PortraitofPassion (17 page)

Simon leaned forward and Bea felt the tip of his hardness
between her legs, gently nudging her folds. She froze in anticipation.
Would
he? Like this?
The forbidden image flashed through her mind, drenching her
in desire. She boldly inched her bottom back, rubbing against his engorged flesh.
She was rewarded with a growl.

He dragged his hands from where they gripped her hips to
where her bottom flared out from her back, his thumbs meeting at the crease. He
hesitated there for a moment, flexed his fingers upon her firm cheeks. Bea
moaned in surprise and dark pleasure as he drew his hands firmly down her
behind, his thumbs skimming her crease from top to bottom, opening her.

The bed shifted as Simon wedged her thighs apart farther
still. Again she felt the head of his cock prodding at her center, so close to
where she needed him to be. She pushed back against him, heard him moan, a
dark, deep moan mingled with a soft laugh, his breath warm on her back, between
her shoulder blades.

“Please,” she begged as she chased his retreating arousal.

“Soon.” The word was little more than a hot breath against
her neck. The bed tilted as one hand came to rest beside her head. Simon leaned
down and grazed her neck with his lips, followed by his tongue, coasting over
her quivering flesh, and finally his teeth, gently nipping at the sensitive
sinew at her shoulder.

“Simon,” Bea moaned. She felt mindless with need, out of
control, hungry for him. She turned her head as far to the side as she could,
lifting, searching. Simon’s mouth claimed hers, his lips hard, his tongue wild
as he thrust into her waiting mouth. Bea sobbed her need, he caught it on his
lips, gave his own back to her. She tasted the loss of his control, she drank
in his frenzy, his passion. She begged for more.

Simon wrenched his lips from hers with a growl. He withdrew
behind her. He rested his forehead on the small of her back, his breath sawing
in and out of his lungs, washing over her bottom. His hands gripped her hips,
his fingers flexing, trembling.

“Beatrice,” Simon whispered against her skin and she
shivered. “You unhinge me, my love.”

“Please,” she begged. “I need you, Simon.”

“Yes,” he breathed the word against her back and Bea
trembled. “Yes, my love.”

Gently he rolled her over and eased her legs open. He
settled his hips between her waiting thighs as his chest came to rest lightly
upon her breasts. With a sigh, he buried his face in the curve of her neck.
Beatrice felt his cock, hard and heavy, between her legs. She wrapped trembling
arms around him, bent her knees to cradle him. Closing her eyes, she absorbed
the weight and the heat of his body.

Simon rose to his elbows and Bea looked up into his face. He
was looking at her with desire in his eyes and a small smile on his lips. He
leaned down and captured her lips for a long, gentle kiss, his mouth worshiping
hers. Beatrice stroked his back, pressed her hips up to rub her aching flesh
against his hard length.

Simon pushed his hips forward, rocking gently against her.
Bea shifted, opening her legs wider, tilting her hips to bring him more firmly
against her clitoris, her moist heat. They began to move together, gently
pressing and retreating, rocking softly, until Bea was desperate to have him
inside her.

Simon broke the kiss, raised his head to meet her eyes. She
watched his face as he lifted his hips, drew back, and gently brought the tip
of his shaft to rest at her center. Eyes locked on hers, he slowly pushed
forward. Bea welcomed him, opening herself to his penetration.

He eased his hard flesh into her warmth, then slowly eased
back, drawing a soft moan from her. He pressed forward again, deeper, heavier.
When he slowly withdrew again, Bea reached down to lay one hand upon his hard
buttocks. Simon trembled at her touch and she smiled up at him.

“Make me yours,” she whispered.

And he did. With one long, slow thrust, he buried himself in
her passage. He dropped his forehead to rest upon hers. His panting breath blew
across her lips. Bea tilted her head back and captured his lips, captured the
groan that seemed torn from his throat. She opened her mouth and darted her
tongue out to feast upon him. Simon met her tongue with his own as he began to
move.

He rocked forward, drew back, only to plunge in again.
Beatrice felt her body racing toward climax. She gripped his back as he
withdrew and pulled him tightly back into her body. He rose up on his arms,
pressing her heavily down, rocked forward, and Beatrice was lost. Her hips
bucked against him, her fingers dug into his back, she opened her mouth and
cried out.

“Simon…oh God…Simon!” Her mind seemed to detach from her
body. She was all feeling, all sensation, as waves of pleasure crested over
her, arching her back, her neck. Her inner walls clenched in ecstasy,
tightening around his cock, buried deep within her core. Tears came to her eyes
with the magnitude of the explosion that rocked her. She let loose a great
laugh.

Simon trembled above her. She opened her eyes to see him
throw back his head and groan.

“Bea, ah Christ, Bea,” he cried as with one quick motion he
withdrew and thrust back into her. He dropped down and reached his arms under
and around her, holding her as his hips pumped forward, once, twice. He buried
his face in her neck, his open mouth hot on her skin. His entire body jerked
and convulsed as release claimed him. She hugged his heaving body, absorbing
his passion.

Some minutes later Simon rose onto his elbows and looked
down at Bea. His eyes were heavy-lidded, crinkling in the corners, his lips
were turned up in the sweetest smile she had ever seen. She smiled back at him
and lifted her hand to lay it against his cheek.

“There’s something to be said for a nice soft bed,” he said.

“And the privacy of a locked room,” she agreed.

With a soft moan, Simon disentangled his body from hers and
rolled onto his back, taking Beatrice with him. He wrapped his arms around her
and slowly rubbed her back. She snuggled into his side and rested her head on
his chest. She was utterly content. Her eyes drifted closed as she listened to
the steady beat of his heart.

Simon kissed the top of her head and whispered, “I should
go.”

“Stay,” she responded quietly, too tired to lift her head.

Simon’s chest rumbled with his soft laughter, his only
response.

Bea fell asleep with a satisfied smile upon her lips.

Simon looked across the crowded ballroom, his eyes fixed
upon the image of Beatrice and Henry waltzing across the dance floor. They made
a striking pair, both tall and slim with shining gold hair. They seemed to
float on air, their movements perfectly synchronized, as if they had danced
together all their lives. Henry leaned forward to whisper in Beatrice’s ear,
causing her to toss her head back and laugh, the husky sound traveling across
the room to roll over him. He smiled. She was clearly having a wonderful time.

Beatrice had not wanted to attend Lord and Lady Piedmont’s
ball. In the two weeks she and Simon had been lovers, she had accompanied
Moorehead to the theater and the opera and to one small ball hosted by one of
Simon’s friends. She had refused to attend any of the more fashionable balls
heralding the conclusion of the Season. While she always arrived with Moorehead
as official escort, she spent the evenings with Simon and Henry and Olivia.
Simon was amazed at the comfortable camaraderie the four of them had found
together, as if they had been friends for years rather than weeks. But this
ball, the last of the Season, promised to be a crush, with nearly all of the
aristocrats and great families in attendance.

Beatrice did not trust Lady Piedmont’s seemingly offhanded
invitation.

They had been riding early in the park yesterday, before
London’s elite had likely risen from their beds. Simon had been surprised to
see Lady Piedmont, daughter to one of his mother’s brothers, canter toward them
as they were heading out of the park. Lady Alice Piedmont had never struck him
as a lady to enjoy an early-morning ride.

“Lord Easton,” the lady had greeted him with a smile as she
joined them. Her gray-eyed gaze traveled over Beatrice, from the smart black
hat perched upon her head, over the emerald-green riding habit she wore, down
to her shiny black half-boots.

“Lady Piedmont,” Simon greeted with a small bow from the
saddle. “May I present Miss Morgan?” He smiled encouragingly at Beatrice. He
had noticed in the last two weeks that Beatrice would take her cue from him as
to how to greet his friends and acquaintances.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Piedmont.” Beatrice
beamed a smile at the other woman, clearly catching her off guard.

“A pleasure indeed, Miss Morgan.” Alice Piedmont’s smile did
not quite reach her eyes. “I must say I have heard quite a bit about you.”

“Oh?” asked Beatrice with a laugh. “I can assure you only
half of it is true.”

Simon chuckled at her cheeky answer. Lady Piedmont threw him
a surprised look. If she expected him to be alarmed at Beatrice’s humor, she
would be sadly disappointed. Simon was finding that he quite enjoyed her
ability to meet thinly veiled innuendo with wit and grace.

“I hope that half would include the fact that you are a
portraitist of some talent,” Alice answered after a small pause.

“It would,” agreed Beatrice.

“Perhaps I could persuade you to take on a small commission
for me then?” the lady asked.

Beatrice shot a quick glance at Simon before replying, “I am
afraid I will only be in London for a short time.”

“Oh?” Alice asked and Simon saw a curiously calculating look
enter her eyes. What was she up to?

“Miss Morgan will be moving to the country shortly,” Simon
explained, when Beatrice did not respond. “Unless she can be persuaded to
change her plans.” It was Simon’s hope that he could persuade her to delay her
departure, perhaps even abandon the idea altogether. To his knowledge she had
not found a property yet, had not even begun her search. She had remained in
town every day. He knew this because he had spent most of those days, and
nearly all of the nights, with her.

“I see,” his lady cousin replied.

There was an awkward silence as the three riders simply
looked at one another.

“Easton, you will be attending my ball tomorrow night?”
Alice finally asked, turning her attention to him.

“I shall.” The last thing Simon wanted to do was attend a
ball that would include a good number of his aunts, uncles and cousins. He had
only accepted the invitation because his mother, who had not yet returned from
Eastridge, had written to him to insist.

“I have just had the most splendid idea,” his cousin
exclaimed. “Easton, you must tell Viscount Moorehead to bring Miss Morgan
tomorrow night. We should love to have her join us. Perhaps we can persuade her
to stay in town awhile longer, long enough to accept my commission.”

Simon had the distinct impression that her sudden idea was
in fact a calculated move. Why would she want Beatrice to attend her annual
ball? He didn’t for a moment believe she truly desired Beatrice to paint her
portrait.

Simon saw Beatrice tilt her head to the side to study his
cousin.

“Oh you must come,” implored Alice.

“Thank you,” Beatrice replied, “that is very kind—”

Simon interrupted her before she could finish what was
certain to be a refusal. “What a splendid idea, Lady Piedmont.”

Beatrice shot him a surprised look.

“Simon,” she began then snapped her mouth closed.

“I shall add my powers of persuasion to those of Viscount
Moorehead. Certainly together we will bring Miss Morgan around to our way of
thinking,” he proclaimed, giving Beatrice a warm smile. He had discovered that
there was very little she would deny him if he gifted her with a smile.

Beatrice arched a brow at him and Simon forced himself not
to laugh. Beatrice attempting to mimic his mannerisms was quite an amusing
sight.

“Then it’s settled,” declared Lady Piedmont with a nod. “I
must be off. I have a million and one things to do today.” They made the proper
salutations and off she went.

Beatrice had been silent on the ride back to Moorehead’s
stables.

“You do not truly mind accompanying Moorehead, do you?”
Simon asked as he lifted her down from Lancelot’s back. He rested his hands
upon her waist, keeping her in place before him. She looked up at him with a
soft smile.

“It is true I would rather not attend the ball. She is your
cousin?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “My mother’s brother’s daughter.”

Beatrice did not reply. She stood before him, looking up at
him, the brim of her hat shielding the expression in her eyes, but he could see
the straight line of her lips.

“Are you worried about meeting my family?” he asked with a
frown.

“Oh I am not worried for my sake, Simon. But I would not
have your family cross with you.”

“With me?” he asked in surprise. He had long since stopped
worrying what his family thought. He was a grown man. He provided for his
family. He assisted them out of one scrape after another, as he should, when he
was able.

“Yes, I am certain your family will not be pleased by my
appearance. Surely Lady Piedmont must realize this. Why then did she invite
me?” Beatrice looked off to her right and Simon turned to see the groom,
Gerald, approaching.

“Good morning, my lord, Miss Morgan,” Gerald greeted them,
doffing his hat.

“Hullo, Gerald,” replied Beatrice with a warm smile.

Simon nodded at the dark-haired man. Beatrice had explained
to him that she had simply fallen asleep on a bale of hay that morning—the
morning that had precipitated their becoming lovers. She had laughed
uproariously when Simon had told her of his misconception. Still, he found it
difficult to be in the man’s presence.

Simon followed Beatrice’s long strides into the quiet house,
watching the gentle sway of her hips. Images of the past two weeks spent in her
bed filtered through his mind. He was amazed at the passion they had discovered
together. He had found that his initial assessment of her willingness to follow
his lead had been true. And then some. She had brought forth a
never-before-experienced wildness in him with her hungry responses and desire
to please him. On more than one occasion he’d had to restrain himself from
taking her too roughly, from acting upon long-dormant fantasies.

Just thinking about all the ways he had made love to her and
all the ways he wanted to shot desire through his blood, to settle heavily in
his groin.

“I must hurry if I am to meet Olivia,” Beatrice replied over
her shoulder as they traversed the long hall toward the stairs.

“Surely you do not have to rush right back out again?” he
asked as he caught up with her. She had stepped up onto the first stair. She
must have heard something in his voice, sensed the waves of lust that were
surely rolling off him.

“Well,” she drawled, turning back to him. Her eyes were
sparkling, her lips lifted in a wide smile. “I suppose I have a few minutes to
spare.” She placed her hand upon his chest and dragged it down over his stomach
to boldly grasp his arousal.

“If you keep that up, it will only take a few minutes,”
Simon warned.

Beatrice laughed huskily and turned to run up the stairs
with Simon in hot pursuit.

Now, watching her float across the ballroom toward him, her
midnight-blue silk gown clinging to her breasts and flaring over her hips,
Simon was chagrined to remember that in fact it had only taken a few minutes.
It had been the only time he had not been able to control his body long enough
to bring her to climax before him. She had not minded, as he had made it up to
her later that night. Twice.

“Here you are, Simon,” Henry said. “I have returned the
lovely Miss Morgan to you, as promised.” His cousin had been teasing him all
evening, ever since Simon had asked him to keep an eye on Beatrice, to make
sure she was not left alone. He knew there must be a reason Lady Piedmont had
invited Beatrice to attend her ball. He was determined to learn what that
reason was. He was equally determined to make it quite clear to his family that
she was welcome at his side anywhere, anytime. They had best become accustomed
to her presence. He fully intended her to feature in his future, as his wife.

As Simon listened to Henry and Beatrice talk, his mind
wandered to the question of how to convince Beatrice that she belonged with
him. He suspected she was falling in love with him. She was so open, so honest
in her emotions. He had seen adoration in her eyes. He had seen affection and
warmth in her smile. He had felt her desire when he made love to her. He had
recognized her care and regard in the way she listened to him speak, in the way
she baked lemon muffins for him, in the way she sat quietly beside him when he
was tired and yearned for peace.

He had decided that perhaps the best way to convince her
that they belonged together was to purchase a small country house for her. He
possessed a number of estates around the country, including Eastridge, but they
were all large, formal dwellings. He knew that what Beatrice desired was a
large cottage or small manor house like the one in which she had grown up.
Someplace she could escape to when the noise and bustle of London left her
feeling suffocated. Somewhere she could paint. She had not lifted a brush in
the weeks he had known her. He suspected it was because she felt stifled in the
city. She needed fresh air and room to roam. She needed a place of her own.

He had a lead on a small estate within close proximity to
London, an old stone house on nearly three hundred acres of green fields and
shady wood with a small pond. He intended to ride out to see it tomorrow. He
had thought about taking Beatrice with him but decided that he would not raise
her hopes until he had himself seen the property. He was to meet the agent
tomorrow afternoon. If all went well he would be in possession of the property
before the day was finished.

With deed in hand he would propose to Beatrice in the next
few days. He wondered if he should perhaps approach Moorehead first. It might
be wise to enlist that man’s aid in convincing Beatrice to accept his suit.

“Don’t look now but here comes Uncle Robert and he looks as
if he is on a mission.” Henry’s words brought Simon out of his reverie. He
watched as his uncle, Robert Poston, the Earl of Somerton, made his way through
the crowd, his barrel chest and great domed head threatening bodily harm to any
who did not move out of his way speedily.

“Easton,” he barked when he stood before Simon, blue eyes
protruding from his jowly face. “A word with you.”

“Uncle,” Simon greeted with a small bow. As the eldest of
his mother’s brothers he was the head of her family and took his position very
seriously. “May I introduce Miss Morgan?” he asked, indicating Beatrice who
stood to his left.

Lord Somerton turned to Beatrice and raked her from head to
toe with an appreciative gaze. “Oh, so this is the lovely Miss Morgan we have
been hearing about. A pleasure,” he replied, watching Beatrice’s graceful
curtsy. His eyes appeared to be glued to her breasts. With obvious effort he
dragged his gaze back to Simon with a small smile playing on his thin lips.

Simon stifled a laugh. His uncle had a reputation for openly
ogling the ladies. Simon had never seen it himself, until now, but it was
something of a family joke.

“How can I help you, Uncle?” Simon asked.

“Come, come, I need a word in private. We’ll use Piedmont’s
study.” Robert spun around and began plowing through the crowd again, never
looking back to make certain that Simon followed.

“Will you be all right for a few minutes?” he asked
Beatrice.

“Of course. You go ahead.” Beatrice smiled up at him while
patting his arm.

“Henry?” Simon demanded, looking at his cousin.

“Yes, yes, I’ll watch over the fair Miss Morgan.”

Simon turned to follow Uncle Robert from the room. He hated
to leave Beatrice and hoped Henry would be true to his word. He wondered where
Moorehead had disappeared to. The card room, in all likelihood.

Simon seated himself in a chair before the massive desk in
Piedmont’s study while his uncle took the chair behind it. Robert placed his
elbows on the desktop, steepled his fingers and assessed Simon with steady blue
eyes. Simon met his gaze and waited.