She waved a hand toward a small velvet settee and started toward it. He followed her, confused by her fluttering ways, her constantly changing mind. She was a hard one to keep up with.
Following her silent command, he settled his large frame on the delicate settee, hopeful he didn’t break it. The legs were spindly, the seat narrow and thin. She moved behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders and pressing her fingers deep into his tight muscles.
The groan that spilled forth couldn’t be contained no matter how hard he tried. Her touch was amazing. Her skillful fingers dug into his muscles, kneading the tension right out of him. He closed his eyes. Hung his head as she continued her delightful assault.
“Feels good?” she whispered when she pressed particularly hard.
Heavenly. “Yes,” he choked out.
“You worry too much, you know. And you carry all that worry on your big, strong shoulders, which is why you’re so tense.”
He let her words sink in, knowing she spoke the truth.
“You are a titled and wealthy gentleman, Hartwell. You shouldn’t care so much about what others think of you. You shouldn’t worry over their motives in getting to know you, either,” she continued. Such practical words spoken in such a sweet, lilting voice, the sound of it seduced him. Everything about her was seductive. The way she touched him, treated him, looked at him. Sincerity threaded her voice. He believed her.
More than anything, he believed she believed in him.
“I realize most of the ton is filled with a gossiping bunch who enjoy nothing better than giving those they believe beneath them the cut direct. I’m sure you’ve probably been treated terribly. I know I have, despite my connection to Hugh, despite my title and widow status. I realized after my husband died that I cannot spend my life worrying what others think of me.” Her voice trailed off and he wondered if she meant to reveal so much. “You don’t like to talk much, do you?” She moved her hands lower, skimming them along his shoulder blades with a feather light touch, and he grunted in response. “I remained silent for far too long. Now I can’t seem to stop talking.”
She’d leaned in close with her last words. He felt her breath against his ear. The warmth of her body, the lush fullness of her breasts as they brushed against his back. Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes. He tried desperately to fight the impulse threatening to overtake him, especially if she wouldn’t move away.
His eyes flew open. It was no use. She still hovered over him and her hands wandered up to clutch his shoulders once again. Turning his head, he found himself staring into her eyes. So close he could see the blue depths threaded with green, a delicate pink flush coloring the apples of her cheeks. The damp sheen to her rosy lips, as if she’d just moistened them with her tongue.
He gave in to the impulse. She made it so easy, too easy. Leaning in, he brushed her mouth with his, keeping his eyes open so he could watch her reaction. She didn’t seem startled or repulsed, not at all. Her lids drifted closed, thick, dark lashes casting shadows upon her cheeks. She parted her lips easily beneath his, her mouth warm and tasting of the sweet wine she’d served at supper. He cupped the back of her head with his hand and deepened the kiss, thrusting his tongue between her lips. Her eager tongue met his, the kiss turning wild in an instant.
His cock strained against the front of his trousers. It had twitched and lengthened with every stroke of her fingers on his back and at the first touch of her lips upon his, it leaped to eager life.
She’d been seducing him the entire evening. Luring him in with her every sweet word and bright smile, her generosity and kindness, the easy way she touched him and wanted to help. The delicious way she kissed him, gave in to him. He might be reclusive and quiet amongst society, but he was a man who knew exactly what he wanted in the bedroom.
And at this very moment, more than anything, he wanted her.
Daphne.
* * *
Her back ached, what with the way she hunched over Hartwell sitting on the settee, but she could ignore the agonizing pain for a few more moments. As long as he kept kissing her, licking her with his velvety tongue, his fingers plunged so deep in her hair she heard the pins fall out one by one, landing with a soft ping to the floor.
The moment their mouths touched, he turned into a different man. It was quite thrilling, the low, growling sounds he made deep in his throat, the aggressive way he kissed her, caressed her. If she weren’t in such a horrendous position she might throw herself at him with wild abandon.
But first, drat it all, first she needed to move. She was bound to break her back if she didn’t.
“Wait.” She tore her lips from his but he wouldn’t let her. His hand tightened in her hair and his mouth returned to hers, kissing her again and again, stealing her breath, her words, her thoughts. “Hartwell, please…Camden. You must. Stop.”
He broke the kiss completely, his hand dropping from the back of her hair. His breathing was ragged, eyes so dark as he studied her they appeared almost black. “Forgive me,” he muttered, clearly out of breath. “I didn’t mean to push myself upon you.” The haughty, closed-off expression on his face was immediate.
“Oh, don’t be silly.” She slapped him on the shoulder, earning a startled growl from him. He really was too serious. “If I don’t move from behind the settee I’m afraid I may crack my back in two.”
“Ah. Well.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, across his eyes. Squinted at her once more, his swollen lips pursed. Her heart immediately stumbled over itself. Oh, how she wanted to kiss him again. And keep on kissing him, all through the night. “Perhaps…perhaps we should move,” he suggested.
Daphne flashed him a saucy smile, all the while her body sprang to giddy life. “Do you believe I would let you take advantage of me, my lord?”
His gaze clouded and he slowly shook his head. “You did mention I shouldn’t care what society thinks. Do you not take your own advice?”
“I do.” She licked her lips, savoring the taste of him, which still lingered. She’d felt his kisses right down to the tips of her toes. Rounding the settee, she stood before him. “For you, I will.”
Chapter Seven
Hartwell didn’t hesitate. He leaped from the settee with the grace of a wild jungle cat, grabbing her and hauling her to him so fast he knocked the very breath out of her.
Ah, but the reward was worth the shock. He kissed her. With such depth and delicious exploration she capitulated rather easily, not that she’d ever fight him. He wound his strong arms around her waist and crushed her close. Splayed his large hands across her back, the hot press of his fingers burning through the many layers she wore. She rested her hands on his chest, stroking the silky fabric of his waistcoat. He groaned at her touch. The primal, masculine sound made her shiver in awareness.
The man could kiss, and kiss well. He might lack in social skills and behave as if he were being tortured when amongst a crowd, but on a one-on-one basis?
Hartwell was absolutely divine.
He nipped and sucked at her lips and tongue, his hands winding a gentle exploration, mapping her body with methodical skill. They skimmed along her waist, over her hips, slid to her bottom, eliciting tingles wherever he touched. She wasn’t as brave, keeping her hands firmly on his front, though she did allow herself to stroke him everywhere. Marveling at the hard musculature of his form, the heat of his skin scorching her through his clothing, she couldn’t help but notice how different he was from her husband. Pomeroy had been older and slight, almost frail, especially near the end. Hartwell, on the other hand, was so virile and strong and masculine…
He broke the kiss, his lips drifting down the length of her neck, wet and hot as he panted against her skin. She clutched at him for fear of melting into a puddle at his feet, her breath coming in shuddering gusts as he continued to blaze a path with his lips down her neck, her shoulder, his mouth nudging away the fabric of her gown, revealing more and more flesh.
“Camden,” she whispered, run
ning her index finger down the center of his waistcoat, following the line of buttons. For all her earlier bold words, she was suddenly acting like a virginal miss. How she wanted to undo each button. Wanted to strip him of his clothing and see if he were as muscular as he felt. Most of the men who moved amongst society were soft. Many wore padding on their shoulders to increase their bulkiness.
Not Hartwell…Camden. He felt hard everywhere.
Everywhere.
The word echoed in her mind and she slipped one button from its slot. Then another. And then another, until every single button was undone on his waistcoat. She spread it wide with both hands, pushing it and his jacket from his shoulders and down his arms so they both fell to the floor with a gentle swoosh.
“Are you undressing me, my lady?” His velvety voice was laced with amusement as he lifted his head to study her.
She returned his stare, blatantly reaching for his perfectly knotted cravat and slowly, carefully she unwound it from around his neck. “Yes,” she confessed. “Do you have an issue with that?”
He smiled, slowly shaking his head. “I’ve always found it rather pleasant, being undressed by a woman.”
“I’m sure you have,” she said wryly, tugging the starched cloth from around his neck, letting it too fall to the floor, where it landed on top of his discarded clothing. She admired the strong column of his neck, the corded muscles that strained, his golden skin. Everything about him was utter perfection. “Shall I call the butler and ask if he’d like to take over the job?”
“Of course not,” Camden huffed, looking affronted at her suggestion. “I was trying to make light of the situation.”
She rested her hands against his chest, casting him an imploring look. “And yet again you’re taking me far too seriously, for I as well was trying to lighten the situation. I do wish you would relax.”
He didn’t appreciate her reminders—she could tell by the irritated glance he gave her—but she didn’t much care. She was tired of discussing mundane topics and silly worries. She’d grown weary of tiptoeing around him for fear of upsetting the moody Hartwell. “Black Hart.” No wonder they called him such a horrid name.
No, no. He’s a good man. A passionate man who desires me.
She just wanted to be with Camden. With nothing else between them.
“Come with me.” She gathered his clothing and took his hand, dragging him out of the room, heading toward the empty, echoing corridor.
“Where are you dragging me off to?” he asked, his tone teasing.
She glanced over her shoulder and shot him another saucy look. “To my bedchamber, my lord. Where we’ll be ensured privacy and you can stay all night long. If you’d like,” she added. Oh, how she hoped he liked…
He stopped her in her tracks with one tug of his hand and she turned to look at him. “I want to make sure this is what you want, Daphne,” he said, his voice soft. “I don’t want to push myself upon you. Or make you feel as if you’re doing something you don’t want to do.”
She laughed. Oh, he was such a darling. “Perhaps I want you to force yourself on me.”
That statement shocked him. His cheeks flushed and his eyes sparkled with interest. Lord help her, but if he unleashed upon her she’d revel in it. She might even beg for more.
And she wouldn’t regret it, not one bit. She had a feeling one night with Hartwell would be one she would want to repeat.
* * *
The mischievous widow was driving him mad with desire. Hartwell’s head spun as he pushed her against the wall and kissed her. Drank from her, thrust his tongue inside her warm, welcoming mouth. He groaned when she slid her little hands all over him, clutching him closer.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered against his mouth just before he kissed her again. “Please don’t stop.”
Her words urged him on, unleashed the animal within. He pressed his lower body to hers, his cock nudging against her skirts, and she moaned, lifting her hips. Indicating she wanted more.
So much more.
She was a passionate little thing. Her kisses were just as eager as his, her hands just as bold, the low whimpers coming from deep within her fueling the fire in his blood. She wanted him. She didn’t want him to stop.
He didn’t want to stop either.
Deciding to hell with it, he gathered her in his arms, picking her up. Their mouths were still connected and she circled her arms about his neck so she wouldn’t tumble from his embrace. She muttered nary a protest as he strode down the hall toward the stairs, one eye watching where he was going, concentrating on his steps as well as the woman in his arms.
Her sweet fragrance filled his head. Her soft hair brushed against his cheek and the sensuous, silky fabric of her gown rubbed against his arms. When was the last time he’d undressed a woman, made love to one?
From the first moment he’d spoken to the lovely Lady Pomeroy, it was as if she’d set her sights on him and never looked back. She was determined to have him.
He couldn’t help but be flattered.
“Where’s your bedchamber?” he asked after he tore his lips from hers.
She feathered his neck with delicate kisses. “Second door on the left.”
The hot gust of her breath against his flesh, the way she licked and nibbled him, he nearly tripped on his own boots. She giggled when he stumbled and he tossed her up in his arms, hauling her closer. She tightened her arms around his neck, thrusting her hands into his hair. Stroking and pulling until he closed his eyes at the drugging sensation.
Her simple touch lit a fire within him. The way she felt in his arms, her mouth against his skin, her fingers in his hair only caused the flames to leap and burn brighter. His entire body was enflamed.
Consumed.
Flicking the handle, he then kicked at the door, wincing when it crashed open. He strode into the room and knocked the door shut. Depositing her on the grand bed, he cast a glance about the room as he began to untuck his shirt.
She stood, her hands going for his hips, tugging the shirt from his trousers. “Let me help you,” she murmured, nibbling on her lower lip in concentration, batting at his hands. He dropped them to his side, amused with how focused she was on her task. She brushed her hands against his stomach, making the muscles quiver, and her lips curled in amusement.
The minx.
She divested him of his shirt, her eyes widening as she drank in what she revealed. His chest puffed with pride as she studied him and stroked his bare, sensitive flesh.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered, her wide eyes meeting his.
He kissed her once then withdrew and sat on the edge of the bed, removing his boots with unrestrained eagerness. She began working herself out of her gown with little sighs of irritation, not making much progress. A woman could rarely undress herself without the assistance of a lady’s maid.
This evening, he would take care of such intimacies. A duty he would most gladly take on.
Standing, he twirled his finger, indicating he wanted her to turn. She did as he bade, offering her back to him with deliberate slowness. He undid every single hook, of which there were many. Too damn many.
He growled with frustration and she giggled, tilting her head down. Her hair fell forward and he admired the creamy column of her neck, the stray little dark brown tendrils that curled there. He pushed the loosened top of her gown from her shoulders, the sleeves sliding down her arms until it fell at her waist, revealing her corset. Working on the laces next, he tugged and loosened the garment, muttering under his breath about what tortuous devices women’s clothing were.
Finally she was able to step out of her gown and he discarded the corset, leaving Daphne standing before him in only her thin, plain shift, stockings and shoes. Clasping her bare, cool shoulders, he turned her around so she faced him. Sucked in a harsh breath when he saw her.
Exquisite. It was the only word that pounded through his mind as he studied her. Her breasts were full, hard little nipples pressing agains
t the transparent fabric. He swore he saw a hint of pink and licked his lips in anticipation of feasting upon her flesh. “Take it off,” he murmured.
She lifted her arms and yanked the shift off, tossing it onto the floor, her breasts jiggling with the movement. He cupped them immediately, brushing his thumbs slowly across her nipples, back and forth. Hypnotized by the way the berry-colored nubs rose and hardened, he kneaded her abundant flesh with deliberate, sensuous strokes. She tilted her head to the side with a long sigh, closing her eyes as if she lost herself to his touch.
“Lie down,” he murmured, and her eyes flew open. She did as he asked with no question. Her entire body trembled as she quickly kicked off her slippers and lay back on the bed, her gaze locked with his. The utter trust he saw in their depths staggered him. They hardly knew each other, yet she looked at him as if he could do no wrong. As if he would never let harm come to her.
And she would be right. Just watching her lying there, waiting for him, a protective streak rippled through him. He would take care of her. He wanted to make all of her dreams come true.
He never wanted to disappoint her.
Chapter Eight
Camden fell on her like a starving man, his heavy weight sinking Daphne deeper into the mattress. She recalled a time long ago when her husband would take her, how she felt smothered and panicky. He’d realized quickly and lifted above her, always considerate. Always gentle.
How was she to know she craved the delicious way Hartwell pushed himself upon her? She reveled in the sensation of his body on top of hers. The heat of his smooth, muscled skin, the dark hair in the center of his chest brushing against her breasts, making her skin tingle.
He kissed her once, masterfully taking her mouth before he moved down. Dropping kisses on her neck, her chest, all over one breast, then the other. She tilted her chin and watched unabashedly. He was lit by the blaze of the fire, the single candle sitting on the bedside table. She could see everything, where once she’d only participated in such an act in the dark.
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