Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal (30 page)

“So you stole his disguise.”

“I did. My brothers got away with a deal less teasing thereafter, and I found something I truly enjoyed.”

She babbled about this and that project, about some losses she’d taken early on, and about her brother Gayle’s collusion in her investment schemes. She kept some investments with no less than Worth Kettering, generally regarded to be a wizard of the funds, for all the man was a scamp with the ladies.

When she dozed off an hour later, Ben felt he’d made progress getting to know his intended and perhaps in winning her trust, as well.

And while he still had not the first clue regarding her dreams, he’d gained considerable insight into his own.

***

Maggie rose to awareness on the strength of two physical sensations. The first was one of pure animal comfort, which was made up of equal parts warmth from Benjamin’s body spooned so closely around hers, and relaxation. The relaxation she attributed to a sense of safety. With Benjamin Hazlit on the premises, Cecily’s skulking sneak thieves would regret any further attempts at larceny.

The second sensation was harder to identify and slightly at variance with the first: sexual arousal. Maggie lay on her side, mentally investigating her own impressions.

Benjamin gave off a nice toasty heat, the warmth of his chest along her back a novel sensory pleasure. His legs tangled with hers, his arm around her waist, and his hand…

“Benjamin, what are you doing?” She didn’t dare breathe, lest he move his fingers again on her breast.

“I’m going to leave you with something pleasant to dream of.” His voice had taken on some of the darkness, insinuating itself into Maggie’s ear like a tactile caress. “I’ll leave soon, long before it’s light enough for anybody to see me climbing down from your balcony.”

She hadn’t been worried—not about that. If she believed one thing about her temporary fiancé, it was that her welfare was important to him.

“Unhand me, Benjamin.”

He applied the slightest, most glorious pressure to her nipple. “Is that what you truly want?” The question was casual, not quite mocking, and after another slight, pulsing caress, Maggie felt his lips on her shoulder.

How was she supposed to
think
—?

When he slid his hand slowly, slowly over her naked hip, Maggie understood that thinking was the last activity he was trying to inspire.

“Benjamin, I will not—”

He didn’t move quickly; he moved more like a large cat, shifting with languid grace that did nothing to mask his strength. Without Maggie doing a thing, she was on her back, her intended lying on his side against her.

“Trust me, Maggie Windham.”

He rasped this imperative against her shoulder then grazed his nose along her collarbone. Maggie told herself she’d stop him if he tried to join with her again. She’d stop him, no matter how badly she longed for more of the intimacy and oblivion he offered.

He rose up and covered her mouth with his, and Maggie gave up trying to tell herself anything. In the darkness, in the shadows and comfort of her own bed, she kissed him back. She could be more honest in the dark, could give herself permission to run her hand over the smooth, muscular contours of his chest, down the odd angles of his ribs to the flat expanse of his belly.

She could even allow herself to touch him
there
, where a man was both virile and vulnerable. Ben lifted his mouth away from hers and went still while Maggie drew her fingers up the hard length of his arousal.

“You want me.” She tried to keep the wonder out of her voice. Two minutes ago, she’d been asleep in his arms, and yet his body was ready to join with hers.

“Always.”

He made no move to interfere with her explorations, just stayed where he was, ranged on his side, while Maggie traced the velvety skin crowning his cock, then slipped her fingertips over the little ridge below that.

He drew in his breath, the tenor of the inhalation suggesting these slow, curious caresses were pleasurable for him.

“Shall I stop, Benjamin?” She scored her nails lightly down his shaft then cupped the soft sacs beneath. A hunger radiated up from her middle for more of these scandalously intimate touches.

“Never stop.” He settled his mouth on hers, tracing her bottom lip with his tongue. Maggie forgot about teasing him, forgot about learning the intimate shape and feel of him, forgot about her own name as she felt his hand on her throat. She arched up into him as that hand made a slow sweep down her torso, leaving a trail of heat and wanting.

And he did not stop but let his fingers drift down until his palm rested low on Maggie’s belly.

“Kiss me, Maggie. I certainly intend to kiss you.”

He was threatening something. She complied nonetheless, sinking her hands into his hair and fusing her mouth to his. Somewhere in the back of her mind, common sense was clamoring about bad judgments made in the heat of passion, but those frantic noises were reduced to soft whimpers when Benjamin’s hand traveled back up her body to palm her breast.

And then he was gone. Maggie resisted the urge to wail out loud as she felt the mattress dip and shift when Benjamin sat back on his heels, his rampant erection arrowing up his belly.

“You’ve put me in quite a state, Maggie mine.”

She blinked at him. “
I’ve
put
you
in a state?” She’d meant to sound indignant, but the words to her own ears came out bewildered.

“You are adorable when you’re befuddled.” He started moving pillows around, while Maggie tried to figure out if she’d been insulted or complimented.

“I am not befuddled.”

“Right, my love. Lie back, and we’ll remedy that oversight.” He crouched over her like a lion guarding his next juicy meal.

“And shall you be befuddled, too, Benjamin?” There was light in his eyes Maggie hadn’t seen before—a little wild, a lot intriguing.

“My dear woman”—he dipped his head and swiped his tongue over her nipple—“I am the picture of befuddlement, and you are entirely to blame.”

When Maggie thought he’d commence with the kissing again, he instead shoved a pillow under her hips. The result was awkward, leaving Maggie feeling off balance even as she lay on her back in her own bed.

“You can stop me, Maggie, if you really must, but I wish with all my heart you wouldn’t. I will not spend. You have my promise I will not spend inside your body.”

She might have stopped him if she’d been able to speak at all over the clamor rising from deep in her body. The promise he’d made her was both shocking and reassuring, yet Maggie still felt a hint of worry.

He settled over her slowly, allowing her to feel each inch of skin-to-skin contact—bellies, ribs, chests, then the luscious pressure of his pelvis against hers. She sighed into his shoulder, longing laced with surrender.

For a long moment, he remained merely resting against her, his hand cradling the back of her head, his breathing matched to hers. She closed her eyes and treasured both the peace and intimacy of the moment, treasured him a little for showing it to her.

Still, he did nothing, until Maggie realized he was waiting for her to make an overture. She turned her head and nuzzled his throat.

And yet he did not move.

She kissed him, brought her hand up to cradle his jaw then turned his head to receive her kiss. It was lovely, to be given the latitude to learn his mouth anew at her leisure, to savor the taste and feel of him. She became enraptured with the sensation of her lips on his, her tongue stroking over his, until another sensation intruded ever so gently.

Him
, nudging at her sex. The hot, blunt head of his erection seeking her heat in slow, searching pulses. The pillow beneath her tilted Maggie’s hips the better to receive him, and as he began the luscious, tender process of joining their bodies, Maggie went still.

To feel this, with him… She breathed through him, let the pleasure suffuse her until she could no longer stand to remain unmoving. In languid, almost lazy undulations, she moved with him.

Pleasure welled up from nowhere, insisting that she turn frantic and demanding; though from somewhere, Maggie found the resolve to keep to Benjamin’s rhythm.

And yet, he knew.

He thrust deep and pushed hard against her while Maggie endured paroxysms of bodily pleasure so intense they left her digging her nails into Benjamin’s smooth, muscular buttocks and keening softly against his shoulder. When passion finally ebbed, she slumped back against the mattress, wrung out and dazed.

“Benjamin?”

“Love?” He stroked a hand over her forehead, pushing her hair back in a gesture so redolent with tenderness Maggie had to close her eyes.

Tears welled then seeped down from her eyes into her hair. He held her gently, the hot, full length of him hilted in her body, while Maggie tried to find words of gratitude and regret.

There were none. After several minutes of silence, Maggie realized she could pet his hair, slowly, repeatedly, and it seemed important to stroke her hands over him in some fashion lest he think her… unaware of him.

He turned his head and planted a kiss on her palm then snuggled back down against her. For long moments they remained in that embrace, until Maggie began to move her hips again.

Perhaps he’d intended this as a gift to her, an experience of pleasure to make her think twice about crying off. Had it been merely pleasure, Maggie would not have found fault with Ben’s scheme. But this went beyond pleasure to intimacy and generosity of such magnitude, the impending loss of it made Maggie weep all the more even as pleasure rose up once again to claim her.

***

“You have a terrible megrim.” Adele whipped curtains closed as she spoke, shutting out the first beams of morning sunshine. “The worst megrim you’ve ever suffered. You couldn’t keep down even your morning chocolate.”

Bridget sat up in bed and watched as more curtains were whisked shut. “Another megrim? Didn’t I just have the worst megrim of my life at Christmas?”

“This one is worse yet.” Adele poured steaming hot chocolate into a cup and passed it to Bridget, who drank it down greedily—chocolate was sometimes the only good thing about waking up, after all.

Adele poured the second cup directly into the chamber pot.

“So why am I brought low again?” Bridget fluffed the covers over herself. “And what could be worse than when Mama found out Lady Sophia Windham had wed some wealthy baron?”

“This is worse.” Adele hefted the breakfast tray and set it outside Bridget’s door. “Even the scent of buttered toast is making you queasy.”

Bridget cast a longing glance toward the door separating her from two thick slices of warm, golden, perfectly buttered toast. “My heavens, as bad as all that?”

From down the corridor, Mama’s voice rose in a shriek, followed by the sound of some heavy crockery smashing to bits.

“I told that idiot not to let her see the paper for at least another hour,” Adele muttered. “Your hair is too tidy for you to have tossed and turned all night.”

Bridget obligingly mussed up her auburn braid, while the sound of more breaking china pierced the morning air. “You’d best tell me what’s afoot, Adele. That was a new service.”

“Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Windham, are pleased to announce the betrothal of their daughter, Lady Magdalene Windham, to Benjamin, the Earl of Hazelton, that’s what’s afoot. In the paper this morning, plain as day.”

“I am very ill indeed.” Bridget flopped down to the mattress, dread of her mother’s temper warring with another, unprecedented emotion. “But I’m happy for Maggie, assuming this earl fellow is acceptable to her. I suppose he’d have to be, if she’s marrying him, but this will be much worse than when Lady Sophia’s wedding was announced.”

Adele met Bridget’s gaze for just an instant. “That was bad enough.” She went back to tossing pillows on the floor and tearing the bedclothes loose from where they’d been tucked under the mattress. “I’d never seen a woman in such a sustained rage.”

“Mama likes to think Her Grace’s daughters are too homely to find good matches, or too poorly dowered. I think they’re pretty, though not as pretty as Maggie.”

“For God’s sake, child, keep that sentiment to yourself.”

Rapid footsteps sounded in the corridor. Bridget lay back, closed her eyes, and brought the back of one wrist to her forehead.

“Bridget Mary O’Donnell, you will get up this instant!” Cecily slammed the door behind her hard enough to make the French door to Bridget’s balcony rattle on its hinges. “This is an infamous day! Infamous! When that woman becomes engaged to an earl, all of creation must take umbrage.”

“Mama.” Bridget managed a weak croak, though Mama in such a rage was enough to make any sane creature tremble. “Please, not so loud.”

“What is wrong with you? Get out of that bed this instant!”

“
Please
, Mama…” Bridget covered her ears with her hands.

“She’s been poorly all night, ma’am,” Adele ventured. “Poor thing couldn’t even keep down her chocolate.”