“Are you certain?” he said against her ear. “Or is it the gin?”
The gin made her bold enough to say it, but the wanting… That had been building for days, through every hour she posed for the painting under his dark, intense gaze, through every night she slept in his bed and remembered the feel of his lips on hers. Her fingers clenched on his hair. “I’m certain.”
He kissed her again, hard and joyful, then seized her hand and plowed through the crowded tavern. He waved good-naturedly to anyone who called after them, but his steps didn’t slow. During the brisk walk back to Stanhope Street he held her close to his side. Samantha didn’t need to be urged along; her steps were as quick as his, and every few minutes they exchanged searing glances. At Number Eight, Gray dropped the latchkey twice before inserting it into the lock, swearing as Samantha giggled at his clumsiness. He banged the door shut more quietly than usual, then followed hard on her heels up the stairs, past Mrs. Willis’s apartments to his rooms, now Samantha’s.
Neither took the time to light the lamps. Gray turned the key in the lock with one hand and reached for her with the other. He kissed her again, bearing her backward through the sitting room and into the bedroom. There he set her down on her feet and held her at arm’s length. “Samantha, perhaps we should stop—”
“Why?” She reached up and unbuttoned her spencer. His eyes tracked her fingers’ progress down the front of the garment and his hands fell away from her elbows as she peeled it off.
“Uh.” With a flinch he jerked his gaze back up to her face. “It’s not proper for a lady to…” He made a vague motion that caused her to blush.
But her blood was still running, and she couldn’t get rid of the thought of holding him, his beautiful artist’s hands on her skin. Deep down Samantha knew that these weeks with him had wrecked her—she could never go back to her quiet life now, not when she would carry the memory of Gray in her heart forever. Unlike Philip, he was everything she’d ever dreamed of in a man, and even if he didn’t feel the same way about her, she would never regret this.
“Nothing I’ve done lately has been proper,” she said softly. “And I’ve never been happier. It’s not gratitude or the gin. The truth is that I—I think I’ve fallen a little bit in love with you, and I want you.”
His eyes were almost black, and his breath shuddered in his chest. “Love?”
Her face heated. “I—I don’t expect that you feel the same—”
He seized her face in both hands and kissed her. “You have expressed my feelings perfectly, as it turns out.” One hand wandered down her back and began loosening her dress’s fastening. “The Lord above knows I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you strolling down the Strand.”
“Is that why you—?”
“No,” he said, cutting off her question. “I would have come to your aid had you been wizened and hideous.”
She tugged at the loose end of his neckcloth. “I was going to ask if that’s why you offered me your own rooms.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, yes.”
She laughed and he dropped his head, whispering kisses alone the bared slope of her shoulder. “You’re so lovely,” he murmured, his breath heating her skin. Her dress slid down her shoulders and his hands followed, pushing the cheap cotton lower until she pulled her arms free of the sleeves and it puddled on the floor around her feet.
Blindly she struggled with his clothing. Unlike the loose shirts and smocks he’d worn at first, tonight he was fully dressed, and the construction of men’s clothing was foreign to her. His coat came off, then the waistcoat with a little more effort, and she almost exclaimed aloud when he yanked the hem of his shirt free of his trousers and pressed both her hands to his stomach. He went still as her fingers tentatively explored his hot skin.
“You’re so warm,” she marveled. “So strong.”
Gray swallowed. He still gripped fistfuls of shirt, and finally stripped it over his head. “Not where you’re concerned, Perdita.” He stepped closer and she went willingly, running her hands over his chest and shoulders. Her corset came loose and she barely noticed.
“I don’t feel lost anymore,” she told him.
He lifted her and carried her to the bed, laying her down as gently as he might a sleeping child. “You’re never lost with me,” he whispered, stretching out beside her on the coverlet.
She felt found. Saved. Loved. He tugged the ribbon of her chemise loose, finding the soft weight of her breast. Every touch of his hands made her sigh and long to twine herself around him, especially when his palm slid up the side of her thigh.
“Samantha,” he breathed, inching her chemise higher. “Do you know… Do you understand…?”
“Making love?” she panted. “Yes.”
He gulped. His hand shaped to her hip, his thumb tracing circles on her belly. “Right. If you want me to stop…”
Her heart swelled. “I would tell you.”
He nudged her legs apart, until Samantha simply hooked her left leg over his hip. It was bold and shocking and so wonderful, as Gray cupped his hand between her thighs and stroked the aching pulse there. His kiss stole her gasps of pleasure, his arm anchored her as she writhed. She felt something building inside her, frightening and addictive, and when he pressed one finger inside her, tears leaked from her eyes.
Gray rolled them both over until he sprawled atop her, his weight pushing her knees farther apart. “You’re so soft,” he rasped. He tore at the buttons of his trousers, shedding the clothing he still wore, and then she felt him against her.
He pushed himself up on one arm so he could adjust himself with the other hand; Samantha tensed as he pushed; he stroked her again and a shock ran through her as he pressed forward until his hips fit snugly between her legs.
Time paused. She shifted beneath him, no longer caught up in the drowning pleasure, but distracted by the feeling of him inside her. Gray flinched, then pulled back and pushed deep again. “Don’t move,” he said in a strained voice. “Just…let me love you…” He licked his thumb and parted the damp curls between her legs to settle on that pulse again.
This time each swirl of his thumb set off shocks through her limbs. She clung to him, dimly aware that Gray was moving, his spine flexing as he slid in and out of her, crooning words she was too frantic to understand. That feeling was building again inside, as if she were racing up an endless flight of stairs, her breath growing shorter until she reached the top—
And plunged over. She convulsed with a little cry, the blood roaring in her ears. Gray’s head dropped onto her shoulder; his arms trembled; and his hips thrust hard against hers.
Samantha stared, wide-eyed, at the ceiling. Gray still shuddered in her arms and she felt his lips moving on her skin. They were wrapped around each other, naked and sweating, his flesh inside her body, and she’d never felt better in her life. An incredulous smile curved her lips as she turned her head to kiss him.
“I’m crushing you,” he mumbled. He rolled to the side without relaxing his hold on her.
“No.” She stroked the hair back from his face. “Do you remember what I said earlier? About being a little bit in love with you?”
His eye opened, gleaming at her like a cat’s.
“I lied,” Samantha whispered, touching the corner of his mouth. “I’m more than a little bit in love with you.”
“Good,” he murmured back. “Because I’m utterly mad about you, my darling.”
Chapter Eleven
She awoke alone in bed. Sunlight seeped through the curtains, and when she stretched there was an unfamiliar but delicious ache in her body. A smile seemed permanently fixed on her face, and she hummed as she dressed and went down for breakfast.
The next few days passed in the same rosy-tinged glow. Gray invited her to the studio to pose for him, but each time he ended up making love to her on the chaise instead, Samantha muffling her cries in his shoulder. At moments she wondered at herself; just weeks ago she had been too frightened even
to tell him her name and now she could hardly refuse him anything. She had transformed into an entirely different person in Stanhope Street, and she liked her new self very much.
Everything about her old life seemed gone, and she deliberately tried not to think of it. To think about it would be to face the reality that she was a runaway who could not stay in Stanhope Street forever. The thought of leaving brought her physical pain, not only for the unpleasant question of where she would go.
It was impossible not to think of the best option. Gray had said it himself: she could marry another chap. He had also said he was mad about her and made love to her. It wasn’t hard to draw a line between those two points, connect it to the fact that she was head over heels in love with him, and wind up at the blissful idea that she could marry him.
That would be wonderful…for her. For him, she didn’t know. By running away from home, she had stained her own reputation irreparably. By marrying a man other than the one her father chose, she had almost surely lost her dowry. For all his unconventional ways, Gray was still a duke’s son. Even if he didn’t care about those two enormous faults, his family might. In wistful moments she wondered about them, the indulgent duke who said he wanted a daughter and the duchess whose tears could keep four unruly sons in line. What would they say about her?
She found out when Gray slipped into her bedroom very late one night. She woke when he slid into bed beside her, murmuring a soft reassurance as he pulled her into his arms. She sighed happily and nestled against him. He’d been out all day and evening.
“Samantha,” he breathed. “Are you awake?”
She smiled and lifted her face, eyes still closed. “Perhaps…”
Gray dropped a brief kiss on her lips. “I have something to tell you.”
Her eyes flew open.
“Nothing alarming,” he assured her. “Good news. I wrote to my mother and told her about you.”
Now she was tense, hardly able to breathe.
“I knew you had nowhere to go, so I asked her to come to town and sponsor you. She wrote back that of course she would. They arrive tomorrow, and you will be a welcome guest in their house for as long as you want to be.”
She wet her lips. “Even though… Do they know about this?” Each word had become more hesitant. When Gray wrote to his mother, Samantha had been a fugitive; now she was his lover, and the duchesses Samantha knew would never take a fallen woman into their homes.
“No, I didn’t write to tell my mother about this.” Gray grinned, although it quickly faded. “But I would like… That is, I hope…” He cleared his throat. “Once you are installed there and resume using your proper name and rank, I would like to court you.”
Her mouth fell open.
“If you would rather I don’t, you would still be welcome with my mother,” he hastened to add. “But—”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”
His smile was wonderful. “Of course you might meet other fellows more to your liking, but either way you’d have your choice. And if you did choose me, well… I’m not a terrible catch. You’ve only ever mentioned your father, but you must have other family, whom you must miss. A decent match might ameliorate his anger and allow you to be accepted back—”
She flung herself at him, cutting off the last. “Yes. You’d be a wonderful match, Gray, for me or for any woman.”
Now sprawled on his back with her on top of him, he grinned. “I only care about you. Enough that I give you leave to call me George.”
“George.” Her lips curved. “I thought you hated the name.”
“Say it again.” He pretended to listen very closely as she repeated it several times. “I like it much better when you say it. Who knew everyone else says it wrong?”
The next day was Varnishing Day, when the artists were to apply the final coats of varnish in preparation for the exhibition. Gray packed up his materials and departed for the Academy, whistling. Samantha bid him farewell, feeling buoyant with joy.
She went up to the studio. Now that Gray had paintings at the Summer Exhibition, she was certain dealers would be coming by to see his work. Those buyers routinely came to Stratford Court to show her father pieces in hopes he would purchase them. A neat and tidy studio would reflect well on Gray, but he left everything where it was when he used it, leading to wild disarray.
She had been at work for almost two hours when the knock sounded on the front door. With the windows open, it was easily heard even four floors away. She didn’t pay attention to the sound of Jenny’s voice answering the door, and was startled when the girl rapped on the studio door. “Miss…”
“Yes?” In the middle of organizing paint pots, Samantha looked up. Jenny stood in the doorway, fiddling anxiously with the strings of her apron, and behind her…
Samantha stopped breathing as her father brushed by the terrified maid and stepped into the room. It seemed an eternity since she had seen him; she at least felt a new person. But as his arctic gray eyes slid over her, she was abruptly aware that he had not changed one whit. For a moment her brain raced. Could she charge by him and run? She knew the way out the back of the house and might even make it to the market…
His gaze landed on her. His expression didn’t change. Samantha raised her chin and didn’t say a word. The time to run was past.
“I hardly dared believe it, when Milner said he had seen you at the Academy.” Stratford’s tone was cool and idle. He closed the door on Jenny and prowled across the room, hands clasped behind his back. “Surely not, I thought; my daughter must have been taken hostage, held somewhere against her will. Surely it could not be she on the arm of some stranger, promenading brazenly through Somerset House. Not after she disappeared so shockingly, throwing her mother into a fit of grief and worry.”
Her fingernails were digging into her palms, but still Samantha said nothing. This was the earl’s way, to cut and wound and turn her natural affections and sensibilities against her.
“But here she is,” finished Stratford softly. His glance swept around the room. “Living in squalor.”
In the ringing silence, Samantha could hear Mrs. Willis exclaiming in protest downstairs. Stratford must have brought servants with him to enforce his will. “What are they doing to Mrs. Willis?” she asked.
The earl stared at her.
“The landlady,” Samantha clarified. “She’s been very kind to me and it would be dishonorable to abuse her.”
Slowly he took a step closer, so close she had to tip her head back to keep meeting his eyes. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. He might not be shouting or waving his hands about, but her father was livid. “You would do well,” he said in a low voice, “to think of your own circumstances at the moment.”
You’re of age, whispered Gray’s voice in her mind. I want to court you. “I was thinking of my own circumstances, Father, when I fled Richmond.”
At the bold confession the earl rocked back on his heels. Samantha thought—knew—he must have been quite certain of it, but he hadn’t expected her to admit it. “Indeed.”
Her heart was in her throat, but she didn’t look away. “I will not marry Lord Philip.”
Rage flared in his face. “You’ll do as you’re told.”
She shook her head. “Not that. I’m of age, and I—”
He raised his hand and she couldn’t stop her flinch. Instead of striking her, he took her chin in his fingers. Now she couldn’t look away. “When I sign a contract, I see that it is honored. You are my daughter, my property, and you will wed the man I choose. None of this childish nonsense—”
“He is cruel and vicious,” she said, interrupting him for the first time in her life. “He would most likely kill me within a year, and how would that reflect on your wisdom in making the alliance?”
His fingers tightened. “If you are a meek and compliant wife, he will treat you properly. If you behave as you’ve done recently, any man would discipline you.”
Not Gray. Gray wo
uld risk his life to save her and disrupt his life to help her. With a small jerk of her head, Samantha pulled free of the earl’s grip and took a step backward. “I tell you now, on my word of honor, if you try to marry me to Philip, I would consider it akin to the bonds of slavery and do everything in my power to flee, no matter the scandal.”
Stratford’s face had never been more terrifying, stony and dark. “I will not tolerate this—”
“I’m not a maid any longer,” she blurted out. “Lord Dorre won’t want me for his daughter-in-law.”
“Who?” said her father after a shocked moment of silence.
“Every man on the street,” Samantha lied. “Every chance I got, I gave myself to anyone who would make me undesirable because I will not marry Lord Philip.” She was out of breath by the end, alarmed and exhilarated by the way she was standing up to her father. “Or anyone else not of my choosing,” she boldly added for good measure.
All the expression dropped from Stratford’s face. “Come,” he said in a low voice. “Come with me now, or I will have you dragged from the house. Do not try my patience any longer, Samantha.”
Still breathing like a racehorse, she hesitated, thinking of the servants who must be waiting outside the door. She would lose if it came to a battle. “Where?”
“To Portland Place. Your mother—whose feelings you seem to have utterly disregarded in your willful disobedience—is there, weeping daily over your absence.”
Mama. Samantha felt a wave of remorse, even though she tried to steel herself against it. Stratford had always been willing to use affection as a weapon. “Very well. I will go to see Mama.”
He stepped back and waved one hand toward the door. Three burly footmen were standing, expressionless, on the landing, and they closed ranks around her as soon as she stepped out of the room. “This way, my lady,” said one, nodding toward the stairs.
A Study in Scandal (Scandalous) Page 10
