Stolen Love (26 page)

He went to her, took the comb from her, and placed it on the table. "My little Elizabeth," he said softly, taking her by the shoulders to turn her around and into his arms. He bent his head to breathe in the scent of violets and to hold her tight against him, wanting to hold her tighter still. It frightened him to think he might have done nothing and lost her to Ripton. It was a miracle that she had waited as long as she had. "Why do you think I'm here?" he whispered. Her arms went around his waist, and the moment she melted against him was almost more than he could bear. He let her go reluctantly when she pushed away from him.

"Tell me why you're here, Nicholas, so there can be no misunderstanding."

"I've never been in love before," he said softly, "and until now, I did not know what to do about it. I don't want you to marry Beaufort Latchley or Ripton, or anyone else, for that matter." Her hands were on his chest now, but they were clenched into fists. "I'm here because I think if I could spend the rest of my life with you, I'd have far more than I deserve."

She was looking at him, uncertain, lower lip caught between her teeth.

He reached for her again. "There's no turning back for me." He stroked her cheek with the side of his thumb. "And you? Could you stand me for a lifetime?"

"Do you mean it, Nicholas?"

He saw the lingering doubt in her eyes. "You're all I want." He took one of her hands, spreading out her fingers before intertwining them with his. "Just you," he said. She leaned her head against his chest, and they stood motionless until at last he sighed. Not letting go of her hand, he pulled her down next to him on the sofa. "Is it what you want, Elizabeth?" he asked.

"More than anything."

"I would not be an easy man to live with," he said.

She smiled a little wanly. "Could it be worse than these past days?"

"I'll speak to your uncle tonight, if it isn't too late," he said. "But I must tell you, both my grandfather and I are in favor of a long engagement." It would take time to extract himself from the tangle of things that complicated his life. He could not risk being married before then. "There are things about me—" How could he tell her? "I have secrets, Elizabeth." He would have to be sure his past stayed firmly in the past.

"Everyone has secrets. A secret is nothing."

"Are you sure? If you knew, you might not be able to forgive me."

"You are my friend, and nothing you have done in the past will alter that." There was an odd intensity about her words. "There is only one thing I could not forgive, if you told me a lie to spare yourself from telling me something
you
think is unpleasant, or might hurt me." Her fingers tightened around his. "It is for me to decide what I am to do about the truth." She sat forward. "Do you understand me? Such a thing would not be your decision to make. You must trust me, trust that I love you more than anyone in the world and would do anything for you. If you promise me this, you may have whatever secrets you like."

"You don't know what you ask."

"But, Nicholas, I do."

Looking at her, at her grave expression, he was certain she did. "All right, Elizabeth."

She sighed, shutting her eyes and tilting her head against the back of the sofa. "When I thought you were going to marry Amelia, I wanted to die. I thought I would die."

He rested his weight on one arm by propping his elbow against the sofa near her head. "I'm sorry I made you think I might." He trailed one finger down the line of her neck, stopping at the base of her throat to finger the collar of her dressing gown. She stayed still but opened her eyes to look at him, questioning. The faint color of her cheeks deepened when he did nothing but press his fingers lightly along her collarbone. Touching her like that was the sort of intimacy he knew he should not be so eager to explore. "How long have you loved me, Elizabeth?" he asked.

"Forever," she said.

He stroked the side of her face. "I feel as though I must have loved you forever, too." He leaned forward to kiss not her mouth, but the skin above the neck of her dressing gown. He had no intention of making love to her, but it was sweet all the same to sense her arousal when he kissed the back of her jaw, to hear her intake of breath when his tongue briefly touched her skin. The tips of his fingers were resting high on her chest, just below the collar of her dressing gown, and he could faintly feel the beating of her pulse. So he kissed her there, too. She sighed when his finger traced a line along the top of her shoulder. He became acutely aware of the sound of their breathing, of the soft warm flesh felt through her dressing gown. His arm circled her waist, pressing against the small of her back.

Before, when he had been trying so hard to resist her, to resist his desire, the sheer effort of it had been enough to remind him of his resolve. Now that there was no reason for it, it was difficult not to give in. He bent to kiss her, softly and without any urgency, not intending it to be anything more than gentle. He could not stop himself from letting it go just a little further. Her mouth opened under his, and he tasted her. She was eager in the way she responded to him, returning his own passion with a pliancy, a soft relaxing against him that made him think it would be near impossible to deny himself such a certain pleasure. One hand slipped down to brush over the swell of a breast, just for the pleasure of hearing her gasp and for the undeniable pleasure of touching her. When he broke their embrace it was only because he was in danger of forgetting himself and allowing things to go so quickly it truly would be impossible for him to stop.

Without quite knowing what he was doing, he pulled on the ribbon she had used to secure her braid. To his surprise it came off easily. Surely there could be no harm in indulging at least one of his desires? This one, at least, was harmless. He began to unbraid her hair, and when it was loose about her shoulders in thick, glossy chestnut waves, he buried his fingers in it. He was holding her head between his hands when she leaned forward, tilting her face to his. He kissed her again. Her lips parted beneath his, and he heard himself groan when their tongues met. She did not move away when he stopped, and he found he did not want to let her go just yet. He kissed the back of her jaw, letting his mouth slide along the bare skin of her throat to the thin material of her dressing gown, feeling the warmth of her.

"I should speak to your uncle before it gets any later," he said, letting her go at last.

"All right."

She stood up when he did, and he could not help himself, he pulled her into his arms to kiss her once more. The knowledge that she would not resist him if he were to unfasten her dressing gown was far too provocative a temptation. Even while his fingers were working at the buttons he was telling himself he would go no farther. When it was open, he slid his arms inside, bringing her a step closer to him as he did. Her waist curved to rounded hips, and he spread his fingers out over them, pulling her close enough to him so that a more experienced woman would have known just how exquisitely she was exciting him.

He had opened his eyes to look at her, to try to remember why it was he had been about to leave, when she reached to unbutton his coat, long fingers slowly pushing it down his shoulders. He shrugged it off and did nothing to stop her when she began to unbutton his waistcoat; he was too lost in the smoke gray passion of her eyes to think of anything but her touch. She unfastened his watch chain from his waistcoat and bent slightly to let the garment drop to the floor. His arm was curled around her waist while she worked at the knot of his cravat, finally pulling the strip of silk from his neck and letting it fall. Then her hands were on his chest, sliding down his stomach, and there was a quivering in his belly, an aching need for her. She was pulling his shirt from his trousers, and still he could not bring himself to stop her.

"Elizabeth, we mustn't," he managed to say. He shivered when she kissed him through the fabric of his shirt. He grasped her forearms, intending to push her away, to put a stop to the torture it was to have her touch him. Her hands were still on him, still warm against him. Somehow his fingers had slid up her arms to her elbows, cupping them, keeping her hands on him. Through half-closed eyes he looked at her, and when he saw her parted lips all he could think of was how she had responded to him when he'd kissed her. He bent his head to hers, not really believing he would be able to stop but still comforting himself with the possibility.

Her dressing gown was slipping off her shoulder, and he gently pushed it off, feeling her move in his arms so that it fell to the floor. He moaned because she was sliding her hands under his shirt, touching his bare skin. It was indescribable, the thrill that went through him. Still holding one of her elbows, he walked the few steps to her bed and sat down. He had no illusions about the consequences of making love to her. It was wickedly wrong, and it meant an immediate marriage. But when society demanded that a woman feel no passion for a man, it was wildly exhilarating to be arousing it in the woman he loved to distraction.

Her chemise, a sleeveless white linen that fell to her ankles, clung to curves he longed to touch, and touch them he did. He wanted her to need him as desperately as he needed her. He pulled her between his knees and circled her waist with his hands. "Tell me you're mine, Elizabeth," he said. The thought of possessing her, of making her his, made his belly tighten. He leaned forward and growled into her ear, "Tell me!" He slid his hands up to her back, then around to where the swell of her breasts began.

"I cannot think when you touch me like that," she answered.

"And if I touch you like this?" He circled a finger over her breast. She gasped when he bent to flick his tongue over her suddenly taut nipple. His mouth found her, and when she moaned, he could think only of how it would be when he was inside her and she was crying out in passion. It was impossible not to want it, to long and ache for it. He grasped her waist again, gathering a handful of her linen chemise and pulling it over her head, almost forgetting to let it drop to the floor when it was off. He whispered her name—too softly, he thought for her to hear; but she whispered his name in return as he reached for her, drawing her onto the bed to lie next to him. He kissed her throat, lips moving down to her shoulder, then to her breast. She arched against him; it was almost unbearable, the feel of her skin, the taste of her, the curve of a breast under his hand, gentle swelling of her hips, the feel of her long legs. He bent to kiss her again. He knew when she slipped her hands under his shirt and in nearly one movement pulled it off, when he felt their skin touching, that it would be perfect between them. He sat up long enough to pull off his shoes and what remained of his clothes and to unfasten the canopy so they were enveloped in a soft darkness when it closed around them.

He hurt her more than he liked, but still it took all his control not to continue. Lying on his side, he held her back against him.

"I love you, Elizabeth," he whispered. He stroked her until he felt her relaxing. She turned to face him, and he slid his hands from the small of her back to her shoulders. "You must have been made for me," he said. He spread the fingers of one hand over her stomach. "How else could you make me feel this way?" She had a mole high on her belly, and she shivered when he bent to kiss it. There was nothing more he wanted than to be inside her, to be holding her in his arms, while he made her quiver with the same passion she made him feel.

When he entered her for the second time, he heard her gasp, its sound mingling with his own. She was tight around him, hot and slick. Her gazed into her smoky eyes, saw the faraway look of arousal in them, and felt an answering ache within himself. They quickly found a rhythm, and after that there was nothing but her arching against him, whispering his name, touching him, making him hold her tightly, him moving in her more urgently, of seeing her body beginning to glisten with sweat, feeling his heart pounding and his flesh beginning to pulse. He forgot that he meant to teach her what it meant to make love. There was only his joy at seeing and feeling her response to him and the certainty they were meant to be. There was not one moment of awkwardness, no fleeting thoughts that the act seemed absurd. They were perfect, and it seemed as if he had always known it would be this way with her. He was holding her, looking into her depthless eyes, when she came, bringing him along with her in an agonizingly sweet release.

Elizabeth woke because of the unfamiliar feeling of having someone else in bed with her. The lamps were sputtering out, and the only light penetrating the canopy was from the dying fire. Nicholas was asleep. She could see his dark hair on the white of the pillow. She slipped out of bed, letting the canopy close after her because she did not want to disturb him. The air was chilly, but not enough to make her uncomfortable. She quickly put out the lamps and was crossing the room to return to bed when she stepped on Nicholas's waistcoat and felt something cold under her bare foot. At first she thought it was his watch chain, but she saw her mistake when she picked it up. She honestly did not remember seeing anything around his neck, nor could she recall if he had at some point paused to take it off. She stared at the chain, wondering why it made no difference to her. It seemed as though it ought to. A shiver of cold brought her out of her thoughts. She started to tuck it back into the pocket from which it had partially slid, but then thought the better of it. Instead, she went to the dresser and placed it in her jewelry box.

She sat in the bed, arms curled around her tucked-up knees, waiting for the chill of the room to fade. She felt strange, and it was a moment before she identified her feeling as fear because she had what she wanted most—Nicholas—and dread that when he woke up he would tell her it had all been a terrible mistake; it was Amelia he loved after all. She stared at him, hugging her legs even tighter, wondering if she dared to pray he would not wake up.

He moved, turned to face her. It hardly seemed possible that he had told her he loved her, that he had held her so tenderly, had wanted to kiss her, and more. In sleep, the hard look to his face that had so often puzzled her was gone. She stroked his cheek, wishing she could memorize every line of his face. She heard him sigh, then felt his hand curl around her ankle. He pulled her leg straight, and when she lay back against the pillow, he said gruffly, "Tell me you're mine."