No Earls Allowed

by Shana Galen

  “Your mouth,” she said. “I need it here.” She touched one nipple, her pale finger sliding over the swollen peak, and Neil almost lost control. With a growl, he took her breast in one hand and captured her nipple with his mouth. He slid the hard point inside, teasing it with his tongue and sucking lightly until she moaned and arched. He sucked harder then, his hand holding her heavy flesh while the fingers of his free hand teased and rubbed at the untended nipple.

  She moaned again, her hands thrusting into his hair to hold him to her. “Yes, like that,” she said on a half sob. “Exactly like that.”

  He allowed her to move his head to the other breast, and when he licked that nipple, she shuddered. She knew what she wanted now, and as he served her, she slid her hands out of her hair and to the ribbon on her skirt. With one flick, it was loose, and the fabric fell away.

  Her coppery curls brushed against his chest, and he caught the faint scent of woman and arousal. He slid one hand over her belly, then her bottom, so plump and smooth, and then over a hip and between her legs. She was wet and warm, and she bucked when he brushed over her.

  “Please,” she said.

  He slid two fingers into that slick heat, licking her nipple in a motion that mimicked his hands. She tightened around his fingers, only releasing him when he drew out and swiped moisture over her hidden nub.

  “Neil,” she moaned.

  His fingers moved inside her again, gently and deeply, sliding in and out as his palm pressed against her center of pleasure. She ground against him, her hips moving in an instinctual rhythm. She was close to climax. One glance at her flushed face told him that much. He slid out of her, his fingers wet and the scent of her all around him. Without thinking, he lowered himself, placing his lips against her curls. God, her scent was like sweet wine. He was drunk on her arousal and the heat of her.

  “Neil,” she said again, her voice filled with more urgency. He slid his mouth lower, parting her lips with his tongue, sliding over her bud and making her cry loudly, and then lapping at her wetness.

  He loved the taste of her even more than her scent. He would die remembering her sweetness on his tongue. Her hips moved and her cries grew more frantic. His fingers parted her, exposing her small, swollen bud. Red and all but throbbing, he placed the tip of his tongue on it.

  She all but screamed, and he pulled back. “You’ll wake the children.”

  She nodded and bit her lip, her hands sliding into his hair and clutching it almost painfully.

  “Shh,” he said, blowing air where he had exposed her. She gave a choked sob. “Not a sound,” he said, putting his mouth on her and using his lips to tease her until her hips moved and she pressed hard against him. And then he touched her lightly, so lightly, with his tongue. Small, tortured sounds came from her lips and her hold on his hair became almost painful, but she did not scream as he flicked and swirled that tight, little bud.

  She moved with his tongue, her bottom sliding against his hands as she tried to move closer, unashamed of her need and her reaction. Finally, she stiffened, and he took the bud in his mouth and sucked deeply. She shattered then, her entire body convulsing against him. How he wanted to free his cock and slide inside her. He slid his fingers inside her instead and wished her body clenched his cock and not merely his fingers.

  Finally, she was spent, and he moved back to guide her to the bed. He expected her to fall onto it. He expected to join her, kissing her lips again, then her breasts, perhaps turning her over and running his teeth over her buttocks before he pushed her up on her knees and used his mouth and his fingers from that angle.

  Instead, she caught herself on her elbows and looked up at him. The slant of her eyes and the tilt of her mouth were coolly seductive, and he paused in the process of joining her on the bed.

  “What does that look mean?” he asked warily.

  “I’m not ready to sleep.”

  “Good,” he said, putting one knee on the bed beside her. “Because I have other plans for you.”

  She cocked her head. “Are you content to give me pleasure and take none for yourself?”

  He stilled. “We discussed this already.”

  “I know, and while I want you inside me, I also know the risks.”

  Neil closed his eyes and swallowed. In his mind, he knew he must remain a virgin, but his body did not always agree. Her words appealed to his body, and he fought the war between desire and duty.

  “But do you never take any pleasure? I’m not a complete innocent.” The blush on her cheeks belied her words. “I’ve been touched by men, and I know they never touch me without wanting something in return.”

  Neil stiffened. “I may be a bastard, but I’m a gentleman enough not to expect anything from you.”

  “But what if I want to give you something?” She reached for his waistband and tugged him closer. “What if I want to touch you and”—she loosened the fall of his trousers—“see you?”

  “I wouldn’t argue,” he said, voice tight. The placket came loose and his cock sprang free and into her small, warm hand. Dear God but those long, lithe fingers felt good as they curled around him and slid up and then down.

  “You’re softer than I thought,” she said.

  He blew out a breath. He felt anything but soft at the moment. “That’s not exactly a compliment.”

  “What I mean is, I didn’t expect the skin to feel so much like velvet—velvet over steel. Do I move like this?” She slid her hand up and then down.

  “Yes,” he managed, clenching his jaw. He swallowed, attempting to regain control. Think of something benign—long lists of orders, a game of billiards, polishing my boots. “And here I was thinking you had done this before,” he said when he managed to regain his voice.

  “No. I’ve never touched a man skin to skin. I’ve never put my hand on a man or taken him in my mouth.”

  “Oh, bloody hell,” he said between clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut and trying desperately to think of anything but the motion of her hand or the promise of her plump lips. She would be the end of him.

  “May I?” she asked.

  He opened his eyes and looked down at her. She’d risen to her knees and sat with her mouth poised over the tip of his erection. The image was the most erotic he had ever seen, and yet his first thought had nothing to do with fellatio.

  She wanted him. Of all the men she might have had, all the men who had wanted her, she wanted him. Him—Neil Wraxall, bastard of the Marquess of Kensington, failed leader of the Survivors. The man who was responsible for the death of eighteen men.

  He didn’t deserve her or this.

  He began to shake his head, but then her tongue darted out, skating over him. “Please,” she said.

  And he couldn’t say no. For the first time in a long, long time, he took the affection—or perhaps it was love?—offered.

  Twenty

  Julia watched Neil’s face go from a mask of control to soft and vulnerable. He was a beautiful man, and when his eyes darkened to azure blue and his full mouth relaxed, she found him utterly irresistible. She lowered her lips to taste him again, sweeping her tongue over his tip.

  He smelled musky and clean, like the gardens in Mayfair after a hard rain. At first she explored him tentatively, learning the shape and feel of him, but gradually also the way he tensed or the hissed exclamations of pleasure he made to let her know what he enjoyed. She closed her mouth over him, taking him inside, and he swore loudly.

  She paused and looked up. “You don’t like that?”

  “I like it,” he said between clenched teeth. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Oh, I want to do this,” she said, taking him in her mouth again and sliding her tongue over his length. She understood now why he enjoyed giving her pleasure. She loved the way he reacted to her touch. She loved knowing she could have this effect on him—this man who
was so strong and confident, this man who was not afraid to face down even the worst villains of the underworld. He was hers at this moment, completely hers. She loved knowing he wanted her, and that she could make him feel the same pleasure he’d given her.

  She loved touching him intimately, and she loved his touch on her.

  She loved him.

  She hadn’t wanted to fall in love. It had been the furthest thing from her mind when she had twelve boys to care for, an orphanage to keep up, and three rats to keep contained, but how could she help falling in love with him? From the moment she’d met him, he’d done nothing but take care of her and the boys. He’d done nothing but protect her. He might have been ridiculously regimented, overprotective, and overly concerned with duty, but she could trust him. She could count on him, and he was the first man she really believed she could rely on.

  And that was not taking into account his perfect face or his hard soldier’s body. Appearance should not have mattered. She of all people should know that, considering the Viscount of Lainesborough was considered handsome by most ladies of the ton, and he’d used his appearance to steal Harriett’s heart and then her dowry. But Neil was no rake, and though she knew what she did broke every single rule of her upbringing, she did not care.

  She wanted him.

  She wanted this.

  She wanted more.

  “Julia,” Neil said with a choked sound. When she pulled back, he stepped away, his glorious manhood stiff and at the ready. “I can’t hold on any longer.”

  “Then don’t,” she said. She wanted more. She wanted all of him. She moved back on the bed and held out her arms. “Come here.”

  Though he breathed heavily and she could see the desire in his eyes, he did not move toward her. “I cannot.”

  “Neil, I want you. I…” She faltered. If she said the words now, she could not take them back. But if she did not say them, she might suffer her father’s curse and spend the rest of her life wishing she had. “I love you,” she said quietly.

  His eyes widened and lost some of that hazy quality. She thought for a moment, he might turn and bolt. Instead, he merely stood motionless before yanking his shirt over his erection and covering himself.

  The action only made her feel more vulnerable. She was still lying naked on the bed. She sat, drawing her knees up to her breasts. “I shouldn’t have said anything. You obviously don’t feel the same.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.” He moved closer to her, which she wanted to believe was a good sign, but his face looked hard again. The warrior was back. “You don’t know me or what I’ve done.”

  “I do know you,” she protested. “And I know exactly what you’ve done. You’ve repaired locks, built rat cages, guarded the door, fed hungry children, defeated Mr. Slag—”

  “That was my duty, and protecting a beautiful woman and innocent children is no penance. At least, not the penance I deserve after the sins I’ve committed.”

  She rose on her knees, taking his hands in hers. “What sins? Defending your country? Safeguarding your men? Killing an enemy who would have killed you if you hadn’t acted first?”

  “Juliana, I was never supposed to come home. I was sent to die and take as many of the French with me as possible.”

  “But you did come home, and you’re alive.” She took his face in her hands. “Act alive. Kiss me, Neil. Make love to me.”

  He shook his head.

  “Neil, I know how you feel. When I lost Davy, nothing else in my life mattered. I’d lost my sister and best friend, and then I lost her child. I wanted to die. But strange as it seems, this pitiful orphanage and the lost boys saved me. They gave me a home and a family. You can be part of that family.”

  His body went rigid. “What are you saying?”

  What was she saying? What was she saying to this man in the middle of the night, as she knelt on her bed, naked and vulnerable? “Marry me,” she whispered, wishing for all the world she did not have to be the one to ask him. Praying he would want her as much as she wanted him because she had never wanted anything as much as she wanted him.

  He shook his head, and she felt ice slide down her bare back.

  “That’s not possible.”

  “I see.” She sat back, feeling more naked than ever before. She reached for the coverlet and pulled it up and over her.

  “It’s not that I don’t want you, Juliana.”

  She moved back and out of his reach when he extended a hand toward her.

  “You simply do not want to marry me. I understand. I run an orphanage. No man of my station will ever want to marry me when I won’t return home.”

  “No.” He took her shoulders in a firm grip. “That’s just it. I’m not of your station. I’m a bastard—”

  “You are the acknowledged son of a marquess, Neil. That hardly makes you lowborn.”

  “But not a legitimate son. My father’s legitimate son—the youngest, Christopher—died in the war. I was there that day, and I couldn’t save him.”

  “Neil—”

  He released her shoulders and stepped away. “It should have been me lying dead on that battlefield, not Chris.”

  She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. “No,” she whispered. “Do you think God or fate or whatever you want to call it makes mistakes? You survived and you deserve to live a long, happy life with a family.” She could see the word family affected him. He swallowed convulsively. “I am sorry about your brother. So sorry. But you are the one who is here. And if you know me at all, you know I wouldn’t care if you were a cobbler or a beggar on the street. I love you.” She should stop saying that. She should stop ripping her armor off, especially when he possessed so many arrows.

  “And what kind of husband would I be? I have no fortune, no title, I wake with nightmares.”

  “You would be the husband I love,” she countered. “Do you think I’m perfect? I have a list of flaws as long as Rotten Row.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I do.” She held up a finger. “I’m headstrong.” Another finger. “I’m impulsive.” Another finger. “I don’t think before I act.”

  “That’s the same as impulsive.”

  She scowled at him. “I repeat myself when making lists. I can’t keep a servant. I’m a horrible judge of character, if Mr. Goring is any example—I could go on all night. Whatever your imperfections, I love you despite them. The circumstances of your birth matter not a whit. It’s the two of us together that matter. Together we are stronger than anything.”

  He gave her a long look, then shook his head. “I wish things were different.” He straightened his clothes and moved toward the door.

  “That’s it then?” she called out. “You’re leaving?”

  “I was always leaving. I’ll make sure the roof is repaired, and I’ll speak to Billy before I go.”

  Her mind reeled as her body grew ice cold. “You won’t even try? You won’t even consider giving this…this family a chance?”

  “This is the best thing for both of us.”

  She reached for the closest object and took hold of a pillow, throwing it with all her strength across the room. Unfortunately, he reached up and caught it easily. “Arrogant man! Who are you to tell me what’s best for me?”

  He tossed the pillow onto the bed. “You needn’t worry I’ll leave without making certain you’re safe.”

  “Damn your bloody duty, Neil Wraxall,” she yelled. “I don’t want it.”

  He went to the door, and she grabbed another pillow. She threw it, but the cushion thudded uselessly against the closed door.

  Neil was gone.

  * * *

  Walking away from her had been the hardest thing Neil had ever had to do. It was also the right thing. She needed a peer—a man with rank and wealth and connections. Not a former soldier and a counterfei
t hero. Even the boys at the orphanage deserved better. They needed a man they could emulate, not one who had been born into circumstances little different from theirs.

  Neil paced the orphanage, patrolling it and checking to be certain doors and windows were locked. Slag was gone, but that didn’t mean Julia wasn’t still vulnerable. After his third pass, he found himself in the servants’ quarters and the room he’d been given. He stared at the bed. For the first time in memory, he wanted sleep. Tonight he was weary enough to succumb quickly. He stripped and lay down, asleep before his eyes were fully closed.

  He knew it was a dream as soon as he saw the battlefield. He stumbled through it, as he had all those years ago, his focus on the fallen infantry, looking for Christopher’s golden-blond hair. Men with brown hair, black hair, gray hair, and dark-blond hair lay with unseeing eyes or clutching bleeding arms or legs. One man held a hand over a gash across his middle, keeping his intestines from spilling out. Neil couldn’t let himself see this. Couldn’t allow himself to believe any of it was real, else he’d lose his breakfast and his faltering courage. Neil trudged through the pools of blood, halting at the bright cap of blond hair lying in one of the bloody puddles.

  His breath caught and his belly tightened.

  “Chris,” he said hoarsely, turning the man over. His heart pounded wildly, his vision dimmed, but when he opened his eyes again, the man he touched was not Christopher, not his brother.

  “Water,” the man croaked. With shaking fingers, Neil unfastened his canteen and pressed it into the man’s hands. He moved on, moved down the hill, his eyes scanning for that crown of bright curls.

  Please, God. No.

  He almost passed another man with blond hair. This man’s cap was still on his head, his face obscured because he lay facedown on the hill. Neil did not want to do this. Did not want to see the dead face. But he had to know. He’d go mad otherwise. Neil got behind the body, dug his heels into the steep slope for purchase, and flipped the man over.