Irresistible

by ROBARDS, KAREN

  All men were not the same between the sheets. What she had gone through with David bore no relation to this hot sweet assault on her senses.

  “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

  Claire’s eyes widened as the instruction percolated through the steam that befogged her brain. When it did, she drew in a ragged breath. And then, trembling, she did as he bade her. Her legs lifted until her slender thighs gripped his hips and her ankles locked behind his waist. She could feel him inside her all the while, thick and hot and swollen and tantalizing, and she couldn’t help herself: She moved against him again, then moved some more, then gasped at the pleasure of it.

  “Now I’d say you’re ready.” It was a tender taunt, whispered in an unsteady voice in her ear. She felt the tremors racking him. He was tense, poised, shaking, sweating—and yet waiting for her.

  “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  Unable to stand it any longer, Claire surged against him. The sensation made her cry out. He shuddered, tightening his arms around her so that taking a deep breath became suddenly impossible. Then he buried his face in the curve between her neck and shoulder. His mouth was open and wet and warm as he pressed it to her neck.

  And he began to move.

  Claire cried out again, losing every inhibition she had ever had in that moment. Wild with need, she moved with him, meeting him thrust for thrust as a firestorm built inside her. He took her hard and he took her fast and she was with him every inch of the way, going higher and higher until at last she flew higher than she had ever dreamed of going and exploded with what felt like the combined firepower of a million shooting stars and flaming pinwheels and bursting suns.

  “Hugh Hugh Hugh Hugh Hugh.”

  Even as she cried out his name and was whirled away on the storm, he stiffened and groaned. Then, shaking, he held himself deep inside her as he found his own release. Still lost in her distant universe, she clung to him as he collapsed atop her. For a long time they lay together, totally spent.

  Finally Claire started to be aware of little things. The weight of him atop her came first. He was a tall man, muscular and broad-shouldered, but he was also lean and it did not seem possible that he could weigh so much. But he did. In fact, now that she was not caught up in the throes of passion, he was crushing her into the mattress and suffocating her and roasting her alive to boot. She felt the sweat-slickness of his shoulders beneath her hands, heard the steady rasp of his breathing—had he fallen asleep?—and saw the back of his head as his face remained buried in her throat.

  She really, really needed to breathe.

  She must have moved, or made some small sound, because he lifted his head then and looked at her. For a moment she stared, mesmerized, into gray eyes that looked just as intently back. Then she remembered that she was naked and he was on top of her and all the things he had done to her with his hands and mouth and body and how she had reacted. Heat suffused her face, and she was suddenly, self-consciously sure she was the color of a fresh-picked, red ripe strawberry.

  A long, slow smile curled his mouth as he surveyed her. She had little doubt that her heightened color had been observed and ascribed to its correct cause. Unlike herself, he looked relaxed, at ease, and totally at home in the situation in which he found himself.

  “Now wasn’t that fun?” The wicked glint was back in his eyes. Claire looked at him, at the lean unshaven cheeks, at the narrowed eyes and twisting mouth, and felt her heart flutter. Modesty as well as all the precepts she had ever heard about ladies and the marriage act bade that she downplay what she had experienced, that she cast down her eyes and nod shyly, or even deny that she had felt a thing. But she had always been incurably honest, even blunt at times, which, to hear her sisters tell it, could be a grave fault, and anyway he had been there with her, seen her quiver and shake, felt her squirm and writhe, heard her groan and cry out his name. He would not believe her if she tried to convince him that she hadn’t had the experience of a lifetime.

  So she simply told the truth.

  “It was wonderful.”

  The smile grew more pronounced. He looked quite pleased with himself. “Was it now?”

  She nodded. Then, because she really couldn’t breathe, she gave a delicate little shove to his shoulder.

  “Now that we’re finished, would you mind getting off me? I can’t breathe.”

  “Oh, sorry.” He rolled off her, but instead of letting her go, he caught her around the waist and pulled her over on top of him. Surprised to find herself lying atop his chest, she blinked at him for a moment. But he smiled back at her with lazy charm, positioning a pillow under his head and giving every indication that he meant to stay in that position for quite a while. With the thought of what their parting would mean—she couldn’t think of that now, or it would spoil what time they had left—she was in no hurry for him to get out of bed, to dress and leave her.

  When he left, she might very well not ever see him again.

  The thought was like a knife stabbing into her heart.

  “What do you mean, ‘now that we’re finished’?” he asked, crossing his arms behind his head and giving her a very interesting view of two black-tufted armpits. “We’re just getting started, you and I.”

  “Hugh.” Another pang struck Claire’s heart as she realized that his words, while possibly true in one sense, were the total opposite of reality in another. Completely forgetting her niggling concerns about modesty and her few remaining inhibitions and even the fact that she was nude at all as her worries solidified like a rock in her stomach, she settled down on his chest, crossing her hands under her chin and looking at him pensively. “You know, after tonight, we’ll probably never see each other again.”

  She watched him closely, hoping to see a glimpse in his expression of the same kind of anguish that was even now ripping her heart in two. But his face remained relaxed, even faintly smiling, and his eyes bore no pain at all that she could see.

  “One never knows what life may bring,” he said lightly.

  It was a blow, but she took it and kept her chin up. Keep it light. If she didn’t want to make a fool as well as a wanton of herself, she would keep this thing between them light, which was obviously where he preferred that it stay. Had she really expected him to start spouting declarations of undying love? Not with her head. Certainly not. Only with her vulnerable heart. . . . Of course, he’d done this many times before, with many different women. It wouldn’t have the same significance for him as it had for her.

  The significance it held for her was mind-boggling. But she wouldn’t think of that now, either. She would not think of tomorrow, or all the other tomorrows, at all. All she would think about was how much she treasured being like this with him tonight.

  If one night was all she was going to have, it was still better than nothing. In fact, it was everything she had ever dreamed of, and more.

  He must have seen a shadow cross her face, because he was frowning now as he looked at her. His hands came out from behind his head, and he wrapped his arms around her in a great hug, stroking her hair, her back.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked. There was concern in his eyes. She looked at him, met his gaze, and shook her head. Then she smiled.

  That smile, she realized, was just about the bravest thing she had ever done in her life.

  “Not a thing,” she said. As she sought to get her expression under control, her lashes lowered. Then she lifted them, and her smile widened. “Actually, I thank you for the lesson. It was quite instructive—and fun.”

  “You said wonderful.” His mouth was curling at her, and his eyes were taking on a predatory gleam.

  “That too.”

  His hands slid down her to cup her buttocks, and squeeze.

  “Ouch!”

  Claire yelped. As his hands lifted in surprised realization, she rolled off him with a grimace. Even with her back to the wall she was self-conscious about it, but she could not help it: She had to rub the abused muscles in an attempt to d
o what she could to ease the pain.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot. Here, let me make it better.”

  He was remorseful, and persuasive, and managed to coax her onto her stomach while he massaged the aching part. His hands were gentle, and he was careful to ease rather than inflict pain, but after a little bit she quite forgot why he was caressing her bottom in the sheer pleasure she was deriving from it. When he bent over to kiss the afflicted flesh, a thrill shot through her. When he continued to press tiny kisses all over her bottom under the pretext that kisses would make it all better, she was soon melting under his ministrations. Then his hand slid beneath her to find and caress that tiny nub between her legs that had been such a revelation to her before. Before she knew it the hot, sweet clamoring that she had thought was a once-in-a-lifetime thing had taken possession of her again, and then he did too, sliding inside her from behind, taking her with a slow sureness that drove her even wilder than before and had her digging her nails into the mattress and crying out his name with every thrust.

  Finally the whirlwind came for her again, and she surrendered to it with a shuddering, joyful cry that was as instinctive and primitive as anything he had done to her.

  “God in heaven.”

  As he growled the words, she didn’t know if they were a curse or a prayer. She only knew that he plunged into her at the same time as he said them, at that exact moment of her deepest pleasure, with a fierce hunger that made her cry out again too. Then he held himself inside her as his lean, strong body convulsed with long shudders. Finally he collapsed on top of her, and lay still.

  After a long moment he rolled onto his side, pulling her with him. Claire was dizzy with exhaustion as she curled into his arms. She smiled at him dreamily. He kissed her mouth. She was so tired it was an effort even to kiss him back. For a few moments they held each other, exchanging whispers that made less and less sense to her. Then her lids, which had felt as if they’d had lead weights attached to them for some time, finally gave up the fight and closed for good. Just like that she was asleep, held close in his arms.

  “Miss! Miss, it’s time to go.”

  At first Claire thought the words were part of her dream. She’d been having a wonderful one—about what? She couldn’t recall. The persistent voice calling to her to wake up was blotting it out. Resentful, she opened her eyes at last—to find James hovering over the bed, clearly just on the verge of nudging her arm.

  She was wearing the borrowed nightdress, Claire realized with some relief as their gazes met for an instant. For the briefest of moments she was confused. Had everything been a dream, then? But no. There were too many pleasant little aches and tingles in too many extremely private places of her body for her to have dreamed what she had done with Hugh.

  Hugh. Her eyes widened. A swift glance around revealed that she was not only alone in the bed, she was alone, save for James, in the room.

  She opened her mouth to ask where Hugh was, then closed it again as she realized that to do so would be to reveal that she had expected him to be in the bed, or at least the bedroom, with her. Hugh was obviously gone, and had obviously put her nightgown back on before he left to spare her just that humiliation before James.

  “Miss, you must get up and dress. Master Hugh is gone an hour since, and we must leave for the boat shortly.”

  As that registered, Claire closed her eyes and, somewhere deep inside, felt her heart break.

  22

  April 1813

  “I must say, drinking all that vinegar was not very pleasant, but the results were certainly worthwhile.” Turning this way and that in front of the cheval mirror in her lavish bedroom in Richmond House in London’s posh Cavendish Square, Lady Elizabeth Banning surveyed the reflection of her newly svelte figure with satisfaction.

  “Beth, you look absolutely beautiful,” Claire said with warm sincerity to her little sister. Twindle, Claire and Beth’s lifelong nursemaid-cum-governess-cum-companion, who had once been Claire’s mother’s governess and was completely devoted to all three sisters, was standing beside Claire. Tall and spare, with a narrow, lined face and silvery hair brushed severely back into a tight knot at her nape, Twindle nodded at the pair sagely.

  “I told you Lord Byron swore by it as a reducing tonic, and it certainly seems to have done the job nicely for you, Miss Beth. Any puppy fat that might once have afflicted you has certainly disappeared.”

  * * *

  Three months had gone by since Claire had awakened to find herself alone in a farmer’s bed in France. During that time, the pain of knowing that she would in all likelihood never see Hugh again had become a persistent ache that she was beginning to realize might never go away. Her fear for his life was another constant torment. Had the soldiers captured him on the way to Paris? Had someone betrayed him since? There were many fates that could befall a spy, and most of them were terrible. The worst part was realizing that he could be injured, imprisoned, or even dead, and she would not know. She would never know. But wondering and worrying paid no toll, as she kept reminding herself. All she could do was try to put her fears—and him—out of her mind.

  And the only way to do that was not to give herself so much as a moment to think. As a consequence, Claire kept herself almost frenetically busy. It helped that the London Season was now in full swing, and that she, in her role as chaperon to eighteen-year-old Beth, had a full plate of activities to occupy her. Days were spent shopping, at home with callers, or paying calls, driving or walking in the park, or engaging in any of dozens of other possible amusements. Nearly every evening brought with it an entertainment of one sort or another. Tonight was Beth’s very own come-out ball, and Claire had been working her fingers to the bone for weeks to prepare for it. She welcomed both the extra work and the diversion, even though Twindle, with a critical frown, had told her just that morning that she was looking worn to a bone and should rest and let the staff handle the rest of the arrangements. Claire had brushed off her concern with an affectionate word and a smile. Twindle did not understand that Claire was hiding the kind of pain that brought strong men to their knees. All she knew of Claire’s adventures—all anyone knew of Claire’s adventures—was that her carriage had been attacked and she had been kidnapped and managed to escape. When her sisters had asked her about the two days she had spent as a captive, she had made up a story about being kept blindfolded in a farmhouse, assuring them, when they had grown indignant, that she had been well treated. James had suggested keeping silent about the rest—about Hugh—as a matter of national security. Claire had followed that suggestion as much for her own purposes as for any other reason: If she spoke of Hugh, even so much as mentioned his name or tried to tell the rest of the story while leaving out the most intimate and personal parts (like the part where she had ended up naked in bed with him), she feared that her sisters would immediately sense that something was being withheld and, in the way of sisters, keep at her until they had divined what it was.

  Looked at in the cold, hard light of day, what she had done was called adultery. She was not proud of it, nor eager to share her guilt with anyone, and she was paying for it now with what felt like a whole lifetime’s worth of pain. Lying with Hugh was a sin, and she had known it at the time and had done it anyway. Even now, when it was in the past and she was hurting so badly that just getting through each day was a struggle, she could not regret it. If that one night was all she was ever going to have of Hugh, and this dreadful grinding pain in her heart was the price she must pay for it, then so be it. If she could go back and change what had happened and thus spare herself the subsequent suffering, she would not. She would not wish away that night with Hugh even if she suffered for it the rest of her life. But she had to be careful, and she knew it. It was best that she keep her own counsel, and that meant that she must just swallow her heartbreak and go on. Because besides being a sin, what she had done with Hugh was a scandal just waiting to get out. The Banning sisters had barely survived a scandal of Gabby and her now husband Ni
ck’s making just a few years before, when Nick had posed as their brother to track a murderer, and Gabby had gone and fallen in love with him despite the fact that everyone, save Gabby, including Claire and Beth, had thought he really was their theretofore unknown brother. This drama had played out during the Season before the shocked eyes of the ton, and it had nearly sunk the sisters beyond hope of redemption. Fortunately their Aunt Augusta, Lady Salcombe, was a pillar of society. With her help, and aided by the fact that Nick was an extremely rich man, that scandal eventually had been papered over with just enough half-truths to satisfy the high sticklers and allow the Bannings to continue to be accepted in the best circles.

  Still, if any whisper of another Banning sister flouting Society’s rules should get out, Claire very much feared their reputations would be blackened forever. Beth’s chances in the marriage mart would be ruined. David could sue for divorce, and that thought—the mere idea of being named an adulteress in open court—made Claire shudder. And the gossip-making details of Gabby’s romance would be rehashed, along with lurid tales of their father, the wicked earl, and his four wives, three of whom had mothered one daughter each before conveniently passing on to their reward. There would be whispers of bad blood—and, worse, bad ton.

  Those she hoped to avoid at all costs. The gossip connected with her kidnapping was bad enough, and she still got inquiries about how the search for the criminals was going. They hadn’t been found, and it now seemed increasingly likely that they would not be. At both Nick’s and David’s insistence, the only journey she had undertaken since—from Morningtide to London—had been under the protection of armed outriders. Claire still occasionally got an uneasy feeling when she went out shopping or to visit the lending library or on other outings of that nature, but the streets of London were crowded and she was now exceedingly careful never to be alone—and anyway, what were the chances that she would be attacked again? So slim as to be practically nonexistent, she told herself firmly. If she got the impression sometimes that she was being followed, or that unseen eyes were watching her, she was ready to put it down to nerves, or even to comfort herself with the thought that if anyone was indeed watching or following her it was probably one of the men Hugh had told her would be looking out for her. In any case, she refused to live in fear, so she went on about her usual business. Fortunately the story was now well on its way to becoming yesterday’s on dit, but at the beginning of the Season she had retold the partly fictionalized version so many times that she had almost come to believe it herself.