by Mary Balogh
She would do nothing except surrender. She knew exactly what to do to bring him crashing to pleasure, but she would do nothing. She was Viola Thornhill tonight, not that other woman. But she did not know what to do with her own desire.
Please. Please, please.
“Please.”
He had been suckling her other breast, but he lifted his head at the sound of her voice and gazed into her eyes.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Let me spread your cloak on the grass. And roll my coat for a pillow.”
He was taking it off as he spoke. He arranged their bed while she knelt and watched, and then stood to undress while she lay down and waited for him. He was even more beautiful without his clothes, she saw as first his waistcoat and shirt and then his stockings and breeches came off. But she said nothing and made no move to touch him. She rested her hands palm-down on either side of her naked body. He removed his underdrawers and knelt down beside her. He was large. She could see that even in the near-darkness. A pulse throbbed between her legs. She did not want to wait any longer. She willed him not to want any more foreplay.
“Viola.” He leaned over her and spoke against her lips. “I want to be inside you. Now.”
“Yes.” She spread her legs on the cloak as he came over her. He settled between them and on top of her. He was heavy. His weight was almost robbing her of breath. The ground was hard against her back. She had never before done this anywhere except on a bed, but she was glad the whole experience was to be different. She was glad the ground was hard. She was glad there were stars above. She was glad she could hear the sound of rushing water.
He slid his hands beneath her, and she raised her knees and braced her feet on the ground. He came into her with one deep, hard thrust. He held very still in her for a few moments before sliding his hands away and lifting some of his weight onto his forearms. He looked down into her eyes and touched his mouth to hers.
She was aching and throbbing from her thighs up to her throat. She wanted to wrap her legs about his, tighten her inner muscles about his hardness, and spread her hands against his back so that she could arch upward and touch his chest with her hardened nipples. But she lay still and relaxed.
“Tell me it feels good,” he whispered.
“It feels good.”
“I want to go now,” he said, his voice tense and breathless. “I must go. But I want it to be good for you.”
“It will be good.” She lifted her hands from the cloak and spread them lightly over his buttocks. “It is good.”
He came hard and fast then. It was over within moments. But it did not matter. Her pain reached a point beyond which it could not be borne. She cried out and the stars above her shattered into a million shards of light. At the same moment she heard him call out his own release.
The sense of peace and well-being that followed negated any discomfort the hard ground at her back and his full relaxed weight might have brought. She listened to the water flowing past the bank and watched the stars re-form themselves above her head and hugged the moment to herself with all her will.
He inhaled deeply and released the breath on a sigh before rolling to one side of her. She thought it was over, but he reached for the blanket, pulled it over them, and drew her against him, one arm pillowing her head. She breathed in the scents of cologne and sweat and man and relaxed. His body was warm and damp against hers. She thought she might sleep if she just concentrated upon the moment and did not allow her thoughts to drift to tomorrow or any more distant future. The present moment is, after all, the only moment we ever have, she thought.
She was at the point of dozing when one reality of what had just happened struck her with absolute certainty.
He had been a virgin.
Ferdinand did not sleep. He had been a dismal failure, he thought. If he had timed himself—he had not done so, thank God—he would surely have discovered the humiliating truth that the whole thing had been over within one minute. Less than a minute from mount to release. He felt mortified indeed. He just had not fully imagined what it would be like to feel her soft, wet heat sheathing him. He had thought he knew, but his expectations had fallen lamentably short of reality.
He had wanted to be gentle with her. He had wanted her to feel that he was doing something for her, not just for his own pleasure. He had wanted her to feel less like a whore and more like a woman.
Instead he had gone off half-cocked, like a damned schoolboy.
She had burrowed her head into the hollow between his neck and shoulder and appeared to be sleeping, which was at least a promising sign. He kissed the top of her head and twined his free hand into the luxurious thickness of her hair.
There was a certain feeling of relief despite his embarrassment. He was twenty-seven years old. He had known when he was still a boy that he could never marry, since there was no such thing as marital fidelity among his own class. The idea of marital infidelity had always sickened him. But it was only when he was older—when he was at university, in fact—that he had learned to his alarm that while he had perfectly healthy sexual urges, he could not satisfy them with a whore. He had tried a few times. He had gone to brothels with his friends and ended up paying the girl of his choice on each occasion for nothing more than her time. The thought of the physical act without any emotional component had chilled him. The thought of doing it with a whore, who knew no sentiment at all, gave him the shudders.
He had begun to think there must be something wrong with him. At least now he knew he could do it. In under one minute—he grimaced. He had probably broken some record, for God's sake.
He wished he could have made it better for her. She had needed comforting, and he had offered comfort. It had been more than just sex. Yes, he was sure it had.
“Mmmm,” she said on a long sigh as she moved and stretched against him.
He felt the stirrings of renewed desire and smiled when she tipped back her head to look up at him, the moonlight on her face.
“Viola.”
“Yes.”
He half expected her to berate him with his inadequacy as a lover, but she looked almost happy. He could feel himself growing hard again. She must feel it too—her body was against his—but she did not draw away. He wanted to be inside her again, to feel that feeling again, to see if he could make it last longer than one minute.
And then she did move—to kneel up beside him. He felt foolish. Once had obviously been more than enough for her.
“Lie on your back,” she said.
At first he felt alarmed. The moonlight showed her in all her glorious beauty—firm, voluptuous breasts, small waist, very feminine hips, shapely legs, her hair a dark, loose cloud about her face and down her back. But the moonlight lit her face too, and there was nothing there of the contemptuous half smile he feared to see. She was not playing the part of courtesan.
He turned onto his back and she came astride him and leaned over him, setting her hands flat on the grass beside his head. Her hair fell about him like a fragrant curtain. He felt the tips of her breasts touch his chest as she kissed him openmouthed, and he hardened into full arousal.
He kissed her back, his hands spread over the out-sides of her thighs. He did not know what else to do. He did not know where to touch her or how. Had she been a novice, like him, he could have experimented until he learned what best pleased her. But he was afraid of being gauche.
She knelt upright even as he was thinking it, spread her legs wide, caressed him lightly with both hands, and brought herself down onto him until she was sitting on him, fully impaled. He inhaled slowly, fighting for control.
Then she moved, her fingertips light against his stomach, her head tipped back while she rode to a rhythm that pulsed with the beating of his blood. He bent his legs at the knee to brace his feet on the ground, and he rode with her.
There could be no greater sensual delight. While he pulsed with desire, with the urge to drive up into her until his seed sprang, he also felt powerful, detached fr
om his need, in control of it. He wanted the act to last a long, long time. All night. He wanted this to go on forever. He wanted her forever. He watched her. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted. He was giving her pleasure, he thought, and the realization made him happy. He was redeeming himself.
He listened to the rhythmic suck and pull of their mating, to her labored breathing and his own, and wondered how she could hold her legs wide for so long without cramping. He massaged his hands over her thighs, and she lifted her head to smile down at him. Somehow it was the most intimate moment of all.
And then she did something that had him gripping her thighs. She clenched inner muscles about him as he reached the peak of his thrust and then relaxed them as he withdrew… and clenched again as he entered. He had never in his life known such exquisite agony. The rhythm became faster and more frenzied until she broke it suddenly, holding still when he expected her to move, relaxing her muscles when he expected her to clench them.
He spilled in one hot thrust and fell off the edge of the world.
Somewhere out in the vast reaches of the universe came the echo of her wordless cry. And two spoken words.
“My love.”
In his voice.
When he awoke, they were both tangled in her cloak and the blanket. His feet were chilly, though the rest of him was warm—he had her for an extra blanket. She was still on top of him. He was still inside her. A strand of her hair was tickling his nose.
“Are you awake?” he asked.
“No.” Her voice was sleepy.
“Well.” He chuckled. “You have won our wager in fine fashion, have you not?”
He knew he had made a mistake as soon as the words were out. She did not stiffen. She did not move at all or say anything. But he knew he had said the wrong thing. He tried again, his voice more gentle.
“Pinewood is yours,” he said. “I could not deprive you of it, you see. I will give you the deed in the morning. I'll have the legalities attended to in London and then it will be official. Your home is yours, Viola. For the rest of your life. Your nightmare is over.” He kissed the top of her head.
She still said nothing.
“I'll be relinquishing every claim to Pinewood,” he said. “Winning it at cards does not quite match the promise you were made, does it?”
“But the winning of wagers is more important to you than almost anything else,” she said, speaking at last. “This is one you have lost. I have won. I knew I had a better chance to seduce you as Viola Thornhill than as Lilian Talbot. But I could have done it as either one tonight, could I not? You did not stand a chance. It was a foolish wager to agree to.”
He felt a lurching of doubt. But dammit, he had hurt her. He had said the wrong thing. They had been making love, for God's sake. The wager had been the farthest thing from his mind. And from hers too, he was quite sure.
“I was not thinking of the wager when I came out here after you, Viola,” he said.
“Then the more fool you.” She disengaged herself from him as she spoke and pushed up onto her knees to lift herself off him. She gathered up her clothes, stood up, and began to dress. “I had a week. I did not need that long. I could have bedded you anytime during the past five days. You have lost, Lord Ferdinand. I wonder.” She looked down at him, pushing her hair to one side so that her face would not be in shadow. “Do you feel cheated? Or do you feel that what you have had from me tonight more than compensates you for the loss of Pinewood?”
The devil! Dammit! It was Lilian Talbot who was looking down at him as she straightened her dress at the shoulder. That ghastly half smile was playing about her lips. And her voice had become a velvet caress.
“I believe,” he said curtly, “we were making love.”
She laughed softly. “Poor Lord Ferdinand,” she said. “It was the illusion of love. What it was in reality was very good lust. Very good for you, that is. Men always like to believe that their prowess in bed can crumble the defenses of even the most hardened whore. It is necessary for their pride's sake to give the impression that one has received as much pleasure as one has given. Did I do well?”
“Viola—” he said sharply.
“I am a very hardened whore,” she said. “You were foolish to tangle with me.”
It had been an act? The whole of it? And in his foolish inexperience he had thought they were making love? Was it possible? Or was she merely covering up for the hurt of being told that she had won their wager? He had intended to follow up by telling her that it had been his intention all day simply to give her Pinewood.
He watched her go without even attempting to call after her or follow her. He had already stuffed one of his shoes into his mouth. He would doubtless ram the other one in too if he tried to rectify the situation. He had so little experience in dealing with the sensibilities of women. He had expected her to be amused at the reminder of their stupid wager. He had expected her to laugh.
Dammit, was he mad ?
He was going to have some major humble pie to eat in the morning, he thought ruefully. He had better sit up for what remained of the night composing some speech that would mollify her and keep his footwear out of his mouth. Not that her good opinion should matter a great deal to him. It would not take long, after all, to hand over the deed and the note he would sign and have his valet witness even before he went down to breakfast. He would leave right after breakfast. He might even eat at the Boar's Head. It would not really matter what she thought of him.
Except that it mattered one devil of a lot.
And the prospect of leaving tomorrow and never seeing her again caused his stomach to clench into knots of panic.
Dammit!
He had never expected to fall in love. He had never wanted to. By what joke of fate, then, had he fallen in love with a notorious ex-courtesan?
And fallen hard too.
Goddammit all to hell!
15
Viola had left her cloak and the blanket behind. But she did not feel the chill of the night air as Y she hurried along the river path, scrambled up through the trees and over the lawn, and half ran along the terrace.
You have won our wager in fine fashion, have you not?
And she had won it. Except that the wager had been that she would seduce him. That had not been seduction.
But to him it had. To him what had happened had been nothing but sex. What had she expected?
My love, he had said against her ear.
So what? That was just the sort of nonsense many men babbled in sexual climax. Oh, Sally Duke had been quite right. One must never, never equate sex with love. No matter what passionate declarations a man might utter while in bed, sex was simply physical gratification to him, the woman only the instrument of his pleasure.
Viola made her way to the servants' quarters as soon as she had entered the house.
He was going to give her the deed to Pinewood in the morning. Her winnings, her pay for the services she had rendered twice down by the river. She would no longer owe her home to the dead Earl of Bamber, but to Lord Ferdinand Dudley, satisfied client.
No!
She tapped on Hannah's door and eased it open, hoping not to startle her maid into screaming.
“Don't be alarmed,” she whispered. “It's just me.” Exactly the words he had used a few hours ago, she remembered, wincing.
“Miss Vi?” Hannah shot up in bed. “What is it? What has he done to you?”
“Hannah,” she said, still whispering, “we are leaving. You will need to get dressed and pack your things. If you finish before I do, you may come and help me, if you please. But come quietly.”
“Leaving?” Hannah said. “When? What time is it?”
“I have no idea,” Viola admitted. “One o'clock? Two? The stagecoach passes above the village very early, and it does not stop unless there are passengers waiting by the side of the road. We must be there.”
“What happened?” Hannah peered at her in the darkness. “Did he hurt you? Did he—”
“He did not hurt me,” Viola said. “There is no time for talk, Hannah. We must catch the stage. I cannot stay here another day. We will take only what we can carry. I do not want anyone to know we are leaving.”
She left before Hannah had a chance to ask any more questions, and hurried in the direction of her own room. There was no sign of him as she went. Perhaps he had remained down by the river. Perhaps he was sleeping again. Perhaps she had serviced him that well, she thought bitterly.
She would not cry. There was nothing on this earth worth shedding a tear over, least of all her own foolish heart.
It was surprising how quickly one could become attached to a place, Ferdinand thought. He was standing at the window of his bedchamber, looking out over the box garden and the lawns and trees beyond. Over the tops of the trees he could just see the spire of the church at Trellick.
He did not want to leave.
But his bags were packed, and he was dressed in his riding clothes. Bentley had just shaved him. While he was having breakfast—though he was not at all hungry—his carriage would be loaded up and would set off for London with Bentley. His groom would accompany it on Ferdinand's horse. He himself would drive his curricle.
He should perhaps have left earlier. She probably would not want to see him again, and it would be just as well if he did not see her. But he owed it to her to place the deed of the manor in her hand and also the letter he had written, assuring the world in case of his sudden death within the next few days that he had given her Pinewood Manor. He needed to explain that even if last night had not happened he would still be giving it to her and would still be leaving, never to bother her again.
He did not want to leave.
It pained him to think that he would see her only once more. It was just that she had been his first sex partner, he tried to tell himself, and that he could not imagine bringing himself to do it with anyone else after her. But he was not sure he was being truthful.
