His teeth nipped at her lower lip. His tongue thrust against hers. His hands moulded and melded, making of her whatever he wanted and making her want it, too. Vaguely, she heard her laces rip, felt a flutter of a breeze as her gown fell to the floor, then heat again as he picked her up and threw her on to the bed. His chest was bare. Sweat highlighted the broad sweep of his shoulders, the ripple of his muscles, the flex of his sinews. As he lay down on the bed beside her, she rained kisses over him, panting wildly, careless of the picture she made, caught up in this feral, elemental need to take and be taken, to absorb him, to be absorbed, to climb until she could no longer breathe, to heat until she ignited.
She struggled out of her chemise. Wearing only her stockings and garters she lay back on the bed, watching entranced as he removed the remainder of his clothing. His chest heaved with his efforts to breathe. His manhood stood magnificently erect, curved and proud, making her own muscles clench in anticipation.
He kissed her again, on the mouth. He kissed her nipples, sucking each into an aching sweetness that made her writhe. His hands dipped into the damp folds of her sex, making her writhe all the more. He muttered her name. She clung to him, pressed herself against him, kissed him and writhed again as his fingers stroked her sex, quickly, quickly, not quickly enough. She wanted this, and him, and now. She loved him. She wanted him to love her. She wanted to show him how much she loved him. If he knew—if he could see—if he could feel how much, then surely…
‘Now, now, now,’ she muttered, clutching at his back, her fingernails scoring down his spine, sinking into the taut curves of his buttocks. He stroked her harder, kissed her harder and she felt herself high on a cusp, and clung to it, waiting, clinging, panting. ‘Now, oh please, now,’ she panted, clutching at his shoulders as she tipped over and began to fall.
Rafe kissed her deeply. The contractions of her climax were unbelievably exciting. He was throbbing, pulsing in response, his shaft so hard he thought it would explode, yet still he had to ask her.
‘Are you sure? Henrietta,’ he said, breathing hard, ‘are you sure?’
‘Rafe, please. I want— I’m sure. I promise. Please.’
He couldn’t resist any more. He couldn’t wait any more. Right now, it felt as if his whole life had been hurtling towards this moment. Tipping her bottom up, he angled himself carefully and entered her, and had to stop, wait, stop, because the sensation of her pulsing around him was almost too much and he didn’t want it to be over, not yet, not ever, not yet.
She was tight and hot and wet. He pushed, past the slight resistance of her maidenhead into the glorious heat of her, and caught his breath on a harsh cry. He had never, never, never… ‘Henrietta. Oh God, Henrietta.’ He thrust and moaned, and felt her cleave to him and hold him and enfold him, the sweetest, most intoxicating feeling. He thrust again and this time she was there with him, and again, and she was there, too, and again, as if they were made for this, as if this were some secret only they could share.
She had thought herself lost in the heights of ecstasy, but now she knew it was but a false summit. All of him, all of his hard velvet thickness, was inside her and she had never dreamed, never, that it could be so marvellous, this filling and emptying, filling and emptying, and each time he filled her more, finding depths in her that she couldn’t believe existed, taking her higher with him with each thrust, spiralling her up and up and up until she really was at the top, giddy with being at the top, burning and freezing with being at the top, and he thrust high inside her and she toppled over the edge of the abyss, feeling as though she would pass out from the intensity of it. Then she felt him swell and withdraw just before his own climax exploded, making him cry out, a low groan dragged from him, which he seemed reluctant to release.
He held her so tightly that she could not breathe. Tears tracked down her cheeks and she made no attempt to stop them. He licked them away, saying he was sorry, and she stroked his silken crop of hair and told him that no, no, no, he hadn’t hurt her, not even a little.
He planted a soft kiss on the cushion of her lips. Nestling her close, he couldn’t have said how he felt, even if he tried. He felt strange. Utterly sated, utterly empty and yet somehow quite complete.
Henrietta’s heart came slowly back down to a level that allowed her to breathe normally. She lay mindless, aware only of Rafe’s arms around her, his legs over her, luxuriating in the euphoric aftermath of what had been, for her, a life-changing experience.
She had made love to the man she loved. For those ecstatic, blissful minutes he had been inside her, they had been joined. One. Surely he had felt it, too? He cared. He really cared. He did not love her, but despite all the warnings he had given her, as she lay replete, she allowed herself to hope that he might, one day. He was an honourable man. He would not have made love to her unless he had meant—meant what?
How could she be so sure he meant anything at all? This had always been an interlude for Rafe, an escape from whatever it was in his own life that he was trying to avoid. She had always had much more at stake. Her good name. Her freedom. She just hadn’t expected to lose her heart as well. But she had, irrevocably.
Propping herself up on her elbow, Henrietta forced a bright smile. ‘So, this will be the last night we will be required to stay here,’ she said, determined at least to say it before he did. ‘You will think me foolish, but I have come to think of this little room as home.’
Rafe twined one of her curls around his finger. ‘No, I don’t think you are foolish, I myself have become inordinately fond of this pokey little room, if not the unutterably uncomfortable mattress. Henrietta, have you given any thought to what you will do next?’
Her heart began to beat frantically. She tried to quell the panic, tried to cling on to her certainties, but of a sudden they seemed not to be so certain. He would not love. He would not marry. He had said so, but she hadn’t listened. Was he about to brush her off politely? The utter contentment of their lovemaking fled like a thief from the scene of a crime. ‘I don’t know,’ Henrietta said. ‘However Lady Ipswich clears my name, I doubt she’ll give me a reference and, without one, I am not like to find a new position very easily.’
‘I have to admit, I have become used to being your protector these last few days.’
‘Oh.’ Her heart stopped, then started again even more quickly. Now she felt quite sick. She daren’t hope, but she hoped all the same. She pushed herself upright, the better to see his face. Eyes indigo blue. A slight smile. Oh God, please. Please. Oh please.
‘It is a position I am loath to surrender just yet,’ Rafe said.
Just yet! If she had been standing, her knees would have given way, crumpling like her hopes. Whatever he was offering was not of a permanent nature. ‘Just yet?’ She sounded as if she was being strangled. She felt as if she was. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You told me you had no wish to go to Ireland to join your parents, I’m assuming that you haven’t changed your mind?’
‘No, I haven’t, but…’
‘And from what you’ve told me, you’ve no other relatives who would take you in?’
‘There is my aunt, Mama’s sister, but…’
‘No doubt some crotchety old widow who lives in seclusion in the country, surrounded by her cats.’
‘Well, actually, she—’
‘No, we need to find you somewhere to stay in London, till your parents return. Clearly you cannot stay with me. Tempting though it is to offer, I know that would be wholly inappropriate.’
Rafe frowned, tapping his finger on the sheet. ‘I have it!’ Why had he not thought of it before? ‘I’ve got the perfect solution.’
‘What?’ What? Hope again, irrational hope, flaring up like a candle caught in a draught. ‘What is it, Rafe? What have you not thought of before?’
‘My grandmother.’
‘Your grandmother?’ Henrietta’s face fell. ‘What has your grandmother got to do with me?’
‘She is in her ninth dec
ade and, in my opinion, much in need of a companion.’
‘She does not sound to me like someone who needs a companion,’ Henrietta said dubiously, having conjured up a fairly accurate picture of the indomitable Dowager Countess. ‘And even if she did, I still don’t understand what it has to do with me.’
‘Don’t be obtuse, Henrietta, I mean you would be a perfect companion for her. You are neither of you reticent when it comes to expressing your opinions, nor indeed are either of you short of opinions, come to that. I think you will suit very well. My grandmother lives most of the year in London. I could do with visiting her more often—she is my only close relative, after all,’ Rafe said, with growing enthusiasm. ‘And though she is elderly, she is fiercely independent and takes great pride in having a full engagement book,’ he continued, so taken with his idea that he failed to notice Henrietta’s horrified expression as realisation of what he was actually proposing dawned. ‘You wouldn’t be tied to her apron strings, there would be plenty of time for you and me to continue with our—our—to continue to spend time together. You will want to see more of London,’ he concluded ingeniously. ‘What could be more natural than that I act as your guide? What do you say?’
She said nothing, unable quite to believe what she was hearing, equally unable to believe that he could so misread her character. What he was proposing sounded remarkably like a proposition. An improper one. What he was proposing sounded—it sounded—it sounded like something a rake would say!
‘Henrietta? What do you think?’
‘I’m not sure what to think,’ she said, praying that he would say something, anything, to contradict her assessment of his motives.
‘I don’t want to let you go. Not yet. I’ve come to—you must know that I have come to care for you, Henrietta. I thought you had come to care for me.’
She stared at him, nonplussed. He had no idea how much she cared. No idea at all. Just as she had underestimated how determined he was to limit his own feelings. He had warned her. It was her own fault.
‘Henrietta?’
‘You’re asking me to be your mistress.’
‘No! I would not…’
‘Then what are you suggesting?’
‘I just wanted— I want— I thought you wanted…’ Rafe ran his fingers through his hair, frowning heavily. This wasn’t going as it should. ‘I am simply trying to find a way of not ending this.’
‘Ending what?’ Henrietta demanded. She hadn’t realised how high she had been flying the flag of her hopes. It fluttered down to earth now, in total freefall. ‘Did you think that by dressing it up as something else I wouldn’t realise what it was you were asking? Do you really think I rate myself so low as to consider such a proposal, let alone what it says of your opinion of your unwitting grandmother, from whose house our affaire is to be conducted.’
‘Henrietta, you’re twisting it all. I just want—’
‘To have me available whenever you fancy slaking your thirst,’ she said bitterly, resorting to the language of the Minerva Press, her only reference point for such a conversation. ‘I know perfectly well what you want.’
‘That is a disgusting way to put it.’
She threw herself out of the bed, snatching her chemise from the floor and pulling it over her head. ‘It was a disgusting offer.’
Was it? He hadn’t meant it that way. He could see now that he had worded it badly, but dammit, he hadn’t had time to think it through. Why could she not be less judgemental? Anger rose, spiced with bitterness and a shard of fear. He could not lose her. Pushing back the sheet, he strode over to her and tried to pull her back into his arms, but she pushed him away.
‘God dammit, Henrietta, what is wrong with my simply wanting to find a way for us to spend a little more time together?’
‘No! I won’t let you—’
‘What? Persuade you? Force you?’ His anger, fuelled with frustration, boiled over. ‘I thought you knew me better by now. I have never—’
‘No, you have not. Never. You are quite right,’ Henrietta admitted, with a defiant tilt of her head, curls flying wildly round her shoulders. ‘All this is my fault. I thought that you—that I— I thought— I thought…’ She stopped, her breathing ragged.
‘Henrietta, can’t you just—?’
‘No! Leave me alone. Please, Rafe. I can’t. I just can’t.’ She poured herself a glass of water from the carafe by the bed and took several slow sips, willing herself to calm down. It was not his fault. It was her fault. She hadn’t listened. But she hadn’t listened because she didn’t want to. ‘What an idiot I’ve been,’ she muttered.
He had pulled on his breeches. Bare-chested, still glistening with sweat from their lovemaking, his hair standing up in spikes, he looked devastatingly handsome. Her heart ached with love for him. There was confusion and hurt and anger in his stormy eyes. And desire, too. She recognised it, for he had taught her very well.
For a moment, a terrible moment, she considered saying yes. She considered surrendering her principles and her will to his, just so that she would not have to say goodbye. There would be time—days, weeks, maybe even months, before he tired of her—to share more lovemaking, to build more memories. She swayed, but then pulled herself upright. It would be wrong. She could not be happy, knowing that what they were doing was wrong. It was one thing to make love in hope. She could not imagine doing so without it. She loved him. She would not have that love tainted by selling it. She would not allow herself to enter into such a demeaning relationship. Not even with Rafe. Especially not with Rafe.
She had no option but to leave. He had left her nowhere to go. Henrietta’s hopes finally crashed to earth and shattered painfully. Like the heroines of the Minerva Press, she felt as if her heart was breaking. She did not want to deny him, but deny him she must, for her own sake. ‘Rafe, I can’t.’
It was the resolution in her voice that made him realise she meant it. That core of steel at her centre, which he had so admired. ‘May I ask why not?’
‘It’s not enough for me.’
‘Henrietta, it’s more than I’ve ever offered anyone else since…’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I understand that it’s more than you’ve offered since—since Julia, but it’s still not enough.’
‘Is it my reputation?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I would wish—but I cannot undo. If I thought that you—that you cared enough, would come to care enough, it wouldn’t matter. But I don’t, you see, and I—I do. Care. Too much to put up with anything less. You see, we are from different worlds. We’ve always known that, Rafe, but we forgot, here. I forgot, anyway.’ The tears were burning her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. She had only her dignity left. She clutched it around her like a swaddling blanket. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I see.’ He wanted to protest. To persuade. To show her by kissing her just how much she was throwing away, just how much they would both lose. But the armour he had worn for so long, and his own rakish morality, prevented him. ‘I see,’ Rafe said again, deliberately turning away from those big brown eyes, lest he see the hurt, lest he allow it to persuade him into something he would regret. As he picked his shirt up off the floor, he felt the dark cloud that had been his faithful companion until Henrietta had banished it, returning like a whipped cur in from the cold. He almost welcomed it. At least it was familiar. At least he knew how to manage it.
He finished dressing, throwing the rest of his possessions carelessly into his portmanteau. ‘I think it’s best if I sleep elsewhere tonight. In the morning, we can make arrangements for whatever you want to do.’ He looked at her now, willing her to change her mind, willing her to tell him not to go.
‘I’m sorry. I wish— I’m sorry.’
He shrugged.
‘Rafe. Thank you. For everything. Don’t go like this.’
‘I am only going down the hall. I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight, Henrietta.’
‘Goodbye, Rafe.’
He clos
ed the door, subduing a horrible feeling that he was missing something important, suppressing the almost irrepressible desire to go back. Setting off in search of Benjamin, it felt as if he was walking away.
On the other side of the door, Henrietta stood frozen. Her heart seemed to crack in two. But she would not compromise herself, she told herself firmly. She would not, for if she did she was doomed. As she set about packing up her possessions into her shabby bandbox, she told herself so several more times and the tears streamed unnoticed down her face.
Chapter Ten
Two weeks later
‘Well, my dear, let me take a good look at you.’ Lady Gwendolyn Lattisbury-Hythe surveyed her niece through the silver lorgnette she habitually wore on a ribbon hung around her neck.
The thick glass gave her eyes a fishy look, Henrietta thought, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. Even after two weeks in her company, during which time Mama’s estranged sister had treated her with unwavering generosity, refusing to discuss the estrangement which, she said, was ancient history, Henrietta still found her aunt rather formidable.
Lady Gwendolyn was the relict of an eminent Whig who had, like his friend Mr Fox, divided his time between vociferous occupation of the opposition benches and an equally dedicated occupation of the faro table at Brooks’s. Fortunately for his spouse, Sir Lattisbury-Hythe’s fortune was considerable and his luck rather more consistent than that of the late Mr Fox’s. It had run out somewhat spectacularly one evening three years previously when, with his foot heavily bandaged from the gout, he fell down the main staircase of his country home and cracked his head open on the marble plinth upon which a bust of the Roman Emperor Tiberius was mounted.
Sir Lattisbury-Hythe’s son Julius inherited the title, but not his father’s temperament, being inclined towards the Tory and disinclined to sharing any more of the family fortune with Brooks’s. With his mousey wife and fast-multiplying brood of mousey children, parsimonious and staid Sir Julius was content to occupy the stately pile in Sussex in which his father had met his maker, thus leaving Lady Gwendolyn free rein of the town house from which to enjoy her extremely busy London life and equally free to lament the shortcomings of her anodyne first-born.
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