Courtney Milan (13 page)

It wasn’t just the way she removed the soaking-wet shawl, or how she turned to him and undid the buttons of his coat. It wasn’t just the physical thrill of seeing her bodice cling to her skin. After she took off his hat and set it on a hook, she found a clean, dry cloth and wiped the droplets from his face—slowly, tenderly. Their breaths made little white puffs of air in the entry.

“You know,” she said, her voice low, “I’m never going to get dry with my wet things on.”

He swallowed. She turned her back to him. Her gown laced from her neck down to the base of her spine, ending just below the swell of her petticoats. From that angle, she presented a most appealing picture.

“I need your help to remove them,” she continued.

She was right. He held his breath and undid her laces. The rain had hardened the strings to tight knots, and his fingers fumbled against her back—again and again until he loosened her laces enough for her to take the fabric off.

As she moved to do so, he turned away. “I’ll make a fire.”

It was cold, but not so cold that they needed a regular blaze. Instead, he made a small coal-fire in the grate, just enough to cast a little red illumination in the room.

But Mary hadn’t wrapped herself in one of the towels that he’d brought in. “John,” she said, crooking a finger at him.

He swallowed. “Yes?”

“I’m soaked through. All the way to my drawers.”

That brought to mind white linen clasping soft thighs. He groaned and leaned against the wall as she undid the buttons holding her petticoat in place.

“I—I’ll go in the other room,” he offered halfheartedly.

“Don’t you dare. I’ll need you for my corset laces.”

She let her petticoat fall to the floor. “Here,” she said, lifting her hair and turning to him. If it had been a trial to undo her gown, unlacing her corset was torture. The fire cast scant light; he could only find her laces by feel. First, the smoothness of her shoulders—then the stiffened fabric of her corset. He found her corset laces and followed them down to where they’d been tied in a secure bow. These laces, slightly drier, didn’t stick; he managed to undo the knots fairly easily. But then he peeled the fabric from her body. What little light there was in the room seemed to fall on her breasts, wet and peaked under her shift.

“Christ.” He couldn’t look away. Not from her. Not from this. His own wet clothing seemed suddenly too hot.

She took the edge of her shift in her hands.

John took a step back. “God, Mary. It’s like you’re—”

“Like I’m trying to seduce you?” she said, her voice rich as cream.

“Trying to torment me.”

“Oh, no,” she said, her voice cool. “I have no wish to torment you.” She lifted her shift above her knees, high enough to pull her drawers down. All that creamy white fabric, fresh from her legs. His mouth went dry. He wanted her—wanted her so badly he could hardly speak. And then she pulled her shift over her head. His brain simply ceased to function, to do anything except to desire. He wanted to taste, to touch, to smell. He wanted to take, to possess. He wanted her so much his fists clenched with the effort of standing still.

The darkness only seemed to make her more alluring—to show the silhouette of her nearly naked form in flashes, enough to taunt him with her proximity and yet whisper that if he wanted to know all of her, he’d have to discover her curves not with his eyes but with his hands.

He fought for rationality.

“There’s no need to rush this. I can wait—” He swallowed as she sidled up to him “—a little.” A very little.

“Are you saying that you don’t want to do this?”

He took her hand and guided it to his crotch, setting her palm against the wet fabric—and his hard member underneath. “I want this.”

He’d expected her eyes to widen in shock. But she didn’t leap back. Instead, she grew very still for a moment, not moving, as if she were just understanding what she had discovered. Then she traced her fingers gently down the length of him. He let out a hiss. Another stroke. Then another.

He set his hand over hers. “Mary,” he said, with the last ounce of decency that he possessed, “I don’t want you to do this because you believe you owe it to me for the role I played. I never want that.”

She tipped her head down, and her wet hair tickled his chest. Then she drew her hand from under his, running it up, up, past the seam of his trousers. She hooked his shirt with one finger and then pulled the fabric over his head.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” she said when she’d pulled the sleeves away from his wrists. “If we waited until we were married, you’d own the right to use my body. Now, I can say no.”

She ran her hand down his bare chest, brushing his nipple. He gasped.

“And I can say yes,” she whispered. “Not as a trade, not in compensation. Not because you deserve me.”

“Why, then?”

“Because I deserve you.” Her hand slid to the waistband of his trousers, and she gave a little laugh. “But you’re going to have to help me from here, because I’m not sure what to do next.”

“This,” he said, and took her face in his hands and kissed her. He’d learned her mouth, her taste, over the last days. But he hadn’t learned the feel of her skin, clammy at first against his, and then warming gradually. Her nipples were hard buds. Her hips pressed against the wet fabric of his trousers. He ran his hand down her body, cupping her breast.

She let out a sigh. “It’s almost as if…”

“As if I loved you?” he whispered.

She nodded; he could feel her head move against his chest.

“There’s a reason for that.” His arms came around her, drawing her in. Pulling her close to his heart. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her neck, and for a few moments they swayed together in tandem.

“How can you be so warm,” she asked, “when you’re still in your wet clothing?”

“Blood flow.” Indeed. His blood was flowing with great vigor. He should go to the other room before his blood left him unable to do the right thing.

Instead, he ran his hands back up her ribs, chasing the remainder of the chill from her skin. He could scarcely see her in the dark, so he discovered her with his fingers—the arc of one hip, the swell of a breast. And she busied herself with him—first undoing his trousers and then sliding them down. Her hands brushed his thighs, then slid up to touch his hard cock. Her fingers were tentative, so light that he gasped to keep from laughing.

“So warm,” she repeated.

“Let me make you warmer.”

He leaned down and caught the nub of her nipple between his lips. She heated soon enough under his inspection, her pebbled skin smoothing but her nipple staying hard to his touch. She let out a breath and arched against him.

“Blood flow,” he repeated. “I think you could use more of it.”

He’d wanted to taste her for so long. She smelled of sugar and citrus, but she tasted of cool rain and woman. He started with little nibbles at her breast. Then he licked his way to the hollow of her throat. A few kisses there, and she threw her head back and relaxed into his embrace.

He wasn’t sure when, in the midst of her caresses and his exploration, they made their way to the bedchamber, or when he set her down on his covers. He wasn’t even sure at what point she spread herself naked before him.

But he did vaguely recognize the moment when they passed from mere naked caresses into the act of intimacy: when he spread her legs, fell to the floor in front of her, and set his mouth on her sex. She tasted as good as he’d always imagined—sweet and sensual all at once. He parted her folds with his hands and took her more fully, exploring every bit of her, listening to the ebb and flow of her breath as he did.

The rhythm of her breathing altered as he touched her between her legs. And when it did, he licked where his fingers played, again and again, tasting her until her fists clenched in his hair and her hips arched into his face.

He could taste her pleasure, could feel the waves of her orgasm building up, waiting to break through.

“Yes,” she said in a high drawn-out cry. “John—don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He took her over the crest until her pleas lost all coherence, until they became cries of pleasure. It was the sweetest of sounds—that, and the slow return of rhythm to her breathing after.

She set her hands on his shoulders. “Don’t stop,” she said, and by the way she pulled at him, he knew she wasn’t referring to what he might do with his tongue. “Don’t stop.”

There was nothing she could have asked him at that moment that he would have denied her. He slid on top of her. Her body was slicked with sweat, still shaking with pleasure. She shifted beneath him. He was so far into want that he was almost beyond thought. He pushed inside.

Tight. So tight. So
good
. And slick from the work he’d done already—she was beyond ready. She tensed only momentarily at his intrusion.

He stopped. “Does it hurt?”

“Only a little. But it also feels so, so right.”

“And this?” He gave an experimental thrust.

“
Yes,”
she said. “Again.”

“As you command.” He kissed her throat and then thrust again.

“Yes,” she whispered.

More encouragement than that he did not need. He let loose all his pent-up desire. The complexities of reality dissolved around them. He fit right where he was. Nothing mattered but that she was there, and she was his.

Her legs locked around him, drawing him in. And he took—took it all, the warmth of her body, the pleasure she gave him, the entirety of Mary beneath him.

“Christ,” he swore. She was his. She was
his
. And then, with his crisis upon him, he knew the truth. No. He was
hers
. He came hard, feeling it from head to toe, every last thrust overwhelming him.

Their hands were joined. Their breathing rose and fell together. For a moment, they were one.

Then her breath caught. She moved; he disengaged, and like that, they were not one any longer, but two.

“Heavens,” she said. “That was…”

Amazing? Extraordinary? Perfect?

“That,” he said roughly, “was something we need to do again. Often. Quite often. Maybe soon.”

She let out a little laugh.

“Maybe,” he suggested, “in five minutes.”

She shifted underneath him. “Mmmm. Maybe. In a day.”

“Then perhaps we can figure out how to marry between now and then.” He folded his arms around her. “Marry me. I can’t imagine sharing my life with anyone other than you.”

She sighed next to him. “There’s so much I need to say, so much I want to talk to you about. But we’ve come to a true understanding. I think—”

“Oh, bloody Christ,” he said aloud, remembering everything.

She stopped. “What? What is it? Did you forget something?”

“Yes,” he said bitterly. “I did.” He sat up, reaching for a shirt. “I forgot to tell you that I am, in fact, a complete ass.”

“I think I would have noticed if you were.” She sounded puzzled. But her fingers found his hand. “Come, John. After everything I’ve told you, surely you don’t fear this.”

He took a deep breath. “Do you recall when I said I wanted to be your friend? At the time, I intended nothing of the sort. I just wanted to make you feel comfortable enough to tell the truth.” He set his head in his hands. “I lied to you. Worse.” He couldn’t stop himself. “I told you I was doing something for your benefit, when in truth I was doing it for me.”

She didn’t say anything. But he could feel her in the dark, bringing her knees up and hugging them for comfort. “That’s quite a bit to take in.” Her voice had lost the rough, pleased warmth of a few minutes ago. Her tone was cool. He could feel her withdrawing from him.

“I hurt you,” he said. “I never meant to.”

But that wasn’t true either. There’d been a time when he was so angry that he hadn’t cared if his actions had hurt her. He tried again.

“I love you,” he said. “That’s not a lie. I should have said something before, but…well, I didn’t.”

It sounded wrong to his own ears.

“I can hardly hold it against you,” she said slowly. “I was not always honest with you.”

I don’t love you.
It still smarted that she’d been able to say that. That she’d walked away once. He blew out his breath. “Do you mean about your father, or when you told me you didn’t love me?”

There was a long pause. “I lied to you about my father,” she said thickly.

“Did you love me? Did you say you didn’t at the end just to make me leave you alone?” He wouldn’t shout. He
wouldn’t
. “Did you love me?”

“I don’t know! At the time, I didn’t even know who I was or how I would survive. The last thing I could think about was whether I loved you.”

“And what of your piano-playing? Why did you never mention that you’d given up the possibility of playing professionally when you agreed to marry me?”

She shifted against him. “I might have. But I came home because I had a choice to make. There was the world my etiquette instructor described, a polite place where men and women quietly fell in love and had families. And then there was the harsh, solitary life my piano master showed me. I talked to a few truly dedicated female musicians, and they had nothing—no children, no sweethearts. Their only friends were their fellow musicians. I loved music, but it couldn’t be my whole life. I didn’t just want you. I wanted a normal, quiet life. I wanted to be just like the other girls.”

“Is that what you want now? To be normal like the other girls?”

Her fingers drifted down his chest. “No.” The word was soft, but he could feel her resolve filling her. “I couldn’t fit in. And I no longer wish to do so.”

So. That was that.

“This is,” she said quietly, “perhaps not the best time to tell you that I have business elsewhere tomorrow?”

“Elsewhere? Where elsewhere?”

“London. I’ll have to rise early to catch the train.”

He swore. “I’ve three days yet before I can finish my work at Beauregard’s. I suppose I can put it off—”

“I don’t want you to come with me,” she said, just as quietly. But her words had a gentle finality to them.

He pushed away from her. “Tell me, then. Tell me you don’t love me. Tell me you can live without me. Don’t leave me here to wonder for another eighteen months if you’ll be my wife.”