Daisy raised astonished eyes to Valentine. “He was going to
marry
her? Is that what you’re saying?”
“That was his plan, yes. I would have thought Rose had told you.”
Daisy shook her head. “Never. After that first night, when she wanted me to make certain he was
very
dead, she never mentioned his name again. Perhaps she didn’t know his plan.” She got to her feet, unable to sit still, and approached him, laid a hand on his arm; she didn’t think twice about touching him; it only seemed natural. “Thank you for telling me all of this, Valentine. About Rose, about your family. You do know you can’t be held responsible for what happened in the past, before you and your siblings were even born.”
“But Trixie is alive. Until a recent rash of what we’ll politely call accidents, many of my father’s contemporaries were still above ground, and several of them had actually kept up the Society after his death. For purely
social
reasons, if I can be excused for that description of so-called devil worship and indulging their perversions. Gideon believes one of the new members they recruited saw what my grandfather and father saw, and not only came into the Society, but quickly took charge of it.”
Daisy was becoming more and more aware that the two of them were alone in this lovely room, the only light from several flickering candles and the small fire in the grate. She’d been alone with him before, but this was different. She didn’t know why, but it was. She was even having trouble concentrating on what he was saying, being much more interested in watching his mouth as he said the words.
“Daisy?”
“Oh. Oh, yes. What did this new leader see?”
“Power. Position. Wealth. And although those in charge in France changed over the decades, the central theme of the Society remained the same. Collaborate with the French, bring down the monarchy, and be handsomely rewarded for their treason. At the moment, the Society is using the beaches at Redgrave Manor to smuggle gold and information to France, and bring back God only knows what to England. My father’s contemporaries knew about the landing beach, the caves, the route inland. If the Society is exposed, the Redgrave name goes down with them. Trixie goes down with them. She enjoys her scandalous reputation, even encourages it, but could never overcome the real truth were it to get out.”
She knew what she was about to say would betray her, but she said it, anyway. “You and your siblings aren’t going to stop until the Society is completely destroyed, and you might have done it, if you’d been able to capture the woman and her consort. I didn’t help you, I was in your way. I could have gotten you killed. Valentine? I’m right, aren’t I?”
He touched a hand to her cheek, smiled down at her upturned face. “I’m sorry. I was attempting to imagine this past week and more without you there to scold me, keep me in check, astound me with your courage. Looking back, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Especially when I was told to look up, and saw you descending into my arms like a goddess from above. I wouldn’t change those moments for the world.”
“We weren’t ever going to mention that,” she reminded him quietly.
“And I’ve tried. But it would seem I can’t control my dreams.”
“I looked horrible. I saw myself in one of the mirrors, you know, and I looked like some sort of perverse doll. And by the time we returned to my prison to locate my clothing, my face was nothing but a smear of black and red and my hair was a rats’ nest of burrs and...and...stop looking at me that way. You know how I looked.”
“I still wanted to kiss you. Nearly as much as I want to kiss you now. More than kiss you. Much more than kiss you.”
He moved closer, and she put her palms against his chest. “Valentine, don’t...”
“Don’t what, Daisy? Don’t want you? Don’t imagine holding you, touching you. Feeling you move beneath me as I watch the wonder dawn in those beautiful eyes? I love your eyes, they’re like windows to your soul. You were right to hide behind those spectacles, because your goodness shines so clearly someone less scrupulous than me would have taken advantage of you long ago.”
“Valentine, don’t say such—”
His arms were around her waist now. “Don’t tell the truth? The first time I saw you all I could think was how I needed to see you with your hair down, so I could run my fingers through your warm curls. Take your hair down for me, Daisy. Please.”
She looked into his eyes, and couldn’t say no. Her hands trembling only slightly, she reached up to pull out the restraining pins. Her hair fell below her shoulders in its usual unmanageable curls.
Valentine smiled as if she’d pleased him.
She gave her head a small shake, which probably only accentuated its wildness; she simply had too much hair.
He brought his hands slowly up her back, his fingers spread, teasing at the delicate, oddly responsive skin of her nape, and then disappeared into her hair, his fingertips moving in a slow, massaging motion that sent tingles running all the way down her back. He pressed his thumbs behind her ears, then traced their outline. All of this done while watching her, intently watching her, perhaps memorizing her features for some reason known only to him.
“You’re beautiful.”
“I am not. I’ve never been beautiful.”
“You are to me. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world. It’s all there, in your eyes.”
He leaned in and kissed her, his mouth warm and sweet with wine, and she decided the lady doth protest too much. If the man wanted to see her as beautiful, why would she want to persist in pointing out his error?
His mouth still clinging to hers, he bent down and scooped her into his arms, carrying her over to the bed.
Daisy reluctantly broke the kiss, nearly gasping for air. Her clinging arms giving the lie to her words, she said, “I don’t think we should—”
“Ah, sweetheart, but I think we must, and I think we both know it. There’s only one way to forget the sordid side of what men and women can do to each other, and that’s to learn the beauty, and begin looking forward.”
Her heart skipped a beat. He was saying what she had been thinking ever since he’d come into the room with her, that there was only one real way to erase the unnatural and replace it with—what had he said? The beauty? Yes, that was the word. How could he know?
“That does seem logical, I suppose.”
His smile had its usual effect on her. She melted. “And my Daisy is always logical. Be a dear and pull back the coverlet, so I can put you down.”
“Valentine, we’re both completely dressed. We couldn’t possibly...”
He was nuzzling her neck. Was that nuzzling? Yes, she was certain that was the word. Nuzzling was...nice. At least parts of her body she’d previously never paid much attention seemed to like it. And she supposed he was right, what they were about to do was inevitable, and had been since their first kiss.
“You’re being logical, again.”
“I have to be. This is my best gown.”
“An incriminating statement concerning your wardrobe if I ever heard one.” Valentine put her down in front of him. “I particularly dislike these buttons. Let’s be rid of them.”
“Valentine...”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “You’re right. We’ll start with my jacket.” He opened the buttons and enlisted her assistance in tugging off his right sleeve. He made short work of the rest. And his waistcoat. Then he slid off his cravat and raised his hands to open his top shirt button.
She could see bits of dark, curly hair in the soft candlelight.
“I...I can do that,” Daisy heard herself say. He was so handsome. No, so beautiful, so perfect. He put the statues lining the stairwell to shame; sculptors would have wept to have the privilege of having him pose for them.
Yet he was flesh and blood, and as she slid the buttons free of their anchors, she could feel his soft hair tickling at the backs of her fingers, watch his chest rise and fall...feel his heartbeat, his rather rapid heartbeat.
When she got to the last easily reachable button she stopped, dropped her arms to her sides. She had no idea what to do next.
“My turn,” he whispered, already busy with her plain wooden buttons. Whatever had made her think she needed so many of them?
She felt the back of his knuckles against her bare skin, realized his expertise in loosening the plain laces of her modest chemise, gasped aloud when he slid his hands inside and cupped her unimpressive breasts.
Daisy bent her head forward, resting her brow against his bare chest. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps he felt he was being kind, in the same way he’d insisted they marry. “We shouldn’t...”
His hands went back to her buttons, until he’d opened them below her waist, and then he helped her ease the gown from her shoulders so that it puddled around her legs. He bent and helped her off with her shoes, leaving her legs clad in cotton stockings. He was probably used to seeing silk, and lace. But he didn’t seem to mind.
Still, she instinctively gripped the sides of her chemise closed over her breasts, watching as he rid himself of his shirt.
The candlelight loved him. It must, to so wonderfully define his long, lean muscles, the skin she ached to touch. She found it difficult to swallow.
“You look as if you’re cold,” he said, running his hands up and down her bare arms. “Are you cold?”
“No,” she said, and then shivered. Not with cold, but for some other reason she didn’t understand. If she were forced to put a word to it, she realized what she was feeling was desire. The desire to touch, to be touched in return. She’d long ago resigned herself to returning to her Maker as innocent as the babe she had been, never believing anyone would ever care about another nearly invisible governess.
Valentine’s smile was so sweet she briefly considered ordering him to leave, because it was evident he saw straight through her. But if he said he believed he could see into her soul, she may as well abandon any thoughts of being a woman of mystery.
“Not cold, then, but modest. Here, let’s take care of that.”
Before she could protest, he’d reached past her, turned down the coverlet, and she was deposited nearly in the middle of the bed. Valentine reached for the buttons holding his breeches and she immediately turned her head.
This was happening. It was really happening. And it was wrong. She should stop him. She should stop herself, because men were full of needs, but women should know better. She should know better.
Several long moments later, he came down beside her, managing to drag the bedding up to cover them both to the waist. A marvelous feat, neatly accomplished, save for one thing.
“Ouch! You’re leaning on my hair!”
He hastened to raise his elbow and she pulled her hair free, lifting her head so that she could sweep her hair all up and behind her against the pillows. She was about to twist it into a knot when Valentine stopped her.
“No, please don’t,” he said, taking hold of her hand. “It looks wonderful, like a living fan.”
“Or a highly embarrassed peacock,” she grumbled, pretending she wasn’t lying in a bed, Valentine lying beside her, his head propped against one bent arm, smiling at her.
Still, it was nice that he laughed at her poor joke.
“You know, Daisy, I’m much more accomplished at this than I would appear to be so far.”
Daisy sought protection the only way she knew how: with words. “Bumbling or wonderfully clever, you do realize I wouldn’t know the difference.”
“Ah, how you ease my mind. However, as the spell of my stunning expertise has been most definitely broken and you’re wondering what possessed you to have me next to you like this, may I suggest we stop talking so I can kiss you again.”
How did he know she wasn’t feeling half so amorous as she’d been only a few minutes earlier, and much more apprehensive? Was that natural for a woman? She had no idea.
“If you believe it would help.”
“I do,” he said, shifting on the bed, the two of them now sharing the same pillow. “All you have to do is say stop, Daisy. I want you, but I would never hurt you. I want you to know how much I need you in my life, not as an obligation, but because I know I’d never find anyone else like you, not if I searched for a thousand years.”
Daisy felt tears pricking at the backs of her eyes, even as she turned slightly toward him. “I suppose that’s very sweet of you to—”
He took her mouth with his again, only this time so much more intimately, coaxing her senses with teeth and tongue, retreating and advancing until she put a hand on his shoulder to keep him close. He had magic in his mouth, turning her from reluctant maiden to eager participant.
Never really taking his mouth from hers, he began touching her body. Easing the chemise strap from her shoulder, sliding his fingertips lower, finding her breast, seeking out her nipple for extra attention, rubbing it with the faintly rough pad of his thumb.
Now it was she who broke the kiss as she gasped for breath, shaken by her body’s reaction to this intimacy. He seemed to take advantage of the moment to begin kissing the length of her throat, the slight indentation above her collarbone. And then lower.
As he held her, as he lifted her, he brought his mouth down over her nipple, drawing it into his mouth, caressing it with his tongue.
There was nowhere for her to go, nothing for her to do but concentrate on the pleasure coursing through her body. She tensed and melted at the same time, longing for his touch, the rasping pleasure of his tongue.
And more.
So much more.
Her chemise was completely open now, the laces somehow undone, and Valentine shifted again, so that his hand was free to explore her other breast, bring it to life, as well. She knew her nipple had gone hard, as if straining to be noticed, and when he began lightly pinching it between thumb and forefinger she felt as though he’d found some secret connection between her breasts and the dull, almost pulsating ache that had begun between her thighs.
But when he moved his hand down her belly, sliding beneath the now untied waistband of her petticoat, she suddenly panicked.
“Stop,” she said quietly. “Please stop.”