More or Less a Countess

by Anna Bradley

  He shook his head, but Violet moved quickly then, before he could pull away. She wrapped her legs around his waist and arched against the tantalizing column of hard flesh nestled between her thighs.

  Nick threw his head back and sucked a sharp breath between his teeth. “Violet…”

  He reached behind him to untangle her legs, but she locked her ankles behind his waist, wrapped her arms around his neck, and held on.

  Nick caught her wrists and pinned her hands over her head with a growl. “You think to play with me? Damn you, Violet, this isn’t a game.”

  This isn’t a game, Miss Somerset.

  That day they’d gone to the Hunterian Museum, he’d said the same thing. He’d insisted desire wasn’t a game, and warned her not to tempt him…

  Right before she’d shamelessly ridden him to release.

  A gentleman’s arousal isn’t something to play with…

  He’d begged her to stop, had tried to push her away, but then he’d become so aroused he could no longer think of anything but his desire, and he’d given himself over to her. He’d been hers in that moment, and even now, as he struggled with her, his hips were moving, and he was growing harder with every nudge between her legs.

  He’d be hers again.

  She cinched her legs around his hips and bit down gently on his earlobe. “I want you, Nick, and I know you want me. I can feel it. I can feel you.” She dragged her nails over his chest and down his bare stomach to the waistband of his breeches. “You taught me about a man’s arousal. Do you remember?” She twisted the buttons on his falls and slid her hand under the loose fabric. “I know you want to be inside me.”

  Both of them gasped when her hand slid lower and her palm brushed against the head of his cock. Nick pumped into her hand with a helpless groan, and Violet’s eyes widened at the sensation of this hot, rigid part of him pushing into her fist. She’d never touched him like this before, so intimately. His ragged breath in her ear, his swollen flesh cradled in her hand—dear God, it was heady, and her fingers tightened instinctively around him as she began to stroke him.

  Another desperate groan left his lips. “Violet…ah God, yes, sweetheart…”

  At his panting moans and frantic thrusts, heat rushed through Violet until she was as aroused as he was. She tugged at his breeches in a frenzy to get closer to him, and by the time she’d dragged the fabric down his hips there was no more talk of games, and no more hesitation. Nick reached down, spread her thighs apart, and slid into her—just a few inches, but it was enough to make Violet go still, amazed at the strange sensation of him moving inside her.

  “Don’t want to hurt you…” Beads of sweat formed in the hollow of Nick’s throat, and he was panting with the struggle to remain still. “Can’t bear to hurt you…”

  Violet’s heart melted at his tender concern, but she took his face in her hands and held him until his eyes met hers. “I need you. It hurts me not to have you.” She hitched her legs higher on his hips, and his eyes closed as he slid in another inch. “Please, Nick. I need you.”

  He crushed his lips to hers as his hips snapped forward, and he surged inside her with a single, forceful thrust. Violet gasped at the sharp pain, but it was mere moments before it faded into a soft warmth, and then there was only Nick, his arms wrapped around her and his body buried deep inside hers. She scratched her nails lightly down his sweat-slicked back and turned her head to murmur in his ear. “More.”

  He took her lips in another passionate kiss, and then…

  Then he began to move.

  Restrained, shallow thrusts at first, but faster and deeper when broken pleas began to fall from her lips. Violet writhed against him as the tight knot inside her began to unravel in waves of exquisite heat. Nick held her hips to the bed when she began to meet his thrusts, and took her harder, coaxing her toward the peak with every sinuous movement of his powerful body until she shattered beneath him. The moment he felt her release he tensed, then he buried his face in her neck with a harsh groan as his body convulsed with pleasure over hers.

  He collapsed on top of her a moment later, and Violet wrapped herself around him, holding him to her as tightly as she could as their breathing quieted.

  For Violet it was enough to be close to him, her fingers toying with his damp hair, his chest pressed to hers and their hearts beating in time together, but after a moment Nick stirred, then rolled away from her onto his side. He propped his head on his hand and gazed down at her, searching her eyes, and even in the muted light Violet could see doubt still haunted him—the shadows of it flickered in those gray depths, and with them a truth she couldn’t deny.

  She had his body, but she still didn’t have his trust.

  Without his trust, she’d never have his heart.

  Despair threatened, but instead of allowing it to suck her into its dark depths, she urged Nick’s face down to hers, and soft words rushed from her lips. She hardly knew what she said, but it didn’t matter. It only mattered they were words of reassurance, and forgiveness, and love, and that every single one of them was true.

  “I noticed your eyes first. Such an extraordinary silvery-gray, and with those black irises.” She laughed softly. “Every night before I fall asleep, I think about your eyes and try to decide what color they are. Gray, or silver, like a bird’s wing? But they’re clearer than that, aren’t they? Like water in sunlight.”

  His eyes drifted closed, and Violet leaned toward him and pressed gentle lips to his eyelids. “No gentleman I’ve ever known smells as divine as you. You smell like amber and fresh wood. Did you know that? Your scent makes me dream of forests.”

  A shudder passed through him, and his head fell back against the pillow.

  But Violet didn’t give up. She lay her palm flat against his chest, over his heart. “And here, Nick. You’re good and kind, right here inside your heart.”

  She stroked his hair and murmured to him for hours, until his chest began to rise and fall in slow, even breaths, and she knew he’d fallen asleep.

  Violet didn’t sleep—not for a long time, and when her eyes did drift closed at last, she dreamed of clear water in sunlight, and a love as deep as the deepest forest.

  And prayed it was deep enough.

  * * * *

  It was dark when Nick woke.

  Before he even opened his eyes, he knew everything was different. Violet was next to him, curled against his side, her long lashes resting against her smooth cheeks, and he thought, as he always did when he watched her sleep, that she looked like an angel.

  Like a dream.

  But she was no dream—not this time. She was here, in his bed, her warm body pressed against his, her hair lying in tangled curls on his pillow.

  And she was his.

  He turned his head to the window, surprised to see only darkness. They’d slept for hours. A maid must have come in at some point because a fire had been laid, but it had long since burned to embers, and its faint glow wasn’t enough to chase away the pressing darkness.

  Nick slid out from under the coverlet and rose from the bed, careful not to wake Violet. He padded across the room, squinting in the dark, but his dressing gown was draped over the end of the bed, as always, and he snatched it up and shoved his arms into the sleeves.

  He needed time away from her, away from her tempting body and her seductive warmth, or else he’d take her again. God knew it was tempting to bury his fears and doubts, much as he’d buried himself inside her sweet body tonight, but his heart was still wary, even if his cock wasn’t.

  He needed a drink.

  He fumbled in the dark, tripping over discarded clothing as he went. He’d nearly reached the door when he stepped on something, and looked down to find he’d trod upon Violet’s gown. He took it up and discovered there was something in the pocket—something square and hard. Curious, Nick reached in, pulled the object ou
t, and held it up to the faint light of the fire to see what it was.

  Violet’s sketchbook.

  She’d taken it with her everywhere since they’d arrived at Ashdown Park, and she was forever scribbling in it. Nick hesitated, but then he slipped the book into the pocket of his banyan and crept from the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  He didn’t open the book until he’d reached his study and had a full glass of whiskey at his elbow. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find inside those pages, but the whiskey seemed a good idea, just in case.

  On the first page of the book was a sketch of him, mounted on his horse and surrounded by a sodden field. His lips were pulled into a sulky line, and his hair was damp with rain. She must have taken it the day after they’d arrived at Ashdown Park, when she’d wheedled him into escorting her over the grounds. Despite his pout, he looked rather vigorous and lively in the sketch, which was odd, since he didn’t recall having been terribly enthusiastic about that outing.

  Nick lifted his glass to take a deep swallow of his whiskey, but then set it aside again as he turned to the next page, blinking in surprise when he found it was another sketch of him, this one a close drawing of his face. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a softness in his eyes he would have thought utterly out of character for him.

  He turned to the next page, then the next, and then he quickly flipped through every page, his eyes widening with disbelief.

  The book was filled with sketches of him.

  Some of the drawings were rough, and there were a few of just his eyes, or his mouth, but there were dozens of them. Close sketches of his face, profiles, and detailed sketches of him in settings around the estate. There was one of him in the portrait gallery, strolling among the paintings, and another of him in the attics, pulling a cloth off a portrait of his mother that had once hung in the dining room. After her death his father couldn’t bear to look at it, and he’d had it packed up and stored away, but Violet had persuaded Nick to bring it down and re-hang it. There was a drawing of him in the carriage, and another in the churchyard in the village, pointing up at the steeple.

  And then, at the end of the book was a sketch she’d taken this morning, when they’d been together in the conservatory. It was only half-finished, but something about it made Nick’s breath catch.

  His arms were crossed over his chest and he was staring out the window, his face wistful. What had he been thinking of when he’d been staring out that window this morning? What had put that look on his face, that look of such yearning—

  Her. He’d been thinking of her.

  The book slipped from his fingers and fell to the desk.

  All these drawings…

  She must have started the book on the day after they’d arrived at Ashdown Park, because the first sketch was from the day he’d escorted her over the estate, and there was a sketch for every single day since. All this time he’d been berating her, hurting her, and she…

  Had she intended to give the book to him?

  He’d hardly thought the question before he realized he already knew the answer.

  She’d done this for him.

  A gift. An impossible gift, one he never dreamed he could ever receive, from anyone.

  Himself.

  But the sketches were of him, and yet not him at the same time. That man in the conservatory—he wasn’t The Selfish Rake.

  Nick’s hands shook as he picked up the book again and turned back to the final drawing. There were lines of grief etched into this man’s face, but there was strength and resolve as well, and even though his eyes were shadowed with pain, there was kindness and patience in them.

  Was this…was this the way she saw him?

  The Selfish Rake.

  She’d sworn over and over she hadn’t thought of him that way almost from the first moment she’d known him, and yet he’d refused to hear her, refused to listen, refused to believe.

  “The Selfish Rake”—perhaps it had struck at his heart not because he believed it was how Violet saw him, but because it was how he saw himself.

  But now…

  She’d shed light on two years of smothering darkness. Gibbets, ghosts, the dreary streets of rain-soaked London—she’d turned them all on their heads, and given him a new way to see them.

  Was it so unbelievable to imagine she could help him change the way he saw himself?

  And if he could do that, if he could be strong enough to believe he was a worthy man—not Graham, or Lord Derrick, but a worthy man in his own right, like the man in these drawings—then surely there was still hope for him and Violet?

  He thumbed slowly through the pages again, but this time when he looked at the sketches he didn’t only see his own face.

  He saw hers.

  He saw her as she’d been tonight, with her hair cascading over her shoulders, her face alight with hope as he moved inside her. He heard her—the way she sighed for him, her cries as she shattered so sweetly beneath him, and later, when she’d whispered in his ear…

  Your scent makes me dream of forests.

  Nick slipped the book back into his pocket and left his study, his whiskey still untouched on his desk. When he reached his bedchamber he crept to the bed and slipped under the covers. Violet murmured in her sleep, but she burrowed into him and nestled her head against his chest.

  Nick pressed his lips to her hair and settled her against him, just as if he’d never left her at all.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Four weeks later…

  Nick woke with a sleepy smile and reached to the other side of his bed, but instead of handfuls of warm, tempting wife, his arms closed on empty air.

  Where Violet should have been, he found only cold, deserted bedsheets.

  Damn it, where—

  “Good afternoon, Lord Dare.”

  Nick thrust his head out from under the cocoon of blankets, and every appendage that had been swollen with hope only moments before deflated at once. “Damn it, Gibbs. You’re not my wife.”

  “No, my lord. I’m afraid not. I beg your pardon for disappointing you.”

  “Disappointing me? You flatter yourself. It’s not a disappointment, it’s a bloody tragedy. Where the devil is my wife?” He’d fallen asleep with her cradled in his arms, and he preferred to wake up that way, as well.

  Gibbs hesitated. “I believe I overheard her lady’s maid, Bridget, tell Lady Westcott her mistress is indisposed this morning. Lady Westcott is with Lady Dare now.”

  “She’s indisposed again?”

  Violet had been indisposed a number of times over the past few weeks, and so fatigued she’d taken to resting in her bedchamber before dinner. This behavior was so unlike his vibrant, energetic wife Nick suspected illness wasn’t the cause of her discomfort at all, but until Violet confided in him, he forced himself to subdue the wild leap of hope in his heart.

  “Perhaps a quick wash, my lord, and simple attire for the day, so you may attend Lady Dare as soon as possible?”

  Nick glanced at Gibbs in surprise. “What, leave my bedchamber without a properly tied cravat, Gibbs? Have you lost your wits, man? People will think I’m a savage.”

  “Yes, my lord. I mean no, my lord. That is, no one could ever mistake your lordship for—”

  “For God’s sake, Gibbs. I’m only jesting. There’s no need to become flustered. I’ll attend Lady Dare after I’ve breakfasted and properly attired myself.” He didn’t want to encourage the notion he was so besotted with his wife he’d scurry from his bedchamber to go chasing her all about the house.

  Except…

  Nick glanced at the cold, empty place next to him in his bed.

  He was besotted with his wife. What was the use in pretending otherwise? She’d only left his bedchamber a few short hours ago and he already missed her. The truth was he’d go much farther than her
bedchamber to see her. He’d chase Violet from one end of Ashdown Park to the other if he had to.

  Or one end of England to the other, come to that.

  He was wildly, madly, frantically besotted with her. He could spend a lifetime with Violet and she’d never cease to surprise him. He could devote all his years to peeling back one intriguing layer after another in search of her elusive center, and she’d remain a mystery to him still, but he knew one thing with the kind of bone-deep certainty that wouldn’t be denied:

  He was besotted with her, and he had to tell her.

  He’d been careful these past few weeks not to make promises to Violet he wasn’t certain he could keep. It was only in the past week he’d realized he’d never fully lose his grief over Graham. The memories of his father, the other ghosts that haunted him—he’d never be completely free of those demons. He’d carry some of that sorrow with him always.

  And it didn’t matter.

  The only thing that mattered was Violet, and she’d never asked him to be perfect. She’d never asked him to be anyone other than who he was. All she’d ever wanted was him.

  He was hers. He had been from the start—he was just too confused to see it.

  He belonged here, with her. She was his life now, and those distractions he’d thought so important at one time—his mistress, his villa in Italy—they’d never been anything more than pale substitutes for a life he’d thought he wasn’t worthy to live.

  He’d wasted enough time on doubts and regrets. It was time for him to focus on his future with Violet, and even now his child might be growing in her belly…

  “Never mind the cravat, Gibbs. I’ve changed my mind. I will go to Lady Dare at once. No breakfast.” Nick threw off the coverlet, overwhelmed with the sudden urge to see his wife. “Just a wash, and fetch my clothes. Oh, and Gibbs? That matter we discussed, about the surprise for Lady Dare? You’ve seen to the details?”

  “Yes, my lord. The footmen will bring in the tables and shelving today, and the draperies and furnishings you requested.”