Edith Layton (18 page)

All her shyness fled. She wrapped her arms
around his neck and pressed herself to him, and kissed him back with all her heart.

Her mouth was soft and pliant under his, her tongue dared to dart out and seek his. He responded, gathering her closer, drinking more deeply at her lips. One arm was still around her, his other hand went to her breast. He made a sound of annoyance deep in his throat. “No,” he whispered into her ear. “You’re dressed. We can’t do this dressed.”

He could feel her stiffen in his arms. Well, that had discouraged her, he thought, and saved him the frustration of doing it later. But he owed her the truth.

“If a man and a woman have the luxury of being alone,” he explained. “They shouldn’t have to make love fully clothed. It’s not fair to you, or me.” He drew back, held her shoulders in his hands and looked at her. “Can you do this? You can still change your mind. You can always change your mind. There’s only one point where it would be too late. We won’t get to that point tonight.”

She didn’t understand, but she believed him. She reached down and tried to take the hem of her shift in her hands.

“You’re sure?” he asked in amazement.

She didn’t answer, only tugged and struggled to be free of her nightshift. But she was sitting in deep soft feathers and couldn’t manage to raise one end of her shift above her bottom no matter how she tried.

He chuckled, and raising her in his arms, pulled the shift over her head in one swift movement. Then he stopped and looked at her. She froze. He sighed.
There was little on earth as beautiful to him as a naked woman, but even so, she delighted him. If she weren’t so inexperienced, he’d have stood her on her feet so he could study the loveliness he’d unveiled. As it was, he looked at her and rejoiced.

He told her why. He thought she needed to know; he knew he needed to tell her, if only to rid her of that fearful look she wore.

“Your breasts are beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Just the right size and shape, uplifted and firm, they look like the breasts on a statue, they’re so perfect. But lucky for me, they’re not, they’re warm and soft.” He caressed her breasts as he told her that, and felt her nipples pucker in his palms. “Oh good,” he whispered, “you like that. So do I.” He bent his mouth to her breast and heard her draw in her breath sharply. “You taste good, too,” he said after a moment. “Your skin’s so smooth and warm. Your hips swell out, just so, in just the right way. Your bottom’s adorable,” he said, as he raised her in his arms again. “There, doesn’t it feel better when you sit on my lap? Or it would if you’d disregard that annoying stick you feel. Wait, I’ll move and it won’t bother you.”

She knew enough about men to know what was happening, though she’d never experienced such a thing before. He shifted her, and she blinked. Because now she felt his taut rod beneath her thigh, and it felt very much like the end of a broomstick poking her. She thought he must be an enormous size, and felt her courage fail.

But he laughed. “You see, I don’t lie. My body
won’t allow it. That’s just me rising to the occasion, appreciating you. I’m trying…there. It’s not directly beneath you now. Not to worry. I won’t trouble you with it, though it’s killing me. Not so,” he said when he realized she didn’t understand. “Forget it. Concentrate on what you feel. Isn’t that good?”

She took a deep shuddering breath. “What about how you feel?”

“Oh, I feel fine,” he murmured against her heart.

“But we’re alone,” she said, and shivered as he tasted her other breast. “And you’re still dressed.”

“Observant,” he said, and drew back. “You want me naked?”

She nodded. “It’s only fair.”

He blinked, nodded, and immediately pulled his nightshirt over his head. “Done,” he said. “Content?”

She surprised him further. She moved away so she could examine him. She placed a tentative hand on his heart. “You’re very good-looking,” she said. “I mean, your chest is very well muscled. And clean, you smell of soap.”

“I grew used to luxury,” he said.

“And though you’re swarthy,” she went on, “you haven’t a great mat of hair on your chest. I mean, you have some hair, which only makes sense, because you’re a man. But I’ve seen farm laborers without their shirts, sometimes, in the fields. Some have great bearish chests. You don’t. Yours is like a statue’s too. A Greek statue. That’s very attractive.”

“Credit where it’s due,” he managed to say. “Maybe those old models were bearish too. It’s hard
to sculpt hair, I think,” he said, because the impulse was irresistible. He realized she was trying to do for him in words what he had done for her. She likely thought it was what he expected. He was torn. He wanted to tell her it was unnecessary, but he wanted to hear what else she had to say.

“And you’re well proportioned,” she persisted valiantly, obviously trying to think of flattering things to say to a naked male. “And your skin is clear and your…that is to say…” She struggled for words.

He saved her. He pulled her into his arms. “Thank you,” he whispered. “But now I don’t want to talk. Do you?”

He didn’t give her a chance to answer.

She discovered there was nothing she wanted to say. She could only shiver. He kissed her lips until she felt her body begin to flame, and then he drew away and kissed her body until she shook. She was no longer afraid or worried about what he’d think of her, as she’d been when she’d dared come to his room. She no longer cared about anything but discovering where he was slowly and surely taking her.

He knew it.

When she had time to think at all, when he drew back and looked deep into her eyes, she shivered again, this time because she realized again that this night would ruin her. But she’d finish what she’d begun. She’d told him the truth. It was her last chance. She dared reach out and caress him.

“Yes,” he said. “Now this.” He laid her back against the pillows and followed her there, laying his body
over her, holding himself up on his elbows. He kissed her and put his hand on her sex. She instinctively closed her legs. “No,” he said, “let me. You’ll see.”

She took a deep breath, and let him part her. He kissed her mouth as his hand sought her intimately, and she thought she’d die of embarrassment. Then she thought she’d die of pleasure. When he slipped a finger inside her, she gasped into his mouth. When he withdrew and did it again, and then again, and yet again, she shut her eyes tight to hold in the feeling and the shame and the glory of it.

“Yes,” he said, and said it again when she finally arched against his hand.

She felt herself ignite, felt the long sweet thrill of it, and rocked against him. She felt such intense pleasure she couldn’t hold it together, and she shattered. Then the glorious feeling persisted, differently. It spiraled down, her whole body pulsing and humming.

He withdrew his hand, and lay down beside her.

When her senses returned, she buried her face in his chest. He stroked her hair, and smiled.

She felt his heart still racing, his skin was furnace hot. Then she understood. “But you felt nothing.”

“I felt your pleasure,” he said.

She sat up. “That’s nothing. You cheated.”

“Gypsies and convicts and slum lads, those who can’t afford much, but who want to give satisfaction, know a thing or three. We know value, for one thing. There are ways you can pleasure a woman without encumbering her or devaluing her, without taking
away that precious honor you mentioned,” he said. “That was one of them.”

“That’s not fair to you,” she persisted.

He looked at her, and cocked his head to the side. “No, I suppose not. What do you want to do about it?”

“What you did for me. Show me.”

He took her hand. “It means you have to shake hands with this fellow,” he said, putting her hand on his aroused sex. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to. It won’t dishonor you, but it may teach you more than you want to know.”

She closed her hand over his sex. It felt hot and silky and urgent, and for all he tried to appear calm, she could hear breathless urgency in his voice. “Show me,” she said again.

He did.

At the end, he suddenly pulled away from her with a groan, and threw himself down on the bed, his face in a pillow, his body arcing into the sheets.

“Thank you,” he said breathlessly, after a moment. He moved away from where he’d been. “Now, come here and rest a while with me. You can’t stay here all night. But for now, stay with me.”

She came into his arms and pressed close to him. He was flaccid now. She felt drained, too, and suddenly, curiously empty. She’d asked to bed him, and he’d taken her. But he hadn’t had sex with her. Not really. She should be grateful, and she supposed she was. They’d been intimate in a way, and it had been beyond her expectations. He’d surprised her. After all his enticements and wicked talk, he’d behaved
like an experienced gentleman with a gently bred young female. She should be content.

But for all the pleasure he’d shown her and all the pleasure she’d tried to give him, they hadn’t exchanged one single word of affection.

“Weeping?” he asked curiously. “But why? I didn’t ruin you.”

“I know. Thank you. I’m a fool,” she said.

“No. It was new to you. But don’t worry. You’re safe,” he said. “No one will ever know.”

I will
, she thought.
And I’ll never forget. But you will
. And then she wept some more.

D
affyd rose from his chair and smiled at Meg as she came into the inn’s sunny breakfast parlor. His smile had no smugness in it, no secrets, not a hint of any hidden message, and certainly not a jot of gloating. Meg let out a shaky breath. He was behaving just as a gentleman ought. But she was sure her own face showed embarrassment, guilt, and confusion.

It did.

Daffyd sat when Meg did, and hid his unease. She looked wary and unhappy, and he knew he was the cause of it. He was also tired; he hadn’t slept after he’d taken her back to her room in the middle of the night. He wasn’t used to losing sleep over things he couldn’t change. It wasn’t as though he was sorry for
what he’d done, because after all, as he’d kept reassuring himself, he hadn’t actually done much. She could still claim innocence; he hadn’t altered her future in any way, except perhaps, for changing her expectations of lovemaking, and for the better. She’d enjoyed herself, he knew that. But she’d been unhappy afterward. In fact, she hadn’t said one word to him until, at her door, she’d said: “Thank you. Good night.”

Not exactly the kind of statement that should have kept him wakeful until dawn. But it was the way she’d said it. She’d sounded lost. Now, in the clear light of day, he wished he’d kept his hands to himself and was grateful that at least he’d kept his body to himself. He was used to merry and mutual appreciation during and after lovemaking. Not despair.

That’s what he got for trifling with gently bred females, he thought gloomily. There were enough of the other sort to last him all his life and he’d always been content, no—delighted with them.

He liked Meg. And he enjoyed her company. She wasn’t like other females he’d known, but then, he’d only known slum children, criminals, prostitutes, and lately, wealthy and wild women who cared for nothing but their own pleasure. Meg had been fascinatingly different, educated and prim, but with seething fires underneath. He’d had an unexpectedly challenging and eventually fine time with her on their travels.

But he’d made a mistake. He vowed to stay away from gently bred females in future. They took things
too seriously, especially lovemaking, even just a kiss and a cuddle. But that was who Meg was, and he’d done what he’d done. It couldn’t be changed, but it could be made light of. So he set about putting her at ease.

It wasn’t only for her sake. Daffyd thought of his mentor and friend, Geoffrey Sauvage, the earl of Egremont. If he introduced Meg to the earl as she looked now: subdued, chastened, and guilty, Geoffrey would have his ears. The woman looked as though she’d been shamed. Damnation, but looking at her now gave his own heart a wrench, even though he was sure she’d brighten up as soon as she was gone from him, and then she’d consider herself lucky to be shut of him. But given his reputation and the time he’d spent alone with her in the past week, even if the earl didn’t know what had happened last night, he’d be sure to guess. Worse, Daffyd thought unhappily, he’d think even worse. Anyone would. And the earl had higher expectations than most men.

The earl had standards. He’d never relaxed them, not even in prison, not even when he’d been in darkest despair. He believed in respecting females as well as males, and treating both decently until and unless they proved unworthy of it. If they were unworthy, then they should be avoided. It had astonished Daffyd how people generally rose to the earl’s standards, except for the utter villains, of course.

The earl had been a shining example in Daffyd’s darkest hours. Even when he’d been in filthy tatters, beset by hunger and pain, the earl had exemplified
grace under fire, acting justly even when justice was nowhere else to be found. There was no one on earth whom Daffyd respected more. He’d taught Daffyd to behave like a gentleman, but more important, he’d taught him to
be
one. Daffyd never wanted to lose the earl’s respect, because if he did, he knew he’d forever lose his own good opinion of himself. So he had to set Meg at ease again.

“Did you sleep well?” Daffyd asked her.

She stiffened, and shot a look at him.

“I mean,” he said quickly, “you look a little out of sorts.”

“Oh, no,” she lied. “I’m just tired, I suppose…” She hesitated, colored, and added, “I’ll be fine as soon as I have some chocolate.”

“That,” he said with a smile, “we can do.” He reached for the pot of chocolate on the table, and poured her a cup.

As he did, she seized the moment and looked fully at him, to study at that fascinating face without him noticing. She noted his long-lashed dark blue eyes, and when he looked up, dropped her gaze to his mouth. She felt herself blushing as she remembered how that shapely mouth had felt against her own. So she looked away and saw his dark hair was slightly damp, and remembered how silky it had felt as it brushed against her naked skin.

She decided it was safest to study the tiny roses on the cup he was filling. Because if he was too much for her in the warm darkness, he was far too much to look at in the broad sunlight.

This morning her gypsy lover was scrupulously clean, dressed soberly and well. He looked a perfect gentleman. He’d been a gentleman last night, too. He’d kept her safe because he’d only played at love. He’d humored her, pleasured her—it had been all for her. The sad thing was that she’d realized it probably wasn’t what he did with females who really attracted him.

She knew he didn’t love her, but it was painful to realize he didn’t even desire her. She’d read novels. She’d heard gossip, knew the old songs, and listened to the stories of sadder and wiser servant maids who’d been compromised. Desire was intense and irrepressible. It was a force, if the poets and the fallen servant maids could be believed, that was overwhelming, like a storm or a flood or any cataclysmic act of nature. It was irresistible. That was definitely not what Daffyd had felt toward her last night.

“Look,” Daffyd said now, interrupting her thoughts by leaning forward to whisper, even though the landlord had left them alone. “What happened—it’s over. I think nothing of it and neither should you. Just a bit of fun. Someday, in the future, you’ll be able to remember and laugh, and maybe even feel a bit sentimental. As for now? No harm done. No shame, neither. No reason for it. I’ve forgotten it already. You should, too. You are, after all, only human, Meg.”

Everything he said was true, and every word chilled her.

Because she was lost. She loved the man, and had, she realized, for quite a while. It wasn’t just his generosity to a strange female in distress, or his valor in protecting her, or the amazing uncomplaining way he got on with a life that had been unfair to him from the start. It was the look of him and the taste of him and the sound of his voice. It was the fact that she’d never felt so challenged, and yet at home, as she did when she was with him.

She’d thought she had no future with him because of who he was and what his past had been. Now she knew she’d been an utter fool. It didn’t matter what he was born as, or what life had forced upon him, she only knew it had made him the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. But she had only days left with him. She didn’t know how she’d get on with her life when they parted, and part they would, and soon.

And so, for all that she knew it was stupid and useless and unprofitable, still she didn’t want him to think what had happened was nothing. Because it had been everything to her and she knew their careful night of love was all that she’d ever have of love, or ever want, because she wanted no one else but him.

That was, of course, impossible. Not because he was a bastard and a gypsy and a convicted felon. But because he didn’t want a woman like her. He wanted light love and easy partners, a life of gaiety and lack of responsibility. He’d said it often enough. He deserved what he wanted, too. She was the one who had erred. Not Daffyd.

Last night had been shocking, thrilling, wonderful—until she’d realized that if he really desired her he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from making love to her, at least not so easily. He’d been amused, utterly in control. It was the knowledge of his charity that destroyed her, not the fact that they’d shared some trifling pleasure in a bed.

But she wouldn’t ask for more. She managed a smile. “You’re right,” she told him. “I’m making a big fuss over very little.”

He frowned and eyed her to see if there was a barbed jest hidden in what she’d just said, or if she’d just spoken quickly and was too innocent to see the pun. She did have a fine sense of humor, and he had a lovely, filthy pun to match with it. But he hesitated. It wasn’t likely she was trying to be saucy. Not about his body. Though she’d melted in his arms, she was a long way from being able to joke about privy parts.

“So,” she went on with forced energy, “how long will it take to get to London? I won’t fight you on that anymore. We’ll go. But I want to be off to my aunts’ before much more time passes. That hasn’t changed.”

“First, we have to get there,” he said. “Then, we have to talk to the earl. Then we’ll see about where you go next.”

“Correction,” she said, raising a finger. “For all I’m grateful to you, Daffyd, I’ll see to my own destiny, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Finish your breakfast and we’ll get on with it.”

Meg didn’t move when the coach finally stopped in front of the earl of Egremont’s tall gray townhouse in the best section of London, across from the park.

“Coming?” Daffyd asked, extending a hand to her as a footman let down the small stair to their carriage.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I mean, I know I can’t just stay here, but I didn’t expect such a grand house. Oh, Daffyd, must I?”

“Yes. He’s a very nice man, Meg. Not as cold and imposing as this house. It isn’t his, not really, anyway. He inherited it, and doesn’t like it above half. Too much like something His Majesty would build to house relics, he says, and he’s right. Geoff—the earl—is a much warmer fellow. You’ll see. Damnation, Meg,” he said as she still hesitated, “if you could face my toplofty half brother in his palace of sin, not to mention sleep like a dead thing in a caravan surrounded by packs of thievish gypsies, why stick now at visiting an earl? Come on, let’s go in.”

She gave him her hand and followed him out the door and down the carriage stair. She looked up at the house before her. A range of footmen, all in gray and blue livery stood on each step that led up to the house, and a butler stood on the top one in front of the door.

Meg went up the stair with Daffyd, feeling as though she were taking part in some ceremony. That ended when they got to the door.

A man came out. Middle-aged, muscular, and obviously fit, he was dressed like a gentleman of
means. He had a full head of brown hair brushed back in the latest fashion, blue eyes, and his strong-featured face was tanned. His teeth were large, white, and even. Meg knew that, because he was smiling so widely she could see almost every one of them.

“Daffy!” he cried, as he embraced Daffyd and thumped him on the back. “You’re back, at last, you young dog! I don’t even know if you deserve being called that noble beast’s name! You only sent me bits and pieces of your adventures along the road. I must hear all…” he stopped when he saw Meg where she stood, silent and apprehensive.

“And this must be Miss Shaw,” the earl of Egremont said in his deep, rich, mellifluous voice. He gave her a gentler smile. “Such a brave young woman. I commend you for your initiative, so rare these days in well-bred young females. Women are trained to be die-away and fearful of change. But they need courage as much as men do. I was heartened to hear of your bravery, and I’m sorry the runaways eluded you. One thing is sure. They must have been lucky as well as clever to give our Daffy the slip.

“But no harm done,” he said briskly. “They’re an engaged couple. And as for you, young woman, you’re in exactly the right place at last. We’ll see that you’re not harmed because of their misadventure. But that’s later. For now, come in. Wash off the dust from the road, relax, take a nice nap, whatever you wish. My house is yours.”

“But first,” Daffyd said dryly. “Meg, allow me to
introduce you to my friend and mentor, the earl of Egremont. Earl, here is Miss Margaret Shaw.”

The earl laughed, and clapped Daffyd on the shoulder. “You learn fast, and never forget, do you? Excuse me, Miss Shaw,” he went on, “My manners flew away in my excitement. But I’m so glad to see you both.”

Meg felt a warm glow suffuse her. The earl wasn’t a bit haughty or censorious; no one could have made her feel more at home. Her tensed muscles relaxed. Maybe she had found a safe harbor at last.

“Now. All formalities done,” the earl went on, “shall we enter my house, before the neighbors fall out of their upper windows trying to see and hear more? I’m a scandal,” he confided to Meg as he offered her his arm. He looked up at the surrounding townhouses, and lowered his voice. “They risk their necks trying to see what I’m doing when I so much as step out to get some air, they must be in ecstasies of curiosity now.”

Meg’s smile slipped. The earl was a paragon of charm and warmth, just as Daffyd had predicted. But the world was as she’d thought, just as she’d feared.

“She’s lovely, but I never expected her to be otherwise,” the earl said to Daffyd after dinner. Meg had gone to her bedchamber, the house was quiet, and the two men sat in the earl’s private study.

The earl looked over his goblet of brandy to see Daffyd’s reaction to his comment. His guest was gone.

“Daffyd,” the earl said, without glancing around the room. “I’m getting a sore neck tracking you. Sit.”

Daffyd came from a far corner of the study, and sat in the chair opposite the earl. “Sorry. You know I pace when I feel cornered.”

“I cornered you?” the earl asked in genuine confusion.

Daffyd shrugged. “You assumed she was lovely before you saw her. You think it’s all because I couldn’t resist a pretty piece.”

“She’s more than that, and we both know it. Not in the classic style, of course. Not the look of a grand lady, she hasn’t the imperious nose or the noble brow. She’s got a charming little face, rather like a flower. Winsome. The sort of face that registers emotions, I’ve no doubt she’ll be even lovelier as she ages. And her figure is of course, enticing.”