Authors: Rexanne Becnel
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Regency
Dangerous to Love (24 page)
So she clutched the wool lapels of his coat even tighter, and kissed him as if there were no tomorrow.
It was not how she’d imagined coming together with the man she loved would be. There was none of the wooing she’d imagined, the pretty compliments and tentative touches. She was not dressed and perfumed, with hair piled high and pins to undo.
No, she was naked underneath a thin night rail, with her hair streaming down to her waist. His hands roamed her greedily, finding no barriers at all. Indeed, the soft linen only served to heighten the feel of his hard palms and strong fingers as they slid down her back, circled her waist, and curved around her derriere.
His other hand tangled in her hair, tilting her back to accept the onslaught of his mouth.
Not that she meant to fight him. Not that she ever could.
When he pulled her against him, drawing her up into the kiss, it became more than merely a kiss. His lips teased and seduced hers; his tongue deepened the contact. His arms enveloped her and his body swamped hers with his heat.
And his need.
But it was a need that went beyond physical desire, and that need proved to be the most potent of his many allures. For Lucy wanted to assuage that neediness in him. She wanted to satisfy more than the physical hungers that drove him. She wanted to love him and make love to him, until he was sated and at peace. Completely at peace.
The bed was behind her, and with a bold tug, she tumbled them backward onto it. Their lower bodies pressed together in the intimate way they had before, the fateful night of the dinner party. He braced himself on his arms and with her help shed both coat and waistcoat. But Lucy could go no further than that, for she was now in new and foreign territory.
“Pull my shirt up,” he told her, kissing her ear, then moving the kiss in hot nibbles down the side of her neck and around to the hollow of her throat. “Now over my head,” he added, when she complied.
Somehow they managed, for Lucy soon found herself staring at his broad, naked chest, at the dark mat of hair and the flat male nipples nestled within. Her own nipples tightened at the sight.
As if he knew the direction of her thoughts, one of Ivan’s hands moved down to curve around her breast, and his thumb moved languidly over the aching crest.
When she let out a little moan, he replaced the thumb with his mouth. He scraped the peak with his teeth, then drew it fully into his mouth.
A groan of fear and ecstasy escaped her, and unwittingly she thrust her body up against his. He thrust back, pressing her deep into the feather bed, and let out a groan of his own.
“I cannot wait any more,” he muttered.
He rolled away from her and for a moment disappointment overwhelmed her. But only for a moment. For he kicked off his boots and stripped off his breeches. Then he turned back to her and, with an impatient gesture, pushed her maidenly gown up, past her thighs and belly. He paused and stared down at her naked form.
Had it not been for her fascination with his naked body, Lucy would have tried to cover herself. But he was so magnificent, so arrogantly masculine, that she could do nothing but stare. He put the classical statues to shame. She had held onto his wide shoulders and felt the press of his muscular chest before. But naked they were so much more impressive. Smooth olive skin accented with dark, curling hair. Well-defined muscles, that rippled down to a hard, flat stomach. A huge jutting—
She jerked her eyes back up to him, suddenly terrified. What was she doing? This was not possible. There was no way
that
could fit where … where she knew it was supposed to fit.
that
could fit where … where she knew it was supposed to fit.
“Are you a virgin?” he asked.
Lucy nodded, unable to speak.
Ivan smiled, drinking her in with his eyes. He bent down to kiss her again. “Good.” Then with one hand he slid the gown even higher, exposing her breasts, while he moved his mouth in a hungry trail of kisses. He devoured her neck, nuzzled past the bunched linen, then began to lick and taste the bare flesh of her breasts.
“Ivan … Ivan, I don’t think …” She trailed off, lost in the wonderful turmoil of sensations he roused in her.
“Don’t think,” he murmured, as he began to tease one aching, straining nipple. He pulled the gown over her head, leaving her to struggle with her trapped arms. “Don’t think. Just feel.”
When he drew the nipple between his lips, Lucy could do nothing else but feel. His erotic attention to her nipples caused the most incredible, terrifying feelings to erupt in her belly. She felt as if she were melting from the inside out, getting hotter and hotter, until she turned to liquid and began to boil.
She clutched at his shoulders, trying to make him stop. Urging him never to stop.
In the midst of this panic of emotions, he slid further down her body, pressing his clever, wicked lips in the depression beneath her breast bone, counting each rib with his tongue. Then he pressed the side of his face against the soft flesh of her belly.
She felt the rasp of his stubbled cheek on her sensitized skin. One of his hands circled her derriere and pressed her all the harder to him as he rubbed his face against her tender flesh. Then he moved his mouth, as if to kiss her lower still.
“Ivan,” she gasped, afraid of what he meant to do. “Please, I …” She trailed off when he looked up, forgetting what she’d meant to say. There was such hunger in his eyes, such a fiery passion.
“Please,” she begged as she cupped his face with her hands. “Please. Kiss me again.”
Slowly he slid up her, letting every portion of his incredibly masculine body rub against hers, forcing her legs apart to accept the full weight of his body. He caught her mouth in a kiss, pinning her to the bed with the crushing force of his desire.
Then, as he filled her mouth with his probing tongue, his hard male member probed the entrance to her femininity. Urging her on with the rhythmic thrust of his tongue, he thrust his hips against hers, going deeper each time.
It was an excruciating pleasure, an exquisite stretching, an indescribable friction that made Lucy want to jump out of her skin. She circled his shoulders with her arms and ran her hands restlessly up and down his back. He possessed her wholly and she let him, circling her legs around his straining hips.
She felt him tense and start to lift his head. But she drew him back into the kiss and she heard his groan of capitulation.
Then without warning he thrust deeper than he had before, and she felt a quick, tearing pain. But he did not allow her time to savor the pain or understand it. For he began a new rhythm, hot and fast, with an unholy urgency. Like a mighty wave it sucked her in until she was meeting him stroke for stroke, crying out her anguish and need, and finally erupting from the inside out.
He’d set her on fire. He’d burned her up. He’d consumed her and now she was his, mere ashes, burned in the fire of his passion.
Their passion.
H
is hand was shaking.
is hand was shaking.
Ivan pulled his boot on with an angry jerk, then reached for the other one. He dressed quietly. Swiftly. But his eyes kept stealing back to the slumbering woman on the rumpled bed.
Lucy Drysdale, damn her bluestocking little soul, was more passionate than any self-professed wanton, at least any of the ones he’d had the pleasure of knowing. What those other women provided had been nothing more than sex, a midnight snack to ease his hunger. But Lucy had given him a twenty-course feast, every delicacy imaginable to man.
And several beyond imagination.
He stood, then paused, just staring at her. He wanted to stay. He wanted to slip back under the covers, now scented with their joining, and curl around her. He wanted to make love to her again, to sleep a while with her, then wake her up and make love to her all over again.
He felt the demanding rise of his desire and grimly beat back an oath. He would have time enough to spend with his bride after the wedding. He’d accomplished what he’d wanted tonight by laying final claim to her body. She would not dare oppose their marriage now.
His anger at her revived as he recalled her steadfast opposition to their impending nuptials. He pulled the crushed letter she’d written out of his pocket. She’d rather be ruined than marry him. Though she’d not said as much, that was the effect of her message. But she’d not been completely ruined when she wrote it. Now she was.
He frowned and looked back at her, at the feminine sprawl beneath the rumpled covers, of slender arms and shapely legs, of innocent maiden and passionate lover.
Only an idiot would consider her ruined by what had just occurred between them. But it was the opinion of idiots that would force her into this marriage. Lucy could not deny his offer any longer.
He ripped the letter in half, and at the sound she stirred then opened her eyes. It took her a moment to remember. In the amber light of the sputtering candles he saw her blink and stare at him. Then her eyes widened and she sat up like a shot.
The sight of her bare shoulders and wildly tangled hair sent blood surging to his loins. But he curbed his baser needs and focused instead on the matter at hand.
“I’m returning your letter.” He flung the shredded pages at her. They settled across the bed. “I assume you’ll give up this pointless opposition to our wedding now, considering the events of the past hours.”
He saw her swallow and was unable not to stare at the smooth undulations of her throat. The throat he wanted to lick and taste and devour.
With an effort he ignored that and forced himself to remain focused. “Agree to my offer of marriage, otherwise I’ll have no choice but to inform your brother about what has passed between us.”
She gasped and clutched the wrinkled bed linens to her chest. “You wouldn’t!”
Ivan’s eyes ran over her. She was naked under those few layers of sheeting. He could have her again, right now, if he wanted to.
“Oh, but I would,” he said. “If you don’t agree to my proposal now, you leave me no option but to admit what we’ve done. He’ll have no choice but to defend your honor. Is that what you want, for him to challenge me over your honor?”
Slowly she shook her head. Again she swallowed, only this time it was jerky, as if she fought down a knot of tears. But she didn’t cry.
He nodded. “Tomorrow you will tell your brother that you agree. And on Thursday we will wed.”
They stared at one another a long moment. Ivan realized he was holding his breath.
Finally she said, “On Thursday we shall wed. Only …”
Ivan frowned. “Only what?”
She looked down at her lap. Her hair fell around her face and in the shadowy room he could not make out her expression. She continued in little more than a whisper. “I was only wondering … well … If you plan to come … you know … here. Tomorrow night.”
Like a tidal wave, pride and possession and a fierce need for her rushed over Ivan. She wanted him to come to her bed again. She couldn’t bear to wait even another night to be with him. Desire struck him once more, like a ravenous clawing beast that would not be satisfied.
He took a step toward the bed, then stopped, wrestling with the beast inside him. He would not give her that power over him. She didn’t need to know how violent was his need to possess her—and not just her body. He wanted her to want him. He’d never needed that of any woman before. He clenched his jaw.
“If I didn’t already have proof of your innocence, I would wonder at such a bold request.”
She lifted her face and he could see in its heightened color what her words had cost her—and how his callous reply had hurt. Before he could find a way to take them back she spoke.
“If you expect me to be a sweet and malleable wife, then I am afraid you shall be disappointed, my lord. There is a reason I have remained so long unwed.”
“The same can be said for myself. I will see you on Thursday, Lucy. Until then.” He gave a curt bow, then afraid to linger a minute longer in her presence, he turned and left.
Outside the room he paused, heart hammering and body fully aroused. Damnation, but the sassy wench tied him in knots!
Inside the room Lucy sat as he left her, staring at the door with a sinking heart. How could he love her body so well and yet seem to hate
her
?
her
?
Across the hall Antonia kept her ear pressed to the drinking glass she held against the door. She strained to hear anything further. Ivan had been two hours in the girl’s room, then left with a frustrated oath on his lips. He was bedeviled, all right. Miss Drysdale might be wise to fear a marriage to him, but that was not Lady Antonia’s concern. He wanted the chit and tonight the girl had sealed her fate. She would see to that.
Antonia put the glass down and hobbled back to her bed. Lord, but she was tired. Her feet ached all the time. The social obligations of town life were wearing in the extreme. Once Ivan was safely wed and the marriage legally consummated, perhaps she would return to Dorset and the peace of the Westcott family seat—and there await the news that her great-grandchild was on the way.
Lucy would much rather slap Ivan than kiss him. Fortunately her sense of fairness—and her sense of the ludicrous—kicked in and she had to admit, at least to herself, that she was not being totally honest. She did want to slap him. But she wanted to kiss him more.
It had been a day and a half since she’d last seen him—one day, one night, and the awful remains of another night since he’d left her sitting naked in her own bed. Thirty-five and a half hours of utter misery. Frustration, longing, panic, and confusion had been just the least portion of her maelstrom of emotions. Utter fury had been there too.
For Ivan had not been content merely to hold her wanton behavior over
her
head. Oh, no. He’d let her brother know, and she’d had to suffer Graham’s sanctimonious preaching ever since. It wasn’t enough for Graham that she’d agreed to marry the wretch. He had taken advantage of her fall from grace—not just a partial fall, but a full-fledged tumble into shameful debauchery, to hear him tell it—and relieved himself of every frustration he’d ever suffered on her account. If she’d married Winston Fletcher, this would never have happened. If she’d accepted Carlton Claverie’s suit, the family would not be humiliated by so rushed a wedding. If she’d consented to be courted by George Anderson, their good family name would not be shamed, as she’d shamed it.
her
head. Oh, no. He’d let her brother know, and she’d had to suffer Graham’s sanctimonious preaching ever since. It wasn’t enough for Graham that she’d agreed to marry the wretch. He had taken advantage of her fall from grace—not just a partial fall, but a full-fledged tumble into shameful debauchery, to hear him tell it—and relieved himself of every frustration he’d ever suffered on her account. If she’d married Winston Fletcher, this would never have happened. If she’d accepted Carlton Claverie’s suit, the family would not be humiliated by so rushed a wedding. If she’d consented to be courted by George Anderson, their good family name would not be shamed, as she’d shamed it.
The only thing that had shut him up was her sharp reminder that Ivan was an earl, while Carlton and Winston had merely been honorables, and George Anderson second in line to be a viscount. She hadn’t liked using that argument, but at least it had worked.
Now, however, as Graham led her down the aisle of the nearly empty Chapel of St. Mary of the Archangels, it was not Ivan’s title she was thinking about. It was him, the man who stood waiting beside the minister, his gaze shuttered, his face expressionless.
In a matter of minutes they would be wed. Then he would kiss her in front of her family and his and the few friends who’d attended the hasty wedding.
For some reason she was terrified by the thought of that kiss. She had visions of herself melting into a puddle in front of everyone, for he could do that to her if he chose. He knew it and so did she. And there was no reason to think he would not choose to humiliate her like that. After all, she’d humiliated him by trying to turn down his very honorable proposal.
She swallowed hard when Graham halted just before Ivan. The silence in the chapel was deafening.
“We gather in the sight of God and man,” the minister began.
It was an endless blur; it was over in a moment. The only portions of the ceremony Lucy was later to recall were the two times when Ivan touched her, for her heart kicked into a gallop each time. First when he took her left hand and placed a ring on it. It was exactly the right size, she’d vaguely noted, and it was heavier than any ring she’d ever worn. The second time he touched her it was to kiss her, after the minister pronounced them man and wife. But none of Lucy’s fears came to pass—at least none of her fears about making a fool of herself. For his kiss was as devoid of feeling as hers was fraught with it. He didn’t even touch her shoulders, but only bent stiffly forward and gave her a dry, impersonal peck on the lips.
It didn’t prevent her heart from racing, though. It raced directly to the depths of despair.
“Congratulations,” said the minister, shaking Ivan’s hand.
Graham hugged Lucy. So did Valerie, Hortense, and her weeping mother. Even Lady Westcott gave her a sort of hug. But all the good wishes in the world could not disguise what everyone had seen. Ivan Thornton’s so-called passion for his bride had either burnt out or it had never truly existed at all.
Lucy wanted to weep.
Instead she pasted a fixed expression on her face and allowed herself to be carried along when the dowager countess directed the small group toward the church vestibule. Ivan walked a little apart from Lucy, receiving her brother’s enthusiastic good wishes.
As much as Graham had harangued her about the humiliating circumstances of her marriage, he was obviously ecstatic to have an earl for a brother-in-law. Lucy sighed. If only Ivan showed one tenth the enthusiasm that Graham did.
As if he sensed her perusal, Ivan looked up. Their eyes met and held, but Lucy found no solace in his hooded gaze.
Oh, but the man was wearing! He blew hot one day and cold the next!
Then again, perhaps he thought the same of her. That put an altogether different slant on things.
Lucy took a deep breath. Did she dare? She smiled down at Prudence and gave her a squeeze. “Mind your sisters,” she told her. “I fear I am neglecting my husband.” Then fighting down a fear that had her knees trembling and her mouth dry, she made her way to Ivan’s side.
“Could we have a private word?” she asked, placing a hand on his arm. The surprised look on his face, though brief, lent her courage. “Please?” she added in a whisper.
He gave a curt nod. Everyone stared as Lucy drew him away from the vestibule and out into the small churchyard. “Go on. We’ll be there soon enough,” she told them.
“My word, now what?” Lucy’s mother exclaimed.
Alexander Blackburn laughed. “You’re supposed to wait until—”
He broke off when Hortense clapped her hands over Prudence’s ears. Giles barely muffled a guffaw.
Elliot was not there. Lucy had noted that earlier. She would have to do something to mend this silly rift between Ivan and him. But first she had to mend the huge one between Ivan and herself.
She kept a tight hold on his arm until they reached the small garden that separated the church from the rectory. Once out of sight of their well-wishers, however, she was beset once more by nerves. She let go of his arm and wove her fingers nervously together and tried to find the right words. His silence was no help at all, especially when he folded his arms across his chest and stared belligerently at her.
“It’s too late to back out, Lucy. The deed is done. Both deeds,” he added sarcastically.
“I’m not trying to back out,” she snapped. “Though I shall never forgive you for telling my brother about … about the other night.”
“I didn’t tell him a thing.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t, so who could have but you?”
“Perhaps one of the servants saw me enter your room.”
“Or your grandmother might have overheard us.” Lucy’s face flamed at the very thought. “Well, I … I suppose that doesn’t matter any more,” she said with a nervous wave of one hand. “The thing is …” She faltered, then grimaced at her cowardliness. “The thing is, it occurs to me that although we have taken our vows, you have no idea what my feelings about our marriage truly are.”
“Your feelings about our marriage,” he echoed. “I have reason to believe you think us supremely ill-suited to one another.”
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