedding band, and you seemed rather attached to it.” Nick smiled, releasing her hand before he did something stupid, like kiss it. “They were not too keen on returning their only booty, but luckily for you, I am a brilliant thief. I wish I could have seen their faces when they realized my treachery.”
Nick’s smile faded as two tears skittered down her cheeks.
“You are still leaving.”
“I must,” she said.
His heart thudded in his chest. “Not yet.”
Once she became Béarn’s wife, she would be untouchable, as she ought to have been from the first, but not yet. He wasn’t ready to give her up.
She turned to go, but he captured her, pulling her to him.
“I said not yet,” he repeated, lowering his head.
He slid his lips against hers in slow, gentle caresses. She could easily break the kiss, if she wanted to, and he was prepared to let her go… or so he told himself. He didn’t want to think about that right now. He didn’t want to think at all. He just wanted his arms to be filled with her. He wanted to be tangled in bed sheets with her body wrapped around his.
Just for one night.
Then he would find André and leave for England, and she would go back to Paris to marry Béarn, furthering their social and political agendas as every other member of the ton does. Theirs would be the wedding of the year, an ideal match. Nick would never see her again. He would forget all about the obstinate, frustrating interference that cared about hurt little boys and innocents and a coward who had abandoned her after she had already lost so much. The brave woman who had risked her life to prove that coward was honorable, even though he had broken her heart. The woman Nick was never supposed to meet.
God help him, he had fallen head-over-heels in love with her.
Her hands drifted up over his lapels to his shoulders then farther to comb her fingers through the hair at his nape. Warmth rushed over him, in him, throughout his entire being, driving all else from his mind.
“Ah, love,” he murmured against her lips. His hands were splayed across her back, bringing her firmly against him while his tongue teased hers, lightly touching and retracting.
When he could no longer wait, he deepened the kiss, his tongue fully sliding against hers, reveling in the taste of her and drinking her in. He then trailed kisses to her neck, nuzzling the soft skin there.
“I could write odes to you,” he murmured, closing his hand over her breast and kneading it through the gown.
Her breath hitched. “If your odes are anything like your sonnets, I beg you to reconsider.”
“I can do better.” He smiled as he nipped the swell of one breast, and she gasped.
He could do much better. He could write sheets and sheets of them. But it would be useless. Words were useless. Even Byron could not capture what it was about her or what was happening inside him because of her.
His heart soared when he touched her, as if it would burst out of his chest at any second. It was fatal. Every gasp of pleasure she uttered nearly did him in.
He made quick work of her fastenings without dragging his lips from her flawless skin. As if he could! It would take Saint Brides’s entire imaginary army to pry him away, and they would suffer heavy casualties in the process.
Her gown loosened and slid to the floor, quickly followed by her stays and chemise. Her stockings were still on, but those excruciatingly fetching nothings could stay … for now.
He molded his hands to her body, memorizing the feel of her breasts, the curve of her hip, and every blissfully perfect hollow, searing her into his memory. His tongue followed, suckling her breasts, swirling leisurely as he kissed her ribs then down her waist to the swell of her hip. He trembled as he touched every silken inch of her.
He sank to his knees, his hands on her rounded bottom, holding her in place as he worshipped her with his mouth. She was ready for h
im, slick and hot, but he wanted this to last.
He slid his tongue past the velvety folds to the tight little nub, flicking and stroking as her surprised gasps and soft moans drifted over him. She tasted like the life he desperately wanted, and he was reveling in it because it was all he had. Tomorrow, she would be gone.
She gasped and shuddered, and he felt her entire body pulse as she fell apart, clutching his hair between her fingers.
He tasted her climax slowly, and when each stroke of his tongue reached the sensitive little knot, she shook.
“By gad, Céleste,” he said shakily as he rested his forehead against her belly. “By gad.” He kissed her there, just below her navel, with reverence. Then he stood, wrapping her in his arms.
She looked up at him with half-closed, passion-drunk eyes, her naked body lax against his fully clothed one, and he kissed her. The taste of her mouth combined with the taste of her climax turned everything hazy in an instant. He was dizzy with the taste of her, with the feel of her body still trembling.
He picked her up, set her on the bed, and began undressing.
* * *
Céleste barely registered the movement when he picked her up as though she weighed nothing at all, then settled her on the bed. She was still reeling from what he had done.
What had he done? He had utterly destroyed her; that was what. And he had done it with his mouth—there. It had been the most exquisite thing she had ever felt.
That sensitive spot involuntarily tightened every few seconds, each time reminding her how his tongue had felt.
She opened her eyes to focus on him.
The man was simply jaw dropping. His sandy hair was wonderfully disheveled from her dragging her fingers through it, and his heavy blue eyes were on fire, watching her as he slid off each flawlessly tailored article of clothing and tossed it to the floor.
The fire in his eyes must be contagious, because she felt it building inside her, and she began to ache again—down there—for him. It blazed by the time he shrugged out of his coat, untied his cravat, and began working on his waistcoat
There was something else lingering, as well, an acute something in her chest.
She would have examined it, but then her eyes drifted to his neck. It looked delicious.
When he tossed his waistcoat on the pile and pulled off his shirt, her heart skipped a beat and then thudded hard against her ribs. He was a sculpted work of art, only more beautiful because he was flesh and blood, every taut muscle rippling under his skin as he moved.
The corner of his lips pulled up in a wickedly knowing smile. She must have been practically drooling. Then he was slowly unfastening his trousers one button at a time. Inch by inch, they sagged as he worked the buttons, and with each inch, Céleste’s temperature rose. After the last button was unfastened, his manhood sprung loose, the hard thickness of it jutting out proudly.
Her eyes were drawn there. She had never imagined it could get so big, so hard.
He tossed aside his trousers and stood gloriously naked, looking every bit the strong, virile male. How could a mere man look as he did? How could a body be formed so perfectly?
Still, there was something else pulsing inside her, not entirely lustful.
He stepped toward her, and her stomach tightened, as did the tingling muscles below. Then he stretched his lean body beside her and tenderly nuzzled her neck with kisses. One arm propped him up on his side while the other wrapped around her, pulling her into him.
In his arms, the loneliness vanished. It was warm there. She felt safe there. She felt cherished. And she still felt that twisting, twirling emotion she couldn’t quite identify. She noticed it acutely when he gave her back her wedding band, and it has only intensified since he began touching her.
He shifted over her, positioning himself between her legs, tangling his tongue with hers in slow thrusts. Then he was pushing inside her, filling her, obliterating everything in her mind.
She heard herself whimpering and moaning, unable to stop the wanton sounds, not caring to try. There was no reason to keep it inside. There was nothing except the two of them making love to each other.
Love—the unidentifiable emotion. She was in love with him.
He began to move, every slow thrust melting her brain and bringing a desperate need deep within her to life.
She pulled on his shoulders, and he understood, lowering his head and resting his cheek against hers. He kissed her cheek, her ear, her jaw. His bristly cheek lightly brushed hers as he made love to her. He was so tender, so gentle, as though it were more than simply satiating his base desires.
He slid his hand down to her bottom, pulling her thigh up and around his hip before lifting her against him as he moved.
When his mouth found hers again, she kissed him back with every fierce emotion bursting from her cold, broken heart. She would let them flow freely tonight. Only tonight.
His thrusts became more insistent, and his muscles bunched under her hands. She could feel his arms shaking. He was plunging into her, pushing her to the edge and rapidly building up the intense sensations inside her until she knew she would shatter at any moment.
His name escaped her lips in a breathless moan as wave after wave of her climax crashed over her. His low groan joined in with a powerful thrust as he spilled himself inside her. Then everything went still except for their chests as they panted.
When she realized her eyes had closed, she reopened them. Just above her were two startlingly blue eyes, half-covered by erratic tuffs of blond hair. He was beautiful, even with a shadow of bristles covering the lower half of his face and dust in his hair. His lips hinted amusement, and his eyes sparkled.
She could imagine why. He must see the love in her eyes, proving he was right about her naivety. She had tried to hide it, but it was useless. Perhaps, when he was out of her life for good, she would forget him. She would dull her feelings for him as she had done with everyone else she had lost.
She would forget she had lost her heart to a scoundrel.
The task would seem less impossible if he would stop gazing at her like a besotted fool. And if he would stop lightly brushing the backs of his fingers along her cheek. And if he would stop kissing her so tenderly.
He lightly cupped her face as he brushed his lips against hers. It was achingly sweet and undemanding, even when his tongue sought hers. His lips were soft, warm, and gentle.
When he lifted his head, his lips curled into a smile that wasn’t wicked or boyish, but charming and simple, as though he were smiling for no other reason than happiness.
If he were any other man, she might think it sincere.
He pulled the long length of him from inside her to lie on his back, gathering her into his arms.
She snuggled atop his chest, her fingers drifting over his collarbone while he lightly caressed her arm from her shoulder to her elbow and back again. She ought to fight the contentment beginning to engulf her, but she missed feeling loved and safe. She missed having someone to take care of and who would take care of her. She missed this—the intimacy and companionship. She had been doing everything she could to make do without those things, and now she was exhausted physically and emotionally.
Here, she finally felt able to rest.
“Get some sleep, Céleste,” he murmured. “We are both in grave need of it.”
“You will not sleep. You will leave.” Then she would leave. She must, but she wasn’t ready for this to end.
“I need sleep, too,” he said. “At least a few hours, and I don’t plan on doing that in a cold, empty bed. I hope you don’t mind my taking up space here.”
Céleste sighed against his chest. “No, I do not mind.”
That would have to do. And it was a pleasant thought—having him sleep with her. She could sleep very well with his big body keeping her safe and warm.
* * *
Nick could not be sure when exactly Céleste’s world went dark, but it was not long after she had agreed to let him
stay in her bed, and what a surprise that had been. What a surprise everything had been!
He was sure she could barely tolerate speaking to him. For a moment, he thought it might all be a ploy to kill him in his sleep, but reason eliminated that possibility right out of the gate.
Although she could easily blame his death on any one of the ne’er-do-wells downstairs, she wouldn’t be strong enough to get him to his own room, and explaining why he was killed in her bed could prove problematic. Hence, he let himself drift off mere minutes after her breathing evened with sleep, stiffly refusing to waste his precious few hours of sleep by trying to understand anything Lady Dumonte did.
When he woke up hours later, Nick was careful not to wake Céleste. If it weren’t André he was rushing off to rescue, he would have stayed late into the morning. He would have made love to her again. He would have held her while they lay in bed and talked to her. He wanted to know everything about her, from what she ate for breakfast every morning to her every ambition and dream.
He should have been doing that for the last hundred and twenty-five miles.
Unfortunately, André was in dire need of rescue, and staying even one more hour in this fantasy was impossible. Céleste was done with him for good. She was leaving, and he would never see her again. He was leaving. He couldn’t stay in Paris. He needed to get André into Eton.
He placed a light kiss on her forehead… then her cheek… then her lips. Though she was sleeping, she smiled when he kissed her. It melted his brain and sent every drop of blood southward.
But he couldn’t stay. He had to find André.
She did not rouse when he slipped from underneath her, placed a soft pillow under her head, and pulled the counterpane up to her neck. Nor did she seem to hear him gather his clothes and slip into his own room to put on a fresh set.
And shave. He desperately needed to shave.
He washed his hair and scraped the shadow of light-colored bristles from his face. The cold water in the basin was unsurprisingly effective at driving away any lingering grogginess. Then he quickly dressed himself and stepped out, stopping on the way to have a brief word with the innkeeper.
To Win a Scoundrel's Heart (The Lords of Whitehall Book 2) Page 19
