She’d done nothing much with her own hands, unsure what she was supposed to do, what might be acceptable or appropriate. The image of Davenport’s naked buttocks flashed in her mind’s eye, and Trixie’s grasping little fingers flexing in the air.
Did she dare? Her own fingers flexed, then stilled. No, she didn’t.
She felt the hard press of his member against her belly and thought of flagpoles straight and proud and somehow dangerous and she would have pulled away, but he was nibbling at her throat in a manner that made her weak-kneed and turned her brain to mush.
A spasm of thrills shot through her body each time his mouth pressed and sucked. She’d never dreamed her neck could be so exquisitely sensitive. She’d never dreamed a man could reduce her to a quivering mass of incoherent need.
By the time he nuzzled at her breasts, she was limp with bliss and his sorties over her body no longer shocked her. She simply wanted more.
He was a devil, no doubt about it, to corrupt her so thoroughly in the space of a few minutes. Or days. She supposed this seduction had begun the instant they’d met.
No one will ever know.
Equally devilish, the deVere in her whispered through her mind.
Growling with impatience, Davenport slid the shoulders of her night rail down and lifted her breasts free. The cool air caressed their tips, hardening them to points.
“Pink.” His husky, low voice was tinged with satisfaction. “I thought so.”
And then his mouth was on her nipple, teasing sensations from it with his tongue, sucking with increasing pressure as his tongue flicked back and forth. His hand covered her other breast, stroking, weighing, squeezing gently, rolling his thumb over its hardened peak.
The pleasure was so intense, she almost couldn’t bear it. Now she knew what all the fuss was about, why women flung away their reputations, their very lives, for this. This was sublime.
Hilary swayed and before she knew it he’d swept her up in his arms and laid her on the bed.
Her legs dangled over the side and he knelt down between them to remove her slippers. Then he took hold of her skirts and pushed them up, sliding his hands up her legs as he went.
“Wh-what are you doing?” she said, a little more alert now that he’d left off tormenting her breasts. Her body felt as if it had melted into the mattress, but the cool rush of air against her thighs made her suddenly aware of how vulnerable she was.
She sat up a little, supported by her elbows, her person disarranged in the most wanton fashion. The neckline of her night rail hugged beneath her bare breasts, lifting them. Her skirts were rucked up to her thighs—
And Davenport’s head was rapidly disappearing beneath them.
“Davenport! What—”
“My dear Honey, I have been wanting to do this since I first laid eyes on you. Just lie back and enjoy.”
The words were murmured, scarcely audible, against her thigh. His mouth brushed her sensitive skin, then pressed a kiss there, right there, on her thigh. He murmured words that she supposed he meant to be soothing, but she couldn’t relax for the ripples of sensation that spasmed through her at his touch.
She protested again, but suddenly his mouth was on her, between her legs, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She tried to wriggle away from him, but his hands clamped down on her thighs, his thumbs spreading her, opening her to him. His wicked tongue delved and swirled and made mockery of her shocked protests.
“Oh, that’s … that’s…”
His only response was to tongue the bud of flesh above the opening to her sex and she was in danger of losing her mind as well as the power of speech.
With a soft groan, he sucked hard on that sensitive part of her and all of the building sensations seemed to gather in tight. Her mind spun away, her spirit floated on bliss for several moments. Then she exploded, convulsing against his mouth in helpless, racking shudders that overtook every muscle in her body.
In a daze, she returned to herself slowly. Oh, oh. Surely that was the end of it? But no, he wasn’t done with her yet.
His head emerged from beneath her night rail, but his hand took over where his lips and tongue left off. Wicked dark eyes caught hers and held them as he explored her with his fingers.
She wanted to close her eyes, shut out the directness of his stare. The excitement that pounded through her seemed to increase tenfold when their gazes locked like that. She couldn’t hide what she felt, couldn’t escape the knowledge that it was he, Davenport, who stroked her so intimately.
The quirk of his lips told her he knew it. Part of her wanted to deny her own desires. How could any true lady gain such pleasure from all this wantonness?
“Honey,” he murmured, moving over her. He leaned down to kiss her. Languidly, gently, exploring her mouth with his tongue. Bliss flooded her in a warm, syrupy rush.
Gently, he traced the moist folds of flesh at her sex. She became increasingly aware of the pressure of one finger, easing into her.
What followed would be another, more significant intrusion.
Shockingly, she wanted it, wanted him there. “Please,” she heard herself beg. “Please, Jonathon.”
His gaze became hotly, fiercely triumphant. Not in a smug way, but in the manner a conquering hero might greet a hard-won victory.
He took her mouth again. Still trembling with the aftermath of her body’s strange and wonderful convulsions, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her.
He was fully clothed, right down to his boots. She wanted to see him, but she was too shy to express the need.
He kissed her deeply, and this time her own kiss flared with passionate abandon. He didn’t waste time with his clothing but quickly freed his member and stroked her with it, just as his fingers had stroked her moments before.
“Oh,” she said, alarmed at the memory of this part of him, his size. “Oh, I don’t think—”
But his hand skimmed up her body and found her breast, and the words died on her lips as his mouth took possession of hers again.
The tip of his erection nudged at her opening and her doubts slipped away. She wanted that—him—inside her with a desperation that increased with every touch.
He gave a muted groan. “So wet,” he breathed in her ear. “So hot. So very, very sweet.”
Then he pushed into her. She felt the burn, a stinging pinch of pain, and gasped.
She stared up at him, and the look on his face was stripped bare of his usual flippant humor. It was stark with a beautiful agony. His eyes were closed now, dark lashes thick and spiky against high cheekbones, as if he wanted to feel everything about this moment without the distraction of sight.
He stayed still, buried inside her, until she began to adjust around his thick, hard length. The strong arms braced either side of her trembled, just a little. He sucked in a breath and thrust farther inside, longer and deeper, until surely there was nowhere left to go.
She remembered the amazing dimensions of his male apparatus and found herself hoping he’d reached his limit—or hers—in that regard.
After the initial sting of his entry, the pain had dissipated. She was only conscious of being stretched and filled to her limit, of her inner walls shifting to accommodate him.
He opened his eyes and began to move, slowly. A long pause, then a deep surge into her and out, then a long pause. In the pauses, her body grew to crave his return so much she was nearly sobbing with it. She lifted her hips, mutely urging him to go faster.
He thrust deeper still, so deep he seemed to hit something inside her that twisted through her body, a pleasure bordering on pain.
The slow, delicious slide of him became a tingly, warm sensation spreading through her blood, fizzing like champagne. Fireworks bloomed inside her, a quieter, less centered explosion than the one she’d experienced earlier, but somehow lovelier, more intimate.
She sighed, feeling a closeness with Davenport that she’d never felt with anyone else. She surrendered to it, f
or just this moment, just this night.
She lifted her hips to urge him on, tentatively ran her hands down his back and down, down to fleetingly caress the bare skin at the top of one buttock where his shirt had worked free of his trousers.
At that quick, furtive touch, he gasped and stiffened all over, muscles bunching tight. With a muttered exclamation, he gripped her hips and plunged into her, thrusting ever faster, until he pulled free with a hoarse cry.
His seed spurted onto her belly, warm and moist and filling the air with musky, salty scent. She watched him, wondering at such violent pleasure, that her body had been the cause of it. If his bliss had approached the strength of hers, he must feel every bit as elated as she did now.
Chest heaving, he rolled to lie next to her. They both lay on their backs, staring up at the ceiling. The occasional shudder moved through him still.
He turned his head to look at her, his gaze troubled. “I hurt you. I’m sorry, Honey.”
He reached out to tuck a tendril of her hair behind her ear.
She shook her head. “It was but a moment of pain. After that—” She blushed. “But we cannot do that again,” she added belatedly.
His fingertips trailed down her throat, tiptoeing along her breast until they reached her nipple.
“That would be a shame,” he said gravely, dark eyes dancing as he touched her with consummate skill. “For you know that a woman’s capacity for pleasure is infinite, whereas a man must recover himself before he can, er, find his pleasure again.”
“Mm?” She’d stopped listening to what he said beyond the first few words. Even after all they’d done, her body flooded with pleasure as he paid exquisite and detailed attention to her nipples. Her tender sex throbbed in anticipation.
His voice thickened as he kissed the place between her breasts. “But, if you’d rather we didn’t…”
He knew his own power and made sure she knew it now, too. He set his mouth to her body and she writhed, helpless beneath his merciless assault. Her blood pulsed. Her breath quickened. Fire raced in her veins.
Madness. She was mad for him. Insane.
“Honey, let me,” he whispered urgently into her navel. There was no longer any amusement in his tone. “Please.”
Let him? She barely restrained herself from begging.
“Oh! Well…” She squirmed as he moved lower still. “Perhaps … perhaps just one more time.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The following morning, Hilary couldn’t stop the blushes that rose to her cheeks every time she thought of the night just gone. The sensations Davenport had evoked in her, the things he had done … she shivered.
He was wicked and incorrigible and wholly immoral. And yet last night he’d made her feel so utterly sated, so excited and possessed, as if he’d taken control of her body, played it like an instrument in a sweet song as old as time.
Last night, she would have let him do anything he wanted to her.
She’d even let him wash her down there, removing all traces of their lovemaking before he’d left.
He’d taken her and she’d trusted him with her body, with her innocence. Why, when Lord Davenport posed the greatest of all threats to her well-being, did he make her feel so safe?
In his own careless, unconventional way, he kept rescuing her. From the storm, from her brothers’ house, from those horrid men in the inn, from the condemnation of her relatives and his.
The realization unsettled her. He was scarcely her idea of a Sir Galahad. Indeed, if she accused him of it, he’d be revolted.
And yet, when one looked at bare facts without prejudice, one could not but conclude that Lord Davenport was every inch the hero.
Her hero, at least.
Confusion teemed in her brain. She ought to feel ashamed at having lost a woman’s most precious possession to him last night. But all she felt was a deep, heated longing for him to do it all over again.
What about that quiet, kind gentleman of your dreams? The country squire, the scholar, the parson?
Those dreams paled beside the reality of Lord Davenport.
Her rational self chastised her. She could never have him. They would break the engagement when her month in Town was over and that would be that. Davenport would move on to another woman—other women—and forget her as soon as she was out of his sight. In fact, he might well tire of her before their month was over.
She was a fool if she didn’t try to make some eligible connection while she was in London. Davenport might take her to his bed, but he would never take her as his wife.
A strange ache wrapped around her chest. Well, she couldn’t waste time in regret. She’d have to deal with that trouble when it came.
She reached the morning room to discover her hostess in a frothy vermilion negligee, a lace cap perched slightly askew on her fiery locks. The lady had crumbs down her front and a mountainous stack of what looked like invitations piled up before her.
Mrs. Walker was muttering to herself, sorting through the cards.
At Hilary’s approach, she looked up. “Ah, there you are, dearie. What do you suppose all this is? We are invited everywhere.”
Hilary’s brow wrinkled. “But I don’t understand. No one knows me in London.”
“Mark my words, Lord deVere has seen to that.” Mrs. Walker chortled in delight, waving one card in the air. “This one’s from Lady Arden for a soiree tonight. A very high stickler indeed, Lady Arden.”
Yes, Hilary was well aware of that. “I made her ladyship’s acquaintance yesterday.”
Stunned, she sat down at the breakfast table and watched her hostess go through card after card of cream stock.
“You needn’t be so shocked, Hilary,” said Mrs. Walker. “As Davenport’s future countess you’ll be sought after, mark my words.”
“But no one is to know of the engagement,” said Hilary, though the circle of those who did know seemed to widen with every passing hour.
“This secrecy business is harebrained,” said Mrs. Walker. “Where do you think you’ll find a better catch than a belted earl, my duck? And not one of those pauper lords, either. You may be sure Davenport is plump in the pocket. All the Westruthers are.”
“Still, we might decide we do not suit,” said Hilary.
The lady scoffed. “You’d best resign yourself to marrying Lord Davenport. The secret will be out soon enough and then you’ll have no choice.”
She couldn’t marry him, not even if the betrothal became common knowledge. Not when he didn’t care for her in the least.
Mrs. Walker gave a huff of exasperation. “I can’t imagine what ails you, child. He might be a wicked young man, but you cannot deny he’s sinfully handsome. Rich, titled, what more could a young lady want?”
Only love, thought Hilary.
The notion startled her. She’d never articulated a need for love before, not even to herself. She’d never dreamed of receiving such a precious gift. Contentment, stability, yes. Those she’d longed for. Love? Situated as she was, the mere idea of a man to love her had been an unimaginable luxury.
What a time to realize love was what she’d wanted—needed—all along.
Desperation shortened her breath, made her pulse race. Dear Heaven, she’d kill herself if she was in love with Lord Davenport. She must not allow herself to harbor tender feelings for a rogue like him. Not when she was so close to attaining her lifelong dream.
But she wasn’t given the opportunity to dwell on the notion. Mrs. Walker declared she must obtain a wardrobe appropriate for the season without delay.
“I’ll take you to my own modiste,” said Mrs. Walker. “She’s got a real eye for color, Madame Perrier. Knows just what I like.”
If the modiste’s eye for color coincided with Mrs. Walker’s, Hilary suspected she was in dire trouble.
She wished with all her being that Rosamund and Cecily had managed to prevail upon Lord deVere to let them assist her with her wardrobe, but she couldn’t very well express such disloya
l sentiments to Mrs. Walker.
The prospect of shopping in London could not entirely distract her from the larger problem of Davenport and the evening she’d spent with him. He’d taken possession of her body in the most intimate ways imaginable and she’d let him. More, she’d reveled in it. Why would she have done such a terrible, irrevocable thing if she wasn’t in love with him?
No, she couldn’t be that stupid. Fall in love with a rake like Davenport? She might as well watch for the sky to fall as wait for him to love her in return.
“Come along, dear,” said Mrs. Walker. “We have much to do today.”
Obediently Hilary climbed into the carriage and tried to put her mind to the task at hand as Mrs. Walker rattled on about the latest fashions.
Hilary rarely purchased new clothes, and when she did, they were made of durable, serviceable stuffs suitable for everyday wear at the school. A clever seamstress in the village made them, and while Hilary knew they were sadly countrified, their lack of modishness scarcely seemed to matter. Besides, she couldn’t afford to purchase clothing in the exclusive shops in Bath. Her brothers were distressingly clutch-fisted when it came to pin money and Lord deVere was worse.
She was relieved when, despite Mrs. Walker’s summons, Lord Davenport did not appear to escort them to Bond Street. She couldn’t possibly discuss her apparel with him looking on, especially after last night. The mere notion made her stomach go all hot and fluttery. She’d be sure to give herself away and everyone would know that she and Davenport had been intimate.
Oh, she was a sad case indeed. She’d heard Trixie say that once a man got what he wanted from a girl he lost interest. The notion made something twist painfully in her chest. Last night she’d done more than give Davenport her body; she’d laid herself wide open, made herself vulnerable. Until last night she’d been the one doing the rejecting.
Now …
Suddenly her wish for a nice, quiet gentleman seemed like a shiny soap bubble that had burst.
She didn’t want a nice, quiet gentleman. She wanted an infuriating rogue, a deliciously handsome scoundrel. She wanted Davenport.
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