Chapter Eleven
“You’re humming.”
William looked up from the correspondence he had been pretending to read, the same letter for the past twenty minutes, the words swimming meaninglessly before his eyes, and found Worthington standing in the doorway of his study with an expression of profound suspicion.
“I do not hum.”
“You were absolutely humming. Some sort of country tune, I think. Possibly a folk song about milkmaids.” Worthington crossed the room and dropped into the chair across from William’s desk. “You’ve been in a disgustingly good mood for the past fortnight. It’s unsettling.”
“I apologise for my contentment. I shall endeavour to be more miserable in your presence.”
“I would appreciate that.” Worthington studied him with narrowed eyes. “This is about her, isn’t it? The Hayfield girl.”
William set down the letter he had not been reading. There was no point in denial. Worthington had known him too long, could read him too well, and would eventually pry the truth from him regardless.
“Her name is Eliza.”
“I know her name. What I don’t know is what’s happened to make you look like a cat who’s discovered the cream supply is infinite.” Worthington paused. “Actually, I suspect I do know. I simply hoped I was wrong.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“Good grief, Will.” Worthington ran a hand through his hair. “I thought you were going to be careful. Controlled. You were going to protect her reputation, remember? Keep things discreet?”
“I have been discreet.”
“You’ve been absent. You’ve missed three club nights, two dinner engagements, and Lord Prescott’s card party, which, I might add, you specifically told me you would attend.
Instead, you’ve been disappearing for hours at a time with no explanation, and when you do appear in society, you spend the entire evening watching Miss Hayfield like a hawk watching a particularly desirable field mouse. ”
William winced. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me? Yes. To the ton?” Worthington hesitated. “Not yet. But it will be, if you’re not more careful. People are already talking about the carriage incident. If they start to notice that your absences coincide with hers…”
“They won’t notice.”
“They will if you keep looking at her like she’s the only woman in any room you occupy.”
William had no response to that, because Worthington was right.
He had been looking at Eliza that way. He could not seem to stop.
Every time they were in the same space, every ball, every dinner party, every carefully orchestrated public encounter, his eyes found her without conscious thought.
He tracked her movements across crowded rooms. He noted every man who spoke to her, every hand that touched her arm, every smile she bestowed on anyone who was not him.
It was pathological. It was possessive. It was entirely unlike anything he had ever experienced.
And it was getting worse.
The arrangement had been in effect for two weeks.
Two weeks of stolen afternoons at his country property. Two weeks of teaching Eliza the landscape of her own pleasure. Two weeks of watching her transform from nervous innocent to passionate participant, her body awakening under his hands with a responsiveness that never failed to devastate him.
He had kept his word. Had not taken her virginity, had not compromised her ability to marry well when the arrangement ended. He had used his hands, his mouth, his considerable expertise to bring her to climax more times than he could count, and he had restrained himself from taking more.
It was killing him.
Not the physical restraint, though that was difficult enough, lying beside her after she shattered, his own body screaming for release he would not allow himself to take from her. No, what was killing him was something worse.
He was falling in love with her.
The realisation had crept up on him gradually, then struck with the force of a blow.
He loved watching her laugh. He loved the way she argued with him about books, about politics, about the proper care of ferns.
He loved the small sounds she made when he touched her, the way she said his name like a plea, the expression on her face when pleasure overtook her.
He loved her.
And that was a catastrophe of the highest order.
He had built his entire adult life around the conviction that love was a trap. That emotional attachment led to destruction. That the only way to survive was to take pleasure without permitting connection.
Eliza had shattered every one of those convictions.
She had looked at him with those brandy-brown eyes, had trusted him with her body and her secrets and her hope, and he had tumbled headlong into something he had sworn he would never feel.
This has to stop, he told himself, daily, hourly, every time he watched her dress after their encounters and felt the desperate urge to ask her to stay forever. You are going to hurt her. You need to end this before it’s too late.
But “too late” had come and gone weeks ago.
He was already lost.
***
She arrived at the property that afternoon wearing a dress the colour of spring leaves, her hair escaping its pins in the way he had come to adore. The sight of her stepping out of the carriage made his chest ache with a longing so fierce it bordered on physical pain.
“You’re staring,” she said, her smile teasing as she approached.
“I’m appreciating.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Staring implies poor manners. Appreciation is quite deliberate.” He caught her hands and drew her toward the house. “I have been counting the hours since I saw you last.”
“It’s been two days.”
“An eternity.”
She laughed, that warm, unguarded sound that he had become addicted to, and let him lead her inside.
They made it as far as the drawing room before he kissed her.
It was supposed to be a gentle greeting, a soft hello before they moved to more comfortable surroundings.
But the moment his lips touched hers, gentleness evaporated.
Two days of wanting her, two days of imagining her, two days of lying awake in his too-large bed wondering what she was doing, thinking, dreaming, all of it combusted into desperate hunger.
He backed her against the nearest wall, his hands framing her face, his mouth devouring hers with an intensity that should have frightened her.
It did not frighten her.
She met him kiss for kiss, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body arching against his with the confidence of a woman who had learned exactly what she wanted.
“William.” His name was a gasp against his lips. “The bedroom…”
“Too far.” He was already working at the buttons of her dress, his fingers clumsy with need. “I can’t, I need…”
“Here?” There was surprised delight in her voice. “In the drawing room?”
“Everywhere.” He finally freed enough buttons to push the dress from her shoulders, exposing the thin chemise beneath. “I want you everywhere. In every room of this house. Against every wall, on every surface, until there’s nowhere I can look without remembering what we’ve done there.”
Her breath caught. He felt it against his throat as he kissed his way down her neck, sucking at her pulse point, marking her in a place her clothes would hide but they would both know was there.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, William. Anything…”
He dropped to his knees before her.
She made a small sound of surprise, but he was already lifting her skirts, already pressing kisses to her stockinged thigh, already moving toward the place where he knew she was wet and aching for him.
“What are you…” She broke off with a gasp as his mouth found her through the thin fabric of her drawers. “Oh, goodness.”
“I want to taste you.” He tugged at the ribbon of her drawers, loosening them enough to bare her to his gaze. “I’ve been dreaming about this for days.”
He pressed a kiss to the soft skin of her inner thigh, so close to where she wanted him but not quite there. “May I?”
Her hand came down to rest on his head, fingers threading through his hair with trembling uncertainty.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He parted her with his fingers and lowered his mouth to her centre.
The taste of her, salt and sweet and utterly Eliza, flooded his senses. He groaned against her flesh, the sound vibrating through her body, and felt her knees buckle. His hands caught her hips, holding her steady against the wall as he began to explore.
He had done this before. Countless times, with countless women. He knew the techniques, the rhythms, the particular movements that produced the most intense results.
But this was different.
This was Eliza, his Eliza, coming apart on his tongue with broken cries and desperate fingers clutching at his hair. This was the woman he loved, discovering a new dimension of pleasure, trusting him with her body in the most intimate way possible.
He was never going to be able to let her go.
The knowledge crashed over him even as he worked her toward climax, circling, sucking, varying pressure and pace until she was shaking, gasping, begging incoherently for something she couldn’t name.
“Let go,” he murmured against her flesh. “I’ve got you. Fall for me, Eliza.”
She fell.
Her release was violent, her body convulsing, her voice breaking on his name in a way that made his own need almost unbearable. He worked her through it, gentling his touch as the waves subsided, until she was slumped against the wall, boneless and breathing hard.
He rose and caught her in his arms, carrying her to the settee and settling her in his lap. She was still trembling, aftershocks rippling through her body, her face pressed against his neck.
“That was…” She seemed unable to complete the sentence.
“Just the beginning.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “There’s so much more I want to show you.”
“I don’t think I can survive more.”
“You’d be surprised what you can survive.” His hand stroked down her back, soothing and possessive. “Your body is capable of extraordinary things. I intend to prove it to you. Repeatedly. Extensively.”
She laughed, that shaky post-pleasure sound he had come to crave. “You’re insatiable.”