My Reckless Surrender (18 page)

He raised himself on his elbows to study her face. His skin was tight against his bones, and his eyes were black with arousal. The perspiration on his skin shone in the candlelight.

“Am I hurting you?” The question emerged as a gruff exhalation.

“No,” she responded breathlessly. His unambiguous possession wasn't precisely comfortable, but he didn't hurt her.

She stroked his sweat-slicked back, feeling the subtle flexing of muscle. Her random exploration reached his buttocks. She squeezed that firm flesh. He shivered, and the movement tested her interior passage, scorched her with pleasure.

“Don't stop,” she urged, tilting to take him deeper although surely he was as deep as he could go.

The sinews under her hands tautened, and he withdrew, then thrust again. Her hands opened and closed, keeping time with the delicious rhythm.

For a long time, she was lost in the wild music. His whispered praise, her incoherent murmurs of encouragement, the soft moans, the broken breathing, the slide of flesh on flesh, the creak of the bed.

Her climax built quickly. All night he'd primed her for this. If she were honest, she'd been primed since she'd last left his bed. The desperate but frustrating kisses in the museum had only fired her impatience. His mouth on her had been wonderful, astonishing. But this now was what she wanted from him. Him pounding into her body, making her his.

Pleasure seized her, spun her, flung her up into the sky
and held her suspended in absolute delight. Like a greedy child at a birthday party, she snatched at the joy, luxuriating in the magic.

Too soon she returned to the real world. To a body quaking with satisfaction. To the warm, luxurious room. To the presence of her magnificent, ardent lover.

She opened her eyes and looked up at Ashcroft. “You didn't…”

He shook his head, his sweat-dampened hair flopping over his forehead in utterly beguiling untidiness. “No.”

“Are you…”

“Yes.”

Strange they could communicate in these half sentences. She couldn't remember being so in tune with another person. William certainly hadn't understood her merest thought, for all he'd been a good, kind man.

Diana smiled and stretched, feeling Ashcroft's hardness, reveling in the glide of his skin upon hers. Aftershocks rippled through her. She felt as though he'd combed every single nerve in her body out like silk ready for the weaver. She felt marvelous.

Still staring into her eyes, he began to move. This time it was different, as if he read her aching, hidden emotions and answered them with his body. He was slow, and at the end of every stroke, he paused, savoring how she felt closing tight around him.

In an agony of impatience, she waited for him to intensify the force, the passion. But he just moved in and out, like waves brushing a shore, ebbing, flowing forward again. Eternal. Repetitive. She felt as though she formed part of a huge, restless sea.

She shifted, changing his angle of penetration, but still he kept to that inhumanly constant motion. Still he stared into her face as if her features held the answers to every mystery.

Slowly, her urge to persuade him to a more urgent pace faded. The thrust and withdrawal lulled her into a suspended state of bliss.

For an interval beyond measuring, there were no seconds, no minutes. The deep, luxuriant seduction might have lasted for hours. She wouldn't know. There was only his body claiming hers. Nothing else.

She was almost sorry when the pleasure inevitably altered, and her muscles tightened with the approach of climax.

She couldn't delay the trembling onset. It moved toward her like a distant storm rumbling closer and closer, promising destruction, fury, a burst of new life.

Fierce sensation whipped her, like a violent wind shook the trees before a tempest.

Even as her response inexorably rose, she watched his face. The control finally cracked. His dark brows drew together as he struggled to hold back. Deep lines of strain ran from his nose to his mouth. His eyes glittered down at her although he must hardly see her, he was so far gone in arousal.

“Oh, Tarquin…” she whispered, reaching up and smoothing the tension from his face. His skin was hot and taut under her fingers. “Let go.”

Her touch broke some last thread of resistance. He sucked in a great shuddering breath, thrust ruthlessly, then on a huge groan, he poured himself into her.

Her climax crashed over her, with the force of thunder, the fire of lightning, the rush of a gale. It surpassed anything she'd felt earlier the way the sun outshone a candle.

For an endless time, she remained floating in the stars. There was no horizon. No limit. She tasted infinity. Ashcroft was with her. Somehow that was more important than the blinding pleasure streaking through her.

When Diana came back to earth, he slumped against her, pressing her into the mattress. The room was still and sweltering. Her arms twined around his back. She clutched him closer than a miser clutched his gold.

His heart pounded against her breast and his breath was a ragged symphony in her ears. She was too exhausted to move. Her body felt like it was made of straw. He remained joined to her, and her legs cradled him.

She sent up a futile prayer to a God who should have nothing to do with her.

Please, Lord, let this moment last forever.

Even as the silent plea trickled through her mind, she felt Ashcroft shift. He was so close, the tiniest movement registered. Automatically her arms tightened.

Don't go. Not yet. Oh, no, not yet. I can't bear it.

It was as if he heard the desperate cry. He buried his head in the crook of her shoulder and didn't move for a long time.

She closed her eyes and let herself drift into a wonderful warm, sunlit space. Where there was no Lord Burnley. Where a rake could become a faithful lover. Where there was endless forgiveness and kindness and laughter.

Where there was no price to pay for sin.

After the pure perfection of what she'd just experienced, she risked a dream or two. She'd have few enough dreams to comfort her in the cold loneliness to come.

Gradually, the glory faded. Her body still glowed with satisfaction. Ashcroft still rested in her arms as though he had no wish to be anywhere else. But a prickling awareness of where she was chafed her contentment.

She became aware of a gentle patter of rain outside. She'd thought the storm totally contained within herself. It seemed the dry, unbearable summer at last offered respite.

The curtains didn't move, and nothing in this extravagant room was in danger of getting wet. The fresh smell of rain on dusty ground wafted in.

Ashcroft's body was hot against hers, but even so, she felt a pleasant coolness in the air, a lessening of the oppressive humidity that had crushed her since she'd come to London.

Other details slowly impinged on her consciousness. The
room smelled of sweat and sex and the sharp, smoky scent of guttering candles. She guessed it was late. She could have been in this extravagant cave of a room for an hour or a night.

This time when Ashcroft moved, she let him go.

He withdrew and rolled onto his back with a deep sigh. A loneliness bitter as aloes rushed through her. He lashed an arm around her and drew her against his side. Her heart began to beat again.

Oh, poor pathetic Diana, needing this man's touch to keep you whole.

She shifted carefully, noting new aches. He'd used her well, and she was still unaccustomed to a lover of his dimensions. She was unaccustomed to a lover at all.

She closed her eyes and rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The intimacy was sweeter than sugar, for all that grim reality knocked relentlessly against the barred door of her awareness.

She waited for Ashcroft to speak, but he remained silent. What had just happened left her awed, astonished, moved, and with a heart tremulously, dangerously open.

She told herself she experienced these feelings in isolation. Only a fool would believe a man of Ashcroft's experience found the sex nearly as world-altering. Perhaps all of his women caught that shining glimpse of eternity.

But when she lifted her head to stare into his face, he seemed as thunderstruck as she. He reached out to hold her chin steady so he could kiss her. An undemanding kiss that formed a fitting finale. His lips moved gently, and she read wonder and care in his salute.

“You called me Tarquin.” His voice was soft and warm like a fur cloak on a frosty day.

She crowded into his side to get as close as possible to that beautiful baritone. “Do you mind?”

It was odd how at that vivid, transforming moment, she'd spoken his Christian name. She certainly didn't think of him
as Tarquin. He was Ashcroft in her mind. From somewhere his given name had surged up, unstoppable, an expression of all she felt and couldn't risk putting into words.

He shook his head, his eyes calm, his mouth relaxed. “No, I like it. I wish you'd always call me Tarquin.”

He didn't need to tell her he extended this invitation to few people. Something cold and hard inside her loosened and unfurled like an opening rose. For the first time since she'd started this affair, she didn't feel like a whore. Her conscience gave a yelp of protest, but she'd become accustomed to ignoring its complaints.

She didn't answer his request to use his Christian name, which was answer enough, she supposed. He cast her a perceptive glance as if he knew the battle she waged against her stupid, wayward heart.

She waited for him to persevere, but he merely said. “Will you stay?”

Self-preservation insisted she leave, snap the bond between them, establish some distance to save her sanity. She couldn't pretend she had any excuse to remain. Sleeping in his arms did nothing to forward her scheme.

Everything went too fast. She was trapped in a hurtling avalanche of feeling. Every time she tried to snatch at a branch or a rock to halt her slide to disaster, it cracked under her hand.

The further she fell, the faster she went. Soon, she wouldn't have a hope of saving herself.

Don't lie to yourself, Diana. It's already too late.

But it was raining outside, and she was snug and cozy in this bed. Ashcroft's arms curled tight around her. She loved the lingering scent of their joining and the soft sound of his breathing.

She lowered her head to his hair-roughened chest and shut her eyes, shutting her mind to cruel reality as she did so.

“I'll stay,” she whispered.

A
shcroft glanced up from the books he'd piled on the desk to see Diana in the library doorway. She carried a candle, and the flickering light turned her into a gorgeous creature of mystery and shadows.

She was a creature of mystery and shadows even in daylight.

“I thought you'd sleep,” he said softly, stepping out of the circle of lamplight around the desk to take her hand.

An hour ago he'd left her curled up in exhausted slumber amidst the rumpled sheets. He was bone weary too, but after the revelations of the day, the evening, the night, he'd been too restless to sleep.

In the hope that sorting through the books would distract him from the woman upstairs, he'd prowled his way into Perry's library. He'd failed to escape his preoccupation with Diana. He'd known he would even before he made the attempt.

Her fingers curled around his with an immediate trust that pierced him to the heart. “I…missed you.”

Oh, dear God, how was he to resist her? It was impossible.

“I approve of your wardrobe.” He drew her toward the
desk, unable to shift his attention from her disheveled beauty.

Her laugh was low and redolent of sin. “Your shirt was the first thing that came to hand.”

“You have my permission to wear it anytime.”

On such a tall woman, the loose white garment fell softly to midthigh. As she walked, her breasts slid against the fine cambric with a gentle rhythm that made every drop of moisture in his mouth evaporate.

Without great conviction, he reminded himself that only a beast would use her again so soon after that marathon session.

Restraint grew more difficult when she ran an assessing and frankly admiring glance over his bare chest. His skin tightened as if she touched him instead of just looked. “I approve of what you're wearing too.”

He'd tugged his breeches on upstairs and come down barefoot. “It would frighten the ladies in Hyde Park into a riot.”

“I'm not sure ‘frighten' is the word I'd choose, although a riot is a possibility.”

He released her and edged behind the desk, hoping the barrier might impose control over his unruly arousal. “Stop it.”

Heavy lids fell over her eyes, turning her expression breathtakingly seductive. Without shifting her gaze from him, she blew out her candle, her lips pursed as if in a kiss. Another jolt of desire shook him.

A knowing smile hovered around her mouth as she placed the candle on the desk. “Don't you like it?”

He grimaced. “I like it too well, as you know.”

“Good.” Her smile conveyed something of the cat in the cream pot. He loved this new sensual confidence.

“Then show some mercy.”

With a gesture that made his heart slam against his chest, she flicked a drift of golden hair behind one shoulder. He only released his breath when her attention shifted to the
books he'd removed from the shelves. “Have you found anything interesting?”

Right now, she was the only thing in all the world that he found interesting, and he suspected she knew it. But he seized the chance to discuss a more neutral topic than how she looked wearing nothing but his shirt. With every movement of that beautiful body, he became more aware that all that lay between him and warm, bare skin was a flimsy layer of cambric.

“Not so far. Perry has a standing order for the latest publications, but he's not much of a reader. Since Olivia left, the pages haven't even been cut on the new books. Sad, really.”

Casually she picked up a small red volume and opened it to the frontispiece. “Who's Olivia?”

“You really don't keep up with the gossip, do you?”

She sent him a wry smile. “Only when it comes to the notorious Earl of Ashcroft.”

Again he felt a twinge of shame that she knew so much about his decadent antics. Although his decadent antics had brought her to his bed in the first place.

But surely they'd moved beyond that shallow bargain since.

He wasn't sure enough of her to lay money on it. And that was the damnable fact.

He settled for the most uncontroversial answer he could manage. “Olivia Raines used to live in this house on an occasional basis. She's now the Countess of Erith.”

Diana replaced the book on the pile in front of her and picked up another one. “Aristotle. Lord Peregrine made a show of learning at least.”

Ashcroft reached over to take the book. Her fingers brushed his, and awareness sizzled through him. What in blazes was wrong with him? He was too old to go weak at the knees just because a pretty girl shared an innocent touch. “You read Greek?”

“A little.”

“And Latin, I'm guessing.”

She shrugged. “My father was a Cambridge man, and I was his only child. In the absence of a son to teach, he gave me an unusual education for a girl.”

Ashcroft laughed softly and with unmasked self-derision. “Good God, I'm in thrall to a blasted bluestocking.”

She stiffened, and the beautiful ease drained from her manner. “In thrall?”

Yet again, he'd said something to trouble her. Her secrets loomed close, although for a few moments, she'd almost been confiding. Pretending he hadn't noticed her abrupt change of mood, he flicked idly through the pages of the beautiful old book. The
Ethics,
clearly something he needed to keep, if only for his own edification. Perhaps he should start by telling his lover the unadorned truth. “Oh, yes.”

His confession didn't please, devil take her. “Ashcroft…”

“My reputation as a rake will never recover if the gossips discover I'm bedding a bookish female.” Avoiding the looming argument, he broke his stare and turned to sift through another pile. “There's nothing much here that takes my fancy.”

He was grateful she took the hint about changing the subject. “He likes Walter Scott.”

“No, he doesn't. They were just what he thought a man about town should stock in his library. I doubt Perry has read anything except the sporting papers since he left Eton.”

“It's a pity he's changing this room. It's the nicest in the house.” Ashcroft was glad to notice the reappearance of her smile. “Except for our apartment upstairs. I have a great fondness for our apartment upstairs.”

Ashcroft bit back a groan. He was trying to talk to her, to convince her he was more than just a throbbing pillar of unending lust. Then she had to go and mention bedrooms.

Still, he manfully struggled on with his attempts at a civilized conversation. “You'd enjoy going through my library at Ashcroft House.”

She cast him a glance under her thick lashes. “This is where you boast of actually having read the books there. I promise to be impressed by the…volumes.”

Saucy chit. Hell, she made it so difficult to resist leaping on her. His cock was hard as the thick marble columns framing the door. “If I'd known boasting of my reading material would promote seduction, I'd have brought a list with me.”

Very slowly, she replaced the book she was holding and strolled around the desk in his direction. In the candlelight, her eyes gleamed with unmistakable interest. Perhaps he wasn't the only one who found this discussion of books surprisingly arousing.

“Perhaps next time.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Diana, I'm trying to talk to you. So you think I'm more than just a rutting animal.”

By now, she stood in front of him. Her glance flickered down, then up to meet his. Definitely cat in the cream pot. She reached out and ran a finger down the center of his chest, jamming his breath in his throat. “I'm convinced.”

“And after what we did upstairs, you must be tired.”

“Not that tired.” She trailed her hand up to circle one flat nipple. Reaction shuddered through him.

“I'm trying to be considerate,” he said, even as he succumbed to her touch.

She released a short huff of laughter as she raked her nails through the dark curls on his chest. “For heaven's sake, Ashcroft, I'm already in awe at the size of your brain. Now show me something else that's big.”

“Diana, you try my patience,” he growled, his hands flexing at his sides.

Her smile broadened. “Patience is overrated.”

“All right, if you want a beast, you can have one,” he rasped.

Her face flushed with excitement, and her pink tongue flickered out to moisten her lips. “A thinking beast.”

“Not right now.”

He kissed her quickly and gripped her around the waist. She immediately melted into his embrace. He tightened his hold and swung her around to face the desk.

“Ashcroft?” The word emerged on a shocked gasp.

He'd managed to surprise the siren. Good. He still had a trick or two to show her.

“Hold fast,” he grunted, bending her over. He drew in a deep draft of her scent, warm sexually aroused female, apples.

He waited for a protest, however token, but she reached out and grabbed the far edge of the desk. The loose white sleeves slipped back to display her graceful wrists and the taut muscles of her forearms. The shirt rode up at the back, revealing white thighs and the lower curves of her bottom.

His heart battered his ribs, and arousal pounded through him like thunder. She drove him to the edge of control. He knew he wouldn't withdraw from her at the ultimate moment. He hadn't upstairs. He wouldn't now.

It was madness. But the sweetest madness in the world.

Quickly, he opened his breeches so he pressed hard and ready against the luscious globes of her buttocks. With a rough movement, he shoved the shirt out of the way and parted her legs.

In spite of his raging desire, the sight before him made him pause. She had a beautiful arse. Hell, she was beautiful everywhere. No wonder he'd never stood a chance.

Almost reverently, he bent and placed a passionate kiss on each cheek. The fragrance of her need made his head swim. Even without touching her between the legs, he knew she was already wet for him.

She was so delicious, he couldn't resist a bite. A soft moan escaped her, and she jerked under his mouth, but didn't move away.

He bit her again and stroked her damp cleft, feeling her hot
dew on his fingers. Feverishly, his hands moved up under the shirt. He cupped the pendulous breasts, flicking her nipples until she cried out and arched her back up into his chest.

“Don't wait, Ashcroft,” she gasped.

With sudden ruthlessness, he angled her hips up and claimed her with a single thrust. As he slammed into her, her body opened in immediate greeting.

She clenched around him and cried out, pushing back to take him deeper. Sweet heaven, she was a lover sent from paradise. While she still quivered, he started to move. Hard. Fast. Seeking his own pleasure and knowing his pleasure fed hers.

Quickly, too quickly, he felt his climax building. With a shaking hand, he reached down to press against her mound. She cried out again, backed against him, and lost herself just at the moment he spilled into her with glorious abandon.

He slumped down onto her and pressed a fervent kiss to her shoulder. Holding her steady, he looped his arms around her waist. The aftermath of blinding pleasure left him shaking. He buried his forehead in the crook of her shoulder, feeling her ragged breathing and her quivers of receding rapture.

The only sounds were the gentle patter of the rain outside and the ragged inhale and exhale of their breathing. Then he started to laugh, so exhausted that the sound emerged in unsteady bursts.

He felt her shift, then, God help him, soft tenderness as she reached behind her and stroked his damp hair. Did she know how she slashed away his every defense when she touched him like that? For a brief, deceptive moment, he could almost believe she was in thrall to him as he was in thrall to her.

“What is it?” She sounded as awestruck as he felt.

He raised his head so he could suck air into his starving lungs. “I wonder what Perry will say when I tell him I don't want the books, but I'll give him £10,000 for this desk.”

 

Afternoon faded toward evening when Robert met Diana at the French doors. She was panting and flustered, and all because she was breathlessly eager to see her paramour. For the tenth time in an hour, she cursed herself for being so utterly hopeless. Over the last week, she'd spent hours in Ashcroft's arms. And each hour away from him, thinking about him.

She was like a dreamy-eyed sixteen-year-old with her first love. Every encounter was more passionate than the last. Every encounter threatened what little emotional distance she managed to maintain.

She'd never known a man like Ashcroft. Fatalistically, she knew he was the one lover who would leave a permanent scar on her heart.

As she followed Robert, she surreptitiously laid a hand over her flat belly. Did a child grow there? A child with Ashcroft's beautiful green eyes and gift for joy? And if there was a child, did she have the heart, the gall to conceal its existence from its father?

When she slipped into the library, Ashcroft's dark head was bent over the desk. The desk where he'd taken her so masterfully and completely a week ago.

Hot color swept into her cheeks as he raised his gaze to hers. “Diana.”

Knowledge of the direction of her thoughts sparked in the glinting eyes between their thick forest of black lashes. Of course he knew she was remembering that incendiary encounter. He seemed to have a preternatural ability to read her thoughts, except, thank the Lord, when it came to the purposes that led her to seduce him.

Pray God he never discovered the truth behind that. After these days of closeness, she couldn't bear for him to hate her. As hate her he would if he knew what she did.

“I thought you'd be upstairs.” They'd established something of a pattern in the last days.

Without shifting his attention from her, he straightened. “I've got something to show you.”

“I think I've seen most of what you've got to offer.” Automatically, she fell into a flirtatious, sultry tone.