Inside the small room, Sutton lit the lamp, casting shadows on the walls, illuminating the bed and the chest of drawers, the only furniture in the room. He turned to set the lamp down and Chiara touched his arm, her voice husky. ‘Let me be clear. I want you to stay with me, Sutton.’ Heaven bless her directness. She thought he meant to leave, that he’d taken her request literally.
‘I know.’ His voice rivalled hers for huskiness. The walk to the apartment had not dimmed his ardour, but it had reasserted his sense of honour. It wasn’t enough for him to want this. She had to want this, too. ‘I mean to stay, if you’re sure?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve never been more sure.’
Sutton grinned. ‘Good. Me, too.’ Then, as if to demonstrate, he pulled his filthy shirt over his head and threw it into a corner and stood before her, bare-chested and ready. She came to him, tracing the contours of his chest with her finger, the touch of her sending a wave of heat through him.
‘You’re tan. I wondered about that,’ she breathed. She touched him, reverently, with awe as if she found him beautiful. He’d never thought of himself that way. Attractive, certainly. But beautiful? Worthy of a woman’s awe? It was heady to see himself through her eyes, this woman who had no doubt been courted by Italy’s finest men despite her claims to have not found love. It flattered him deeply that he would be her first naked man. Her first man. Period.
It did not escape him that for all her directness, she was as virginal as the other girls here. A young principessa from a Catholic Italy would be a virgin. It would be a paramount condition of her marriage to an Italian prince. He was cognisant, too, that there would be no Italian prince now. There would be him. Only him. He would be her first and last lover. The only man ever in her bed. He was that sure of them. That this was a decision neither of them had taken lightly. They both had too much at stake.
Untried she might be, but Chiara was not without curiosity. A glimmer of mischief sparked playfully in her eyes, her hands resting on the waistband of his breeches. ‘Are you tan everywhere?’
He answered with a playful smile of his own. ‘Let’s find out.’
* * *
He was tanned everywhere. And he was beautiful, this man who calmed mares and saved foals, this man who looked at her with play and passion in his gaze as he stood before her naked, his boots and breeches discarded. Her imagination already conjured a hundred erotic scenarios as her eyes roved the length of him: the sculpted muscle of his arms, the smooth strength of his chest, the leanness of his hips, his powerful thighs and what lay between them, that utterly masculine part of him, so rigid and hearty. Robust came to mind, as did beautiful once again. Roughly beautiful, a contrast to his elegant beauty, and a reminder that, at his core, all refinement stripped away, he was an earthy man. ‘How do you manage it? To be tan all over?’
‘I don’t spend my summers in London, for a start.’ Sutton smiled. Even his smile looked different naked. ‘I swim in the lake, I sail without my shirt on, there’s a hot spring I like not far from the stables. I take a dip in it after a long day.’
‘In short, you run around your property naked,’ she surmised with a laugh. She liked this peeling back of the layers of the proper gentleman. He was an outdoorsman, a nature lover, an animal lover, a man who, despite his strengths, was vulnerable in his own way.
‘Yes, I suppose you could say that.’ He laughed. ‘There’s no one here to see, usually. So why not?’ It was another reminder as to how much he must despise the intrusion of the house party on so many levels. It had upended everything about his life, from the grand scheme of it to his private, daily activities. ‘Some women find men with tans to be common, ungentlemanly.’
She stepped towards him, wanting to feel with her hands the power she’d seen with her eyes. ‘I am not one of them.’ Beneath the good looks, the fine clothes and finer manners, he was a lot like her. Elidh had not thought to encounter such qualities in a man when she’d begun this. And yet day by day, as he revealed a little more of himself to her, she discovered they were more and more alike in thought, in temperament, than she’d believed possible. She touched him then, her hands skimming the defined expanse of his chest, tracing the ridges and planes of his musculature in fascination. This was new territory. Women’s bodies, her body, didn’t have this definition of form. A kernel of fear lodged in her belly. She hadn’t her mother’s lushness of figure. Would he be disappointed in her? All her deficiencies came roaring back to her. It was easy to forget them when she was with him. He made her feel beautiful—so beautiful, in fact, that she’d nearly forgotten to think poorly of her slimness, her flatness.
His hand was on the ribbon of her bodice, his voice a low, seductive husk as he chuckled. ‘Your turn, I think. One of us is overdressed for the occasion.’ She was suddenly shy. She covered his hand and removed it from the ribbon. She’d not thought this through. There was little chance her lack of cleavage would escape notice now.
‘Did you think we’d make love with our clothes on?’ It was kindly said. Intuitively, she knew Sutton would never be cruel about intimacy. But it was exactly what she’d thought when she’d imagined it, when she’d mentally committed to it in the long afternoon of waiting. She’d thought to have him once before she lost him. She’d thought a lot of things. But not that she’d end up here in an apartment with all the privacy she could desire, a whole night spread out before her with Sutton. It was an embarrassment of riches as far as her fantasy went. Only, it seemed her fantasy had run ahead of her imagination. Her expression gave her away. She had indeed thought it might be managed clothed.
‘It’s not uncommon to think so,’ Sutton offered with a smile. ‘Many do, especially those of our class. I don’t recommend it, however.’ Of course not; he ran around his estate naked. ‘I don’t think there’s much quality to those sorts of interludes. Keeping one’s clothes on is efficient, speedy. I don’t like to apply those adjectives to lovemaking.’ He was kissing her again, small, tender kisses that started at her ear and ended at her throat, all designed to render her senseless, but not him. Sutton was the gentleman, even when he stood before her naked, his own commitment to this, to her, evident and ready. ‘Do you want this, Chiara?’
In that moment, Elidh hated that name. It had come to represent every lie that lay between them, everything that would one day soon drive them apart. She wanted to hear her name on his lips. He was not bedding the woman he thought she was. But this was the compromise she had to make, the price she had to pay if she wanted to have him. She could only have him as the Principessa and even then the ruse could not protect her for long.
She stepped back, her hand fingering the ribbon of her bodice in a nervous fidget. ‘I don’t want you to be disappointed.’ She would be honest in this, if nothing else.
He reached for her, untying, unlacing, loosening her ruined gown until it fell away. ‘You are a beautiful woman, Chiara, so elegantly turned out every day with your hair, your cosmetics, your clothes and jewels. You dazzle men effortlessly with all of that. But I pity the man who loves you for your hairstyles and clothes. That man doesn’t see your real beauty—your heart, your passion for living. That man misses the spark in your eye when you tease, when you play your guitar.’ His hands competently unlaced her corset and stripped away the last of her undergarments until she stood before him in all her honesty.
‘No, don’t cover yourself.’ He coaxed away her hands. ‘Let me look at you.’ His hands reached last for the few remaining pins in her hair, pulling them out one at a time. Her hair fell entirely free now, no longer half-up, half-down, no longer an unruly mess from the day’s exertions. ‘Your hair reminds me of soft butter,’ Sutton said as the last tress fell about her shoulders like a cloak. He held her gaze, his own, blue and hot, communicating his desire long before his words. ‘Come and lie beside me, Chiara.’ The low rumble of those words made her tremble with want. She slipped her hand into his and let him lead h
er to the bed. This room, this man, this moment, was the sum of the world. Nothing else mattered. She would think of nothing but these feelings. She would let nothing ruin this. Tonight, they could not hurt each other.
It wasn’t so much a lying beside one another as it was a covering, his gloriously muscled arms bracketing her head, taking his weight as his length enveloped her, the power of his body surrounding her. She was safe here beneath him, where nothing could touch her, not even the truth. His mouth, his hands made love to every inch of her; ears and lips, throat and neck, each breast in turn the recipient of his wicked tongue, his gentle mouth, as he sucked and licked. Although there was no gentleness in the reaction his lovemaking provoked. Her pulse raced, her body positively begged for more, each little gasp asking for more kisses, more caresses, more mouth, more hands, more him.
Sutton kissed her navel and looked up at her. It was a look meant to undo a woman, two hot, burning-blue coals looking up at her from her stomach. Elidh had never felt so completely on fire, never understood what it meant to burn until this moment. She gave a frustrated cry of pleasure partially fulfilled, partially denied. She only knew that she wanted and wanted and wanted.
* * *
Chiara writhed beneath him, fire writhed within him, passion’s flames licking at the very core of his restraint as he came up over her once more. They were both more than ready for this. This time, she opened for him, her legs bracketing him, hips, thighs and all, as his arms bracketed her head, taking his weight. They were mirrors of one another, their bodies cradling one another. He moved against her, his manhood strong and hard at her thigh, a reminder of his power, as his fingers worked at her entrance. He would be a considerate lover in all ways, from her comfort to her pleasure.
‘Are you ready for me?’ One last huskily voiced request for permission, for consent.
‘More than ready,’ came her whispered reply, a breathy rasp. He levered himself up once more and this time he took her, entering her slowly, his eyes closed against the exquisite torture of taking her, of feeling her stretching around him, her body welcoming him. This was sweet heaven and a sweet hell. He couldn’t go too fast, couldn’t stretch her too much too soon, no matter how his body wanted to rush.
He withdrew and pressed forward again and again, each effort bringing him closer to her core, closer to completion. He reached her core and felt her hips lift, welcoming him, wanting him. A begging mewl escaped her, her legs wrapped around him, holding him as she found his rhythm and joined him. A smile took her face as the pain of the newness, the presence of him, faded into pleasure.
He increased the tempo; desire had free rein now for them both. He felt the strain in his arms, in the clench of his buttocks as he thrust. His body tightened and he let release sweep him in a pounding wave that took them both, Chiara wrapped about him, legs at his waist, arms at his neck, her cries muffled against his shoulder for these extraordinary seconds. He closed his eyes and breathed deep, willing the seconds to slow and stretch, willing the pleasure to last as he held her.
Sutton was aware of everything in those precious moments—his world was a vibrant kaleidoscope of the senses. He felt the rapid rise and fall of her body, the race of her pulse and then its slowing as she recovered; smelled the sweet, tart scent of arousal on her skin as it mixed with his sweat. This was glorious in a way a purely physical coupling was not. She was his, would always be his, just as soon as he could marry her.
Sutton rolled on to his back, settling Chiara against his shoulder. He was the luckiest man alive. He held a princess in his arms, a woman he needed to marry for legalities, but a woman he wanted to marry for love. He’d not thought to find such a blessing. Yet here she was, an uninvited guest who’d dropped in unexpectedly with no intention of engaging in the game. It seemed too good to be true. He’d not believed in serendipity before. He was a man of science, but after tonight, he might have to rethink that.
Chapter Seventeen
The note was waiting for her when Elidh got back to her room the next morning, deliciously bleary-eyed, her mind still wrapped in fantasy’s fog from the night before, and the day. Had it only been a day? Had it only been a quick journey to the stable at the other end of the estate? It felt as if it had been a journey to the other end of the earth. Everything had changed and yet nothing had changed, nor could it. There was a bitter sweetness to the notion if she lived outside the moment.
Elidh hummed a bit to herself as she picked up the note, wondering and marvelling at how Sutton had managed to get a note up to the house without her knowing. Perhaps he’d written it in the night while she’d dozed.
Rosie emerged from her little chamber, groggy. ‘You’re back, I see. Does this mean Mr Keynes has proposed? I certainly hope so if you were gone all night,’ she harrumphed protectively.
‘I sent a note to tell you where I was,’ Elidh chided. ‘A mare was in labour with twins.’ She smiled just at the thought of it, remembering the colts as they’d left them this morning, satisfied and snuggled up against their mother, bellies full of milk. She and Sutton had checked on them before they’d ridden up to the house. This time the ride had been more leisurely and she’d been reluctant to see it end. She’d enjoyed the slow motion of his horse, the warmth of Sutton’s body about her in the crispness of the early summer morning. She was determined to enjoy the sensation of being with him for as long as she could before the real world intruded, which would be all too soon.
‘Don’t expect me to believe that’s all the two of you were doing, not with the way he looks at you and contrives to spend every daylight hour with you, and some not-so-daylight hours either.’ Rosie speared her with a knowing mother-hen look. ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter, now that he’s going to marry you.’
‘There’s been no talk of marriage,’ Elidh cut in. The sooner she could disabuse Rosie and her father of the idea, the better. ‘He will choose another. He has to. An Italian principessa isn’t practical for him.’
‘Since when has love ever been practical?’ Rosie unbuttoned her ruined gown. ‘We’ll have to throw it away, I don’t think I can get the stains out.’
‘Since now, Rosie. It’s not practical for him or for me. Father will have to face the fact that we can’t risk trying to sustain our ruse indefinitely.’ To try such a thing would hurt Sutton too badly. It was better for both parties if they left.
Rosie slipped off to the wardrobe to retrieve a morning dress and Elidh opened the envelope, a smile already playing at her lips as she wondered what she and Sutton might do today. She hoped it included a trip to the stables. She unfolded the note and froze, all idea of pleasure fading. The message was so entirely the opposite of what she’d anticipated she couldn’t comprehend it at first. She studied it, reread it. The note fluttered to the floor as she took an involuntary step back from it, so mortifying was it. ‘Rosie, Rosie!’ Elidh gasped, reaching behind her for the security of the bed and sitting down hard.
‘What is it, Lamb?’ Rosie came running, gowns draped over her arms.
‘Get Father. Someone knows.’
I know.
Two individually harmless words, but when put together and delivered in this context, they became a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands. Heaven forbid Sutton learned of her duplicity from someone else or that he learned of it at all. Sutton would be devastated. She would be devastated. He could not find out. Not now, when their time together was so short as it was. She only had, only wanted, a few more days. She might not be able to afford even that. There was nothing for it.
‘We have to leave,’ Elidh said as her father scanned the offending note. It wasn’t from Sutton. She’d found the courage to look at the note again and it was decidedly not his handwriting. Sutton’s writing had a firm, up-and-down stroke to it while this one was slanted left.
Her father looked up from the note sharply. ‘We will do no such thing.’ Elidh looked at him in disbelief. He couldn’t a
ctually be contemplating staying while the risk of being exposed lurked?
‘We cannot do otherwise,’ she argued. ‘We will lose everything. You now have your patron, Lord Wharton is willing to take on a playwright for the winter holidays.’
‘That is a temporary solution. We’d be throwing away a far bigger fish. Keynes is about to declare for you. We only have to brazen it out a little longer and we’ll have everything we’ve ever wanted.’
‘We don’t know that. It’s too big of a gamble.’ And not one she’d ever wanted to take. That it had got this far despite her best efforts was a mystery to her and an even larger worry. If he was about to declare, it was all the more reason to run now while they could.
Her father came to her, kneeling and taking her hands. ‘Daughter, what do we have if we walk away now? A patron, perhaps. We have what’s left of the rent money and nowhere to go. How long do you think that will last? Then, we’ll be back where we started—looking for a supporter.’
‘I don’t know,’ Elidh said honestly, casting her mind about for options. ‘We could look for work. I could wait tables in a pub, we could live over a stable until we have saved enough for a cottage. Rosie can go back to Upper Clapton.’ Living out in the country was simpler, cheaper than in town, although there’d be no avenue for finding another patron hidden away in the country. But there’d also be no chance of Sutton finding her.
‘I will not!’ Rosie was indignant. ‘Maybe I could find work, too, in a pub or with a seamstress in a small town.’
‘We could sell some of these dresses, the paste jewels. It would gain us a little time until we found a place to settle and some work,’ Elidh improvised. It wasn’t much of a plan. She was grasping at straws here.
‘Sell your mother’s gowns?’ Her father rose, affronted. ‘Settling? That’s what it would be, all right. Is that what you want? To disappear into the country, scraping for a living in a tiny cottage, working? Do you even know what you’re suggesting? Waiting tables? Sewing for others? This is not the glamour of the stage where we practise by day and become gods at night. This is menial labour you’re talking about.’
Tempted By His Secret Cinderella (Allied At The Altar Book 3) Page 15
