Merry Widows 02: Just One Of Those Flings

by Candice Hern

  So persuasive. So irresistible. Her wits deserted her entirely when his hands slid down her ribs and around to cup her bottom. She felt his arousal straining against his breeches, and wanted it, wanted him. She no longer cared where they were or how wrong it was. She wanted him. Now.

  "All right," she said. "All right. You win. But only this once, Gabriel. I will not risk it again. And we must be quiet."

  Beatrice tugged up her nightgown, pulled it over her head, and tossed it on the floor. She shivered when the cool air hit her skin. Or maybe it was simply in anticipation of what was about to happen.

  "I want to see you." Gabriel went back to the window and pulled the draperies aside. Moonlight poured into the room. "Ah. Beautiful. Your skin is he polished marble in this light. Your hair like burgundy wine. But please, no plaits tonight. Let your hair down, my huntress."

  She unbraided the thick plait that hung down her back while Gabriel undressed. She shook out her hair as he stood before her, naked, perfect, gloriously male. He gathered her loosely in his arms, his proud erection rearing between them.

  "Let me love you," he said, and kissed her tenderly.

  He took her hand and led her to the bed, pulling her down beside him. They already knew each other's bodies well, and Beatrice entwined her legs with his almost without thought. They kissed and stroked and fondled, leisurely, savoring each other without hurry. Finally Gabriel rolled on top of her.

  "I adore your breasts," he said as he squeezed them together and flicked the tip of his tongue over each nipple. "I love the way they feel, the way they move, how deliciously soft they are. Why are you laughing?"

  "They're soft and they move because they're no longer young and firm, and yet you seem to find that an asset."

  "I do. They're perfect. Womanly, not girlish. Like you."

  He made love to one breast, then the other, licking, stroking, sucking, taking the whole nipple into his mouth and curling his tongue around it. Beatrice felt her pulse race against his mouth.

  He did not stop with her breasts, but used his lips and tongue all over her body. By turns tender and ravenous, he lavished her flesh with miracles such as she could never have imagined before he came into her life, miracles she now craved with a desperate hunger. She gave herself up to the pure, mindless sensation that coursed through her veins, hot and bright.

  Finally, he trailed his tongue down her belly and into the crisp curls covering her sex. Parting her, he thrust his tongue deep inside her, and Beatrice arched up into his mouth, dizzy with sensation. His finger—no, two fingers—replaced his tongue, which he set to pleasuring the tiny nub just above. His tongue on that oh-so-sensitive spot made her squirm, but he held her legs apart, forcing her to accept the pleasure.

  An agony of tension gripped her body, savage in its power. Then all at once the spike of pleasure speared into her, sharp and hot, emanating from that delicate nub of flesh he circled with his tongue and radiating to every inch of her body from her toenails to the roots of her hair. She bucked and twisted and clamped her lips together in a valiant effort not to cry out in her helplessness.

  He held his mouth in place until he felt her go limp. Then he crawled up her body and kissed her, allowing her to taste herself on his tongue, to share in his pleasure of her.

  He lay atop her and molded her softness against his harder frame, loving the feel of her beneath him, skin to skin, hers silky smooth, his . . . not. He grasped her hands and lifted them to rest on either side of her head, threading his fingers through hers. Gripping her hands tightly for support, he shifted his hips so that the tip of his cock was pressed on the same spot where his mouth had just been.

  Her eyes opened and looked into his. A low hum of passion sounded in her throat as he moved against her.

  "I shall die again," she murmured. "How many little deaths can a person withstand?"

  "A thousand. A hundred thousand. A lifetime of les petites morts." He shifted again so that he was at the opening of her sex, her yoni. "At least once more tonight." He pushed inside her, slowly, until he was buried to the hilt in the sleek, hot wetness of her. He closed his eyes and savored the simple pleasure of being fully joined with her.

  There would be nothing fancy tonight, nothing exotic. Tonight was about love, about connection, about sharing. Just a simple, pure, exquisite loving. He held himself above her, still gripping her hands. He looked into her eyes as he began to move. Slowly out. Slowly in. She smiled and moved with him. She rotated her hips and squeezed her inner muscles in a way that almost pushed him over the edge. He increased the tempo slightly, still holding her gaze and her hands.

  "More," she said. "Harder."

  And he complied. He drove faster, setting up a rhythmic, damp timpani as their hips met, retreated, met again. He felt her body tense. She gripped his hands tighter and arched her neck. Her face twisted into a grimace and her breaths became shallow. His own panting became more ragged as he thrust harder and faster. But he never let go of her hands and he never stopped watching her. And so he had the singular joy of watching her face as she reached her climax. Eyes closed tight, teeth bared, every muscle tense. And suddenly she was transformed. Her eyes opened wide, her mouth formed a perfect O, and a sort of wonder suffused her face as her body writhed and peaked beneath him, while he pumped and pumped and pumped.

  His own release came quickly. He was so enraptured by hers that he almost did not pull out in time. He pressed his cock against her belly, still pumping, as his climax ripped through him.

  Beatrice lay nuzzled against Gabriel's shoulder, content as a kitten in a basket. He had cleaned her up, as he always did, then slid under the sheets with her and tucked her up against him.

  "I should be angry with you," she said, "but that was so lovely I almost forgive you."

  "Almost?"

  "It was still a bad idea, Gabriel, and you must promise you won't do it again. What if Charlotte or Georgie were to wander in and find us like this? It's too dangerous."

  "You're right," he said. "But I have an idea for making things easier for us." He turned on his side and lay facing her. "Marry me."

  Beatrice gave a little jerking start. He could not be serious. But she gazed into his brown eyes and saw that he was. "Oh, Gabriel."

  "You know that I have promised to marry this year, and you are the only woman who suits me, the only woman I want."

  She was shaken by his sincerity. Despite Wilhelmina’s suggestion that he might make her an offer, Beatrice had never expected it. Never.

  "You know I care for you," he said, "and I think you must care for me a little."

  She lifted a hand to his face. "You are very dear to me, Gabriel. You have brought a great deal of joy into my life. But I am not the wife for you. You are sweet to offer, but you cannot truly want to marry me."

  "Yes, I can. I do."

  "Gabriel, my dear, you are meant to marry some young virgin bride of good family who will provide you with an heir and a spare. Not a woman who has already been married, has children, and will be thirty-six on her next birthday."

  "You worry too much about your age. It has never mattered to me. You know that."

  "It may not bother you now, but I guarantee you it would make a difference over time. I will age faster. I will lose my looks and my hair will turn silver while you are still in your prime. A man like you doesn't marry a woman like me. You marry one of those pretty young girls on the marriage mart. You need someone younger, my dear. Young enough to have your children. I am too old for you."

  His dark brows drew together in a frown. "I have some degree of mathematic ability, Beatrice. I can count. I am twenty-nine. You are thirty-five. I believe that means a mere six years separates us. Not such a vast number. And not too old for children. My mother had my youngest sister when she was forty. Besides, I have discovered that I prefer a woman six years older than one six years younger, who hasn't two thoughts to rub together and doesn't yet know her own mind. I don't want a girl. I want a woman. I want you. M
arry me."

  "Oh, Gabriel."

  She rolled onto her back and sat up, propping pillows behind her. Gabriel followed suit, and they sat side by side in awkward silence while Beatrice pondered how best to respond to such an extraordinary proposal, to make him understand how impossible it was.

  "I want to be with you in the light of day, Beatrice. Legitimately, openly, and not in dark corners and secret assignations. You deserve better than that. We both do. I know you care for me." He stroked a finger up and down her arm. "You are not indifferent to me."

  "No, of course I am not. You are very special to me, Gabriel. I... I adore you, I really do." She more than adored him, in fact. "But I thought you understood."

  "Understood what?"

  "That I do not want to marry again. When we first began this, you were not offering matrimony and I wasn't looking for it."

  "I changed my mind."

  "Why?"

  "Because you have become more than a lover to me. You have become a friend. I've told you more about my years in India than anyone else since my return. You're the only one who has seen and appreciated my sculptures, the only one who truly understands the changes I am making to Loughton House. I sometimes feel that you see right into my soul." He picked up her hand and kissed the tip of each finger. "You have become more dear to me than I could ever have imagined. I want you for more than a lover, and for longer than a few months. I want you forever, as my wife."

  Such a speech! And from such a man. It was almost heartbreaking. Oh, to be younger, when he might have swept her off her feet with such words. "Oh, Gabriel, that is a lovely thing to say. And you have become dear to me, too. I am overwhelmed that you should make me so splendid an offer. But I have had my marriage and my family. I am not looking for that again. I have only ever wanted . . . this. A love affair. A lover. Physical passion. I am too young to give up that aspect of my life, but too old to be a proper wife for you. You should find a nice young woman who will give you an heir, a biddable young woman willing to be dominated by her grand husband. I am not that woman. I will not do that again."

  "What do you fear about marriage?"

  "Fear?"

  "Why are you so dead set against it? What do you fear?"

  Beatrice uttered a little huff of exasperation. "Where to begin?" She got out of bed and retrieved the nightgown that had been tossed on the floor, then pulled it over her head and let it skim over her body down to her ankles.

  She turned to face Gabriel, who had moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He was still completely naked, and she wished he would cover himself. His body was too distracting and she did not want to risk being seduced into accepting his proposal. She moved to look out the window instead.

  "What did I hate most about marriage? Taking orders. Being told what to do, or more often what not to do. When I was married, I learned to be secretive and sly, to agree to whatever was asked, and when it was something I despised or disapproved of, I deviously worked my way around it somehow. Marriage did that to me, made me artful and scheming. I have been a much better person since poor Somerfield died. My own person. And it wasn't Somerfield's fault. It is the way things are, the way wives are expected to behave. We take a vow to obey, you know."

  She heard Gabriel move off the bed and turned to face him. He was pulling on his breeches. A good sign that he was ready to accept her refusal. He would be less likely to seduce her again with his clothes on.

  "I hated being dominated," she continued. "I could not leave the house without Somerfield approving my dress, my bonnet, my destination, my companions. And he would not allow me to take a step outside without a maid or footman to accompany me. I was never allowed to do anything on my own, even something as insignificant as driving a one-horse gig."

  "Forgive me, Beatrice, but he sounds like an insufferable bully."

  "He was just an ordinary man. No different from most other husbands I've known. I was the problem, not Somerfield. I was not a good wife. I tried to be biddable, but it was not in me to be that kind of wife. And as much as I hated being dominated, I hated being ignored even more. I was allowed no part in any decision that affected our family. I have told you of my interest in financial matters. Somerfield would not even listen to me. He thought it unseemly for a woman to concern herself with such things. Ha! If he only knew how many times over I have increased my fortune in these last three years!

  I chafed for thirteen years under a husband's authority. I will never put myself in that position again."

  "You cannot judge all men by Somerfield's behavior," Gabriel said as he pulled his shirt over his head. Then he came and took both her hands in his and gazed intently into her eyes. "I would never treat you like that, Beatrice. I would want a marriage of equals, a partnership."

  "Would you, really? Are you so very different, then, from other men? You would allow your wife to do as she pleased?"

  "Within reason, yes. You would bear my name and my title, however, and a certain consideration for that position must be respected. Otherwise, you would have a significant degree of independence to do as you wanted."

  Beatrice pulled her hands away. "But you determine that degree, don't you? You would still be in control of everything, wouldn't you? My behavior, my money, my . . . everything."

  "That is a husband's responsibility, to protect his wife and children," he said as he tucked his shirt into his breeches. "And you must be reasonable, Beatrice. There are certain expectations from a wife, any wife, but especially the wife of a future duke."

  "But you see, it is those expectations that I find objectionable. No, I won't marry again." Beatrice crossed her hands over her chest and looked down at her feet. "It has nothing to do with you, Gabriel. I would find it objectionable with any man. I am simply not willing to give up my freedom again."

  He reached out and placed a knuckle under her chin, lifting it so she had to look him in the eye.

  "Not even for me?"

  That voice. He was trying to seduce her with that voice. Damn him. She cocked her head away and he released her. "I'm sorry, Gabriel. I do not want a husband in my life again. I treasure the freedom my widowhood has brought me. I like being able to act and speak without the watchful eye of a possessive man, imposing checks on my behavior. I never want that again, never want another person to have such power over me again."

  He picked up the waistcoat he had flung across the room and slipped it on. "You're being mulish, Beatrice. You think all men are the same. We're not. And as you are so fond of saying, you are not a young woman anymore, as you were when you married Somerfield. You are mature and self-possessed with a strong streak of independence. I doubt any man could have much power over you. I would not."

  Beatrice snorted. "Of course you would. Look at what you did tonight, forcing your way into my house against my wishes, risking exposure of our affair to my young daughters. You had no consideration for my feelings in the matter. You just barged in and seduced me into capitulation."

  He reached for his coat and glared at her, a glint of anger flickering in his eyes. "That is not how it was." The deep, seductive tone was gone and the lordly arrogance was back. He was Lord Thayne now, no longer Gabriel.

  "Of course that is how it was," she said. "You always get what you want. You told me that the first moment you realized I had been the one at the masquerade. And I am to believe you would not try to control me? To dominate me? When you have just demonstrated that is precisely what you would do?"

  He struggled into his coat and picked up the boots that stood by the bed. Anger radiated from every inch of him. His body was tense with it, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. "And so those are my sins, Beatrice? Youth? Arrogance? Or merely that I am a man? I think we have said enough on the matter. I am sorry I troubled you. I shall not do so again, I assure you. And do not worry. I will not disturb anyone in the house as I leave. I will go the same way I came."

  He flung open the window, and was gone.

  Beatrice stood in the middle
of the room, stunned at what had just happened. After a perfectly wonderful interlude of lovemaking, it had come to this. Anger and bitterness. The end of her love affair.

  Ironically enough, she had only just come to realize she was a little bit in love with Gabriel. More than a little. Why did he have to ruin everything by asking her to marry him?

  She lay down on the bed, buried her face in the pillows, and wept.

  Chapter 15

  It was the last place he wanted to be tonight. Thayne had no desire to see Beatrice after she had so vehemently rejected his proposal last night. He did not know what possessed him to allow Burnett to drag him to this damnable ball. Her ball. One of her blasted charity events. Meeting her in the receiving line had been difficult at best. Tension stretched between them so thick you could cut it with a knife. Even her friends had seemed uncomfortable. The Duchess of Hertford was the only one to give him a warm smile.