One Night with an Earl (7 page)

He rubbed against her, his cock stroking the impossibly soft skin of her inner thigh. “Can you feel me?” he asked in a gruff whisper.

“I can.”

“Do you want me?”

She reached up and wrapped her hands around his neck. Her expression was open, her eyes clear and earnest when she responded, “Like nothing I've ever wanted in my life.”

Her words surged through him, more potent than any touch. He settled himself between her legs, his cock pressing at her entrance for a suspended moment.

Then he pushed himself home. Both of them groaned. God…the pleasure, it was almost unbearable. She squeezed around him, all wet, slick heat and pressure. It felt so damn good.

He couldn't help it. He forgot about slow. Gentle was no longer a word that was part of his vocabulary. He became an instinctual being, one who needed to feel that unbelievably gratifying pressure moving over his cock.

He let it overtake him as he began to stroke in and out of her, awash in pleasure. Vaguely, he registered that she had moved her hands from his neck and her fingers now dug into the flesh of his arse, coaxing him into her faster, deeper. He was more than happy to oblige.

He thrust into her—firm, uncompromising strokes of his body, his arms rigid, his muscles tight. Her hands trailed up from his buttocks and down his arms as she arched into him.

He opened his eyes to watch her, lovely and tousled, her breath coming out in tiny gasps every time he pushed home. Her fingers moved up, her nails digging into his shoulders, a little bite of pain that only increased his pleasure.

Sooner than he wanted, he felt that flush of heat blooming in his lower spine again. This time he couldn't stop it. That was as impossible as preventing the sun from rising in the sky in the morning. Instead, his body demanded he go harder, deeper. Her inner muscles squeezed tight, then pulsed over him.

She was coming again, her eyes closed in rapture, her whole body undulating with the force of the orgasm.

It was enough to send him over the edge. But he gritted his teeth and held on, his movements deliberate and powerful as his cock grew impossibly hard. When he felt the last of her spasms end, he yanked out of her with a low curse and gathered her to him as he spent himself over her lower stomach.

When it was over, he rolled to his side, bringing her with him, keeping her body flush against his. It took several long moments, both of them trying to catch their breath, before he was able to press his lips into her hair, close his eyes, and finally whisper her name.

“Beatrice.”

B
eatrice went stiff, every muscle in her body, so languid and relaxed just a second ago suddenly tense and wary.

“What did you say?” she asked. Hoping she'd misheard him but knowing she hadn't. Her arms, which had encircled him tightly, fell away from his body.

He stiffened against her.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

“You…What…?”

“I didn't mean to tell you like that. Damn it.”

It was true, then. He'd called her Beatrice. He knew her.

Oh God, he knew her!

Panic surged through her body in a horrid rush, and she scrambled backward on the bed, away from him, drawing the blanket over her chest and searching frantically for her dress. She had to get away…he knew her…good God, he'd called her by name.

“Stop.” His voice was firm, as were the fingers that clamped over her hand.

“Let me go!” she cried out.

“No.”

She tried to wrench away, but he tackled her. Next thing she knew, he was on top of her as he'd been when they'd…Oh God, he'd had sexual relations with her knowing who she was. Why? Most men would run far away if they knew her identity.

He pushed her arms up over her head and held her wrists together in one of his own. She twisted and turned, trying to get away, but it was no use. She was trapped.

“Beatrice. Listen to me.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. She didn't want to face this. Didn't know
how
to face it.

“I knew who you were the second I saw you at the masquerade,” he said quietly. “I approached you knowing who you were.”

“W-why?” she stammered. “Why would you do that?”

He blew out a breath, his body relaxing slightly. But he didn't release his grip on her wrists.

“I'd recognize you anywhere.”

“Who are you?” she cried.

With his free hand, he ripped off his mask and tossed it away. She blinked up at him.

She
knew
him.

She'd thought he was a stranger all night, someone who had entered society when she was still isolated in her marriage. But that wasn't the case at all. His body had grown stronger, his shoulders wider, his voice deeper. But she knew him…He was the Earl of Weston now, but before her marriage she'd known him as Mr. Andrew Sinclair.

She'd had a rampant, girlish crush on him. He was as young as she was, but he had a devastatingly handsome face, and he'd spoken to her like she was the only girl in the world.

He'd been the heir to an earldom, but his uncle the earl was young and expected to produce heirs. She'd still dreamed that one day Mr. Sinclair would be an earl, and she'd be his countess. One night, she'd stolen a pen and a piece of vellum from her father's desk and had practiced signing her name, should they one day marry:

More than once, she'd kissed her pillow passionately, pretending it was him. Other girls had found him a little too severe and somewhat eccentric, but she'd loved being the recipient of his penetrating focus and found his penchant for reciting odd and unusual snippets of information in ballrooms utterly wonderful.

She should have known him from that alone, but it hadn't even crossed her mind that this man could possibly be the Earl of Weston.

She'd pushed away her girlish fantasy when her father announced her betrothal to Lord Fenwicke, who was the heir of a duke. Her father had negotiated a marriage contract with Fenwicke and had left her, a sheltered and naïve seventeen-year-old, with no other option but to marry him.

After so many years of being repressed, her memories of Andrew Sinclair came flooding back. Him dancing with her, smiling at her, sharing punch with her. They'd even walked once or twice in the gardens together, with chaperones at an appropriate distance behind them.

Now, here he was, naked, his shoulders wide, his body hard and uncompromisingly male. He hovered over her, a look of—what was it? Concern? Fear?—on his face.

His handsome face. The last hour came rushing back to her. From him carrying her to his house, to the way he'd touched her, to the way he'd brought her to a climax when she didn't think it was possible for her to come from a man's touch.

“Lord…Wes…ton,” she managed.

He shook his head. “No. Call me Drew.”

“You…knew?” she whispered.

He nodded. “From the moment I saw you by the punch table, watching Mrs. Briggs.”

“But…how could you know? How is it that I had no idea? You must think me the biggest fool.”

“No. I don't.”

“But…”

“Shhh.” He held up his hand to stop her, then touched the lower edge of her mask. “I know you, Beatrice. I've known your identity from the beginning. Please let me take it off.”

She stared at him for a long moment as she tried to absorb all this new information. He'd known she was Beatrice Reece…and he'd still wanted her. She had no idea why, or how…but there was no point in wearing the mask. Not now.

“All right,” she whispered.

He let her wrists go, and she didn't move as he carefully undid the ties on the mask, then lifted it from her face. He gazed down at her so long, she could feel the heat of the blush spreading across her face.

She'd be brave. She wouldn't look away, no matter how disappointed he was.

He cupped her face in both his hands, holding his weight on his elbows on either side of her head, and gazed down at her like she was a treasure.
His
treasure. “I never thought I'd be able to touch you like this.”

“Why?” she asked quietly. “Why me?”

There were so many other women of the
ton
. More beautiful, more worldly, more intelligent, and less damaged than her.

“It's always been you, Beatrice.”

She shook her head, not understanding.

He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “I was in love with you during your Season. I was completely enchanted. Entranced. But I am a slow and methodical man, traits I also possessed as a youth. By the time I had solidified the details of my plan to seek your hand, I read of your engagement to Fenwicke. Later I learned that five other men had asked for your hand and that you had chosen Fenwicke because he was the heir to a dukedom. I had missed my opportunity, but there was some solace in knowing you wouldn't have chosen me anyhow, as I would never be a duke.”

She shook her head. “My
father
chose Fenwicke. I had no choice but to marry him.”

“It wasn't you?”

“No, not at all. I never—” She cringed. “Please. I do not wish to speak of Fenwicke.”

“I understand,” he said.

“You can't,” she whispered. There was no way he could truly understand. No one else besides Jessica and her family did—but they had all seen her during the worst.

“You're right. I'll never understand everything unless you wish to tell me. But I don't expect you to do so tonight.”

“It's just…I am such a subject of mockery and dislike. How is it that you don't…agree with all of it?”

“I am not a sheep, Beatrice. And it is unfortunate that so many of our class tend to behave more like sheep than the leaders of men they're supposed to be. I make decisions for myself, by myself.”

“And…”

“You were ill used by your husband. Through no fault of your own.”

A sudden rush of tears stung at her eyes, and she closed them in an attempt to stanch them. He touched her cheek. “I am not the only one who has come to that conclusion. There's Mrs. Briggs, too, and the rest of her family.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “But…they saw…with their own eyes…”

“Do you understand how much I wanted to look in your eyes and tell you I knew who you are, that you didn't have to hide from me? All night, I had to keep myself from ripping that mask from your face. Persephone is nothing compared to Beatrice.”

“No, that can't be. I…” She hesitated, closing her eyes, unable to keep her gaze on his unbearably handsome face. “I'm so confused.”

“You shouldn't be,” he said firmly. “I want you. I want
you
. Whenever I spoke to you tonight, I wasn't speaking to a Greek goddess; I was speaking to
you
. When I called you Persephone, I was thinking
Beatrice
.”

“But you deceived me. You said you wouldn't lie to me, but you did.”

“I didn't lie to you. I just didn't tell you something I knew about you. And if you'd known I'd identified you out on the terrace, what would you have done? You would have run away.”

She had to admit, he was right. As soon as someone—anyone—had revealed that he knew her identity, she would have bolted from the masquerade.

“I didn't want you to run.” His eyes glittered an icy blue in the dim lamplight. “I wanted to spend as much time with you as I could. I'm not a stupid man, love, but I am a selfish one. I knew you'd run if the truth came out, and I knew I'd lose you again.

“I lost you once.” He leaned forward, his face coming so close she could feel the hot wash of his breath over her cheek with every word. “I'm not a man who loses something twice.”

“But I'm not a possession. I'm not a newly discovered plant,” she said softly. “What if I wish to be lost?”

He pressed his lips to her cheek, then rose up enough to look into her eyes. “I've given you constant openings to leave all night long. You've wanted this as much as I have.”

“But I didn't know you then. And I thought you didn't know me.”

“Are your memories of me that low?”

“No…quite the opposite. I was terribly infatuated with you.”

A smile quirked his lips. “Were you, now?”

“I was. But it's not that…” Her voice trailed off. She was at a loss how to explain that his knowing her identity changed everything. Because she simply didn't believe she'd ever be loved again. Not as Beatrice Reece, anyway.

He rolled off her, groaning softly. Then he touched her arm. The merest, gentlest touch. “I want to grab you, Beatrice, hold you in my arms so tight you'll never have a chance of getting free. But I'm not going to do that. I need you to know that I would never hurt you, even with my desire for you. When you come into my arms, it's going to be your choice, your decision.”

She didn't say anything. And she didn't move into his arms. She wanted to, wanted to feel the comfort of his embrace again, but she couldn't.

He kept that light touch on her arm and said, “I know what it is. Why you're so afraid.” He removed his hand from her arm. “It makes me so damn angry.”

“What?” she whispered.

“That he stripped your self-worth to such an extent that you don't believe you deserve to be loved.”

She'd never believed any man would love her romantically ever again. Because…perhaps it was because she didn't believe she deserved it.

“You are a beautiful woman.” His voice shook with conviction. “You are intelligent and fascinating and deserving of respect.”

She closed her eyes.

“And you're deserving of love, too.”

She'd been naked, she realized, during this entire conversation. She was lying naked next to a man who was telling her she deserved respect. That she deserved
love
.

She turned to her side and reached out to touch him, her fingers stroking from his cheek down to his jaw. He was masculine and powerful. He had been gentle when she'd needed it, then rough when she'd needed it. He was
real
.

“Are…you…sure?” she pushed out. She held her breath, half expecting him to laugh and say no, that this was all some kind of elaborate joke. She was an undeserving fool, and she would continue to be a laughingstock for the rest of her life.

“I've never been more sure of anything,” he said.

This man made her feel strong. Even with his mask off. Even with
her
mask off.

Strong…and brave.

“Then show me,” she whispered, burrowing her body against his and wrapping her arms around him. “Love me, Drew.” His arms slid around her, comforting and strong as she continued. “Love me with our masks off, with the knowledge of who we are out in the open between us. Show me that I deserve this. Please…show me.” Her voice cracked as the first tear crested over her bottom lid.

But Drew was there, kissing it away.

He kissed her tears; then he kissed her lips, her cheeks, her jaw. He kissed her breasts again, but this time he whispered about how perfect she was, about how lovely. He said her name between kisses, his tone erotic and gruff. He said it again and again, until she moaned softly with every rasp of her name.

She felt not only strong, but also
free
. So she held him tight, kissed him, stroked him, wanting to show him how deeply he'd affected her, how strongly she felt for him. It was completely different from her girlhood, when she'd dreamed the dreams of the young. This was soul-deep and so powerful it changed the very essence of who she was.

And when he pushed himself into her body, she arched up, meeting him. He stopped when he was fully seated inside her. “Look at me, Beatrice,” he rasped out.

She opened her eyes and stared into his glittering blue ones. “Drew,” she whispered.

“You deserve love,” he said quietly. “And I want to love you now.”

And he did. He loved her until she dissolved into a soul-shattering climax, crying out his name, and then another. And then he shuddered through his release, and they trembled in each other's arms.

Just as she was drifting off to sleep, she thought she heard him murmur, “I love you, Beatrice.”