Chapter 6
ALARM BELLS—NO, ear-piercing sirens!—went off in Brigham’s head.
This was not how things were supposed to progress. Mellie was not to be at the steward’s cottage. She was not meant to remove her cloak and her—gulp—gloves. And she, most definitely, positively, unquestionably was not destined to place her bare, naked hands upon him in such an intimate manner.
Naked… His mind spiraled to more than just her hands being bared before him.
Oh, dear blessed Father above.
Brigham was losing the thin thread of composure he’d held on to since her arrival in the doorway.
Her breath was like a warm summer breeze on his neck.
She was so close, a lock of her long, reddish blonde hair fell upon his shoulder.
Blast it all, but he had to halt himself from reaching up and bringing it to his nose.
Would she smell of strawberries? Vanilla?
Perhaps she’d have the scent of blueblossoms clinging to her as she had on their wedding day.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, concentrating on why he was at the steward’s cottage in the first place.
Yes, he remembered. His mind was foggy with lust, but he did, indeed, remember his purpose herein.
He’d come in search of a private space where he did not have to fear interruption for the specific purpose of thinking through all he was to say to Mellie when next they met.
He’d thought to outline a conversation where he would confess his misdeeds and beg her forgiveness, then and only then, would they speak of the past and decide, as rational adults, if they had a future together or if their time to be a true wedded couple had come and gone while both were preoccupied with other things.
Certainly, Mellie’s ailing mother had been far more important than their marriage, though Brigham knew his work in London hadn’t been imperative enough to keep him from his husbandly responsibilities.
Bloody hell. He never should have abandoned her for his lofty aspirations among the ton. It had taken him five long years for this truth to break through his thick head.
…and now it could be too late.
What had they been speaking of before she placed her hands on his shoulders?
Mr. Briars, his steward.
For some reason, speaking of the servant in this moment—as Mellie’s hands moved from his upper arms, back to his shoulders, and down toward his chest—did not seem a wise choice.
Or even a discussion Brigham capable of.
He exhaled, his breath leaving him in more of a moan than a sigh as his eyes drifted closed.
They were alone and over a mile from Hockcliffe manor and two miles from town. No one was close enough to give this private moment an ounce of propriety. But then again, he and Mellie were husband and wife and were not in need of a chaperone.
Her hands drifted lower still, nearly reaching his stomach as they glided over his jacket.
“You are very tense, my lord.” With his eyes still closed, he could feel her lips by his ear.
“Brig-ham,” he hissed and immediately sucked in his breath as something grazed his neck, directly behind his ear.
“Yes.” The single word quaked on her lips. “Brigham.
At his name on her lips and her closeness apparent, his manhood stiffened and became so rigid he fairly ached with agony.
He’d sought out this cottage to gain some distance from her, not be confronted by his own lack of restraint when it came to his wife.
Brigham leapt from his seat, his action causing Mellie to take a step back as he sidestepped the chair and turned to face her. Her hands were still held in midair, and her face paled with fright before color blossomed in her cheeks.
He’d wanted to speak with her, not cause her embarrassment or fright.
Reaching forward, he took her hand in both of his, marveling at how small it was nestled in his. How warm her skin was. How smooth her fingers were.
Suddenly, she was against him, yet he hadn’t moved. The straining bulge in his trousers pressed insistently to her belly.
Mellie had been the one to close the distance between them.
He was all hard contours to her soft curves.
There was no chance of Brigham hiding his arousal from her, and the knowing look in her green eyes told him she knew exactly what he was thinking.
“My apologies, Mellie,” he whispered low. “I have been under immense strain lately and my body—it is not—“
She pulled her hand from his grasp, and Brigham feared he’d insulted her, caused her humiliation no woman should experience at the hands of her husband, yet she did not step away nor flee the cottage.
Instead, she lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck…and pulled his lips to hers.
It was heaven, yet burned like hellfire.
It was Brigham’s salvation, but would surely result in his being thrown into purgatory.
This was what he’d been longing for all these years; however, never did he delude himself into thinking he deserved it.
Melloria, his first and only love, pressed close; their mouths locked together as each struggled to hold on.
Her ripe mouth anchored them together as she pressed her body to his, claiming him as hers.
Though Brigham had always known he belonged to her and only her.
Her lips were lush and sweet, and he wrapped his arms about her waist to keep their mouths locked.
As if sensing his heightened arousal, she ran her fingers up his neck and tangled them in his curling hair, holding his face to hers.
Her tight grasp on him was unnecessary, as he had no urge to let her go, no desire to allow her to slip away from him.
Tentatively, Brigham’s hands moved lower until they cupped her bottom, and he gently kneaded her rounded derriere gently as they deepened their kiss.
He wanted this moment to last forever—if only to delay the inevitable.
To avoid having to confess his failures in London and his regrets about having abandoned her all these years.
His remorse for being gone when her mother passed away.
And the heart of the matter, that he was too foolish to realize the import of it all until after everything he’d worked so hard for had been crushed.
All these years he’d spent countless hours away from home.
And when he was in residence at Hockcliffe, he’d droned on and on about his reform bills, the important men he’d met with, and the topics of discussion labored over during their meetings.
All things that had been significant to Brigham, while Mellie suffered neglect at the hands of her estranged husband.
In response to his wayward thoughts, Brigham pulled her closer still, his knees touching hers through layers and layers of skirting and underpinnings, yet urging her thighs to spread.
Oh, how he fought the impulse to dispel with the material that separated them, that kept his eyes and hands from the rounded flare of her hips and her from touching the corded muscle of his chest and shoulders.
They’d been wedded for years, but Brigham had never tasted the nape of her neck, never allowed his fingers to trail up her bare legs, and certainly never thought he’d ever have the right to have his lips upon hers.
Only in his dreams did he touch her like this—with reverence, adoration, and awe.
Brigham breathed deeply through his nose so as not to displace their mouths, yet the action served only to fill his entire being with her scent. So uniquely Mellie.
Not that of a berry or vanilla or even blueblossoms. No, the scent that clung to her was as if every flower, every blossom, every sweetness came together just for her; to blend as one to make her extraordinary fragrance.
It was not something carried by any local mercantile, nor the creation of the esteemed Floris of London.
Certainly, if he could bottle Mellie’s essence and sell the concoction, they would never see a day without immense wealth.
Brigham scoffed, breaking his lips from hers. He would never, ever allow another to get close enough to bask in her fragrance.
She was his. Had always been meant for him. Surely, he’d been created specifically to love and cherish her. The way their bodies melded together now was evidence of that fact.
They both panted hard as Brigham looked down into the green eyes that’d haunted his nights since before he recognized their connection. But what did he see therein?