Chapter Ten
“We’re here, miss.”
The carriage slowed, and Eliza’s heart accelerated to a pace that could not possibly be healthy. She had been clutching her reticule so tightly for the past hour that her fingers ached, and now that they had actually arrived, she found she could not move.
The property materialised through the carriage window like something from a dream. A modest manor house, handsome rather than grand, set back from a tree-lined drive. Rose gardens. A fountain. The kind of quiet, elegant retreat that a duke might maintain for purposes he did not wish to advertise.
Purposes like this one.
I am about to become a man’s mistress, Eliza thought, and the word felt strange in her mind, too harsh, too sordid for what William had described.
But that was what she was doing, wasn’t it?
Entering a man’s private residence, alone, to engage in intimacies that properly belonged only within marriage.
Her mother would weep.
Her aunt would have an apoplexy.
And yet here she was, stepping out of the carriage on trembling legs, following the silent footman up the gravel path toward a door that represented the point of no return.
The interior was warm and tastefully appointed, far more welcoming than she had expected. Fresh flowers on a hall table. Afternoon light streaming through tall windows. The smell of beeswax and something floral, as though the house had been prepared specifically for her arrival.
It had been, she realised. He had done this for her.
“Miss Hayfield.”
William appeared at the top of the stairs, and her breath caught at the sight of him.
He was dressed informally, no coat, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his cravat loosened in a way that seemed almost obscene after weeks of seeing him in perfect evening dress.
He looked younger like this. More human. More dangerous.
He descended the stairs with that easy grace that characterised everything he did, and when he reached her, he took her hands in his without preamble. “You are here,” he said, as though the fact still surprised him.
“So it appears.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
His thumbs traced circles on the backs of her hands, small movements that sent shivers up her arms. “Are you frightened?”
“Terrified.”
“Good.” His lips curved. “If you weren’t frightened, I would worry you didn’t understand what we’re about to do.”
“I understand.” She met his eyes, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “I understand, and I’m here anyway.”
Something shifted in his expression. The careful restraint she had seen in the garden, in the carriage, in every encounter they’d shared, it was still there, but thinner now. Straining at the edges.
“Come with me,” he said.
He led her up the stairs, down a corridor hung with landscapes and botanical prints, to a door at the far end. The bedroom beyond was large and sun-drenched, dominated by a massive four-poster bed draped in cream silk.
Eliza’s mouth went dry.
“I am not going to ravish you the moment we cross the threshold,” William said, amusement threading through his voice.
“You seem remarkably certain that the thought crossed my mind.”
“It crossed your mind.”
“It did not.”
“It did.”
Her flush deepened. “How do you—”
“I know women.” He raised her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her palm. “I know the ones who truly have no knowledge of pleasure, and I know the ones who have educated themselves through fiction. You, my dear Eliza, have definitely done your reading.”
“The books are… inadequate preparation,” she admitted.
“They always are.” He was moving closer now, crowding her gently backwards until her shoulders touched the bedpost. “Books can tell you what happens, but they cannot prepare you for how it feels. For the way your skin comes alive when someone touches you with intent. For the way your body responds without conscious thought.” His voice dropped.
“For the overwhelming reality of being wanted.”
His hand came up to cup her face, tilting it toward his.
“I want you, Eliza. I have wanted you since the moment you looked away from me in that ballroom. And today…” His thumb traced her lower lip, and she felt the touch everywhere. “I am going to show you exactly what that means.”
He kissed her.
It began softly, a gentle press of lips, almost chaste in its tenderness. But the tenderness was a deception. Beneath it, she could feel his hunger, held in check by an iron will that she suspected was costing him dearly.
Her hands found his shoulders, gripping the fine linen of his shirt. He was so warm beneath the fabric. So solid. So real.
“Slowly,” he murmured against her mouth. “We have hours. I want to savour every moment.”
Hours.
The word sent a shiver through her body.
His hands moved to the fastenings of her pelisse, undoing them with practised ease. The garment slid from her shoulders and pooled at her feet, leaving her in her day dress, a modest gown of pale yellow muslin that suddenly felt far too thin.
“Better,” he said, his eyes moving over her with obvious appreciation. “Though still too many layers. May I?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
He turned her gently, presenting her back to him, and began working at the buttons of her gown. Each one he released was a small surrender, another barrier removed, another step toward the vulnerability she both craved and feared.
“You’re trembling,” he observed.
“I’m nervous.”
“I know.” His lips brushed the nape of her neck, and she gasped. “But nervousness is not the only thing you are feeling.”
The gown loosened and slipped forward. She caught it instinctively, pressing the fabric to her chest, suddenly aware of how exposed she was, her back bare to the afternoon light, her chemise the only remaining barrier.
“Don’t hide from me.” His voice was soft but commanding. “Not here. Not today. I want to see you, Eliza. All of you.”
Slowly, she let the gown fall.
It pooled at her feet in a puddle of yellow muslin, leaving her standing in nothing but her chemise, stays, and stockings. She had never been this undressed in front of anyone, not since childhood, not since she was old enough to understand modesty.
She felt naked.
She felt alive.
William moved around her, his eyes taking in every detail with an intensity that made her skin prickle. He was looking at her the way a collector might look at a masterpiece, with reverence, with hunger, with the desperate need to possess.
“You are,” he said slowly, “the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
“I’m not beautiful.”
“You are to me.” He reached out and traced the line of her collarbone with one finger, watching the shiver that followed his touch. “You are everything I never knew I wanted. And I am going to spend the rest of this afternoon proving it to you.”
He kissed her again, deeper this time, his hands settling at her waist and drawing her against him.
Through the thin fabric of her chemise, she could feel the heat of his body, the solid planes of his chest, the strength of his arms, the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressing against her belly.
That was new.
She had read about this, the physical manifestation of male arousal, but reading was nothing compared to feeling. He was hard against her, urgent and demanding, and instead of frightening her, the knowledge that she had done this to him sent a bolt of heady power through her body.
“Eliza.” Her name was a groan against her lips. “I need you to tell me if anything is too much. If anything frightens you or hurts you or—”
“Show me,” she whispered. “Stop talking and show me.”
Something feral flickered in his eyes.
He guided her back toward the bed, his mouth never leaving hers. When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, she fell, and he followed, covering her body with his, bracing himself on his forearms to keep from crushing her.
The weight of him was extraordinary. The press of his body against hers, the heat radiating through layers of fabric, the way he seemed to surround her completely, it was overwhelming in the best possible way.
“Your stays,” he murmured. “May I?”
“Yes.”
He worked at the lacings with expert fingers, loosening the garment until she could breathe freely for the first time since she’d dressed that morning.
When he finally pulled the stays away and discarded them, she was left in nothing but her chemise, thin cotton that hid nothing, that clung to curves she had never thought much about but that William seemed to find fascinating.
“Goodness,” he breathed, staring down at her. “Do you have any idea…”
He bent his head and mouthed at her breast through the fabric.
The sensation was electric. Even through the cotton, she could feel the heat of his mouth, the gentle suction, the devastating expertise of his tongue circling her nipple until it peaked and hardened against the damp fabric.
“Oh.” The sound that escaped her was somewhere between a gasp and a moan. “William.”
“I know.” He moved to her other breast, lavishing it with the same attention. “I know, love. Just feel it.”
She was feeling it. Every nerve in her body was alight with sensation, centred on the places where his mouth worked and radiating outward in waves of pleasure. She had not known, had never imagined, that her breasts could be so sensitive. That simple touch could produce such devastating effects.
Her hips moved of their own accord, pressing upward against him, seeking friction she did not consciously understand but that her body craved instinctively.
“Not yet.” His voice was strained. “Patience. I promised to take my time, and I intend to keep that promise.”
“I don’t want patience.”
“I know what you want.” He lifted his head, and his grey eyes were dark with desire. “I know exactly what your body is begging for. And I’m going to give it to you. But first…” He pressed a kiss to her sternum, then lower, to her belly. “First, I want to learn you. Every inch. Every response.”