by Darcy Burke
He sat on the edge of the bed and untied the sash of her dressing gown. The contours of her body were quite deliciously visible beneath the gauze of her night rail. The firelight spread over her curves, highlighting the peaks and cloaking the valleys in mysterious, enticing shadow.
He took her free hand and guided it up under her night rail. The fabric rose, exposing her to his gaze. He looked up at her face. She watched him intently, her cheeks still flushed, but whether from embarrassment or desire, he couldn’t know.
He guided her fingers to her clitoris and applied pressure. “Have you tried pressing here?”
She bucked up into his hand. A shudder wracked his body. “Yes, but it’s not enough.”
“Try this.” He rotated their fingers over her flesh, manipulating her.
She ground up against him. “Oh, yes.”
He took her hand from her breast and slid it beneath her night rail. “Squeeze your nipple again.”
She pulled the flesh and cast her head back against the pillow. This was dangerously close to breaking his vow. He drew in a breath and tried to think of Nigel, of anything that would dampen his lust. But there was no room in his mind for anything or anyone but Philippa.
He continued stroking her, showing her a variation of movements and pressures. All the while, she surged against him, her hips seeking some sort of rhythm. He began to understand what she was missing. What he was missing.
“Have you moved lower?” He took her fingers and set them against her opening. Her flesh was alluringly damp. “Have you gone inside?”
She shook her head against the pillows.
Blood of Christ. His hand stilled. He shouldn’t do this. Why not? He wasn’t pleasuring himself, he was pleasuring her. Surely that wouldn’t break his vow or his honor? A pathetic argument, but convincing nonetheless.
“Like this.” Slowly, he pressed his middle finger into her flesh. She was tight and hot. Her hips fell back against the bed and her thighs closed around his hand. “Open, sweetheart.” He coaxed her with his fingers, moving back up to her clitoris and stoking her desire—and his—anew.
She parted her thighs slightly, but he could feel her tension. She’d stopped caressing her breast. No, don’t stop. Yes, he wanted to give this to her. So desperately.
He pushed her night rail up her abdomen, exposing the dip of her belly. He swallowed then moved the fabric higher. “Take it off,” he rasped.
She opened her eyes and stared at him a moment before complying. Then the night rail went over her head and was thrust to the side.
God, she was exquisite. The firelight illuminated every graceful slope, every provocative hollow, the pale luster of her flesh, the rosy peaks of her breasts. He inhaled deeply, savoring not just her familiar honey lilac scent, but the new and delicious musk of her desire.
Committed at least to helping her, he bent his head to her breast and blew across the tip. The nipple puckered and she sucked in air. He kissed her there, softly at first, then using his tongue to draw circles.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, and she pulled him against her. It was the end of his restraint.
He opened his mouth on her and drew her nipple against his tongue. He sucked and licked then cupped the soft flesh underneath. She tasted so good. Like sunshine on the brightest summer day. Like the sweet, salty breeze coming in from the ocean. Like home.
Gently, he began to move his fingers over her again, small circular motions meant to establish a rhythm she could latch onto. He applied a bit more pressure and widened his caress, going lower to stroke just the edges of her opening. His cock throbbed, but he wouldn’t lose control. He would give her what she wanted.
Gradually, her hips fell open, exposing her to his fingers. Pressing his thumb against her clitoris, he slowly moved his middle finger along the length of her opening. She tightened up again and so he drew on her nipple. Moisture wetted his finger. “Yes, that’s it,” he murmured.
He slid his finger inside. Just a brief invasion. But she gasped and dug her fingers harder into his scalp.
She moaned. “More.”
He climbed onto the bed and lay beside her. Inhaling deeply, he sought the strength to keep himself from covering her. After a moment, he allowed himself to stroke his finger into her again, more fully this time. He kept his thumb on her, moving over her, instilling that vital rhythm. Then he matched it with his finger, moving in and out of her with slow precision. Her hips rose to meet him again and again.
Vaguely, he recalled he was supposed to be tutoring her. “You see how the rhythm is important?”
Her hips rose faster as she began to demand more. He pumped his finger more purposefully, giving her what she wanted. He moved his mouth to her other breast, but kept his fingers on the first so he could pleasure them both. She gasped sharply and opened her legs wider, giving him greater access, urging him faster and deeper.
He worked his thumb harder as he thrust his finger in and out of her. Her breathing hitched and he could hear her coming release as much as he could feel it in the muscles clenching around his finger.
He squeezed one nipple and pinched it lightly as he suckled the other. Then he thrust his finger deep inside of her. She gripped his head and cried out. Her hips bucked up against him, losing their rhythm in favor of a shattering orgasm.
He continued to finger her, distantly aware that his own hips were grinding against the mattress beside her. He had to stop. But he couldn’t, not until her spasms ceased.
At last she subsided.
And then, terribly, spectacularly, he came.
Chapter Twenty-one
AFTER several dark, blissful moments, during which she’d recaptured her breath, Philippa opened her eyes. Above her was the pale blue canopy of her bed. Beside her was the man who’d taken her to heaven after consigning her to so many days of hell.
She smiled and turned toward him, but when he abruptly stood, she feared nothing had changed between them. His dressing gown drooped, exposing the scar on his left shoulder. She knew without asking it had something to do with Nigel.
She shifted and her thigh met moisture on the coverlet. His seed. Pity they hadn’t just done it together. Well, more together than that.
“I have to go.” His voice, dark and hoarse, came over his shoulder, but he didn’t turn to look at her.
Concerned and dismayed, she skirted the spot on the bed and went to stand behind him. “Ambrose, what is it? Didn’t you…enjoy that?”
“Too much,” he muttered so softly, she had to strain to hear. He turned to face her then, his eyes dark and a bit wild. “I have to go.”
“I wouldn’t mind if you stayed.” Or if you came back tomorrow night. Becoming a wicked wanton didn’t seem to bother her as it might have once. The girl her duplicitous parents had raised was well and truly gone, replaced by a woman with more desires than choices.
“I can’t. And don’t expect me for luncheon tomorrow. Or our ride.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice. “I was hoping to visit the beach tomorrow. I only have a couple of days left.”
“You should do that. Good night.” And then he was gone.
Though physically satisfied, Philippa awoke feeling emotionally cold. Every time she thought she’d made a bit of progress with Ambrose, he reminded her he was as shuttered as ever.
Ned Oldham entered the breakfast room as Philippa was leaving the table. “Lady Philippa, there’s a letter for you.” He handed her the missive.
Philippa’s stomach dropped. Exactly on schedule.
She opened the parchment and read precisely what she’d expected:
Dear Philippa,
I am extremely disappointed in your decision to follow that blackguard to Cornwall. I have to assume that’s why you’ve gone there. This changes nothing, except that I must disrupt my schedule to fetch you. I will arrive at Beckwith on the thirteenth. You will be ready to depart immediately. Sir Mortimer knows nothing of your impetuous flig
ht to Cornwall and is most anxiously awaiting your arrival.
If you should sprout a conscience before the thirteenth, my itinerary is included so that you may meet me at any one of our scheduled stops. Such action on your part would greatly improve my disposition toward you.
Herrick
Cold, selfish, pompous—all qualities her father had always possessed, though Philippa had never realized their depth until he’d returned to London with that woman. Philippa gritted her teeth and crumpled the paper in her hand. Would her father perhaps understand she’d come here for love? Why not? He’d forsaken his family in the name of love for that woman.
He would’ve had to understand if she’d been successful in wooing Ambrose. But she hadn’t been successful. He was no closer to loving her than she was to not loving him.
If only she could persuade him to see the man she did. A man who clearly felt remorse for his actions, who had been forgiven by those around him, if not himself. A man who could love if he let himself.
She had just two more days in which to try.
She shoved the wrinkled parchment into her pocket. With brisk steps, she left the breakfast room and made her way from the house via the solar.
She tied the bonnet she’d brought to breakfast beneath her chin and exited the house. As she strode through the keep, Oldham greeted her near the stables.
He gave her a slight bow and tipped his cap. “Good morning, my lady. Where’re ye off to this fine day?”
“Is his lordship about?”
“He’s not, my lady.”
She hadn’t expected him to be, but was disappointed nonetheless. “Well, it’s past time I visited the beach.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Mind ye don’t turn yer back on the sea. She can be full of surprises.” He winked at her.
“Thank you, I’ll remember that.” She smiled at him and continued on her way.
A quarter hour later she reached the path that descended down the cliff—not so much a cliff as a very steep hill. Slowly, she picked her way along the rocks and shrubbery. Tall grasses whispered in the breeze. The sun was warm, and she was glad she’d worn a light muslin frock. She stumbled, but caught herself by grasping the side of a large rock. Lucky I wore sturdy walking boots, too.
Another several minutes of painstaking navigation saw her finally at the base of the hill. The dirt had gradually given way to sand, and her boots sank into the soft ground.
The ocean was still dozens of feet away, but it rhythmically lapped at the shore. She stared, entranced, at the gentle waves rolling over each other and licking up the sand. The sea was more than just vast; it was powerful and beautiful and filled the air with sound and smell.
To the left were boats on the periphery of Portscatho. To the right were rocks with a bevy of seabirds flying overhead. In the distance was an endless stretch of blue, though she supposed France was somewhere out there.
After several minutes, she tore her gaze from the sea and looked up the beach toward Portscatho. Maybe fifty yards distant was a cluster of flat rocks. A woman was kneeling near one of them. Curious, Philippa made her way in that direction. As she neared, she recognized Miss Chandler.
“Miss Chandler,” she called, “good morning!”
Miss Chandler turned and shaded her eyes. Then she stood. “Good morning, Lady Philippa. What a pleasure to meet you here.”
Philippa came to stand next to her and looked down at the pools of water surrounding the rocks. “What are you looking at?”
“Starfish, anemones, and such.”
Indeed, the shallow pools contained black and iridescent shelled things, colorful anemones with delicate fringe waving in the water, huge-eyed fish with dark spots, brightly colored starfish.
Miss Chandler kneeled again and touched a starfish. “I never tire of finding such treasures.” She looked up at Philippa. “Do you want to touch one?”
Why not? Lord only knew when she’d ever get another chance. She knelt beside Miss Chandler. “What does it feel like?”
“See for yourself.”
Philippa touched the starfish and found it quite bumpy, but firm. Not at all slimy as she might’ve suspected. Miss Chandler touched an anemone and it swiftly closed up. Philippa jumped, but Miss Chandler laughed, pulling her fingers away.
“Did that hurt you?” Philippa asked, wiping her fingers on her skirt.
Miss Chandler laughed. “Not at all.”
Philippa smiled. Her companion’s delight was quite contagious. “Do you miss London?”
“Not in the slightest, which is why I never returned. That, and Father wouldn’t have me in my ruined state. But even if he had, I wouldn’t have left.” She looked out at the horizon, her gaze wistful, her lips curved up in satisfaction. “I love the sea.”
“Why?”
“It makes me feel insignificant.” At Philippa’s frown, she continued. “In the best way. It reminds me my problems are small and relatively meaningless. It helped me recover from Nigel’s death and my part in it.”
Philippa nodded slowly, appreciating the sentiment, but she was still so curious about what had really happened with Nigel and how Ambrose had sustained that scar. “What do you mean by your ‘part’? And how did Ambrose get that scar on his shoulder?”
Miss Chandler’s gaze sharpened. “You don’t think I caused it?”
Goodness, Philippa had made it sound that way, and that hadn’t been her intent. Philippa rushed to reassure her. “No. I was just thinking about it and thought I’d ask you. Ambrose is frustratingly close-mouthed. I’ve tried to show him he can trust me, but he’s buried under a mountain of self-recrimination.”
“Can you blame him?”
No, she couldn’t.
Miss Chandler shaded her eyes from the sun and looked beyond Philippa. “Here he comes now.” She dropped her hand and focused on Philippa. “I should go before he gets here.”
Miss Chandler was several yards away before Ambrose arrived. He stared after her departing figure. “Who was that?”
Philippa tensed, wondering what his reaction would be. “Miss Chandler.”
His eyes shuttered. “Did you just meet?” He continued to stare after her.
“We met in town last week. The day after I arrived.”
He turned his gaze to hers. He looked surprised. “You didn’t mention it.”
She arched a brow at him. “I thought you preferred to avoid discussion of the past.”
He nodded once. “I’m… How did you find her?”
“Did you know she’s to be married in a few weeks?”
His brows shot up, and he looked down the beach once more. “I did not.”
Philippa waited patiently, though she wondered what he was thinking. Was he sorry he hadn’t gotten a chance to greet her? Was he glad she was getting married? “You haven’t seen her?”
He turned his head to gaze out at the sea. “No. I didn’t want to.” He moved his attention to Philippa and she shivered at the intensity in his eyes. “You understand what happened with her? There are no good memories. Knowing she lives here is one of the reasons I never came back.”
Philippa wanted to soothe him, touch him, tell him she understood, but she did nothing. This was more than he’d ever given her. More than she’d dared hope for. She wound her fingers together in a tight grip. “She was showing me the tidal pools.”
He looked down at the water amongst the rocks. “And what do you think of them?”
“They’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The Roseland Peninsula is astonishing.”
He nodded. “Do you want to put your feet in the ocean?”
She glanced at the waves hitting the shore. “I don’t know. Do I?”
“You really should, since you’re here.” His gaze turned mock-stern. “However, I must warn you, it’s quite cold.”
She laughed softly. “Then why do it?”
He arched a brow at her, and giddy sensations raced up and down her body. This was her Ambrose. “Because you�
��ve never put your feet in the ocean.” He took her hand and guided her to a rock. “Sit.”
She perched on the edge of the rock. He kneeled before her, and her heart beat faster. His hands came under the hem of her gown and unlaced her boot. It was a fairly innocuous manner of touching someone, but she felt every brush of his fingers, every whisper of his movements as a seductive caress.
He moved to the second boot and, once removed, deposited both beside the rock. Then he reached up to her knee where her stockings were tied, and Philippa nearly melted into her own tidal pool.
This touch was far more intimate. Still utilitarian, but it bore the promise of so much more. He pulled the cotton down her calf. The fabric slid along her skin. Sparks of anticipation shot up her leg. Heat bloomed between her thighs.
When his fingers found the ties of her second stocking, he looked up. Their gazes connected and locked. She saw heat and need, an exact mirror of what she felt. How easy it would be to launch herself into his arms, but she kept herself rigid. She was deathly afraid of frightening him away, of ruining this moment.
The tapes came free, tickling the back of her knee. His fingers trailed along her flesh, slowly dragging the stocking down. He wasn’t removing her stockings, he was driving her mad with desire. Did he have any idea?
He took both stockings and set them atop her boots. Then he stood, breaking the trance.
She refused to feel disappointed. This was progress. He wasn’t shutting her out, and he wasn’t leaving. In fact, he was removing his own boots and stockings.
A moment later, he was barefooted. He wiggled his feet in the sand and smiled. A genuine smile of joy that nearly drew a sob from Philippa’s throat. Swallowing, she forced herself to remain serene.
He took her hand. “Come.”
She stood. “Oh!” The sand was warm and soft against her feet. Tiny granules found their way between her toes, creating friction as she wiggled them as he had. She looked up at him and giggled.
“Feels strange?” he asked.
