“What do you request as a token?” he asked.
Her eyes roamed over his body, setting it aflame with need. Her gaze settled on his neck and she smiled. “Your cravat.”
“Is that the game you wish to play?” He approved.
“If you are willing to accept the challenge.”
“Challenge? What challenge? It is a conquest, it is seduction in every form, and how I eagerly anticipate it . . . every moment.” He tugged on his cravat and sent it to the floor in a whisper of silk.
“Now, it is for you to offer your own token. After all, you have bold words, but your actions do not follow. For that, you should make restitution.”
“Oh? And what do you want me to offer?” she asked, a playful smile tugging at her lips.
Heathcliff knew immediately what he wished, but he gave a slight pause, just for effect, before answering. “Your hair. Let it down for me.”
She tipped up her chin. “You’ve already seen it down. When I fell in the pond it was almost completely undone.” But she reached up and unpinned her tea-colored mane, let it fall over her shoulders, spilling like a luscious waterfall.
It was glorious. “Yes, but this . . . this is different.” He took a seat on the bed, then reached out and laced his fingers through the thick softness of her hair, testing its weight. “Utterly beautiful.”
Her lips parted, and the resolve he’d had earlier melted like hot wax before the fire, and he leaned in, kissing her.
It was like a match to the flame, and his body demanded more, knowing that every restraint could be released and he could make love to her without hesitation, without guilt, with abandon.
He reached up and tugged at the fabric of her dress, removing the cap sleeve and caressing the soft skin of her shoulder. Trailing his fingertips across her collarbone, he felt her shudder beneath his touch. He swallowed her soft moan of pleasure as he trailed his fingertips down, caressing her soft breast through the fabric of her dress, coming to a startling realization.
He leaned back, his lips spreading into a wondrous grin.
Samantha met his gaze, her cheeks pinking. “Liliah didn’t tell me much, but she did mention that . . . well, that less is more.”
“How much less?” he asked, his imagination coming up with a thousand delightful and erotic answers.
“Much, much less,” she answered, her color deepening with the confession.
“Good Lord,” he groaned, then guided her gently down so that she was reclining on the bed and, rather than press into her, melting his body into hers, he leaned beside her, pulling her into his embrace as he gave his hands over to the exploration of her deliciously, scandalously nearly naked body. Belatedly, he thought it was a good think he’d not known about her lack of undergarments earlier; he wouldn’t have survived the wedding or breakfast afterward. The knowledge alone would have burned his desire to ashes. As it was, his greedy hands trailed along the indentation of her hips, caressing the perfect curve of her buttocks, his body going painfully hard and insistent with every touch. But it was the sweetest of tortures, and like a madman, he was enjoying the punishment of endurance.
Her breathing was quick, and would hitch ever so slightly when he touched a sensitive area. He mentally made notes when she did so, remembering how she loved a kiss to the hollow of her neck, and a slight brush to her now-taut nipple. He cupped her, squeezed gently, and finally, when he couldn’t resist the temptation of it all, trailed kisses down her neck and to the sensitive collarbone that had first distracted him. He kissed along the line of the bone, his hands spanning her hips, pulling her in as tightly as he could while still enjoying the access to her delicate skin.
He trailed lower, kissing every piece of flesh his lips graced, and he reached up, tugging down the surprisingly flexible fabric to expose her breast. He gave a gentle nip, then licked, grinning devilishly when she nearly bucked her hips from the bed, gasping with pleasure. Her hands gripped his hair, tugging in the most delicious way.
He needed her, every part, and with a reluctant kiss good-bye to each breast, he withdrew and stood beside the bed, basking in the lover’s glow that radiated from Samantha’s flushed face. She regarded him with a half-drunk expression, and he knew her body was feeling the same need, the same burning desire that was roaring within him.
He quickly disrobed, tossing his clothes to the side, along with his boots. Samantha’s eyes widened as he removed every hindrance between them, watching in wide-eyed wonder.
“Good Lord,” she murmured.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You’re beautiful,” she said, as if it were a shock to her.
“You’re surprised.” He grinned, striding toward her, then putting a knee on the bed in pursuit of his beautiful wife.
“I’m pleased,” she whispered, kissing him gently, enticingly, searchingly. He released her from the kiss, leaning back just enough to speak. “I want to see you.”
He met her gaze, watching as understanding dawned. She moved to stand, and he allowed her to move from his grasp, his body already missing the contact like a phantom limb.
“No,” he whispered. “I want to do it.” He followed her, and as she turned to give him her back, he started on the few buttons that held her dress in place. It was like unwrapping the most-anticipated birthday present. He placed a kiss to each inch of skin exposed, and soon the dress pooled at her feet.
And she was correct in her words; there was much, much less than ladies usually wore under their dresses.
In fact, there was nothing.
The fabric had been just thick enough to hide her delicate curves, but it had been the only garment she wore, aside from her slippers.
Bloody hell, he could kneel and worship every curve of her skin, his body mapping every delight it held. He kissed her shoulder in reverence, and she shivered.
Grinning, he knew exactly how to remedy the chill.
He tenderly placed a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. Her gaze fixed on his chest, refusing to look up as he took in the view of her round breasts and beautiful form. He could feel the trembling in her body, so he lifted her chin with a finger and kissed her softly.
It seemed she only needed the slightest amount of encouragement, because she leaned in to the kiss, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him in close. He picked her up once more, only this time he didn’t throw her on to the bed in play; he laid her down on the bed in seduction. Covering every inch of her body with his, he groaned as his most insistent part met her most coveted. He deepened the kiss, pressing into her, but not enough. With her, it would always be a sweet temptation, one he would refuse only long enough to build up the moment.
“Are you ready for me?” he whispered against her lips, then devoured them, not giving her a chance to reply. He needed her desperately; with every fiber of his being, he wanted to claim her, own her, fill her.
Her answering kiss gave the final spark to destroy his self-control, and he slid carefully inside her, a hiss coming from his lips at the tight squeeze. It was ecstasy, almost too much pleasure to experience. She gave a soft gasp and tensed, but as she relaxed, he pressed in further, till the proof of her innocence was broken and she was marked as his.
He almost lost his control at the thought of having her fully. To comprehend that he was the only one to have her was erotic in every way. As he moved within her, he gave himself over to the pleasure, aware that her nails were biting into his back as she gasped in her own pleasure. The slight pain was welcome, heightening his own desire, and just when he didn’t think he could deny himself any longer, she gave a loud gasp, calling his name.
He couldn’t hold himself in check any longer and shattered within her, releasing everything he’d withheld for so long.
His fear.
His denial.
Himself, and it all came together as he met her wonder-filled gaze, and for the first time, he understood how two fully became one.
Beca
use it was more than sex.
He’d never really understood that.
It was giving yourself over to the other person fully, irrevocably, losing that control willingly.
As much as he had branded her body, she had utterly branded his heart.
And he couldn’t have been more at peace.
Chapter Thirty-three
The masquerade was a smashing success. Samantha watched as people continued to come through the foyer into the Kilmarin ballroom. Her mask fit perfectly, a gift from her husband only that morning. It was silver with several opals embedded in the arch; all fracturing the light and catching fire in the candlelight’s glow.
It was clear her husband and brother-in-law knew how to give a party. From the dim, flickering candlelight lending a haunting glow to the masked footmen who silently offered champagne to each guest when they entered, it was a sumptuous affair. The string quartet played quietly in the corner, not enough to initiate the dancing yet, but enough to give a texture to the very air that hinted at movement, that hinted at seduction.
The news that the lord of Kilmarin had married passed around the room, and there was a loud buzz of conversation and no shortage of glances in Samantha’s direction as she stood beside her husband. They stood together at the entrance of the ballroom, greeting their guests. Her back was to the wall, and Heathcliff reached out and grasped her waist tenderly.
She gave him a soft smile.
As another guest walked up and offered them congratulations, Heathcliff’s hand lowered from her waist, to cup her bottom.
She gave him an scolding glare.
He squeezed.
She jumped slightly.
But she couldn’t make any remark because another guest came up to greet them.
She was sure everything had been planned that way, especially when he repeated the action, this time pinching playfully.
He’d pay for that.
She gave him a challenging look but belatedly realized it would be lost because of the mask covering her face. Instead, she waited till their current guest walked on into the ballroom, then placed her hand on the middle of his back, but rather than cup his buttocks, she moved her hand lower, a smile on her lips as she suggestively rubbed the inside of his thigh far lower than he had teased her.
He groaned.
She smiled.
Another guest walked toward them, and she was satisfied to hear the gravely tone of her husband’s voice, the same tone she heard when he spoke when kissing her softly but built toward something more.
As she bit her lip to keep from grinning too widely and perhaps attracting attention, she cast a glance to her husband, who was watching her with an intensity that made her body burn. His mask covered what was common with any mask, but his eyes, those caramel eyes that burned like a fire’s glow, seared right through her, and all the lovely memories of the night before came back to the forefront of her mind with astounding clarity. Her body hummed with an energy he could release with his touch, and she burned for him.
And by the expression in his fierce gaze, he burned for her as well.
But the guests continued to arrive, and their intimate moment faded with the need to greet another lord and lady from Edinburgh society.
As the night wore on, the dancing began. Rather than start with country dances, Lucas had suggested there only be waltzes. It was not the common thing, nor was it necessarily proper, but it was delicious. As the first strains of the first dance began, Heathcliff grasped her hand and led her to the ballroom floor. The room hushed, the strings almost shivered with the hauntingly beautiful quality of the music, and with an intense gaze into her eyes, he began to lead.
She followed, her heart as much as her body. With each step, she was locked deeper into his gaze, her body catching just a little more of a flame, her heart pounding ever harder as she melted into the intensity of the dance. Never before had she realized just how erotic the waltz could be. The push and pull, the twirling, and dear Lord, the touching. To have his hand on her hip, her shoulder, his fingertips gently caressing her flesh with insinuation, was heady. He pulled her in tighter, his hand slipping scandalously low on her back, possessing her, marking her with his heat.
“Are you enjoying your evening, Wife?” he asked in a silken tone.
She gave an answering nod. “Indeed, but I find myself easily distracted.”
He arched a brow in query.
“You,” she answered simply.
After a low chuckle, he replied, “I share the same problem. All evening I’ve scarcely been able to keep my hands from you. And my thoughts: I’m afraid they never made it past our bedroom and linger there still.”
A blush heated her face. “Would it be so terrible to leave our own party early?”
He glanced about teasingly. “It will only make the news of our marriage more delicious, and will certainly seal the truth of it being a love match,” he added, regarding her, his gaze searching hers.
She was about to give a witty reply but paused, thinking over his words. “Love match? Is there something you’re saying to me?” she asked, her tone breathless. After all their endearments, all their intimate moments, he had never once mentioned love.
He spun her, and she was anxious to return to his embrace. “Is it so difficult to believe?”
“I believe that is the question I should be asking you,” she replied, giving an encouraging grin.
He gave a soft chuckle. “You’re indeed right. But it is the truth nonetheless. As much as I fought it, denied it, and ran from it, you’ve held my heart for ransom for a long while.”
“And I shall never return it,” she replied firmly.
“I do not wish you to. But the question is, do I have yours?” he asked, and she detected a slightly insecure tone to his voice, so at odds with his usual confidence.
She squeezed his hand, met his gaze, and answered, “From the first day I met you, I was both lost and found. My greatest fear was that you held my heart and didn’t wish to. But it’s only ever been yours. And only will be,” she said, a hitch to her voice as she confessed the deepest truth.
He spun her once more, not responding, but when she came back to his embrace, he didn’t hold her in the frame of a waltz but in the embrace of a man entirely in love, and kissed her in front of God and everyone.
She didn’t hear the titters of those in attendance.
She didn’t hear the applause when Heathcliff finally released her from the searing kiss.
She did, however, hear the cheers when he swept her up in his arms and carried her from the ballroom.
And she most certainly heard him say, “I love you,” as he reached their bedroom door and set her inside, closing it firmly.
Lucas had said there was nothing more enticing than gossip and a good romance.
And that night they most certainly gave a scandalous display of both.
Epilogue
It was a trial each day to leave his bedroom, when all he wanted to do was keep his wife abed and pass the morning delighting in all the activities the bed could facilitate. But there were things that needed to be accomplished, and . . . well, there was always the night. Anticipation wasn’t a bad thing either. It only produced more enthusiasm.
Not that he needed any encouragement in that regard. Nor did his wife.
But that morning, reluctant as he was to leave their rooms, he found an interesting missive on this study desk, one that he’d been waiting for with great anticipation.
He used the wooden letter knife and slid open the wax seal of Ramsey Scott, Marquess of Sterling, and eagerly opened the letter.
His face broke into a grin as he read the account of all that had transpired in London on the knowledge of the sudden marriage of the Duke of Chatterworth’s second daughter to a Scotsman, especially when she was supposedly in the Americas.
Heathcliff,
You’ll be pleased to know that your news created a sensation on the London scene, and I scarcely think the ton wi
ll cease speaking of it for at least a year. My only regret is not to have been there when the duke received the news, but I do have information from a reliable source that he was in such a fury he had first determined to call you out; pistols at dawn. I was also sorry to know that he changed his mind before any action could be taken, and since hasn’t mentioned such rash action again.
He was thankful, he grinned, his father-in-law didn’t wish to initiate such a desperate measure. Shooting a duke in a duel would most certainly be more than a little trouble, and he didn’t want blood on his hands, even if it was the duke’s. He continued reading.
Your announcement in The Times was the first breaking of the news to both the duke and the London ton, but I had John watching the duke’s residence, as well as more information on the inside that confirmed your earlier suspicions. There was indeed a man at Kilmarin, and he only returned with the news of Lady Samantha’s whereabouts the day after the announcement in The Times. Your timing, it seems, was impeccable.
Heathcliff relaxed his shoulders, realizing they had grown tense as he read that last part. But it was a thing of the past, mostly. They’d have to go to London soon to complete the circle of gossip and confirm all the news, but the most important aspect, Samantha’s safety, was secure.
Also, I would recommend you come to London before the next Season, just to smooth things over with the ton. I say this only because you have a ward who needs the favor of society, and your charm can do great things to pave the way for her,; as much as I hate to admit it. The scandal alone has given me no shortage of ill sleep, and if we weren’t already on the edge of proper society because of our joint venture, we certainly would be now. But I have hope you will be received well in London, if for no other reason than satisfying the curiosity of the ton. I would, however, write to the Duke of Chatterworth to notify him directly, making sure he has no reason to question your marriage. He will probably still try—the man is an arse—but you will have done all you can.
Escaping His Grace Page 23
