I Thee Wed (23 page)

“I
love you,” Francesca said beseechingly. Then, more firmly, with command. “I love you.”

With a huff of frustration, she tried again.
Simply say it!
“I love you, Orion Worthington.”

Yes, that was it. It was best to speak to him in a plain, straightforward manner. She and Orion had never been about beseeching or commanding. They were equals, after all.

But what if the moment to speak arrived just before Orion kissed her? If their faces were drawn close, she would require a more delicate approach, a whisper perhaps. Francesca brought her face to within an inch of the oval mirror. “Orion Worthington,” she breathed. “I love—”

She heard a rap on her door. The scullery boy, right on time! She snatched the pennies from the table and raced to the door of her bedchamber.

“Carefully. Put it here.” She ushered him in, shut the door, and instructed him to set the huge picnic basket on her dressing table. “Did you remove anything?”

“No, miss.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“No, miss.”

She handed him one penny, which he pocketed immediately. “That is for your assistance,” she said. She handed him the second penny, which he shoved into the same pocket. “And that is for your silence.”

“Yes, miss.”

The boy ran out. Francesca immediately began checking the contents of the basket. Indeed, the luncheon she had prepared was a veritable menu of sensuality. There were hearty
lasagne al forno
, still hot in its well-wrapped crockery baking dish, and smooth, custardy
panna cotta
. There were the first berries of summer from the garden, bread, olives, and not one but two bottles of the best Chianti that Sir Geoffrey's meager cellar had to offer. Tucked into the side of the basket were the pretty picnic cloth, two place settings of the figured china she had stolen from the butler's pantry, two crystal goblets, and silverware.

Perfetto
.

It was time.

When Francesca turned to smooth out her gown, her gaze fell on the bed. It occurred to her that for all the adventurous things she and Orion had done to each other on that marvelous occasion of two nights before, they had avoided doing any of them in an actual bed. There had been a mutual, silent agreement, born of some inner knowing, that to take each other to bed would be too much like making love.

Love, however, was exactly what Francesca was after this time. She loved him, and she meant to prove to him that he loved her. He needed to understand that they were meant for each other—and only each other!—and that marriage was meant to be a melding of hearts, not a pathway to career advancement.

Banishing the last twinge of guilt she felt for this attempt to steal away Judith's possible but obviously unwanted suitor, she picked up the large basket.

Enough stalling,
she told herself.
Pull up your bootstraps and make your move. Now is the time. The meal is prepared. Your hair is done. You've even counted the days of your cycle to ensure pleasure will be the only consequence!
She glanced down at the basket.
And your
lasagne al forno
will soon be cold.

*   *   *

O
RION'S BEDCHAMBER WAS
only a few doors down from Francesca's own. She knew he was still in there, because she could hear his pacing stride from outside the door. She knew he should be resting instead of pacing. She had seen him disappear wearily into the room shortly after dawn as she headed to the kitchens to start her preparations. Apparently, he had spent the entire night in the laboratory, because he had still worn his evening dress coat!

That meant that the poor man had gone two consecutive nights without sleep. As she adjusted the heavy basket in her hands, Francesca hoped he was rested enough to, well, eat, and . . .

Oh for pity's sake, just knock!

Francesca noted that her inner voice was beginning to sound very English. However, it was also quite right. She licked her lips, lifted her hand, and rapped gently on Orion Worthington's bedchamber door.

For a long moment, she heard nothing come from the room. Had he slipped out when she wasn't aware? Then, at last, she heard a thump, as if someone were getting out of bed.

He answered the door in his dress shirt and trousers. The sleeves were rolled up, exposing the muscles and twining tendons of his forearm. The shirt studs were gone, leaving the front placket open halfway down his chest. She could see the springy dark curls there. Her fingertips itched to run through them as she lifted her gaze upward.

“You look awful,” she said bluntly. In fact, she thought he
looked rather appealing, half-dressed and mussed and unshaven, with his curling dark hair falling over his brow. He looked dangerous and brooding.

She had always had a weakness for romantic tales of highwaymen.

“I made you something.” She began to fidget with the weight of the basket.

He'd not said a word but stood gazing at her with those dark, midnight eyes, then considered the contents of the basket. He raised an eyebrow.

“A bit of refreshment. I—I know you worked all night.”

Orion flinched a bit at that. What was the matter? Was the experiment not going well?

“I'm not hungry,” he said at last. His voice was raw and harsh.

Francesca transferred the basket from one hand to the other and adjusted her stance. “That isn't true. I feed people. That's what I do best. And I happen to know that you haven't had a bite to eat since before the ball!”

“Give me that.” He reached down and lifted the basket from her hands, and she had to admit she was grateful. But he said nothing.

She peered at him. Clearly, he was in no mood for inconsequential chatter. She would have to keep the conversation going in order to keep his door open. “I spoke to Judith last night. She didn't admit to seeing us, but I believe she would not have been too heartbroken if she had.”

He flinched again. “Chessa, please go away.”

“No,” she replied, sure of her ground now. After all, he still held the picnic basket! “I am going to stand right here and pester you until you are fed. You haven't experienced my vast repertoire of pestering yet, but I assure you, I did not wrest a worktable in Sir Geoffrey's laboratory by doing cartwheels!”

A short bark of laughter escaped him at that. His shadowed
eyes crinkled just a bit at the corners. Francesca decided to press him a bit more.

“I know you are tired,” she said gently. “That's why I brought the picnic to you.” She reached out and placed her hand on his bare forearm. “Come, now, Rion. Let me feed you.”

He stepped to the side enough to let her into his bedchamber.

“Thank you, kind sir.”

He closed the door behind her.

Francesca scanned the tidy room, noticing immediately that his bed was perfectly made, indicating he had not rested. “You must be exhausted, Orion.” When she received no response, she turned, smiling, only to find him standing with the basket, staring absentmindedly out the rain-covered window.

Something was wrong with him, other than exhaustion. She could see it. No matter. She would soon know what plagued him—pasta and wine did wonders to loosen one's secrets.

The
panna cotta
was just for insurance.

Francesca plopped herself down on the carpet before the fire, spread out her skirts, and patted her hand on the floor. “Right here. Let's have our picnic!”

Moments later, Orion found himself seated tailor-fashion on a cloth on the floor of his bedchamber, a plateful of food balanced on his knee. Although bereft of his freedom, of the life he'd planned for himself, of the man he'd wanted to be, still he had found himself agreeing that it was a fine time for a picnic.

Clearly, Francesca had taken advantage of him during a vulnerable, bleary moment, for there was a great deal wrong in his life, yet he managed to fork in the first mouthful of savory, layered noodles despite his woes.

He nearly groaned aloud at the flavor. The braised beef
saturated with herbs and sauce stimulated his battered senses and nourished his famished soul. The crisp, cool greens woke up his thoughts. The heady, fragrant red wine unwound his tension.

The next thing he knew, his plate was clean and his body was suffused with a hint of well-being. Francesca sat across from him, clad in a rose pink muslin gown that was a bit too large so that it tended to slide off one shoulder, with her long hair down in the back. She looked glowing and luscious. He watched her pop a last olive into her mouth to savor with half-closed eyes. Her plate was clean as well. She was no frail flower, no pale English ninny toying with a piece of toast and complaining of indigestion. Francesca ate as if food were as necessary as air.

A sensible viewpoint, for it was. Especially when it was like this—hearty, honest food cooked with passion.
I can taste her in her food.

The wine allowed him to smile crookedly at her through the desolation that bound him. “Attie was right. I was wrong. Blayne House's cook is abominable. We should have let her carve him to pieces for keeping you out of the kitchen.”

Francesca grinned at him. “You say the sweetest things. But we are not quite finished.” She rose to her knees and leaned across the spread cloth that was now a display of empty dishes and wanton consumption.

She came near enough to Orion that he caught a teasing glimpse down her neckline and the tantalizing scent of orange blossoms. His heart—which had seemed to slow almost to stopping in the last several hours—began to beat faster in his chest.

Perhaps I am hungry, after all
.

She leaned close to him, reaching for a last covered saucer. Her long hair slipped over her shoulder to tickle the back of his wrist and slide cool and enticing over his bare forearm. He inhaled deeply, feeling his pulse begin to thrum in earnest.

While he'd been distracted by his own pounding heart,
she'd uncovered a dish and spooned out a mouthful of something creamy and white. When she held it to his lips, still kneeling before him, he gazed into her deep brown eyes and opened his mouth.

The sweet, velvety stuff melted on his tongue, filling his head with vanilla and cream. When she leaned forward and licked a tiny smear from his bottom lip, he ought to have frozen, or withdrawn from her, or otherwise shown a modicum of sense, for he was a trapped fool with no future and no way out.

Leaning forward even half an inch would lead to a kiss. A kiss would lead to a touch. A touch would lead to so much more. He could not risk it again. They'd almost been caught at the ball the night before. He could not allow himself to be driven by the biological imperative any longer.

Especially now.

“There is no point to this,” he said softly, almost to her lips. “I have an understanding with Judith.”

He felt the jolt that ran through her. She drew back slightly so she could meet his gaze. Orion forced himself not to shy away from her hurt brown eyes.

“You don't love Judith,” she whispered. “And Judith most assuredly does not love you.”

Orion did not waver. He dared not waver.

“Yet
I
love you,” she said softly.

Oh God
. The most wonderful knowledge in the world, given at the worst possible moment.

“It makes no difference,” he said flatly.

She moved closer, crawling right through the dishes and smearing custard on her gown. “I love you, Orion Worthington.”

“You cannot. We have only just met. You do not know me.”

On her knees, she was positioned just a little taller than he was seated. She gazed down at him with a small smile on her rose pink lips. “I love that you can't go to sleep at night, just like me.”

He swallowed hard, remembering the sight of Francesca, deliciously bundled in her wrapper, in the dark hallway on the first night he spent in Blayne House.

She knee-walked closer, until her thighs touched his knees. “I love that you put that awful Witherspoon in his place. I love that you argue theories with me without ever implying that having breasts precludes having a considered opinion.”

Orion's head began to swim. Such heavenly, marvelous breasts . . .

“I love that you cleaned the laboratory after getting tallow everywhere,” she said into his ear. When had she managed to straddle his lap? “I love that you risked everything to save the children the day of the acid spill.” She framed his face in small warm hands and gazed down at him fondly. The certainty in her deep, dark gaze was balm to his aching spirit. “I love that you can't help moaning when you eat my food, that you keep the feathers of your pet bird, and, oh! How I love the way you dance!”

Francesca settled into his lap and curled up to his chest. She reached up to stroke tender fingertips over his lips. “I love that you kiss me like we are the only two people in the entire world.”

When he drove his lips down over hers, no one was more surprised than he.

L
IKE a sunflower bending to catch the last rays of warmth, he had bent to her without thinking, without even knowing what he did.

Her lips were soft. He'd never known anything so sweet and soft as her tremulous mouth under his. She let out a small sigh, and he found the inner sweetness of her mouth. Exploring further, he wrapped both large hands around her head and slid his tongue between her lips.

Would it be so wrong for them to pleasure each other one last time?

Please, just once more!

He felt her hands grab fistfuls of his shirt to pull him down into her. The difference in their height seemed to call for a change in position.

Orion was in favor of it. Without losing a second of her kiss, he wrapped both arms about her small, rounded form and lifted them both from the floor. His bed was only steps away. His mouth still bound to hers, he laid her down on the coverlet.

Now his hands were free to slide down her sweet-smelling neck and spread across her delicate collarbone until his fingers pressed her silly little sleeves right down her arms. He bent his knees to kiss the soft, incredibly feminine place where her neck met her shoulders.

She gasped and her hands clutched at his biceps. Stepping back, he reluctantly pulled his lips away from her skin long enough to strip the damned borrowed gown off her and fling it away. His shirt followed, but his mouth could not bear to be separated from hers even for an instant. He dove at her again, pressing into her with his hands buried in her hair, devouring her like a man starved for the simple unique flavor of her.

He couldn't get enough. The taste of her, the scent of her, the heat coming off her skin—

More skin. He needed more skin! He felt a tugging at his waist. She must feel it, too, for she was yanking at the buttons of his trousers with blind, crazed fingers. He shucked his boots and his trousers. She sat up to tear her chemise over her head.

She was beautifully naked underneath it. Orion crawled onto the mattress over her, pressing her down again as he advanced. Locking his mouth to hers, he ran his hands up her rounded thighs, over her tender belly, and filled his palms with her breasts.

Francesca moaned aloud. The heat of his palms sank into her skin. When he pressed her breasts high to take a nipple into his mouth, she cried out. How could they have thought one night was enough? A thousand nights would not be enough!

She wound her fingers into his hair. “I love you,” she whispered.

He had not said it back to her yet. He did not need to. She could taste how he loved her in his hot, devouring kiss. She could hear his passion in the thudding of his heart. And his touch, both tender and commanding, made her feel beautiful
and womanly and wanted as no other woman had ever been wanted.

Her hands wandered down his neck to his muscled shoulders. So beautiful, so sculpted and perfect and strong. He could break down a door, and he could rescue a child. He could roughly rip her gown from her body, and he could tenderly tease her nipples into tingling points.

She tugged gently on his hair, pulling his mouth to hers for a deep, mutually ravenous kiss. Every part of her felt alive with him. He abandoned her mouth to kiss his way down her trembling belly.

“Oh yes. Please,” she begged him. “Oh, please put your mouth on me.”

He growled into her skin. Her words had excited him, which in turn drove her higher!

“Kiss me there,” she moaned for him. “Use your tongue on me—”

He ran his tongue down, into her slit, and swirled it around her clitoris. Her body gave an involuntary jerk as pleasure jolted through her. “Yes,” she whispered. “Lick me, please! I need you to lick me!”

He crouched between her widely spread thighs and spread her labia aside with his thumbs. She had never felt so vulnerable and open in her life. She tossed her head restlessly on the bed, shyly allowing her hair to cover her face.

The coverlet rustled as he lifted his head. A second later, she felt his warm fingers brushing aside her concealing locks. He pulled the pillow down from the top of the bed to raise her head.

“I'm going to watch you come for me,” he told her, his voice deep and sure. “Again and again.”

Her breath left her in a rush. She swallowed, then nodded. He kissed his way down her body again, and this time, he used his hands to press her wrists into the mattress at her sides, holding her still for his consumption. He devoured her as he had devoured her cooking. His mastery made her shiver.
At some point, the tables had turned on her, and he was now in control.

She had always been adaptable. Being this man's plaything was no punishment, truly.

As he commanded with his lips and tongue and,
Dio
, even teeth!—she came for him. Again and again.

At last, panting and quivering and dripping with perspiration, she begged him to stop. She'd tried to before, but every time she uttered the words “mouth” or “lick,” he pinned her down and went back for second and third and fourth helpings.

“Please,” she whispered through a throat hoarse with restrained cries, “please, I must breathe!”

At that, he crawled up her body until he could kiss that breath right out of her. She felt his knee wedge itself between her thighs, pressing firmly to her labia. It felt so good, she could not help but squirm against it, rocking her body, rubbing her highly aroused clitoris against the muscled hardness of his thigh.

Then she felt his other knee press between her legs.
Oh yes
.

She wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him with all the love she bore in her heart. Still he hesitated. He pulled away from her kiss, turning his face into her neck. She could feel him shaking with his need for her. She wanted him just as much. Why did he hesitate?

Without another thought, Francesca wrapped her supple arms around his shoulders and her sturdy thighs over Orion's hips and drew the man she loved down into her body.

Orion gasped into her neck as his rigid hardness pressed to her slick and giving softness. He jerked in protest. She did not let him go.

“I love you,” she whispered into his ear. “I want you inside me. It is where you belong.”

His breath left him in a hot rush over her throat. She felt his resistance melt as he lowered his body over hers. The thick bluntness of him began to press inward.

It felt so wonderful. She was slippery and ready and—

Ow.
Perhaps he was a bit large—

Ow
. She might not be as prepared for this as she thought—

She flinched as he continued to pierce her. That was when she felt him stop. His body stiffened, and she felt him lifting his weight from her.

He was leaving? Now?

Passare sul mio cadavere!
Over my dead body!

With all the strength in her supple form, Francesca brought him back where he belonged, gritting her teeth against the burning pressure.

Why did she have to love such a
big
man?

Then he seated himself deeply into her with a groan of pleasure. She was happy that he was happy, but she could not help the two tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

“Shh,” he whispered against her lips as he brushed her hair back from her face. He dropped soft kisses on her damp eyelids. “Relax, Chessa. Be still. I have heard the pain will pass.”

His tender care soothed her tension. She willed her body to stop fighting the fullness and strain within her. When his lips moved to lightly kiss hers, she kissed him back, focusing on the taste of his mouth, the smooth texture of his tongue sliding against hers, the way his hands buried themselves in her hair . . .

Suddenly she realized that her sex no longer ached. She felt much more at ease.

“I'm going to move my cock slowly,” he told her gently. “You must tell me if you wish me to stop.”

He began to withdraw. At first, she felt a slight sting at the movement, but he kissed her again, more deeply and more passionately. Soon she was kissing him wildly as he moved in and out of her body, into her, out of her,
with
her—together as they had never been before.

Together as they were always meant to be.