The Husband List -2 (14 page)

“It doesn’t strike you as rather farcical that I have played your game in a perfectly proper manner? That I have done everything within my power to set you at ease?” His voice hardened. “That I have racked my brains trying to determine why you look like a frightened rabbit whenever I come near you?”

“No.” She drew the word out slowly. He was rather near her now, close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough for him to pull her into his arms. She wasn’t afraid, although her insides were churning in a distinctly uncomfortable manner.

“Why do you want me to kiss you?” he said abruptly, his tone heavy with unasked questions.

She stared up at him, a hundred responses flying through her head. Not one of which came to her lips.

“When I kiss you, Gillian, really kiss you, if I kiss you, it shall be at a time of my own choosing.” His gaze bored into hers. Anger flared in his eyes. “For my own purposes and not because you need to prove anything. To me or to yourself.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “I don’t need—”

“You do,” he said sharply. “I can see it in your eyes. Whether you need to prove that you can be my wife without sharing the kind of affection you shared with your husband—”

“I can,” she snapped. “I can be the wife you want, in every way you want, and I’ve decided I will. We shall be married at once.”

“Shall we?” Sarcasm dripped from his words. “And thereby secure your inheritance of six hundred thousand pounds, eight ships, and a great deal of land in America. Do you realize, my lady, what the word is for a woman who gives herself to a man for money? Even so great a fortune as this?”

Shock shot through her. Her head snapped backward as if she’d been slapped. Without thinking, she drew her hand back and let it fly.

He caught it with a firm grasp just inches from his face and twisted it behind her, pulling her hard against him,

“Release me at once!” Her chest heaved, and she couldn’t catch her breath.

“No!” He held her tighter against him and stared into her eyes, remorse on his face. “I am sorry, Gillian. I never meant—”

“Don’t!” The word was little more than a sob, and she hated the weakness of the sound. She tried to wrench free, but he held her tight. She drew a deep breath and forced a cold tone to her voice. “Don’t waste your apology. I don’t want it and I won’t accept it. You as much as called me a wh—”

“Don’t say it! I was angry and—”

“And now
I’m
angry.” Her chin jerked up, and she glared.

“—and frustrated as well, and, I don’t know, tired perhaps of not knowing what you wanted of me.” His gaze searched her face. “And, I suppose, even hurt.” He released her hand but kept his arms around her. “Forgive me, Gillian.”

The tone in his voice called to something deep inside her, and she stilled.

“Please.” He drew her closer and brushed his lips across her forehead, holding her silently for long moments.

She knew she should pull away. He deserved as much. But she couldn’t seem to move, to leave his embrace. “Hurt? What do you mean?”

“It’s not easy to know a woman wants you for nothing more than your name. I daresay it’s nothing more than my own damnable pride and it didn’t seem to matter as much at first, but I don’t want to be only your means to a fortune.” His lips whispered along the side of her face to the line of her jaw.

“You don’t?” His touch was soothing and sensual, and her anger faded to something altogether different.

“I want more from you than that.” His lips moved lower on her neck.

Reason vanished, and she wanted more. She tilted her head back, the sensation of his mouth against her skin intoxicating. His caress was assured yet light and teasing, and delight shivered through her. Her eyes drifted closed. She could focus on nothing but his touch.

“Do you?” Her hands crept up his arms and she gripped the fabric of his coat.

“I do.” His tongue dipped into the hollow at the base of her neck and lower, to the valley between her breasts. One hand splayed across her back, strong and possessive. The other trailed lower across her derriere and up her side. Slowly, inevitably, until his fingertips grazed her breast through the fabric of her gown.

“What do you want from me, Richard?” she murmured His thumb rubbed across her nipple, and she gasped. She felt her bodice slip downward and cool air on her bare breasts. He cupped one in his hand, his mouth moving to claim it. Teeth and tongue teased and toyed. A sweet, awful ache gripped her, and she dug her nails into his arms, if only to keep herself standing on legs threatening to buckle beneath her. He turned his attention to her other breast and suckled until her mind fogged with desire.

“I want you to want me.”

He pushed her dress lower, gown and petticoat falling to puddle on the floor at her feet, and he sank to his knees before her. His lips never left her skin, and everywhere his mouth touched her flesh burned and her blood pounded and she yearned for more. His hands skimmed down her legs, over her stockings, and in some still lucid section of her mind, she noted how odd she must look in her slippers and stockings and nothing more. His hands moved up her legs to her inner thighs, long, slow caresses, and she held her breath, waiting for him to reach the throbbing between her legs. Wondering if she would die of longing before he did. Or of joy when he did.

He shifted, wrapping an arm around her, his fingers trailing up and down her buttocks. His tongue continued its exploration of the sensitive skin on her stomach. His other hand slid upwards. She was afraid to move. Afraid he’d stop. Afraid he wouldn’t.

He reached the curls between her legs, and his fingers slipped past, over her, slick and hot. She moaned with pleasure. He rubbed back and forth, to and fro with a gentle, easy pressure until she thought she’d swoon from the sheer bliss of it. His fingers slipped inside her, and she tensed at the invasion and the exquisite sensations.

She gazed down at his dark head and tunneled her fingers through his hair.

“I do want you.” She could barely whisper the words, her voice so low she didn’t know if he could hear. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to. And didn’t care.

He drew back and stared up at her. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.” She nodded and slid to her knees in front of him. Her gaze locked with his. She pushed his jacket over his shoulders, and he shrugged it off. “I am.” She yanked impatiently at his cravat. His hands cupped her bottom and drew her toward him. She struggled to pull his shirt free until he released her and jerked it over his head. “Quite certain.” His chest was broad, his muscles defined, emphasized by a smattering of dark hair that drifted lower to disappear in his trousers.

She splayed her hands across his chest and reveled in the look of him and the feel of his bare skin beneath her fingers. He sucked in a shocked breath and grabbed her hand, pulling it to his lips. Her gaze met and locked with his.

Perhaps it was a moment of utter clarity. Perhaps complete insanity. Or it might have been his gesture, simple yet touching, but something inside her, long held in check or merely ignored, shattered. At once her arms were around him and she rained kisses on his neck, his throat, his shoulders. He tasted of heat and spice and aching desire. He pulled her tighter against him, and they tumbled down onto the carpet. She ran her fingers over the sleek, smooth planes of his back, and lower, sliding her hands beneath the fabric of his trousers. She needed to touch every part of him, taste every bit of him.
And needed his touch in return.

He rolled away to discard his trousers. Irrational loss gripped her, and she started to sit up. Then he was back, gathering her into his arms, and she knew at this moment that she wanted nothing more than to mold her body to his, merge her heat with his and welcome him into her. His erection pushed hard against her stomach. She entwined her legs with his, and they rolled together until she lay on top of him.

He slid her down along the stretch of his body until her legs straddled his and the hot, solid length of him nudged between her legs.

His touch broke through her haze of desire, and she hesitated.

“Gillian?”

She pushed herself up and stared down into his eyes, glazed with passion and touched with concern. “Richard, I... well, I’m not sure how to say this, but I... that is I haven’t...”

“Since your husband,” he said quietly.

She nodded.

“Do you want to stop?”

A warm glow that had nothing to do with her body and everything to do with her heart flooded through her. She smiled slowly. “The last thing I want to do is stop. I just wanted you to know. If s been rather a long time, and I’m not terribly experienced and—”

He laughed. “I do appreciate the warning.”

“I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”

He pulled her against him and rolled over, reversing their positions. His eyes burned with desire, and he gazed into hers as if he was looking for something elusive. A question unspoken. An answer unknown. “I could never be disappointed with you.”

He guided himself into her with a care that caught at her heart. She was tight but wet and wanting. He slid slowly, firmly into her, his gaze never leaving hers. His body joined with hers as if they were made each with the other in mind. Merged with hers as if they were half of the same whole. Filled hers as if she were empty and waiting for him alone.

And still his gaze locked with hers.

He started to move, a gentle rhythm, undemanding. She tightened around him, matched her movements to his, and wrapped her legs around his waist. He plunged deeper, and she met his thrusts with her own, and they moved as one. Hot tension curled within her, urging her on. The muscles of his back strained under her hands, and she clung to him as though holding on for her very life. Her very soul.

Faster and harder they moved, and she knew nothing of the world surrounding them save the feel of him inside her and the spiraling ache that encompassed her very being. She marveled that she would know such pleasure and endure and still want more. Need more. And when she knew she would surely die from sheer rapture, a taut flame of bliss within her exploded. She cried out, and her body jerked beneath his and shook in waves of delicious release. He buried his head in the crook of her neck and groaned, his body shuddering in unison with her own.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours, and they lay still, wrapped in each other’s arms, savoring what had passed between them. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to lose the shelter of his embrace. She could feel his heart thudding in his chest next to hers and her own beating in harmony.

At long last he raised his head and smiled down at her. “I was not disappointed.”

“Nor was I.” She grinned. “Although I did note the carpet is a bit threadbare and not at all comfortable and should be replaced as soon as possible.”

He laughed. Then, slowly, with a reluctance that matched her own, he withdrew from her and got to his feet. She sat up and studied him. She was not embarrassed at all to be sitting on her floor in nothing but her stockings, wondering precisely when she had lost her slippers. Not the tiniest bit abashed at staring at a naked man in her parlor. Of course she was well used to appreciating nude figures in finely carved marble for their artistic merits. And Richard was rather magnificent without his clothing and extremely artistic. He reached out his hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet and into his arms. And much, much warmer than marble.

His body pressed against hers. She rested her head on his chest and sent a silent prayer of gratitude for this man at the top of her list.

A knock sounded on the parlor door.

“My lady, if you are no longer in need of my services I should like to retire for the evening,” Wilkins’s annoyed voice called through the door.

A hot blush burned her cheeks. “Good Lord, what must he be thinking?”

Richard raised a brow. “All manner of scandalous things, I should think.” He kissed her lightly on her forehead. “Each and every one of them quite true.”

“Madame?” Wilkins said impatiently.

“Retire, Wilkins,” Richard called. “Lady Gillian has no further need of you tonight.”

Wilkins muttered something Gillian couldn’t make out. She considered that for the best.

“I, too, should take my leave.” Richard stepped away from her, glanced around, located his clothes, and began to dress.

She picked up her gown and slipped it over her head, wondering at the odd and glorious turn the night had taken. She didn’t regret it. Not at all.

He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned back against him. His voice was soft against her ear. “I should go.”

“Should you?”

He nibbled at the curve where her shoulder met her neck. “If I don’t leave now, I shall never leave.”

Shivers coursed through her at his touch. “Then never leave.”

“One day.” He paused. “Perhaps.”

She sighed with contentment. “One day.”

He released her and she turned to say good-bye, but he was already at the door.

“Gillian.” He nodded, gave her a strange, remote smile, then pulled the doors open and vanished. The outer door opened and closed, and she was alone.