Cheryl Holt (21 page)

“You’re lying,” he eventually murmured. “I can see it in your eyes, though for the life of me, I can’t fathom why you are. Why don’t I yank out my heart and toss it on the floor so you can stomp on it?”

“You’re to be wed in seven days, Alex! It doesn’t matter why I’m doing anything.”

“It matters to me!” He clenched his fist and tapped it to the center of his chest.

The look on his face was excruciating, and she
couldn’t stand it. She spun away to stare out the window into the black sky, and he caressed her cheek, his knuckles brushing her skin. She ached to have him hold her. She was afraid, afraid of what the morrow would bring, afraid of what would become of her. She needed consoling and comfort, but he wasn’t the one to whom she could turn.

When they’d commenced their affair, she’d presumed herself sophisticated, that she could merrily philander, then emerge wiser but mostly unscathed. She hadn’t realized that the conclusion would be so devastating, that she would feel as if her very bones might break with the sorrow of their separation.

“Don’t go,” he begged.

“I have to.”

“I must marry Rebecca, but I can’t! It’s so wrong. She and I will both be so miserable, and I’m so confused! Tell me what to do!”

“Don’t ask me. I can’t advise you.”

He pulled her into his arms. “I thought I had six more months with you, six months to say good-bye and walk away with no regrets. This is happening too fast.”

If he’d wanted to spend more time with her, why had he moved up the wedding date? She was dying to inquire but didn’t.

She wouldn’t try to decipher his motives. By probing for details she’d merely be torturing herself. He’d chosen his path, had made his bed, and he could lie in it. She had no sympathy to offer, no commiseration to share, and she wouldn’t ease his conscience or smooth over his options so they were more palatable.

He was rubbing her back, stroking his hands up and
down, up and down. The motion was soothing, and it had her recollecting how much she loved him, why she’d elected to do what she’d done.

She’d been attracted to him as she’d never be to anyone else. When she peered down the road—as a poverty-stricken spinster, as a woman with no family and no place to call her own—it was such a forlorn picture.

He was the bright star in her dull universe. She’d never meet another like him, would never know the joy and abandon he’d bestowed. There was simply no finer feeling in the world than to gaze into Alex Marshall’s blue eyes and see the desire and affection written there.

Without him, she’d be adrift and the quiet years stretching ahead didn’t bear contemplating.

While she doubted the depth of his fondness for her, her own sentiments were true and everlasting. She loved him, and she couldn’t imagine how she would continue on without him.

They’d had such a brief association that she had no souvenirs of the magical interval, no locket with his portrait hidden inside, no flower tucked into the pages of a book. When she departed, she would have no evidence to take with her that she—plain, boring Ellen Drake—had once captivated dashing, dynamic Lord Stanton.

Only memories would remain, and if she dared, she could build a few more before dawn broke.

She hugged him tight and rose up on tiptoe so that he could kiss her. As if he was worried about his reception, he began tentatively, his mouth hardly touching hers, but she couldn’t have him hesitant or restrained.

On this, their final rendezvous, she craved heat and fire, danger and recklessness. There were so many things
he’d never shown her, and she was eager to experience them all. Before she left, she had to be filled to overflowing with reminiscence.

“Stay with me tonight,” she said. “Remind me of how wonderful it’s been, so that I will never forget.”

Alex linked their fingers and led her to the bed. He lay down and drew her down with him.

He couldn’t believe she’d consider deserting him. How could she?

She was correct that she had to leave, but where she was concerned he couldn’t think rationally. He didn’t want to marry Rebecca, but when she’d demanded an earlier wedding there hadn’t been a single reason to delay, except that it meant he would lose Ellen.

His behavior toward both women was disgusting. He was furious with Rebecca for pushing the issue, was angry with Ellen for opting to go, and his life was in such disarray that he could scarcely function.

In a way, he was glad for the swift ending. If he hadn’t been frantic, he would never have found the courage to confess that he loved her. If she hadn’t thrown down the gauntlet, he might not have recognized the intensity of his emotions.

He was on top of her and pressing her down into the mattress. Her body rippled with pleasure, with the knowledge of what was coming. They both understood the gravity of what they were about. There would be this tryst, and just this one, then no more. He was as keen as she to build a store of memories.

He tugged her robe off her shoulders, then lowered the straps of her nightgown, baring her breasts to his questing
hands. He dipped down and suckled her, biting at her nipple so that she squirmed and writhed, so that she fought to escape but pull him nearer, too. This was what he needed, this heedless spiral to ecstasy, where nothing mattered, where there was no hasty wedding, no morning after, no sins and omissions that were so glaring and bothersome.

He jerked her nightgown over her hips, her thighs, and she kicked it away. Whatever he required, he could have. Whatever he asked of her, she would provide. There would be no holding back, no limits.

She was so titillated, and she wanted him in the same impatient condition. She rolled them so that she was in control, so that she could pet and fondle, massage and excite.

With shaky fingers, she tried to unbutton his shirt, but she couldn’t manage the chore, so she grabbed the lapels and ripped it down the center, the pieces of fabric falling away. She bent down and rooted across his chest, to his nipple, nibbling and teasing as he’d done to her.

She moved down, and lest she tear his trousers, too, he made quick work of the buttons, flicking them free so that the material was loose. She yanked them off; then she traveled down his stomach. His cock was rigid, the appendage extending out to her, begging to be stroked.

“Should I take you in my mouth?” She was licking and playing, driving him wild.

“Yes . . . yes . . .” he ground out.

“When? Now?”

“Please. . .”

She relished her carnal skill, how she could spur him to such a precipice. She opened wide, and he glanced down, planning to enjoy the spectacle, but the sight of her ruby lips wrapped around him was more than he
could abide. His lust soared, and in an instant he almost spilled himself.

He lurched away, dragging her up and over so that she was beneath him, once more.

“Make love to me,” she pleaded.

He arched a brow. “I believe I am.”

“You know what I mean. I want to feel you inside me. I want to learn what it’s like.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“We’ve had this discussion many, many times. As far as I can determine, naught has changed.”

“Except that—after tonight—I’ll never see you again.”

“I can’t do it. Especially if you’re set on this crazed idea of leaving. Who can predict what awaits you? I won’t have your circumstances any more dire than they already are.”

“Alex!” She spread her legs, urging him on, bringing him so close to paradise. “Take me!”

“No!” he repeated, though his resolve was weakening, and he groaned in frustration.

Why not?
a voice rang in his head. Why not be done with it? She’d given him everything else, and there was so little left of her chastity. It would be so easy to journey that last inch. With the merest thrust, he could finish it.

He leaned in and tormented himself by rubbing his cock across her cleft. She was so wet, so willing, and he wanted her so desperately.

Why not?

He shifted and pushed the blunt crown in just the smallest bit. His body trembled with restraint. He yearned to be joined with her, and he was perched on the edge of
an abyss, feeling as though—whatever he chose—he was about to leap into free fall.

Should she remain a virgin? Should she not? Should he copulate with her? Should he not?

The answers eluded him, the question of
right
and
wrong
beyond his ability to factor. Desire won out. He couldn’t decide the best course, couldn’t select better behavior. He had to be in her or die.

“Promise me one thing,” he entreated.

“What?”

“Promise that you’ll never regret this.”

She smiled. “No, I’ll never regret it.”

“Promise that you won’t hate me later on.”

“Hate you? Why would I? I want this; I want
you.”

“Swear to me!”

“I could never hate you. I swear it.”

He gripped her thighs, his phallus an insistent rod, and she stirred with the beginnings of alarm. Her virginal state rose to the fore, and instinctively she tried to skitter away.

He pinned her down and commanded, “Hold still!”

“I can’t. I’m afraid.”

“It will be over very soon.” He wedged himself in even farther.

“Alex!” she implored, but he was beyond the point where he could listen.

“Be silent.”

“I can’t be. You’re too big . . . it’s too . . . too . . .”

“No regrets, Ellen, remember?”

He kissed her, and he flexed once, twice, and he burst through her maidenhead. There was a tear, the rush of her woman’s blood, and she arched up and cried out. Every muscle in suspended agony, he froze as she acclimated,
and the instant she started to relax, he commenced again.

He was past the spot where he could be gentle, and he rode her hard, his actions propelling them across the bed, until she was knocking up against the frame, and she had to reach out to steady herself.

It was heaven, being inside her, and he kept on much too long. Finally, his seed surged to the tip, and he exploded in a fiery wave that flooded her womb. Vaguely, he realized that he should have pulled out, that he should have had more sense. If he’d impregnated her, both their situations would be more complicated, but the notion was swept away on a tide of pleasure.

It seemed so fitting that they end it in this fashion, and he wondered if he didn’t secretly hope that she
did
become pregnant. If there was a babe, they’d have reasons for continuing contact. She couldn’t simply vanish.

The spiral peaked and waned, and he collapsed onto her; then he withdrew and snuggled himself to her. She winced with discomfort, and while he knew he should be sorry for using her badly, he felt no remorse.

He was still so aroused that if he’d thought she could tolerate another go-around, he’d have mounted her again. Would his lust for her ever be sated?

“Have I hurt you?” he asked.

“I’ll mend.”

“I didn’t mean to be so rough.”

“You weren’t.”

“You drive me beyond my limit.”

“I’m glad.”

“You’ll be sore for a day or two.”

“I’m fine now.”

“I could order up a hot bath, to ease the ache.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“It won’t bother you the next time,” he offered as a meager consolation, though he detested speculating over when her
next
time would be. Would he be her partner? Most likely not.

Looking anxious, she stroked her abdomen. “Could we have—”

“No.” He hadn’t the faintest idea if pregnancy could occur from a woman’s first sexual experience, but he wasn’t about to panic her. There would be plenty of subsequent opportunity to worry about the consequences of his rash conduct.

For the moment, he intended to revel in the precious solitude, and he refused to let pesky details such as children or fatherhood interfere.

“Might we. . . we . . .” She blushed a delightful shade of pink.

“What?”

“Might we do it again?”

“Most definitely, my dearest, Ellen.” He grinned. “We most definitely can.”

As he rolled onto her, the strangest noise brought him up short. It sounded like a gasp or a wheeze, and it hadn’t emanated from himself or Ellen.

He frowned and glanced to the door that he’d shattered during his temper tantrum. He’d braced it shut as best he could, but it wasn’t shut now. It had been flung wide, and Lydia was standing on the threshold, her mobcap bouncing, her nightgown billowing, a lamp swinging from her fingers.

A group of servants was loitering behind her, and they were on tiptoe and straining to see the raucous spectacle inside the room.

“Oh no!” he grumbled.

What the hell was Lydia doing, roaming the halls and dragging the housekeeper and a cadre of footmen with her?

This was an unmitigated disaster! There’d be no explaining or justifying. He’d never be able to make this right for anyone concerned.

The men were leering at Ellen, and he grabbed a blanket to cover her, as she squealed with mortification and ducked under it.

“We heard some loud banging,” Lydia informed them, and she chuckled maliciously. “We were afraid it was burglars, but I guess it wasn’t. I’ll speak with the two of you downstairs in the library. In ten minutes. Were I you, I wouldn’t be late.”

She spun away and shooed the others out, waddling along behind them like a mother duck. As their footsteps receded, Ellen peeked out and inquired, “What will Lydia do?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, “but whatever it is, it won’t be good.”

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