Now the very thought seemed indulgent and wishful and naive. Any contact at all seemed entirely out of the question. God forbid she brush up against him in passing or bump feet beneath the table. His remoteness was as before, but there was a new nervousness, an anxiety. Was it so difficult to be alone with her? In his mind, had he already sailed away?
It was a deeper, lower rung of sadness, this. They would not even have this night. She tried to muster the energy and spirit to overcome, to cheerfully soldier on, but her reserve of stoic optimism was spent. She had given all she had to the wedding. He had gone along and not challenged the great fuss of it all. Beyond that? What more had he done than turn up?
It should have been enough.
“The groom is responsible for the wedding night, Falcondale,” she told him. “Surely you have more in mind than inventorying the locks and doors.” She bypassed the food and made for the drinks cart. She took up a diminutive crystal glass and decanter of sherry.
Behind her, he said, “We could play chess.”
Ah, yes, chess. The old standby. There was a board set up across the room. The marchioness had had it sent up when Piety arrived.
She took a sip. “Yes.”
The sherry went down bitter, burning her throat. It reminded her of the discomfort of her dress and veil; her pointy-toed shoes. There hadn’t been time for a proper wedding dress, but she’d sent to London for her favorite evening gown—a shimmery, pale-pink silk that fell simply and whispered when she walked. Marissa packed it with care and sent it by messenger to Berkshire. Piety had felt festive and pretty in it, but now it suffocated.
A seamstress from the village had been commissioned to construct the veil, another success, but now the weight and biting pins that held it in place felt excruciating.
She rolled her neck and tugged on the long, heavy headpiece. Speaking to the drink in her glass, she said, “If you don’t mind, I should like to change from my wedding frock.”
She glanced at the silk negligee that Tiny had artfully arranged on a chair in the corner of the room—another gift from the marchioness. Lady Frinfrock had not acknowledged it, but it had shown up earlier in the week in a dove-gray box, sumptuously wrapped. When Piety questioned the maids, they said her ladyship had it sent from London. The gown inside was a confection of silk, lace, and a sprinkle of tiny ivory beads. So soft, so finely made. A sugary color of pale green with rich, ivory trim.
Falcondale, too, glanced at the nightgown and then quickly away. Naturally, he would hate it, disavowing the entire notion of nightgowns and soft silk and loveliness. It had been cheeky and presumptive of Tiny to lay it out, but Piety had seen her do it and could not bear to stop her.
A trickle of perspiration ran down Piety’s back, and it occurred to her that perhaps she didn’t care how he felt—not about the nightgown or anything else. Perhaps this was her room, and her gown, and her own hot, itchy skin beneath layers of pink satin that she’d worn for nine hours.
Across the room, Falcondale hedged. “Do you think changing would be . . . ” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Do you think it’s prudent to change? I’m quite comfortable. At the moment.”
“I’m entirely uncomfortable,” she said, “at the moment.”
The veil was the biggest offender; it absolutely had to go. She could undo the pins and pluck out the flowers herself, and she did so right away. Flowers molted to the floor as she drifted to her dressing table, pulling and plucking. She piled all of it next to the mirror and bent at the waist, flipping her hair forward to shake it free. More vegetation fell to the floor, pins, too. She swayed her head back and forth, running her fingers through her hair. The freedom and looseness felt heavenly.
It felt so good, in fact, Piety realized then that the gown must follow. Immediately. If she couldn’t indulge in the green negligee, she’d dig out a wool winter nightgown and heavy velvet robe. Either way, the pink satin could not be tolerated a moment more. She was just about to announce as much when she came back up and caught her husband’s stare.
He watched her.
The suggestion of the robe caught in her throat.
Piety stared back, not blinking.
By some instinct, she shook her head again. Her hair bounced over her shoulders and fell beside her face. She gathered up one side, swept the curls high, let it fall.
Trevor’s face tightened. He clenched his jaw.
She heard herself whisper, “I want free of this dress, and I have no maid. You’ll have to unfasten me.”
He blinked. “Piety, I know that is not prudent.” His voice was hoarse.
She didn’t answer. She went to him, not taking her eyes from his tortured face. She pivoted slowly, presenting him with the seam of tiny buttons running the length of her back.
Silently, she lifted her hair.
She heard him let out a long, slow breath. She heard him suck in. She heard him shuffle. She heard him loosen his cravat.
She waited.
“Trevor?” she whispered, looking back. “Please? I am suffocating. Unfasten me.” The last word was a caress, barely audible.
“Piety.” His voice was low and rumbly.
She leaned into him, suddenly emboldened. It had not been honest to say she didn’t care how they passed this night. She cared very much. This night was, quite literally, the only one they would have. She wanted to seize it, to devour it, to remember it in the lifetime that lay ahead. Until she saw his face, she had not been certain he wanted the same. But oh, the heat in his eyes. The hitch in his breath. He stared at her like a starving man.
“You are allowed to touch me, Trevor,” she said softly. “You will not turn to stone.”
He let out a strangled, bitter laugh. “Too late for that.” But she felt him take up both sides of her gown at the shoulders and unbutton the first hook.
“There is no way around our closeness tonight; in the same way, there is no way around our separation when you go. Why not revel in tonight?”
“If we act on this impulse, we will be forced to lie to the court to be free. You’ve already lied at the altar today, isn’t that enough?” She felt his hands shake as he unfastened another hook and another. The neckline of the gown began to sag. She let it fall.
“I did not lie today.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
His hands stilled against her back, and she heard him blow out a ragged breath.
“And I am not lying now. There’s no manipulation here. I have no intention of confining you in this marriage after tonight, regardless of what happens. If you do not wish to lie to the court, then can we not almost consummate the marriage? Can we not nearly consummate it, but not entirely?”
He made a strained, scoffing sound and returned to the hooks, working faster now. “What you suggest is playing with fire.”
“Ah, well, we’ve done that from the start, haven’t we?” The dress was nearly open, barely hanging on. She felt him reach the final button and stop. His hands remained at her waist.
She looked over her shoulder. “The corset, as well? If you please.”
He made a scoffing sound and backed away. He swore. She heard rustling, yanking. His coat went flying to the back of a nearby chair. His cravat followed.
He cleared his throat and returned to her, tugging the silk lacing of the corset. Quick, efficient movements. Urgent or detached? She couldn’t tell. But, oh, the tingling relief of looseness at her ribs. Sweet freedom from the pinch and bind of the stays. Finally, she could breathe. One more tug, and the corset fell away and caught on her sagging bodice.
“Bloody hell, the tightness of this thing,” Trevor said, reaching out to brush his hand against the fabric of her shift. She shivered, and he replaced his hand with two warm fingers, slowly tracing the notches of her spine, up and down, and up again.
Her shift was thin, the finest linen, soft and pliable. She could feel the rough pads of his finger through the cloth.
When he reached the top of her spine, he
brushed her hair off of her shoulders. She felt his breath on her neck.
When his fingers went down again, he followed the scoop of her waist lower, lower to the swell of her bottom. She gasped, and she heard him chuckle, an arrogant, satisfied sound.
His fingers continued their exploration, fanning out. Kneading gently, he located the very spots where the corset had bitten into her skin. The flair of her waist. The tender skin beneath her arms, just a freckle from her breasts. Here, he rubbed. Small circles. Her body came alive, awakening for what felt like the very first time.
She sighed, and his touch became heavier. He lingered with each pass. Her skin seemed to pulse beneath his fingers, the sensation radiating. She sucked in breath and turned her head to the side, seeking his kiss. “Trevor,” she said softly, begging him for more.
“Shh,” he replied, his own breath shallow. He scraped his palms downward, learning every contour, while his fingertips feathered across her belly.
And now up again. His knuckles grazed the underside of her breasts.
Down again. Her shift was bunched at her waist; her open dress hung from her body.
Piety arched her back, and he seized her, his hands locking around her waist. He nudged closer. She could feel the heat of him from her neck to her heels.
“You are perfection, Piety,” he whispered against her ear. “I don’t deserve you. Not even for one night.”
“Perhaps, but I do,” she whispered back. “For memory’s sake. One night to cherish forever. No one ever need know.”
She heard him swallow hard. His hands made another slow, massaging perusal of her back, her belly, the rounded curve of her breasts. Piety made a gasping sound, and her legs began to give way. She stumbled. He steadied her.
“I . . . I don’t understand why you would offer yourself to me like this.”
She looked over her shoulder. “I don’t understand why you would refuse.”
He growled at that, gathering her tightly against his chest. She felt his arousal against her bottom, his broad chest against her bare shoulders. He bent beside her head, burying his face in her hair.
“I cannot resist you. I promised myself that I would leave this union having only given aid. I would not have you hate me. But I guarantee it, Piety, to carry on like this will plant the seed of something very near hate. Resentment . . . ” He pressed his lips to her neck, not a kiss, simply a melding of his mouth to her skin.
“I love you, Trevor.” She sagged against him. “There can be no hate.”
How good it felt to finally say it. So good, she almost laughed. She wanted to laugh, to fly, to love him with her body like she loved him with her heart.
She leaned her head against his shoulder and raised her chin, offering her neck, her mouth. “You must have known that I love you. I will always love you, regardless.”
He opened his mouth to answer her or to kiss her, but a knock sounded at the door.
Piety let out a small gasp, and Trevor looked up.
He reached for the sagging bodice of her dress and drew it to her, hooking it on her shoulders. He stood her upright and gently set her apart. She stumbled again, and he balanced her on her own two feet.
“Piety,” he said in a firm voice, “go into the maid’s anteroom. Do not come out until I call you.”
“But I—”
“In this you may not argue. I am expecting Joseph. With a message. Likely, it’s nothing more, but I need you to go. Now.”
“Joseph?”
“Piety, go!” He set her away from him, shoving her gently in the direction of the door.
She went, holding her dress loosely around her. She reached the threshold but turned to hover, watching him. Instead of crossing to the door, Trevor edged up from the side, laying himself flat against the wall, listening, studying the knob.
All of this for Joseph?
A prickly sense of alarm burned the back of her neck, and she shuffled two steps back.
Beside the door, Trevor whispered the boy’s name. There was some answer, and he cautiously unlocked the key and opened the door. Slowly, he edged out, his head alone. Whispering ensued. Trevor nodded, asked something, nodded again. He stood so rigid; his face was so grim. He spoke in harsh, clipped words. The entire exchange embodied dread.
Now he spared a glance back. He caught sight of her and made a face, slicing the air with a curt gesture. Stay back.
Piety skittered back, but she could still see him. There was more whispering, glances up and down the hall, a check to the clock on the mantle. She saw him nod once, twice, and then softly shut the door, clicking the lock firmly in place. He sighed heavily and leaned against the wood, scrunching his eyes shut.
She disappeared into the tiny room. After a moment, she called his name.
Silence.
She tried again, “Trevor, is anything the matter?” She kicked her shoes from her feet and hiked up her skirt to peel off her stockings.
“It’s nothing,” Trevor called back. She heard him prowling the room.
“May I come out?”
Another silence.
She went still and looked up.
The length of the quiet was deafening, and she felt the charged passion drain from the room. The reckless intimacy had slipped away. He was cautious and closed again.
Piety squeezed her eyes shut and bit back a yelp of frustration. She took three calming breaths. She looked down at her body, still tingling from his touch. The bodice of her dress sagged at her waist.
There was only one thing to do.
Working quickly, she finished tugging her stockings free and jerked the dress from her body. Next she shed her petticoats, leaving them in a frilly heap on the floor, and slipped from her shift. Her drawers were last, and she hesitated only a moment before shimmying them off.
“Trevor?” she called again. A bold, new power made her voice strong.
She shook back her hair and walked, naked, into the room.
“Piety, I’m not su—” He stared with an expression so hot, she felt the sizzle on her skin. He drank in the sight of her.
She went to him, and God love him, he met her more than halfway. They collided in the center of the room, and he snatched her to his chest. Only her name—a whisper, a wish—escaped his lips as he descended, kissing her.
Piety returned his ardor, kissing him back, grabbing handfuls of the cotton of his shirt.
“Why must you make yourself impossible for any reasonable man to resist?” He swept her into his arms, striding to the bed. He tossed her in the center and she laughed. Suddenly shy, she scrambled for the coverlet. She looked up, expecting to share in the laugh, but his expression had gone serious. He studied her with something akin to reverence and an unerring need. Her laughter faded away, and she sat back on her haunches. She let the coverlet fall.
Falcondale growled, pulling off his shirt in rough, staccato movements, never taking his eyes from hers.
She lifted her chin, welcoming his gaze and rose up. She kneed to the edge of the bed. He froze in the act of removing his shirt, stricken by the sight of her, and she laughed and reached for him, peeling the shirt back and tossing it to the floor.
When he was bare to the waist, he put his knee on the mattress and nudged her back, chasing his hands in hungry circles across her back. She landed against the pillows with a soft thump, and he followed her down, spreading himself on top of her.
It was new—laying beneath him—and the weight of him and the head-to-toe contact set off a new awakening. She reveled in the tickle of the hair on his chest against her breasts, the immovable, muscled hardness of his shoulders, the musky scent of his closeness. Her hands moved of their own accord, exploring every contour.
“Piety, there is a way.” His breath quickened from kissing her. “A way to give you pleasure without sacrificing your virginity.” He pulled away and stared down at her. “But if we lose control? I do not want to risk that.”
She urged him on. “Risk it.”
&
nbsp; He laughed and ran a heavy hand over the dips and swells of her torso, setting off a trail of shivery sensation. When he reached her knee, he grabbed the tangled wad of the coverlet and tugged it down.
“This is so much better than chess,” he said, rising up to stare at her body again. She laughed, and he pounced on her mouth, smothering the sound.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Making love to Piety on his wedding night was perhaps the first reckless, indulgent, truly selfish thing Trevor had allowed himself in fifteen long years of self-sacrifice and restraint.
Well, almost making love to his wife.
He reminded himself of this critical provision again and again as he devoured her body with his hands and kissed her until he could barely remember his name.
It will be enough, he told himself, trying to reason through the lust fogging his brain.
It would, in truth, be too much, considering he’d put the annulment in serious jeopardy merely by touching her. Their future rapport was destroyed for certain. She’d told him she loved him, for God’s sake. And now this?
Why, he wondered, could he not stop? Was he such a slave to his desires? To her body? Was he rotten to the core? He wanted, needed, to mete this out—what was wrong with him—but at the moment, everything seemed so very right. His ability to reason, right from wrong, was rapidly vanishing.
Beneath him, she widened her legs, allowing their bodies to slide together—a timeless, perfect fit. They both sighed; it felt universally right. Piety laughed, making no effort to hide her delight. Naturally she would smile and exude happiness and light, even in bed.
Trevor tried to hold himself up and away, but she laughed again and hitched up her knees. He was given no choice but to surrender. A growl. Another kiss. He dropped against her. His only hope for holding back was the sobering memory of Janos Straka sitting among the guests at his wedding.
The Earl Next Door: The Bachelor Lords of London Page 26
