The Earl's Daughter (6 page)

“And... my gown...” She could feel her pulse pounding in her throat. “You will... remove it?”

“If you'll let me.” When he saw her nod, Peter proceeded to peel her gown from her body. Her bosom heaved against her undergarments, which were strained by her heavy breaths. “You're breathtaking.”

“I... ohhh...” As anxious as she was, it was impossible to manage a sensible thought.

“Have you changed your mind?”

“No.” Her answer was firm. “I want this. I want this
very
much.”

When Peter tugged off his breeches, her eyes swelled. She never thought she would be in a bed with a man in his unmentionables—unless he was her husband, of course. She felt utterly unprepared for what was to come. There was a curious wetness forming between her legs—a spot that had always remained untouched, even by her. Her anticipation for what was to come had a suffocating effect on her.

“Please tell me if I do anything you disapprove of,” Peter said. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”

Sylvie was so transfixed by the sight of his body, she barely heard him speak. It was dark, but she could make out the contours of his body. His build was average, but athletic, and she longed to feel his skin against hers. She thought he looked a bit reluctant, so with trembling fingers, she removed her own petticoats.

His fingers worked their way up her legs, encircling her calves, and gently kneading her thighs. Sylvie unfastened her bodice as Peter removed the last of her undergarments. When she was laying naked before him, she clamped her legs together and resisted the temptation to cover her nipples. She felt timid, but excited. She simultaneously wanted to hide from him—and to show him every bit of her.

“You are lovely, Sylvie.” He brought her hand to his lips, and he kissed it many times. “So very, very lovely.”

“I feel so... light-headed.”

“Are you alright?”
“I am.” Her heart continued to thump wildly, making her chest bounce. “I'm just feeling a bit shy.”

“Take your time.” Peter hesitated as he started to remove his unmentionables, giving her a chance to protest. “And if you are ever too uncomfortable, you can stop me anytime.”

“
Don't stop
!” she practically screamed at him. “I need you. I need this.” She parted her knees slightly, invitingly, and his hand glided along her inner thigh. Feeling his fingers on her secret skin made her moan with rapture. Sylvie parted her legs even further, offering herself to him. When she saw his manhood for the first time, she felt a dizzying rush of blood in her head.

“You're like a dream.” Peter lightly kissed her knee as he spoke. “A dream that came to life.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers, and smiled slyly. Most of Peter's smiles were slight, but this particular smile had a hint of giddiness behind it. It was such a warm, wide smile, it made his rare dimples appear.

“You're so handsome. So... beautiful,” she told him. “I always thought so.”

Peter's hand massaged her stomach. As he touched her, he took her hand and laid it against his chest, encouraging her to touch him. Her fingers tentatively touched his skin; Peter's touch, on the other hand, was fueled by urgency. His hand was molded around her breast, and his thumb played with her nipple.

“It feels good... to have you touch me,” Sylvie said. Her thoughts were so muddled, it was difficult to speak.

“And it feels wonderful
to
touch you, I assure you.” When Peter's head descended to her breast, Sylvie gasped. His tongue lapped at both of her breasts, and he took one of her nipples between his lips. Several times, he flicked his tongue over the tiny nub, making her whimper with delight. As Peter suckled her breasts, his hand went down to her thighs, urging them further apart. He kissed down the entire length of her body, and when his eyes were level with her womanhood, she was tempted to close her legs. When she saw him staring at the most intimate parts of her, she thought she might swoon.

Peter's finger barely brushed her outer lips, almost as if he was testing her. When Sylvie didn't protest, he traced his finger down the length of her slit and gently pulled her lips apart. Her insides were moist and wet and begging to be touched, so he dipped a finger inside her, ever-so-slightly.

“Peter...” As Sylvie whimpered his name, her body instinctively pressed against his hand. “Oh god... oh, please...”

When he positioned himself between her legs, she felt his manhood brushing against her. Sylvie took a deep breath. She could scarcely believe she was still conscious—how hadn't her overwhelming need for him made her swoon? She could feel him position the tip of his penis at her entrance, where he hesitated, giving her a chance to change her mind. When she did not protest, Peter pushed deeper, plowing through the obstruction of her maidenhood as he delved deep inside her.

Peter could feel her tightness clamping around him, and the feeling nearly made him explode. Sylvie wrapped her legs around him, as if she was trying to get him as deep as she could. As he thrust in and out of her, Sylvie's hips were bucking, matching his pace. He could feel her pulsating against his manhood as ecstasy took her, and Sylvie squealed with pleasure. Peter's face twisted slightly as he exploded deep inside her.

After his climax, he stayed buried inside her for some time, relishing the feeling as long as he could. When he finally withdrew from Sylvie's body, he laid beside her and took her in his arms. “Beautiful...” His lips brushed against her shoulder as he whispered the word, over and over. “Beautiful. Beautiful.”

Suddenly, Sylvie threw an arm around his body, squeezing him tightly. She nuzzled her face against his bare chest and coiled a leg around him. The tightness of her grip suggested she never intended to let go. “Peter...”

“You're beautiful,” he whispered again. “My beautiful girl. Did I hurt you?”

Her fingers gently caressed his chest. “No.”

“Good.” Peter kissed her head several times and buried his face in her hair, inhaling her. “Because I never would.”

“There is no one I would rather be with, Peter Hughes.” Sylvie squeezed him as tightly as she could. “No one.”

Peter stroked her hair in silence, and he would not speak again until he was sure she was asleep. His hand sifted through her silken locks, and finally, he felt her breaths deepen and her body relax. “And there is only one woman I ever thought I could love.” His whispered words were unheard by slumbering Sylvie. “
You
.”

VIII

Somewhere in his deepest thoughts, Peter had hoped to wake up to affection from the woman he adored. But when he opened his eyes and saw her sitting on the bed beside him, fully clothed, he knew his hopes were for naught. He did not speak for some time, and when she finally noticed he was awake, her eyes were cold. Aloof.

“Good morning.” Her greeting was eerily calm.

“Good morning...” Peter tried to reach for her hand, but she immediately pulled away and rose from the bed.

“There is no reason to linger at this inn. It is, to put it kindly, a bit of a hovel. Now that I am sober and the room is bright, do you see that peculiar stain on the wall? I believe it might be blood.” Pouting, she directed his attention to a faded brown stain on the wall. “The curtains are tatty, and I saw a mouse disappear in a hole in the wall. Please, we
must
go.”

“Very well.” Peter rose from the bed and quickly leapt into his breeches. “But Sylvie, I need to speak to you. We need to--”

“
No
!” Sylvie shrilly interrupted. “Please, Peter, say no more. It is imperative that we do not speak of what happened last night. We should... carry on... and pretend as if it never happened.”

She was standing near a window, bathed in sunlight, and he swore he saw tears glistening in her eyes. They sparkled in the sun, and were dangerously close to falling each time she blinked. Not only was she breaking his heart, Peter suspected—perhaps too hopefully—she was also breaking her own. “If that is your wish, I will not utter another word.”

“Good. Very good...” Her crackling voice suggested her words were a lie. “Are you ready?”

He opened the door for her and coldly replied, “Indeed.”

As they made their way out of the inn and back to the carriage, the silence between them was excruciating. Peter could feel his heart wrenching every time he saw her in the corner of his eye. And as Sylvie stared at the back of his head—at his deep, black, beautiful hair—she felt more joyless than ever. She suspected, at the moment, that Peter Hughes was the only man in the world who could possibly make her happy. But she could never express her feelings, nor could she let herself indulge in them again. She was an earl's daughter, and he was a man who drove carriages. Society would inevitably force them apart.

Without a word, Peter helped her into the carriage and closed the door behind her. She watched him from the window as long as she could, until he climbed into the driver's seat and out of view. When the vehicle started to move, Sylvie laid her head against the hard, cold wall of the carriage and tried to imagine the imminent reunion with her father and fiance. What could she possibly tell them? Not the truth, surely. They certainly would not react kindly to her having run off to Nottingham to meet a lover.

It would be safer to spin a yarn, but what plausible story could she possibly tell? Would they believe her if she claimed to be kidnapped by highwaymen and rescued by Peter? As she considered the possibilities, each one more far-fetched than the next, her stomach churned.

And how, after last night, could she be expected to part ways with Peter? Even though she pushed him away, she secretly hoped he would protest—she hoped he would demand to stay at her side. She wanted nothing more than to be close to Peter Hughes, and despite that fact, they would undoubtedly go their separate ways. The thought of losing his companionship was more than she could bear, and the thought of losing his love was even worse. She enjoyed being touched by him, and being kissed by him. She hated that she enjoyed it so much.

Sylvie squinted her eyes and tried to block out her thoughts, but they kept coming. How could she possibly calm herself when she was approaching such a life-altering moment? She knew they would arrive at their destination sooner than she might hope. She tried to imagine Charles Tonbridge's weathered face, sternly disapproving of her recent gallivant. Would he still want to marry her? If they did marry, she would have to share his bed. For that reason alone, she could not regret her night with Peter. She could never regret spending a night in the arms of a man with whom she had most likely fallen in love.

Love
.
Peter
? She tried to push the idea out of her mind. What did loving a man ever bring into her life? Heartache. Only heartache.

Sylvie occasionally opened her eyes to check the passing scenery, and every time she did, she knew they were getting closer to home. At long last, the carriage stopped in front of her father's estate, and the feeling of dread gripped her more persistently than ever. She barely had time to blink before Peter was on the ground and offering her a hand.

“We're here, my lady,” he announced.

“So I see...” Sylvie's hand was trembling as she allowed him to help her from the carriage. “I am... nonplussed.”

“I am sure you have nothing to fear. I'm sure your father will be very relieved to see you safe.”

“A part of me wishes I never had to see him again. Not now. Not ever,” Sylvie confessed. “I would rather work in a sordid tavern than to stand before him again. I should be an opera dancer... o-or an actress. I should run away to America, never to be seen or heard from again.”

“You don't think your father has missed you?”

“
No
!” Sylvie could feel the heat behind her eyes, where tears were building. “No. He doesn't care for me. He never has... he never will. Why do you think he wants to see me married to his friend? He wants me off of his hands. He's never cared about me.”

“I'm sure that isn't true, my lady,” Peter offered tepid encouragement.

“You don't know the situation well enough to make a guess... nevertheless, I appreciate your attempt to bolster my mood.” Sylvie drew a deep breath, filling her lungs until they were taut. She held the breath for several seconds before slowly expelling it through tightened lips. “I suppose... I should go.”

“I suppose you shall.” Peter was tempted to take her hand and kiss it, but the last time he reached for her, she pulled away. His pride would not let him try again. He simply tipped his hat and said, “And I suppose this is where we part ways. Farewell, my lady.”

“You say that so... coldly.” Sylvie squashed a tear that slipped down her cheek. “So formally.”

“I thought that's the way you wanted me...” When Peter saw another tear fall, he was tempted to wipe it away. He hated to see her cry. “Formal...”

“Let's run away, Peter! Together...” After she made the suggestion, Sylvie held her breath again. As impulsive as it was, she thought it sounded like a wonderful idea. “We can run away to... to America, as I said. Or Africa...or some such place. Anywhere would be fine, as long as it isn't here, and as long as we don't have to be parted.”

“My lady. Sylvie...” Peter started to reach for her, but he withdrew his hand and clenched his fist. He was dying to touch her hair, her lips, her cheek, her chin—but it was not his place to do so. The space between them was a chasm, never to be crossed. Sylvie Stafford was high above his reach, and she had made that abundantly clear. He was not worthy of laying his hand upon her skin. “Go back to your father, my lady. It's where you belong.”

“But... I...”

“You belong in a different world than I,” Peter said. “I feel very fortunate for the time we've spent together, but I'm afraid it's come to an end. I want...” He lowered his gaze and sighed. “I hope that you will always remember me fondly.”

Sylvie was gritting her teeth as she turned away from him. She was simultaneously tempted to scream and sob. She wanted to kiss him, to embrace him, to do anything to sway him. At the same time, she was tempted to bludgeon him with her fists. She was practically offering her heart to him, but he rejected it. He had tossed her aside. She believed, at that very moment, that she hated him.