by Alice Gaines
He held his breath and counted backward from one hundred. That didn’t work, so he tried counting backward by threes. Hopeless. He’d just have to endure this until he could either get away from her or make love to her.
“Come on, lad,” Perkins said after what seemed like an eternity. “Ain’t no one back here.”
“The constable said to search.”
“And where’s the constable? Inside where it’s warm, that’s where. And that’s where I’m going, too.”
The other man heaved a sigh loud enough to be heard all the way up on the roof. “You’re right, I guess.”
“’Course I am. Let’s go back inside.”
More shuffling footsteps sounded, only these were headed back toward the house. The door opened and then closed again, and they were finally alone.
Philip stepped back from Eve, his hands on her shoulders. Her breasts still rose and fell, and her eyes still held the warmth of passion in them. She’d never seemed more beautiful nor more desirable, and he had to get them away from there before he lost his head and took her on the roof of Lord Harrington’s rear entryway.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
She put a hand over her bosom and nodded in the affirmative.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“How will we get out of the garden?”
“There should be a gate in the wall that leads to the alley behind the house. If it’s locked, I should be able to scale it and get both of us over.”
She pointed over his shoulder toward the edge of the roof. “That looks like an arbor.”
He walked over to that corner and discovered that, indeed, it was an arbor. It appeared sturdy, and if they took care not to be stuck by the rose twining up it, they should be able to climb down easily enough. Philip went first and then reached up to help her descend. With both of them firmly on the ground, Philip took her hand and led her across the garden to freedom.
They made it to an inn, finally. Eve had never endured a cab ride so infernally long in her life. Despite Wesley’s constant demands that the driver hurry, the fellow and his ancient horse had plodded along, hitting every hole and stone in the street to jangle Eve’s over-excited nerves into a frenzy. Eventually, they’d simply given up on waiting and had fallen on each other to continue what they’d started on the Harringtons’ roof. They’d reached such a fevered pitch that they almost hadn’t noticed when they arrived at the inn. A few bank notes thrown at the driver and a few more at the landlord, followed by shouted instructions to the empty room upstairs, and they were finally alone.
The minute Wesley had the door closed securely behind him, she was on him, tearing off his coat and starting in on the buttons of his satin waistcoat.
“Impatient thing, aren’t you? he said, chuckling deep in his chest.
“Never mind that,” she said. “Get out of these clothes.”
“In good time, my little animal. You shall have all you want of me and more.”
“Oh, yes,” she whispered. Heaven knew she ought to say no. She ought to push him away and run from the room. But the fever had taken her over. The passion, the thrumming in her blood, could no longer be denied. She’d resisted him for as long as she could, and she couldn’t resist any longer.
He kissed her then. With the same urgency he’d shown in the cab. Wet and hot, his lips came down on hers to devour them. She almost wept at the wonder of it as her hands continued twisting at his clothing, craving the warm skin beneath.
“Yes,” she whispered again, this time against his mouth. “Oh, yes.”
“I dream about you at night, Eve,” he moaned. He kissed her eyelids and then the tip of her nose and then her mouth again briefly. Too briefly. “I think of you during the day.”
“Oh, dear heaven,” she cried.
He nipped along the edge of her jaw and then slid his lips down the length of her throat. “I can’t help myself. You’re in my blood.”
In the near-stillness, something dropped to the floor. A light, brittle noise—the necklace. She’d have to find it later, because no cold stones could distract her from the heat of Wesley’s body. She needed him, now.
All the while, his hands moved over her—down her back to where the farthingale stopped him.
“Damn this thing,” he growled.
“Take it off me, please,” she begged.
He turned her around and fumbled with the laces of her skirts and then the ones that fastened the hoops to her. She reached behind to help, and soon the whole contraption fell to the floor.
He spun her around again and pulled her to him, cupping her bottom and pulling her firmly against the hardness she’d felt before. His sex was perfectly huge against her hip, and she ought to be afraid, but she wasn’t. She wanted him. Oh, God, she wanted Philip Rosemont more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life.
His hands came up to the bodice of her dress and tugged it downward, exposing a breast. The cool air washed over it until Philip bent and took the nipple into his mouth.
Her knees buckled, and her head fell backward. He caught her and held her fast, slipping a leg between hers until she rode him, while he sucked at her breast, teasing the nipple without mercy. She dug her fingertips into his shoulders and hung on.
The room spun around her, hot and cold. Cold where he exposed more and more of her skin. Hot where his mouth caressed her, where his hands—his skillful, skillful hands—toyed with her flesh. Her body responded without thought, her hips moving to rub herself against his thigh. At her core, she throbbed for him, burned for him, ached for him. She needed his touch there to bring relief. She needed him inside her to satisfy the hunger.
“Take me, Philip,” she cried. “Please.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said as he pulled her shift over her shoulders. She reached up to cup her own breasts and squeeze.
He gave out a stifled groan. “Keep doing that, and I’ll have to tear the rest off you.”
“Hurry,” she whispered back.
But there wasn’t much left, and soon she stood in only her stockings and slippers. And her wig. She tossed that aside and pulled the pins out of her hair as he picked her up and carried her to the bed. After laying her there, he removed her shoes and slid his hands up to remove first one stocking and then the other. The friction against her thighs nearly sent her spinning out of control. Over and over, he stroked her. So close to the seat of her desire—that pinpoint of ecstasy between her legs that already throbbed from where she’d rubbed against him. Her hips rose to meet his strokes, begging silently for him to touch her there and quench the aching. She wanted him, needed him. Now.
Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed and removed his shoes. After tossing his own powdered wig onto the floor, he joined her and renewed his assault on her senses. He kissed her mouth, taking great care to touch every inch, every corner. He moved to her throat and her bosom, cupping first one breast and then the other before bathing them with his tongue.
His hand traveled down her side and to her thigh and then inside to graze along the sensitive skin there. She arched into his hand and moaned and called his name. But still, he didn’t touch where she needed him.
Well, if he could do that to her, she could do it to him. She took a breath and started in on removing his clothes. He still wore his waistcoat, the silly man, but she had it off him quickly. More of his costume followed until he was naked from the waist up. She twisted her hips and had him on his back so that she could look at him in the firelight.
He was magnificent—utterly and truly magnificent. His hair held all the colors of deep, rich ale, and his eyes sparkled brown and golden. Sleekly muscled shoulders, a broad chest with curling brown hairs, narrow waist and strong legs. And there at the front of him she found the bulge she’d felt earlier—extending from the base of his torso to the waistband of his breeches. A thick, hard ridge of male flesh.
Oh…dear…God.
She reached out and settled her palm agains
t it. He closed his eyes, and his face twisted into an expression of pleasure so fierce it almost bordered on pain. “Mercy, woman.”
“You showed me none.”
“Not now,” he cried. “Too soon. Just let me…”
She stroked the length of him and watched as his hips moved upward in an involuntary motion.
“Let you what?” she said.
He gritted his teeth together. “Lord, give me strength.”
She found the tip of him and caressed that, too. “Let you what?”
He let out a roar and flipped her onto her back until he loomed over her and she was looking up into his face, into the golden fury of his eyes. “This,” he whispered.
He parted her legs with one hand and stroked the outer folds of her sex. Her thighs fell open for him, and he fingered her. She stretched her arms above her head and grasped for something to hold on to while he practiced pure torture on her most intimate places. She writhed and moaned and gasped. “Please, please. Oh, please.”
At that, he touched her. He parted the petals of her womanhood and rubbed her. She came apart, soaring into ecstasy so intense it racked her body. She tensed and shuddered and spasmed over and over again. Finally, she collapsed onto the bed, the blood rushing in her ears, tiny explosions of light playing behind her eyelids.
When she finally opened her eyes, he was gazing down at her. A self-satisfied smile played on his lips, but his eyes still held a hungry gleam. And his manhood still pressed against the front of his pants. She reached over to undo the buttons, but he covered her hand with his.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“So soon?”
“Yes.”
“Be sure, because if you start this, I won’t be able to stop.”
“I’m ready,” she said. He let her unfasten his pants then, and she took her time in doing it. She moved her fingers slowly, twisting each button and rubbing her knuckles against his flesh as she did. By the time she was half-finished, his chest was rising and falling erratically as he worked for air. By the time she was completely done, his eyes had closed in pleasure. Finally, she pushed his pants over his hips, and he yanked them the rest of the way off and tossed them to the floor.
She opened for him. She lay back against the bed and parted her legs in invitation. He positioned himself between them and thrust. Her barrier held him for a moment as pain washed through her, but then it shattered, and he drove into her.
His eyes flew open. “Eve, you’re a…”
“Never mind.”
“But, I didn’t know. That is, I thought…”
“Never mind. Do it…please.”
“Yes. Oh, hell, yes.”
He pulled back and then thrust into her again, and a whole new set of sensations sent her world into chaos. He filled her with his hardness and his heat. She stretched to accept him and moved to test this new joy. He groaned and thrust more deeply. He propped himself up on his elbows and surged into her and out, again and again. His arms strained with each thrust and his face registered his pleasure. He closed his eyes and breathed in time with his thrusting. She stroked his chest and then his face and then his shoulders while he moved and moved.
She raised her hips and clasped her legs around his so that she could meet his motions. Suddenly, his madness was hers. His need, his hunger, his throbbing were all hers. They had become one person, one passion, one heart. She wept with the wonder of it. That she could know him so deeply, that she knew his need. She knew when his own release would overcome him and that it would come soon. She’d be with him when it did.
He moved faster now, and harder. He lost himself in his passion and she in hers. And still, they were both one. When he tensed, she tensed. When he cried out, she answered. And when he thrust one last time and spilled his essence into her, she convulsed all around him in wave after wave of joy. He trembled in her arms and sobbed, and she held him and let her own tears fall. Then he relaxed against her, and sleep took them both.
Eve awoke sometime in the night. The fire in the grate had burned down to embers, but under the covers she was warm and cozy. A loud snort told her why. Philip Rosemont lay by her side, his arm curled around her waist. Oh dear God, what had she done?
As gently as she could, she slid his arm to his side and clutched the sheet to her breast. She’d let him make love to her. No, she’d begged him to make love to her. She’d nearly torn off his clothes the minute they’d gotten into the room and offered herself to him.
What had come over her? What had made her take such leave of her senses? Foolish woman. Foolish, stupid woman. She’d resisted every man who’d ever cast a glance at her. She’d even resisted Arthur, and he’d done a great deal more than casting glances. She’d had to fight him with all her cleverness and all her strength. Now tonight, she’d simply surrendered to another man—given him her virtue, something she’d promised herself and her mother’s memory she’d never do.
And of all the men in the world to give her innocence to, a blue blood like him was the absolutely worst. A butcher could propose marriage. A farmer could offer her a life together, full of children and grandchildren. This man already had a title and would inherit an even greater one on his father’s death. Earls couldn’t take just any woman for a bride. He had to choose carefully from the young women of his station. No matter how much Philip Rosemont might care for her, he could only make her his mistress. Far more luxurious than her mother’s life but basically the same business.
She gazed down at Philip where he slept, his face positively beautiful in repose. She reached out to touch him but pulled her hand back just in time. She couldn’t afford tender feelings toward him, because she had no future with him. Her only hope lay in steeling her heart against him. She must let her mind rule her, not her body. No matter how he delighted her with his smile and easy wit, no matter how he could light a fire in the pit of her belly with his touch. He could only be a source of money to her. Really. So, why did she ache to rest her head on his chest and listen to the beat of his heart?
Chapter Fourteen
Eve wouldn’t look at him. There weren’t many places to look inside a hansom cab, but she’d stared at every single one of them that didn’t include him. Then, for the last fifteen minutes, she’d stared resolutely out the window. Philip reached over and touched her cheek, but she stiffened visibly, so he put his hand back into his lap.
“We should talk about what happened last night,” he said.
She didn’t move her gaze from whatever it was she found so fascinating on the street. “I don’t see why.”
“I do. I see any number of extremely compelling reasons we should talk,” he said. Including the fact that she might at this very moment be carrying his child. If she couldn’t even bear for him to touch her, though, he didn’t want to bring up that possibility just yet. “At the very least you might look me in the face.”
She turned and gave him the fleetest of glimpses. Her cheeks immediately colored, and she looked down at the wrecked Marie Antoinette wig in her lap.
“I realize that by society’s standards what I did to you last night was unthinkable,” he said.
She said nothing but just bit her lip.
“But at the time I thought I had your full cooperation,” he continued. “I might even suggest you seemed rather enthusiastic about the whole thing.”
Still, silence.
“Or was I mistaken?” he demanded, much more loudly than he’d intended.
“You weren’t mistaken,” she said softly.
“Then what in bloody hell is wrong with you?”
That finally brought her chin up and put some fire into her eyes. “There’s no need for profanity.”
“I disagree. I think any time a woman makes love to me and then refuses to face me afterwards is a grand occasion for profanity.”
“You’ve had many such occasions, have you?” she snapped.
“What?”
“Do most of the wo
men you bed find it difficult to face you the next morning?” she asked.
“Damn.”
“Well, that’s an illuminating answer.”
Illuminating. He’d show her illuminating.
“Most of the women I bed are besides themselves with delight that I’ve bedded them.” He needn’t mention that he hadn’t bedded anyone since his return to England—until her. No one had appealed to him—until her.
“Most women feel I’ve made a good job of it. Bedding them, I mean,” he added.
“Have I said anything different?” she replied.
“You’ve hardly looked at me since you woke up.” He might have added that her head had been on his shoulder and her leg cast over his naked thighs when she awoke. He might still mention that, if she persisted in this maddening new chilliness. “You’ve scarcely spoken two words the whole morning.”
“The morning isn’t over yet,” she grumbled so softly he almost didn’t hear her.
“I beg your pardon.”
“I said ‘I am beside myself with delight over your performance last night.’”
“No, you didn’t. You didn’t say that at all.”
“But I am delighted, your lordship,” she said. “In fact, if I had to choose one single peer of the realm to take me to bed without benefit of clergy, that peer would certainly be you.”
“Now, see here, Miss Stanhope.”
“Your performance exceeded my wildest expectations. It fulfilled dreams I didn’t even know I had. You, sir, are a capital lover. A master of the amatory arts. And to think that you could perform so splendidly with a woman you care for not a whit makes your performance all the more remarkable.”
