The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (23 page)

But he was faster, and he caught her by the wrist. “I don't find you repulsive.”

Her eyes flicked up as she dismissed this. “I may not have the kind of experience you do, but I know what is meant to go on between a husband and wife. And I know that we have not—”

“Iris,” he cut in, desperate to put a stop to this, “you're upsetting yourself.”

Her eyes blazed with icy fury as she yanked her hand away. “Don't patronize me!”

“I'm not.”

“You
are
.”

He was. Of course he was.

“Iris,” he began.

“Do you fancy men? Is that it?”

His mouth fell open, and he would have taken a breath, except it seemed his throat was no longer connected to his belly, which felt as if it had been punched.

“Because if you do—”

“No!” he practically howled. “How do you even know of such a thing?”

She gave him a flat stare, and he had the uncomfortable impression that she was trying to decide if she believed him. “I know someone,” she finally said.

“You
know
someone?”

“Well,
of
him,” she mumbled. “My cousin's brother.”

“I don't fancy men,” Richard said tightly.

“I rather wish you did,” she muttered, glancing off to the side. “At least it would explain—”

“Enough!” Richard roared. Dear God, how much was a man meant to endure? He did not fancy men, and he
did
desire his wife. Quite urgently, as a matter of fact. And if he were living anyone's life but his own, he would make sure she knew that, in every way possible.

He stepped in close. Close enough to make her uncomfortable. “You think I find you repulsive?”

“I-I don't know,” she whispered.

“Allow me to demonstrate.” He took her face in his hands and brought his lips down to hers, burning with all the torment in his heart. He'd spent the past week wanting her, imagining every delicious thing he was going to do with her once he could finally take her to his bed. It had been a week of denial, of torture, of punishing his body in the most primitive way possible, and he had reached his limit.

He might not be able to do everything he wanted, but by God, she would know the difference between desire and disdain.

His mouth plundered hers, sweeping, tasting, devouring. It was as if every moment of his life had coalesced into this one kiss, and if he broke contact, even for a moment, even to breathe, it would all disappear.

The bed
. It was all he could think, even though he knew it was a mistake. He had to get her to the bed. He had to feel her under him, to imprint himself upon her body.

She was his. She had to know that.

“Iris,” he groaned against her mouth. “My wife.”

He nudged her backward, and then he did it again, until she was edged up against the bed. She was so slender, such a wispy little thing, but she was kissing him back with a fire that threatened to consume them both.

No one else knew what lay beneath her placid surface. And no one else would, he vowed. She might give others her breathtaking smile, or even a taste of her sly, subtle wit, but
this . . .

This was his.

He brought his hands behind her, and then under her, cupping the delightful curve of her bottom. “You are perfect,” he said against her skin. “Perfect in my arms.”

Her only response was a heated moan, and with a stunningly quick motion, he lifted her skirt and jerked her up so that her hips were level against his. “Wrap your legs around me,” he commanded.

She did. It was nearly his undoing.

“Do you feel this?” he rasped, pressing his arousal hard against her.

“Yes,” she said desperately.

“Do you? Do you really?”

He could feel her nodding against him, but he did not ease the pressure until she whispered once again, “Yes.”

“Do not
ever
accuse me of not wanting you.”

She pulled back. Not her hips; he was holding her far too tightly for that. But she pulled back her head, just far enough so that he was forced to look into her eyes.

Blue. So pale but so blue. And so full of confusion.

“You will find many things of which to accuse me,” he growled, “but this will never be one of them.”

He tumbled them both to the bed, reveling in the soft gasp that flew from her lips as he came down onto her.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered, tasting the salty skin below her ear.

“You are exquisite,” he murmured, running his tongue down the arched length of her throat.

His teeth found the scalloped edge of her bodice, and his hands made short work of it, yanking it down until he could see the surprisingly luscious shape of her breasts through the thin silk of her chemise. He cupped them, plumping her in his hands, and he shuddered with desire.

“You are mine,” he told her, and he bent down to take one bud in his mouth.

He kissed her through silk, and then when that wasn't enough he kissed her skin, hot satisfaction rolling through him when he saw the cherry blush of her nipple.

“You're not pale here,” he said, his tongue dancing a naughty circle around the tip.

She gasped his name, but he only chuckled. “You're so pale,” he said huskily, trailing his hand up the length of her leg. “It was the first thing I noticed about you. Your hair . . .”

He took one thick lock and tickled it across her breastbone.

“Your eyes . . .”

He leaned down, brushing his lips against her temple.

“Your skin . . .”

This last was said with a moan, because her skin, all milky white and smooth, was bared beneath him, in stark contrast to the luscious pink tip of her breast.

“What color are you here, I wonder?” he murmured, trailing his fingers up the length of her thigh. She quivered beneath him, let out a gasp of pleasure as he ran one digit along the intimate crease where her leg met her hip.

“What are you doing to me?” she whispered.

He grinned wolfishly. “I'm making love to you.” Then, spurred by some devilish bit of humor, he leaned down until his lips were warm at her ear. “I should have thought it was obvious.”

She let out a surprised chuckle, and he could not help but grin at her expression. “I can't believe I just laughed,” she said, one hand covering her mouth.

“And why not?” he drawled. “This is meant to be enjoyable.”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“
I'm
enjoying myself.”

Iris let out another astonished giggle.

“Are you?” he murmured.

She nodded.

He pretended to consider this. “I'm not convinced.”

Her brows rose. “You're not?”

He shook his head slowly. “You're wearing far too many clothes to be truly enjoying yourself.”

Her chin tucked in as she glanced down at herself. Her gown had been pushed down and pulled up in all the best ways, and she looked thoroughly decadent.

He liked her this way, he realized. He did not want her on a pedestal. He wanted her rumpled and earthy, pinned beneath him and flushed with pleasure. He brought his lips back to her ear. “It gets better.”

Her dress had already been undone; it required little work to divest her of the garment completely. “This has to go, too,” he said, grasping the hem of her chemise.

“But you—”

“Are completely dressed, I know,” he said with a low chuckle. “We'll have to do something about that, too.” He sat up, still straddling her, and stripped off his coat and cravat. His eyes never left her face. He saw her tongue dart out to moisten her lips, and then he saw her catch her lower lip between her teeth, as if she was nervous about something, or maybe just trying to reach a decision.

“Tell me what you want,” he commanded.

Her eyes went from his torso to his face and then back again, and Richard sucked in his breath as her trembling fingers reached for the buttons on his waistcoat.

“I want to see you,” she whispered.

Every nerve in his body was screaming for him to rip off the last of his clothing, but he forced himself to remain still, unmoving except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He was mesmerized by her small hands, shaking as they fumbled with his buttons. It was taking her so long; she could barely force the disc through the buttonhole.

“I'm sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I—”

His hand covered hers. “Don't apologize.”

“But—”

“
Don't
. . .”

She looked up.

He tried to smile. “. . . apologize.”

Together they managed the buttons, and Richard was soon pulling his shirt over his head.

“You're beautiful,” she whispered. “I've never seen a man before. Not like this.”

“I should hope not,” he tried to joke, but then her fingers came to rest on his chest, and it felt as if his breath were being sucked from his body. “What you do to me,” he gasped, and he came back down to cover her, hoping she had not noticed that he had not removed his breeches.

He could not. He'd stepped far too close to the fire as it was. Somewhere in the feverish recesses of his mind he knew that if he removed this last barrier, he would not survive it.

He would take her. Make her his in truth.

And that he could not do.

Not yet.

But nor could he leave her. She was temptation itself, lying beneath him, but that wasn't what kept him rooted to the spot.

He could not take what he so desperately desired, but he could give it to her.

She deserved that.

And something inside him said that maybe, just maybe, her pleasure would be almost as good as his own.

He rolled to his side, pulling her with him as he captured her mouth in another burning kiss. Her hands were in his hair, then on his back, and as he kissed his way down her neck, he felt her pulse beating beneath her skin. She was so aroused, maybe even as much as he was. She might be a virgin, but by God he was going to give her pleasure.

His hands dipped lower, gently parting her legs before resting over her mound. She stiffened, but he was patient, and after a moment of gently stroking she relaxed enough for him to dip into her folds.

“Shhhh,” he crooned, bringing his face back to hers. “Let me do this for you.”

She gave a jerky nod, even though he was fairly certain she had no idea what “this” was. It was humbling, the trust she'd placed in him, and he forced from his mind all the reasons he did not deserve it.

He showered her face with gentle kisses as his fingers worked their magic at her core. She felt so good, all warm and wet and womanly. He was nearly to bursting, but he ignored it, kissing her deeply before whispering, “Does this feel good?”

She nodded again, her eyes almost bewildered with desire.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” she whispered, and he made his way down her body, pausing at each breast before descending even farther.

“Richard?” Her voice was panicky, barely more than breath.

“Trust me,” he murmured, the words sinking into the soft skin of her belly.

Her hands grasped the bedsheets beside her, but she did not halt his sensual progress.

He kissed her then, right at the very heart of her, softly making love with his lips and tongue. His hands spread over her thighs, holding them in place, holding her open for his erotic invasion.

She began to squirm beneath him, and he kissed her harder, sliding a finger inside and groaning with desire as he felt her muscles draw him in. He had to pause for a moment just to take a steadying breath. When he kissed her again, she strained against him, her hips coming off the bed with the force of her need.

“I'm not letting you go,” he said, and he had no idea if she heard him. He pushed her legs farther apart, and he kissed and sucked and tickled until she cried out his name and shattered beneath him.

And still he drank of her, holding himself to her until she came back down to earth.

“Richard,” she gasped, her hand frantically batting against the bed. “Richard . . .”

He slid himself up along her body, hovering above her so that he could gaze upon her passion-glazed face.

“Why did you do that?” she whispered.

He gave her a lazy smile. “Didn't you like it?”

“Yes, but . . .” She blinked rapidly, clearly at a loss for words.

He settled beside her, kissing her ear. “Was it enjoyable?”

Her chest rose and fell several times before she answered, “It was, but you—”

“I found it very enjoyable,” he cut in. And he did, even if he was now frustrated as hell.

“But you . . . you . . .” She touched the waist of his breeches. He did not know if her passion had left her beyond words or if she was simply too embarrassed to speak of their intimacies.

“Shhhh.” He put a finger to her lips. He didn't want to talk about it.

He didn't even want to think about it.

He held her until she fell asleep. And then he slipped from the bed and staggered back to his own room.

He could not fall asleep in her bed. He did not trust himself to awaken in her arms.

I
RIS AWAKENED A
bit before supper, just as she always did—slowly and with apathetic eyelids. She felt marvelously languorous, her limbs heavy with sleep and something more . . . something sensual and lovely. She found herself rubbing her feet against the sheets, wondering if they had ever felt so silky. The air was sweet, like fresh flowers and something else, something earthy and lush. She breathed in deeply, her lungs filling as she rolled onto her side and burrowed her face into her pillow. She did not think she had ever slept so well. She felt—

Her eyes snapped open.

Richard
.

She glanced about the room, her head twitching back and forth. Where was he?