“Let us get some food before we become too distracted,” he suggested.
She bit down on her bottom lip and nodded. Before she could lose her courage, she snatched his hand and prevented him from leading the way to the supper boxes. “But, first, tell me this. Do you intend to take me home with you tonight?”
He opened his mouth then closed it.
“Do not tell me I silenced the great Ambrose Creasey?”
“Never.” He looped an arm around her waist and drew her into him. “And, yes, if you should like it, I would be extremely keen on taking you home with me. In which case, we must eat,” he declared. “No doubt I shall need all my strength,” he murmured in her ear.
A shiver of anticipation trailed through her. The end of the evening could not come soon enough.
Chapter Seventeen
Ambrose’s lips still burned from when he kissed her by the trees. As they walked under a streetlamp, he cast his gaze to her, unable to resist staring.
Joanna still wore her mourning clothes. The black gown contrasted beautifully with her pale skin, the blonde of her hair swept up in pins and combs. Some color still remained on her cheeks.
She caught him staring and smirked. “Stop that before your mind wanders to impropriety.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” He flashed her a smile, his heart beating hard against his chest. They had both known where this evening would go, he was certain of it, but for some reason, now it was here, he felt like a whelp about to get his first taste of a woman.
Her remarkable physical attributes had drawn his attentions, to be sure, and he could not deny she was beautiful, even as he burned to touch her, to press his lips against her full ones, she unlocked a part of him that had lain hidden away for a long time—or perhaps never discovered.
She inspired him. She was sharp as a tack. With every witty remark he threw her way, she always responded with something clever. This resulted in a playful banter that made him want to pin her against the wall, press his lips against her white throat, breathe in the scent of her hair.
He could not help but think she was the challenge he had been after, she was what was missing from his life.
Joanna had eluded him for a little while, protesting their shared kisses. But tonight… she’d agreed to accompany him to Vauxhall Gardens. Tonight, he was going to make her his. He didn’t often feel those deep, animalistic sentiments, but now he understood what it meant when friends of his muttered such things. He needed to possess her, not just in body but in mind.
Of course, he’d planned to be patient, to ensure he had not misunderstood her intentions. Instead, he kissed her. Kissed her with a fervor he’d been unsuccessfully keeping at bay. He’d become breathless with that simple kiss, his heart pounding in his throat, ears, his mind wandering to all the places he could press his lips. All the places he could taste her.
And now they were here, walking away from the gardens, toward his carriage so he might take her to his home.
They reached the black carriage and he pulled open the door, helping her inside. Even the pressure of her hand in his while she mounted the carriage made his head spin with desire. Swallowing, he spoke a simple command to his driver and ducked after her.
Joanna adjusted her black dress, avoiding eye contact with him. Did she burn as he did? The elusive answer to that question nearly drove him mad as the carriage jolted forward, rocking their bodies side to side.
She was so close. If he leaned just a few inches, he could bite at her earlobe, trace the line of her jaw with a finger. As if sensing his thoughts, her eyes latched onto his.
He could not remain silent. “Come home with me,” he whispered.
She raised her thin brows.
“To my townhouse.”
Joanna dipped her head, looking up at him through fair but long lashes. “You mean… stay the night?”
“You know full well that is exactly what I mean.”
A beat of silence filled the carriage. The sound of hooves clicking on London’s streets pounded into Ambrose’s head as he waited for her answer. She considered him, hands clutched together in her lap. She broke eye contact. For a moment, he suspected he’d made the wrong assumption and she was to yet again deny him.
“Just tonight.”
Just tonight. The words, so softly spoke echoed through the vehicle, bounding directly into his heart and rattling around in his mind. He’d want more than one night, of that he was certain, but that was for tomorrow’s Ambrose to worry on.
He could have cried out with joy. Leapt onto the top of the carriage and yelled at the top of his lungs to all of London. Instead, he rushed at her, cupped her cheek in his palm, and crushed his lips to hers. Her breathing hitched, which only encouraged him. Slipping his other arm around her shoulders, he pulled her close against him. Her hands went to his chest. Their lips moved slowly, hungrily. The repressed passion he felt for her flamed and it was all he could do to keep from ripping her clothes from her right there in his carriage.
“Are you certain?” he forced himself to ask.
She nodded fervently.
Then he returned right where they left off, their breathing becoming more irregular as they kissed. She tasted as sweet as he imagined, her lips as supple as any he’d had before. He imagined undressing her, admiring her naked form on his bedsheets. His arousal enlarged at the thought.
They arrived at his townhouse quickly, but not quickly enough. When the carriage came to a stop, he and Joanna all but stumbled out. He paused only to thank his driver before taking her hand and leading her up the steps and unlocking the door with shaking fingers. The moment the lock clicked back, he rammed the door open, grabbed Joanna, and dragged her into his residence before slamming the door shut behind him.
To his surprise, she rushed at him, her hands tracing his chest and shoulders. “Just tonight,” she whispered.
He nodded, knowing one night would never be enough. Most other women he’d taken were only so he could taste them, have a wild night before returning to business as usual.
With Joanna, he wanted to drink her in completely. He wanted to sample what she had to offer again and again. Wanted to take more than one night to explore her depths and complexities. He wanted to make love to her thoroughly, with no stone unturned. He wanted to know her better than any man had known her before, including her deceased husband.
Joanna’s fingers rapidly worked, unbuttoning his shirt until it hung from him, exposing his chest. She pressed her warm hands against it and slid them down to his stomach. Her gaze flickered up to meet his. Without another word, he swept her up into another heated kiss, pushing her back until she was against the wall. Her every touch added kindling to the flames already building inside him.
He gripped one of her buttocks with one hand, eliciting a small sound of surprise from her. He bit her bottom lip, running the tip of his tongue along it. With his other hand, he hoisted up her skirts until he felt the warm, trembling skin of her inner thighs. Thank the Lord, Bram had conveniently vanished to bed or else he would catch them in a compromising position indeed.
“Ambrose,” she whimpered.
“Are you well?”
She nodded, eyes bright, cheeks pink. “Touch me.”
As if he could do anything else. He sank back to her mouth, pressing his body against hers. His hand moved up from caressing her thighs. Carefully, he touched. She shuddered underneath him and let out another small sound—a soft “ah” that made his body throb.
Slipping two fingers between her folds, he kept his thumb pressed against her, rubbing while he worked his fingers inside her. She gasped and arched towards him, breaking her lips from his. He took that moment to latch his mouth onto her exposed neck, as smooth and silky as satin.
She lifted her leg to his hips, and he hooked a hand under her knee, holding her firmly in place as he pleasured her, pulsing his fingers inside her. A moan escaped her, low and desperate. His mind was lost with her pure beauty,
the realization that she was finally here, with him, trembling under his fingers.
He kissed her neck and lightly bit at the delicate skin there. “You are angelic,” he murmured. He tilted his head up, nibbled at her earlobe. She let out another moan, this one higher pitched. Her hips bucked toward him, but he held her steady. Her breathing came out in short pants. “Ambrose,” she moaned. “Do not stop.”
His lips curled into a smile. He extracted his wet fingers and lifted her other leg up until she was straddling him, then carried her into his bedroom and lowered her onto his bed. She lay there panting, strands of hair falling from its pins.
Moving fast, he undressed her. Her breasts were full, the soft white of the moon. Her hips curved deliciously. Her stomach moved with each breath as she stared at him, her eyes large and eager for him to continue.
Ambrose removed the remainder of his clothing, leaving himself as bare and exposed as she was. Her eyes wandered his body with curiosity. He lowered on top of her, covering her body with his. He cupped a breast, massaging it, while he latched his mouth to her other breast, tongue swirling over a hardened nipple. She stretched out beneath him with a pleased sigh.
Encouraged, he moved his hand back down between her legs and resumed plunging his fingers into her. She arched beneath him, a pleasant melody of sounds escaping her swollen lips. He continued sucking at her breast. Then he set to work sucking her other one, his breathing hot and heavy.
She writhed under him as he brought her closer to the edge. Her fingers clutched his shoulders, digging into them as she rocked her hips, trying to reach the point of ultimate, burning pleasure.
He reached for his arousal and ran a hand up and down it, his throat going dry at the thought of piercing her with it, of plunging himself deep inside her.
He worked his fingers faster. She cried out. Gripped his flesh so tightly he thought she might break the skin. Her large blue eyes closed, her mouth hanging open, as she experienced her first orgasm under his hands. When it was over, her chest heaved, her eyes glassy with pleasure.
With a grunt, he extracted his fingers from her. With one, quick thrust, he plunged himself into her, slipping easily inside her. She gasped and tightened around him, making his body burn.
He couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He thrust into her, pounding until their bodies moved as one.
Joanna. She was more than angelic—she was divine. A goddess. Her skin shone with light perspiration. Her hair had come undone, laying disheveled around her. Her lips were plump and swollen from their passionate kisses. And her eyes were locked on his, trusting him.
In another few moments, a swell of burning pleasure assailed him, tearing through his body and making him gasp. They orgasmed together, Joanna’s moans increasing in volume as she reached her peak.
Finally, he collapsed over her, propping himself on his elbows. The only sound that filled the room was their panting. The only determined thought that remained with Ambrose was this—tonight wouldn’t be the last time that he and Joanna would make love together.
Chapter Eighteen
“Tell me all,” demanded Augusta.
Joanna swung a glance her aunt’s way. Despite her increasing years, her hearing was as sharp as ever, especially when it came to gossip. Joanna did not appreciate gossip one bit, unlike the rest of her family members.
Her aunt remained in her rocking chair, humming to herself as she absent-mindedly worked on her embroidery. Even from across the room, Joanna spotted what a disastrous job she was doing, and it took all her willpower not to snatch it from her and fix it.
Smothering a yawn with the back of her hand, she cradled the warm cup of coffee close, hoping the scent might drive away the fatigue lingering behind her eyes. If Aunt Liza realized Joanna had been out all night, she was sure to tell Mother, and the last thing she wanted was her involved in her private affairs.
Nor did she feel ready to speak about Ambrose.
She closed her eyes briefly and inhaled again, closing out the sight of the parlor room—a temple to her aunt’s love of all things lace and pink. As soon as Uncle George had passed, her aunt had redecorated this one room, creating what she called a haven from her grief. She supposed that was one way of dealing with grief, but if Joanna was ever going to redecorate, it would not be with pink or lace.
Behind her closed lids danced images of the night. Of Ambrose. His strength, his tenderness. Every part of her body seemed to sing or vibrate with awareness. Even parts he had left untouched—not that there were many—felt awakened.
And yet, her chest was heavy. Weighted by something, some realization that she was not wrong—she was not that sort of woman. Or perhaps she could be. Just not with Ambrose. Theirs had not been some simple lovemaking, some quick release of pleasure, and she was almost certain he had felt the same way. But how could she feel like this? How could it be more than sex? She was not even out of mourning yet.
“Well?” Augusta prompted, elbows resting on the round, lace-covered table.
“It was...” A tremor ran through her. How could she even find the words?
Augusta’s eyes widened. “Goodness.”
“Goodness? I did not say anything.”
“You’re blushing.” Augusta shook her head with a smile. “I have seen men try to enchant you and you know well we have been in some rather compromising situations together, and yet I have never seen you blush until Ambrose.”
Joanna clamped hands to her cheeks. “I am not blushing.”
“It must have been wonderful.” Augusta sighed. “You are making me miss Miles.”
“Well, we can return home soon. I only have a few more arrangements to make.”
“But do you not want to stay here? In London? With Ambrose?”
“Oh yes, do stay a while longer,” Aunt Liza said. “I so enjoy your company.”
Joanna straightened. How long had her aunt been listening in? “I enjoy yours too, Aunt, but I have things to do in Hampshire.”
Her aunt paused her rocking and lowered the embroidery then tugged down her glasses to peer over the rims at Joanna. “Will that earl be going with you?”
Joanna sank lower in her seat. She was not ready for this. “Of course not, Aunt.”
“You know, I could have taken lovers after my beloved husband died...”
Joanna curled her hands tighter around the slowly cooling cup to prevent from being childish and slapping her hands over her ears. She really was not ready for this.
“But of course, I could never have done that,” she continued, “even if I was out of mourning,” she added pointedly.
“Aunt Liza...” Joanna started.
“Young people will do whatever they will these days.” She shoved her glasses back up her nose. “Goodness knows, I do not understand all this frolicking around and leaping into the beds of strange men. In my day, we married for life, regardless if our husbands died after a year or after twenty.”
“I do not think that is true,” murmured Augusta.
“Aunt, people have always had affairs—half of the kings of England had mistresses and lovers,” Joanna protested.
“Well, we are not royalty.” Aunt Liza shrugged her shoulders, making the lace trim around her neck wrinkle. “But you will do as you will. I just feel sorry for poor Noah. He would not have wished you to spend time with such a man.”
Ambrose is different, Joanna wanted to say, but she could not get the words past her tight throat. She blinked several times to clear her vision and rubbed the end of her nose. Ambrose was different. This was different. This was no silly affair or a brief dalliance.
But somehow that made it worse. Was she betraying Noah’s memory by falling for someone so soon? Was she a fool to think a man like Ambrose even wanted her for more than a brief affair? And how on earth could she feel such things so soon?
Augusta rose from the table. “I could do with a little turn about the garden, will you come with me?” She offered her arm.
Joanna
gave her a grateful smile and stood up too, taking Augusta’s arm. “That would be lovely.”
They stepped out of the wide doorway together. Birds twittered in the lone tree that shadowed over several of the gardens that were all linked together by brick walls and the sun offered instant warmth.
Joanna closed her eyes and lifted her face to it as though it would remove all the doubt. However, it could not banish the shadows that lingered in her mind. How frustrating it was to go from being swept away for the evening to landing firmly on one’s rump with a bump.
“Your aunt is a different person to you, Joanna,” Augusta said while they followed the paving stones that looped in a circle around the small garden.
“I suppose I thought I might remarry someday. I did not think to be a widow the rest of my life. But...” she blew out a breath. “Being with Ambrose was so much...more than I expected it to be.”
Augusta smiled. “I can tell.”
They strolled in silence past a cluster of daffodils that brushed Joanna’s skirts then followed the path back toward the house.
“I am not certain I am ready for it,” Joanna finally admitted.
“I do not think you should take your aunt’s words to heart.”
They paused by the rear windows of the house and Joanna glanced at her reflection. She couldn’t see the rosiness in her cheeks nor the tiredness around her eyes, but she knew they were there. In a way, she almost regretted she had not fallen asleep in Ambrose’s arms last night because it would likely have been the most wonderful thing to awaken in his embrace, but they had been too preoccupied with drawing every ounce of pleasure from one another as though it was the last and only time they would be together.
Ambrose likely did not realize it would be, but Joanna was beginning to think it simply had to be. “My aunt’s words only plucked at my doubts, Gus,” she confessed. “My husband has not even been buried a year. Sometimes, I feel as though it did not even happen, that it might just be some awful nightmare.”
Married to the Earl (The Wallflower Brides Book 3) Page 11
