by Erica Ridley
Simon slid a hand into his waistcoat pocket. He touched the ring and took a deep breath. This was the moment. He need only sink to one knee.
“Dahlia,” he said, his voice shaking as much as his fingers. “There’s just one more thing.”
Chapter 25
A movement in the doorway caught Dahlia’s eye. Faith! Thank God.
“Miss Digby,” she called out before Faith could trudge up the stairs. “What perfect timing. You do recall that favor you owe me?”
Privacy? Faith mouthed silently, eyebrows raised in portent.
Immediately, Dahlia mouthed back, tilting her head toward two dozen delighted schoolgirls. “Ladies, Miss Digby will now cover the operational aspects of Circus Minimus while I have a brief chat with Mr. Spaulding.”
“I just want to say…” Simon paused and his knee seemed to buckle.
Dahlia grabbed him by the elbow and hauled him out of the ballroom. “Not here.”
In fact, she didn’t want to waste time with talking at all. From the moment she had realized he was going to be empty-handed after his incredibly sweet gesture, all she could think about was filling his arms with her body.
“Where are we going?” he asked as she all but dragged him up the staircase. “To your office?”
“Yes,” wasn’t a complete lie. It wasn’t her fault the abbey’s small size meant her office and her bedchamber were now the same room.
He was too good for her. She recognized that. She intended to change it. For starters, as soon as the Circus Minimus amassed sufficient donations, she would never go back to being a thief again. She now had a business partner. A plan for raising money.
And for the first time: hope.
The rest of her situation hadn’t changed. The school still balanced on the edge of financial ruin. Until the donations far outweighed expenses, she could not dare jeopardize her position in society with the barest hint of scandal—such as a romantic involvement with a Bow Street Runner.
But just because there could be no courtship didn’t mean they couldn’t be together for just one night. There was no one she would rather have a clandestine affair with than Simon. Heat-of-the-moment kisses and secret embraces were far from enough.
She flung open her door, pulled him inside, and turned the key in the lock.
His brow furrowed only briefly before he seemed to take heart. “Dahlia, it would bring me the greatest pleasure if—”
She rose up on her toes and pressed her lips to his.
Her heart pounded. She knew exactly what would bring them the greatest pleasure. She hooked her hands about his lapels and tumbled backward onto her mattress, bringing him with her.
“I…” he began again. “That is, would you…”
She sank her fingers into his hair and kissed him with all the abandonment of her heart.
He either forgot whatever he’d been about to say, or finally realized there were far better uses for their mouths than wasting them on conversation.
Kissing him within the privacy of her locked bedchamber was even more thrilling than their first forbidden kisses had been, in stolen moments at the front alcove or in the ballroom, where anyone might have seen them.
Here, they were certain not to be interrupted. There was nothing more dangerous than that.
He propped himself up on one elbow—likely to allow her to breathe, or to voice concern about impropriety and a gentleman’s disinclination to take advantage of a lady—but Dahlia loved having to gasp for air between breathtaking kisses. She didn’t want propriety. She wanted Simon Spaulding. And she had him precisely where she wished: legs tangled with hers in the middle of her bed.
She reached up to loosen his cravat. If he intended to ruin the moment with concessions to ladylike decorum, she’d yank him back down with his own strip of linen and kiss him until gentlemanly behavior was the last thing on his mind.
The moment the knot of his cravat loosened, Simon ripped it from his throat and hauled Dahlia into his lap.
His kisses were faster than before, more demanding, as his fingers unfastened the first of her shirt buttons then flew back to his own shirt to unbutton his.
She met him kiss for kiss, her fingers tangling with his as she fumbled free his shirt buttons while he unfastened hers.
He shucked his coat, his waistcoat, his shirt, then paused as he reached for hers.
She lifted her arms over her head and arched her back, silently challenging him to yank the thin cambric over her head with the same mercilessness he’d treated his own.
Rather than do so, he lifted the hem gently, slowly, taking care to allow the ridges of his fingers to graze her hips, her waist, her ribs, the sides of her breasts. Gooseflesh followed the trail of his touch, as did a growing pool of desire that left every inch of her exposed skin tingling in anticipation of his next touch.
When at last her shirt sailed over his broad shoulders to join the other discarded garments upon the floor, Dahlia’s pulse beat so frantically she was certain he could hear it. Her breasts were fuller than before, her nipples hard and aching.
He tipped her backwards into the pillows, then lowered his mouth to hers.
“I’ve never undressed a woman in trousers before,” he said gruffly. “I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”
Before she could think of an appropriate reply, he began a trail of incendiary kisses from her collarbone to the valley between her breasts, then down toward her waistline.
“I’ve never been stripped of my trousers before,” she countered belatedly, and gasped as he accompanied each newly unbuttoned inch with a kiss or flick of his tongue to her bare flesh.
She tilted her pelvis to help him tug her gaping trousers down over her hips. He took advantage of the closer proximity and slid his tongue between her legs to touch her core. Her eyes rolled back in shock and pleasure.
He had not stripped her of her trousers as she had anticipated. He had left them bunched about her ankles, affording her just enough resistance to feel trapped, and yet more than enough freedom to widen her knees to give him greater access.
The twin sensation of being simultaneously submissive and demanding stole her breath and made every lick, every touch, all the more pleasurable. She had imagined being helpless in his arms. This was infinitely better. She could thread her fingers into his dark hair and force him even closer to her core, or she could widen her trembling legs and let him plunder her however he saw fit.
She cupped her hands over her breasts, capturing the stiff nipples between her fingers. Her body was no stranger to her own touch. Many nights when she thought of Simon, she placed her fingers where she thought he might touch, pinched where she thought he might pinch, rubbed where she thought he might rub.
But he didn’t know she did that. Didn’t know she’d had her fingers exactly where his tongue now licked. Didn’t know how many delicious nights she’d teased her own nipples, pretending it was his hands, his mouth on her flesh, not hers.
With her head lolling back against the pillows, she could not see him between her legs. Perhaps right now, even as he licked her into distraction, his dark blue eyes were watching her cup her own breasts, toy with her own nipples. Perhaps his hands were not on the bed, but reaching into his own trousers, pulling out his—
She gasped as one of his fingers slid into her core, impaling as he licked, coaxing as he suckled. Waves of pleasure shot through her, rocketing her past all conscious thought. Her hands fell limp to her sides as the spasms tightened her legs and curled her toes.
Only when he’d taken everything from her did he tug the bunched trousers free from her still-trembling legs and position his bare hips against hers.
“Tell me you want this,” he demanded between kisses.
“You know the answer,” she managed to gasp, her body flickering back to life at the sensation of his shaft gliding again and again along her slick core.
“Say it.” His voice was rough as gravel, the tip of his shaft pressing at
her opening. “Say it if you want it.”
She gave her hips a sudden tilt, forcing the tip to fully penetrate her. “Do it. Make love to me. Make me forget my own name.”
Before she had even finished talking, he sank into her inch by inch until she was no longer certain whether she’d spoken aloud or if Make me forget my own name had been the last coherent thought she’d managed to form in her mind.
The pain was first. Sharper than expected, but gone just as quickly.
His strokes were long, gentle. He probably imagined the slow, deliberate slide a way of easing her into the process, but she had never wanted easy. She wanted him. She wanted him to surrender to the same helpless ecstasy he had given to her.
Already her body had warmed to this new invasion. The parts he had licked were still so sensitive that her nerves sprang back to life with every hedonistic brush of his body against hers. Each stroke brought dual pleasure.
“Do you like this?” he whispered as he drove within her.
“I love it,” she managed to gasp in reply.
The pleasure robbed her mind of its ability to form words. All she could do was feel.
The strokes of his hard shaft inside her and the luscious friction on the outside were a combination so potent she could do little more than lock her legs about his hips and ride each breathtaking thrust.
“Simon,” she whispered. “Simon, I’m going to—”
The spasms fractured within her, the pleasure multiplying as her helpless muscles clenched and released his thick shaft as it stroked deep within her.
He pumped faster and faster and then jerked out from between her legs to bury his bucking hips in a blanket.
When she lifted her head in question, he slung one of his beautifully muscled arms about her waist and tilted his exhausted face toward hers.
“It’s not the order I planned to do things,” he murmured once he’d caught his breath, “but you’re definitely the one I planned to do it with. I always knew my first would be my last. I’m glad it was you.”
Dahlia turned her shocked gaze up to her bedchamber ceiling in dawning horror.
Simon hadn’t thought this was a heat-of-the-moment dalliance—he’d thought he was proposing marriage.
And she had just stolen his virginity.
Chapter 26
Simon’s brain was soporific from sated pleasure. His arms were limp, his legs were limp, his—ahem. Everything had been quite the opposite of limp just a few moments earlier.
For being his first time performing that particular dance, he rather thought he’d acquitted himself quite satisfactorily. And if there was room for improvement, well, that was his favorite way to interpret until death do us part. He and Dahlia could spend the next thirty years perfecting the art of giving and receiving pleasure.
Then again, he hadn’t yet spoken the words. He’d meant to—tried to, in fact, repeatedly—but somewhere between reaching for the ring downstairs and reaching for his cock upstairs, he’d lost sight of the script and become distracted by what was happening on the mattress instead.
Now that they’d snuck the cart before the horse, however, it was past time to put things to rights.
He pushed himself up on one elbow and smiled. “Darling?”
She closed her eyes.
He cleared his throat and frowned. He’d been hoping for at least a modicum of visual reciprocity. Then again, perhaps this way was easier for her.
“I realize I’ve bungled the order of events,” he tried again, “but I’m hoping from now on, we can do things right.”
She grimaced as if beset by a sudden toothache.
He soldiered on. “It would make me the happiest of men, if you would do me the honor of—”
“No.”
The word was so soft, it was barely audible over the pounding of Simon’s heart and the rushing in his ears, and yet no whispered syllable had ever been louder or more devastating.
His knee! He had failed to propose on one knee. He was indeed bollixing the whole thing.
He leapt off the bed and nearly smacked face-first into the wall when he realized his breeches were still somewhere about his ankles. Cursing silently, he yanked the buckskin back up to his hips and carefully buttoned the fall before dropping to one knee directly in front of Dahlia’s field of vision.
If she were to open her eyes, that was.
“My darling Dahlia,” he said far more loudly than he intended.
Her eyes flew open, took in his genuflecting posture, and snapped shut even tighter than before.
The knee wasn’t working. The words weren’t working. He was going to have to try harder.
He grabbed her hands and yanked her into a seating position without releasing her fingers. She couldn’t ignore him now. They were practically holding hands. She was pale and stark naked, but he was still down on one knee, so perhaps this time his proposal would work.
“Marry me,” he said, skipping over the flowery bits. Perhaps the happiest of men line had become outré.
She tugged at her hands.
He refused to let her go.
Her shoulders slumped. “I can’t.”
“Can’t?” he repeated, baffled. “Are you already married?”
She shook her head. “Of course not.”
“Are you underage?” he asked, recoiling in horror.
“No!” She jerked her hands free and rubbed at her face. “Simon, I can’t marry you. I cannot.”
“Of course you can,” he stammered. “There’s three weeks of banns, and if that’s too rushed, we can have as long of an engagement as you desire.”
“There’s no point to an engagement,” she said miserably. “We’re not getting married.”
“Listen,” he said quickly, then paused when he realized he had never worked up a compelling speech to persuade her to his point of view. “I don’t have a title loftier than ‘Inspector’ and I’m afraid I haven’t a palace, but my home is truly quite pretty. Its only lack is that you aren’t there to—”
“I don’t even know where you live,” she interrupted, reaching for her trousers. “And you are never there. This is my home. Bow Street is yours.”
“Well,” he stammered as he searched in vain for a rejoinder. “All right, that’s not a bad point. But it’s also not the only point. I like you, Dahlia. I’ve enjoyed every moment I have spent with you. Er, possibly excepting this one. You have a quick mind and a bottomless heart. I think your school is wonderful. I think you are wonderful. I like your earnestness and your empathy and your unpredictable nature. I don’t want to change you from who you are. I’d just like you to also be my bride.”
“You’ve no idea who I am,” she said with a sigh. “You think you do, but headmistress-in-trousers is possibly the smallest part.”
“No one is their job,” he assured her. “Being an inspector isn’t the sum total of my life either.”
Except it had been. Right up until he met her. She had helped him become a complete person. And was now tearing his heart into tiny pieces. His throat tightened.
She pulled her shirt over her head without comment and began to methodically fasten the buttons.
His neck heated. He was still bare chested. Here he was, trying to be devoted and romantic, and he looked about as presentable as some vagabond drunk on Blue Ruin.
Simon yanked his wrinkled shirt on as elegantly as could be expected, then shoved his clammy hands through the arm holes of his waistcoat and the sleeves of his rumpled tailcoat.
Clearly Dahlia was unsure about him. He either needed to become a better man or prove to her he was already a good one. Thus far, luck had not been with him.
She moved toward the bedchamber door and twisted the key in the lock.
His opportunity was quickly dwindling.
“Are you afraid I’m asking only out of obligation, because of what we just did in your bed?” Simon pulled the ring from his waistcoat pocket and brandished it with shaking fingers. “Dahlia, look at me. I love
you. I always meant to ask.”
“I love you, too.” She swallowed visibly, her eyes glossy. “The answer is still no. It will always be no. I’m sorry, Simon. I am resolute.”
Her words slammed into his gut like cannon fire. That was that. He had failed.
He gave a stiff nod and dropped the ring back into his pocket. If love wasn’t enough to sway her, he had nothing left to offer. He held his head as high as he was able, rolled back his shoulders, and marched out of her bedchamber…
And out of her life for good.
Chapter 27
Dahlia sobbed into Simon’s cravat.
She’d hurt him so badly he had stalked out without it—and now it was the only part of him she would ever have.
It still smelled like him. Six long days had passed of her draping it over her pillow at night in order to fall asleep with his scent on her skin, yet rest continued to elude her.
When she’d first realized that their passionate kisses verged on becoming an out-and-out affair, she’d assumed a single night’s dalliance was something they both would welcome. On her end, grasping at one night for love straws had helped her grapple with the idea of being forced to wed for money or never marrying at all. On Simon’s end…
God save her. She hadn’t realized she’d be taking the man’s virginity!
Dahlia buried her face in her hands and moaned. “I’m a rake.”
The idea was both ludicrous and undeniable. She had knowingly and willfully engaged in sexual misconduct with an innocent party without inquiring into matters such as virginity, or having any intention of making an honest gentleman out of him.
It was the very definition of dishonorable behavior. She was as shameless a rakish scoundrel as any of the charming blackguards prowling the debutantes of the ton.
And she’d done it to the man she loved.
Of course she couldn’t stop thinking about him. If that had been the case before she’d robbed him of his innocence, her guilt and obsession were tenfold now.
The problem with Simon was that he was too perfect. He felt as passionately about her as he did about upholding the law. What he didn’t realize was that those two things were mutually exclusive. She loved him too much to marry him without him knowing the truth.
