Bared to the Viscount (The Rites of May Book 1) (28 page)

“Ah. So you did pay attention to him sometimes?”

“Always. Even when you and I snuck under the back pews to play cards.”

She laughed.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said. “I have no more interest than you do in a frivolous London life. What more entertainment do I need than festivals out on Birchford Green with all our neighbors? And nobody plans those better than you.”

“I see,” she said, raising her eyebrows at him. “So I’m the practical choice of wife?”

He nodded, his eyes twinkling. “Very practical. Very, very practical.” And then he slid his hand between their bodies and beneath the neckline of her bodice. His fingers closed over her breast, just above the shift, his palm brushing the thin linen over her nipple. “A viscount has so very many needs to be taken care of.” His voice went husky. “Urgent needs. So a viscount must always think of practicality.”

A delicious shiver went through her. “Keep talking,” she whispered.

“Everywhere I walk now, I see all the practical things I missed when I was a boy.” As he spoke, he spun their bodies around and pushed his muscled bulk against her, forcing her backwards several steps, until she felt the solidity of the kitchen cupboard at her back. “I see improvements I need to make to the lands and farms. Which fields need better drainage, which need to be left fallow.”

Even as her eyes shut in pleasure, she chuckled. “Oh, John Hollings, you do know how to sweet-talk a woman.”

“I know how to sweet-talk
you
,” he said, and now his words were spoken between kisses along the curve of her neck. His free hand wandered over her belly, down her hip. His strong fingers gripped her thigh for a moment, then slid up between her legs towards the joining spot at the apex, so sensitive even with the layers of her clothing between them. “I know you’ll want to hear I’ve noticed which cottages need new roofs.”

“New roofs,” she agreed with a gasp. “Always a fine idea.”

“Hmm,” he said. “We must be practical, above all things.” The hand that had been playing with her nipple dragged her bodice down to bare her breast. His hot mouth found its way there in a moment, and dragged that exquisitely sensitized nipple between his lips, drawing out a spark of sensation that made her gasp.

“Oh, John.”

“I’ve noticed a school that could use more books,” he murmured against her flesh, his tongue pausing for a moment to lick a tantalizing whirl around her aureole. “A muddy main street that could be paved.”

“So romantic,” she teased, but her words came out on a shuddering breath. A deep ache was growing in her belly, along with a tightening between her thighs.

“It is romantic,” he insisted, “when I imagine doing it all with you.”

It was a marvel to her that he could keep speaking, for she could no longer keep track of his hands and mouth as he played them over her body and made short work of undoing the fastenings of her clothing.

“What seemed a dull burden to me,” he said, tugging loose the laces of her stays, “suddenly blooms with life. Forget new roofs—we can build new, modern cottages for all our tenants. We’ll make that hospital of yours the rival of anything in London. I’ll offer the good Dr. Ausland double whatever he’s earning now if he’ll move here as soon as possible and be our first physician.”

She was panting now, and rational words were getting harder and harder to form. “You could do all those things without me.”

“Not nearly so well. And not nearly so enjoyably.” With quick jerks of his hands, he pulled her sleeves and bodice down, and loosened her stays and lifted them free, so she was bared nearly to the waist. In the cool air, her nipples peaked to hard points, and ached for the attention of his mouth.

She wanted him now, right now, right here as they stood, without a moment’s delay.

But, as always, his patience was far greater than hers.

He drew back from her and took her in with his hot gaze. “There,” he said with satisfaction. “Now you look like a proper pirate queen. Except for one more thing.”

He slid his fingers into her hair and slowly, one by one, pulled loose the hairpins that bound her tresses tight against the back of her skull. When all the pins were gone, he brushed out the mass of her loosened hair with his fingers, lovingly, spreading it across her shoulders, stopping to kiss the curls.

“This stuff drives me mad,” he murmured, dragging a lock sensuously over his fingers. His eyes burned into hers, then, and she knew, despite his patience, that he was as lost to desire as she.

“And these lovely things drive me mad as well,” he said, and dipped his mouth again to lick and suckle his way across her breasts, fitting his mouth to each nipple until she cried out and writhed against him.

The sound of her own cries made her suddenly aware of something. “John, Rosamund Lawton is right upstairs.”

He chuckled against her breast. “And refusing to leave Thomas’s side. She’ll stay where she is.” He gave her another lick that made her jerk in his arms. “I do believe she loves him.”

And before Mary could object again, he suddenly slid to his knees and knelt before her, his hands raising the hems of her skirts.

“I should mention, Mary,” he said, his voice low and rasping, “that making you a viscountess is not a one-sided deal, purely for my advantage. I’ll see to it you get something out of the bargain, too.” He big, warm hands slid their way up her bare legs.

“Oh, dear,” she breathed. “I believe I’m seeing some advantage already.”

“Even London can offer pleasure, you know.” And his mouth followed where his hands hand gone, kissing at her knees, nipping at the tender flesh of her thighs. And then finally, finally going where it had gone that morning when she lay sprawled half-naked on the ground by the blackberry vines, to that sensitive nub at the joining of her legs. He kissed her tenderly there, and then—making her cry out in frustration—pulled back again to speak. “You’d love the entertainments at Vauxhall,” he told her. “It’s like a fairy garden at night, full of people in masks, music, and the most marvelous fireworks.”

And then he licked her on that nub, and it was as good as fireworks, the pleasure bursting like colored sparks through her limbs, through her head, making her exclaim with wonder.

His hands went where his mouth had been, working the same magic, while his deep, thrumming voice kept caressing her just as effectively. “The theaters can be splendid, too,” he said. “Not to mention the Royal Menagerie, where you’ll come face to face with lions. Which might be the closest you’ll ever come to meeting truly worthy adversaries.”

His fingers were stroking and stroking so marvelously, sending delirious waves of arousal through her, punctuated here and there by licks and kisses, until all her muscles save those that clenched in her belly and thighs went slack and pliable, until her arms and legs and breasts seemed to be glowing from within with pure, golden light.

Oh, Lord. Her legs were trembling, and her knees were going to buckle soon.

She would either explode in a moment, or topple to the floor.

But he still was not done with her. “And I’ll get you a proper horse,” he promised, sliding his hand deeper between her legs, between her slick folds, stroking her there as well. “A truly fine one, not like that old nag of your brother’s, and you can learn to ride, really ride.”

At that, three of his long fingers slipped up inside her wet, heated sheath, stretching her deliciously. Their pressure against her swollen flesh had a sharp, hot sweetness that made her bite her lips and squeeze shut her eyes.

Thankfully he put one hand around her hip and pressed his chest to her knees to support her, because the heat that spiked through her threatened to melt the very last of her strength.

“Imagine that, Mary. I’ve imagined it a thousand times—you at full gallop, your cheeks flushed and the wind pulling your hair loose. I should love to see you ride like that.”

And at last he stopped speaking, and worked her with both hands and mouth, his tongue laving her, his fingers thrusting inside her with a rhythm that did indeed rock her like a racing horse, making her clench against him with her thighs and pump her hips up and down as the pressure and pleasure built and built within her. She was flying, hurtling, and her fingers grasped at his golden curls as though they were a horse’s mane.

Even behind her closed eyes, colors flared.

A few more strokes of his hand, and with a cry, she arched her back and shuddered against him, the walls of her sheath pulsing and clutching at his fingers, that sensitive nub seeming to melt into outward-pulsing circles of pure flame. Her soul rushed with it, bursting beyond the boundaries of her flesh, merging with the light that sparkled everywhere.

John held his mouth and hands against her for long moments, while the thundering of her heart and the rasping of her breath quieted, while that ethereal part of her that had leapt beyond her body slowly returned to solid form within her.

She was barely conscious of John rising quietly to his feet, and putting his arms around her waist once more.

“Look at you,” he whispered once he stood before her again, his voice hushed, reverent. “My Mary. My beautiful, beautiful girl.”

Her hands, somehow, were still tangled in his hair, and she drew his mouth against hers.

His kiss was desperate now, and tinged with the salt musk of her body.

She didn’t know how long the kiss went on, but some time later, he pulled back from her again. “You haven’t said it yet,” he murmured. “That you will marry me.”

Her heart seemed to clench at that; her breathing hitched. There was joy in the thought, warm and pure and glorious, but also something else, something that made her feel the solid ground was slipping from beneath her feet.

“I’m afraid,” she admitted.

His arms tightened around her, anchoring her. “Afraid of what?”

“Afraid I’ll...I’ll seem ridiculous as a viscountess.” Her breathing quickened now, as she confessed the truth. “Like a wren dressing herself up in another bird’s bright feathers.”

He chuckled low in his chest, and leaned back so he could look at her in full. “Mary, my love, if you could but see yourself right now, and how gloriously flushed and glowing you look, you could never, ever doubt the power of your beauty.”

Heat spread through her at his words, and she clutched at his shoulder, holding fast. “I don’t think a viscountess could appear like this in public.”

“That’s a damned shame,” he answered, his eyes raking lasciviously over her bared breasts. “But if I make love to you enough, the whole world will see your glow even when you’re fully clothed. Every peer in England will be mad with jealousy that I won you.
You
. Exactly as you are.”

She squeezed shut her eyes, trying to let the heat in his voice burn away the chill of her fear. John did love her, she did not doubt it any longer. He really did see her as beautiful.

Could she truly see herself as he saw her?

“Just trust in me, Mary,” he insisted. “I swear I’ll remind you every minute of every day how desirable you are. Until you cannot doubt you are the very embodiment of Aphrodite herself—a goddess of love and beauty.”

“Aphrodite?
Me
?”

“My Aphrodite,” he said, and set about proving it with his mouth on her breast and his hands lifting her skirts once more. His powerful form backed her against the cupboard again, and she could feel his cock, hard and ready, pushing against the restraint of his trousers. One of his hands slipped behind her knee, raising it up, pulling her leg around his thigh.

“One more thing I must say,” he said between the kisses he was pressing to her breasts and throat. “I love you, Mary Wilkins. With all my heart, I love you.”

“Oh, John,” she answered. “I love you, too. With all my heart. And always have.”

“Thank God for that,” he said, and set his mouth hard against hers.

And then she reached between them to the closure of his trousers, and began to work the buttons free. The pressure of his straining cock against the fabric made the job harder than it had to be, but he didn’t complain about her fumbling fingers as they brushed against the outline of his shaft, and when at last it sprung free, he certainly didn’t object to her fingers grasping him and stroking him up and down, causing him to swell harder and harder against her palms.

All the while, their mouths worked against one another, their tongues tangling, their breath meshing, drawing them deeper together.

He had her skirts up around her waist again, baring her legs completely, and wanting to see him bared as well, she pulled at his jacket, yanked up the hem of his shirt. He paused in his ministrations to help her, shrugging out of the jacket and whisking the garment over his own head.

Her little rush candle had long since burnt out, but the embers of the kitchen fire still cast enough orange light to highlight the hard ridges of his chest and shoulders, and limn the hollows between his muscles in tantalizing shadow. He looked utterly male, utterly commanding, dangerous and powerful and glorious.

And entirely hers.

She skimmed her hands along his pectorals and over the hard plane of his belly, enjoying every inch of his masculine beauty. “You know, viscount,” she said, panting with arousal, “you look rather rakish at the moment, like a pirate captain, yourself.” She gave one his nipples an experimental lick, and rejoiced at the way he jolted and sighed. “When I wanted to be a pirate as a child, I had no idea this sort of wickedness could be a part of the deal.”