Chapter 9 #2
As she fumbled about the closure, he had her stays unbound and the chemise over her head before removing his own shirt. Her gaze fixed on the view before her, and her fingers went still. “I never knew men of flesh and blood looked like you.”
And he understood at once something he’d liked about her from the very beginning.
This woman didn’t see him as a duke.
But as a man.
It mattered.
The suspicion entered that he might more than like this woman.
Even if she didn’t know how to operate the closure of a man’s trousers.
They would be here all day—completely, frantically unsatisfied—if he left it up to her.
So, he did the only sensible thing and brushed her fingers aside before finishing the job himself.
Then he gathered her in his arms and laid them both down onto the blanket.
Stretched beneath him, golden curls tumbled about her, she was a vision. Only her stockings and slippers remained. Today, they must go. He would never forgive himself if he went another day without seeing those perfect legs unclad.
Stockings flung away, possibly into a tree, he skimmed up the long length of her legs with fingertips and tongue, savoring the taste of her, the sun illuminating pale skin through the dappled canopy above.
Her fingers wove through his hair, tugging at him until they met eye to eye, him above and she below.
“I can’t wait a second longer,” she whispered. “I ache for you.”
Her arms wrapped around his neck, and her legs around his waist, snugging her body against his, her taut nipples poking against his chest, her sex slick against his cock.
Her eyes drifted shut, and she moaned, liquid and languorous, as she moved against his hard length. Her movement a tease…a promise.
He couldn’t take anymore. He took his length in hand and guided himself to the entrance of her sweet, wet quim.
I ache for you.
He knew he must take his time. With one long, possessive stroke he took her, watching her face wince with a tiny shard of pain, then blossom with pleasure, as he filled her, inch by deliberate inch.
She gasped. She groaned. He remained steady, even when she began moving against him with unpracticed movements that drove him wild for her.
Sensing that she’d adjusted to him, he found a rhythm with her.
Her inhalations deepened and her groans lengthened and her grip tightened on his arse, her legs splaying wider, demanding more.
Her honest craving for him lacked artifice or pretense.
The sincerity of it snuck past his defenses and touched a place inside him he didn’t want to exist. He and Amelia, together, wasn’t a flat, soulless coupling.
It held depth and dimension. It might be something worth holding onto.
His weight supported by a forearm to the side of her head, his other hand reached beneath her bottom and lifted so her hips now angled up.
“There’s more of you?” she asked on a gasp, even as a wicked smile tipped about her mouth.
He chuckled, continuing to deliver stroke after intentioned stroke.
“Oh, Tristan,” she cried out, and gratification soared through him.
His mouth found the crook of her neck and licked. A long, animal moan escaped her. His tongue trailed lower, hungry for the taste of her—lavender…salt…woman.
He reached beneath her shoulders and brought her so her breasts met his mouth. The woman had the most perfect, little breasts. He couldn’t get enough as he kissed, licked, and sucked them, encouraging her to become her wildest self beneath him. She’d gone mindless with abandon.
His, the primal beast within him demanded…claimed.
Her eyes squeezed shut, and she bit her bottom lip between her teeth, her movements becoming more focused. She was seeking release.
He could give it to her like this, but there was another way he wanted to experience her.
Using what little willpower that yet existed inside him, he pulled from her. Her eyes flew open. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
As he moved down her body, he smiled up at her. “You’ll see.”
She looked not one bit convinced.
She would be.
Her mouth parted with both alarm and curiosity. “Tristan, are you about to—”
He stroked up the length of her slit with his tongue and stole the question from her mouth.
Two fingers entered her, and his tongue found the nub of her sex.
He took himself in hand and stroked his hard length as he worked her body.
She was already growing wild beneath him as her long, perfect legs wrapped around his head. This wouldn’t take long.
She inhaled a sharp gasp and tensed beneath him, but his tongue and fingers didn’t let up. Then she broke, her sex quivering delicately beneath and around him. A few more strokes of his manhood and climax washed over him, sending him over the edge as an animal roar poured forth.
Heart pounding, pleasure coursing through his veins with each sated thud, he rolled off her, taking one of her legs with him, holding it close as he collapsed onto his back.
Together, they lay, blanket at their backs, staring up at the blue sky peeking through the tree canopy.
A light breeze cooling the sweat off their skin, this was bliss, pure and simple.
Through the sound of leaves rustling, birds trilling, and stream flowing came her voice. “I once thought a man’s buttocks couldn’t possibly be as muscular and taut as that of the statue of David.”
“And now?”
“I was wrong.”
He chuckled, the sound a deep, warm rumble that invited her in.
Her serious gaze met his. “I’m not sure of who I am with you. It’s not who I thought I was.”
That made two of them.
He wasn’t sure if it was a comfort.
Amelia reclaimed her leg from Tristan and sat up. She needed to think, and that ability was severely hampered when this man was touching her.
They’d done it…again.
Once could be called a mistake.
But twice?
Twice had the beginnings of a pattern.
He rolled onto his side. His eyes held an unknown quality. It made her nervous.
“We should dress.” She reached for her chemise to prove her point.
“Why?” he asked.
That why was the spark of irritation she needed. But, really, sometimes the man could be such a duke. “Before we’re discovered,” she said, as if it needed saying.
He rolled onto his back, one arm draped across his face, utterly, unabashedly unbothered.
Oh, the naked sight of him.
She couldn’t look at the naked sight of him.
Not if she was to keep her hands off him.
“You could stay,” he muttered, one eye peeking up at her.
“Stay?”
“Stay.”
“In Italy?”
That wasn’t part of her plan.
At all.
“With me.”
Oh.
“Stay…in Italy…with you.” The words refused to sink into her brain. “As what? Your mistress?”
He sat up and reached for his trousers. Her hoyden side wished he wouldn’t, but her sensible side sensed the coming conversation called for a few articles of clothing.
She slipped the chemise over her head. Clad in his trousers, he faced her.
She tried to keep her gaze on his, but his bare chest was calling out to be gazed upon and adored.
“You could be my mistress if you like,” he said.
Outrage should be tearing through her, but…it wasn’t.
“You could cultivate a bohemian reputation,” he continued. “You’re nearly there if half the gossip about your family is true.”
“You listen to gossip?”
He snorted. “Listen might be a stretch.”
Of a sudden, she understood something. “I don’t want to be your mistress.”
Her refusal changed nothing between them. If anything, the look in his eyes told her he’d expected as much.
“Would you prefer to be my wife?”
Before the import of the question could sink in, he continued, “You were a virgin, and I’ve come to my senses.”
“I rather think it was our senses that got us carried away.”
His gaze remained serious. “No word play,” he growled.
She supposed he was right. How quickly a frolic in the woods could turn into serious business. She reached for her stays, and he for his shirt.
A wife. The wife of a duke…
Wasn’t that what she wanted? Wouldn’t it assure her place in society?
But like this? It seemed so…
Shabby.
She shook her head. “Not your wife.”
He ran an exasperated hand through his hair. “Then what do you want, woman?”
She inhaled and reached for her sketchbook. A slip of paper slid from the back pages. “I’ve had a plan, and it’s finally worked,” she said and handed the paper over to him.
He gave the contents a quick scan. Contents she’d already memorized. At last, all of her efforts to reclaim her and her siblings’ place in society had borne fruit. They were now in possession of the most exclusive invitation of the London Season: the Marchioness of Sutton’s season-end ball.
Tristan let the paper fall onto the stretch of blanket between them. He looked wholly flummoxed. “You’re returning to England to attend a ball?”
“It’s more than a ball.” She slightly resented having to explain this to a man who would never understand. “I’ve been working on securing this invitation for nearly a year.” She didn’t sound happy about it. In fact, she might sound wretched.
He snorted.
It was all she needed. “You truly have no appreciation for a woman’s place in the world, do you?” She reached for her stockings and decided against them, instead stuffing them into her valise.
“How do you mean?”
“With the Windermere reputation in shreds, how do you expect Delilah and Juliet to secure marriage proposals from gentlemen of good families?”
He was regarding her with absolute incredulity. “And what about you?” he demanded. “You’ve just received a proposal of marriage from a gentleman of good family—a duke, moreover—and you’ve refused it.”
“That is different.”
“How so?”
“It simply is.”
Tristan shot to his feet, clearly exasperated. He pointed at her. “You care too much what people think.”
Now it was her shooting to her feet. “And you care too little.”
They stood facing each other, half-undressed, like adversaries.
“Not all of us can live in infamy ever after, Your Grace,” she spat.
“But, Amelia,” he said, his tone softening and possibly thawing something inside her, “it’s the only way to live happily. What do you need the opinion of a few dried-up crones for? You’re an artist.”
Her gaze skittered away and settled unseeing on the stream. “I’m a lady who dabbles in watercolor.”
“You’re an artist,” he repeated, “and somewhere beneath the empty words you’re spouting at me, you know it. I’ve seen her.” A beat. “I’ve seen you. Don’t give up on yourself just yet. Tear up the invitation. Live in infamy with me.”
And she saw they weren’t adversaries; they never had been.
They were twice lovers, and that was all they ever could be, for he was asking of her something she couldn’t give.
She must reenter society. For herself. For her family. She couldn’t miss the opportunity.
Yet, still, he persisted. He might even be begging. “You don’t seem to understand something about yourself that I do. You’re a passionate woman, Amelia. Tell me, when has society ever had any use for a passionate woman? Just ask Lady Caroline Lamb how she’s faring.”
He jerked on the remainder of his clothes. Amelia did the same at a slower pace, half a watchful eye on him.
Just before he stalked away, he asked, “When do you leave?”
“In two days.” That would give them enough time to pack their belongings and make it back to England a fortnight or so before Lady Sutton’s ball.
His jaw clenched, and he nodded before pivoting on his heel.
Amelia had no choice but to watch until he disappeared from view.
She grabbed the invitation and read it for the dozenth time.
She should feel a happy sense of accomplishment.
She’d worked every single one of her friends, relatives, and even acquaintances to assist her in the procurement of this very thing.
Yet, instead, she felt very close to wretched.
She gathered her things and began making her way back to Delilah and Juliet, but soon found they weren’t where she’d left them. So, she kept walking and trying to rid her mind of the last half hour of her life.
Easier said than done.
Ahead, a flurry of movement caught her eye. Juliet emerged from a small grove of olive trees looking quite unlike herself. Gone was her usual observant placidity. In its place was a face like thunder.
“Juliet!” she called out, alarmed.
Juliet’s head whipped around. Her eyes were suspiciously shiny. Were those tears? Amelia had never seen Juliet cry, not even as a small child.
“Is something the matter?” she asked, closing the distance between them and taking her cousin’s hand.
Before Juliet could reply, another figure emerged from the woods. Kilmuir. He looked slightly confused and no small bit bewildered.
The alarm inside Amelia grew in volume. “Juliet,” she began, gingerly, “did he do something to you?”
A laugh that sounded suspiciously bitter emerged from Juliet. “He did nothing. As always, Kilmuir is the picture of gentlemanliness.”
Amelia chose her next words carefully. “It’s that you look terribly upset.”
A bright smile spread across Juliet’s face that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I am perfectly, perfectly well. Never better, in fact.”
Her gaze swept over Amelia as if only now seeing her. Her eyebrows crinkled together. Amelia must look an absolute frumpled mess. She’d never been all that adept at dressing herself. “And you, cousin, are you well?”
Amelia returned the smile Juliet had given her. The one that wouldn’t quite reach her eyes. “Perfectly so.”
And on they walked in silence, each in their own thoughts.
Amelia felt she was, in fact, doing perfectly well for a woman who’d tupped a duke twice, then refused his proposal of marriage. A duke who made her body come alive in inconceivable ways.
The weight of Lady Sutton’s invitation sat heavy in her bag.
Amelia couldn’t lose sight of what was important.
She’d attained her goal at last in securing that invitation.
She’d ensured that she, Archie, Delilah, and Juliet would be received into the best society before Mama and Papa returned from Samarkand.
She couldn’t miss this opportunity. To do so would be letting her family down, even if they didn’t seem to appreciate it.
Also, she would be letting herself down if she didn’t follow through. She’d worked most scrupulously for this. Lady Sutton’s ball would be her victory lap.
She must do what was right.
Even if her body screamed in protest all the way back to England.