Chapter Twelve
She flew into her rooms, flinging wide the door, anticipation thumping in her heart. She wanted this man. It was silly, girlish, daring to want a man she barely knew. But he was kind and honorable. She knew that in her bones.
And he is infatuated with me.
She stood, stock still, her gaze on the square patch of hall carpet, and willed him to appear.
She closed her eyes and, in her enchantment, saw him before her.
Tall and sturdy, a bulwark against the winds and misfortunes of life, a magnificent man who appealed to every one of her senses.
Silver and gold, indelibly etched on her mind as a jewel of a man.
Yes, she wanted him. He was gentleman enough to care for her reputation. He was enchanted enough to accept her invitation.
And if he doesn’t come?
Sorrow pierced her like an arrow to her chest. Well, then, if he did not come, he was kind enough to ignore her impulsiveness and save her face. They could be friends, if not lovers.
Certainly, there was that.
But in a second, there he was, standing at her door, not crossing unless she would still take him.
Joy flashed through her as she strode forward, her fists clenched on his formal black frockcoat, to lead him inside.
He walked toward her, his handsome face that of a boy who asks for nothing in this world but kindness. “If you have changed your mind—”
“Non.” She pulled him toward her.
He came…like a sleepwalker, but shut the door behind him with a foot to the wood. In the next moment, she was in his arms once more. He had her up against him, her height no issue, as he had her up off her feet.
His lips on hers, she clasped him tightly to her, his shoulders, his strength, the silk of his hair through her fingers all she cared to have.
He carried her to the settee near the fireplace and sat her in his lap. She melted into him, kissing his jaw, undoing his cravat.
He cupped her cheek. “Look at me.”
She shook her head. He’d tell her to stop. Give her some reason to deny what they should be doing here.
“Sweetheart, we—”
She gulped back her sorrow that he’d leave. “You know how to kiss.”
“What?” He laughed.
She brushed her lips on his. “You are so good at kissing.”
He lifted her chin. “Darling, this art takes two. And you know how to kiss.”
“Do I?” That shocked her.
His eyes were faceted in shades of curiosity and desire. “You know how to thrill me with your lips.”
She sank closer to him. “I am so very glad.”
“And you deserve to be kissed.”
“Well,” she said with a wide-eyed glance.
“And often,” he added.
“By you.” She nuzzled his cheek.
“Only by me.”
“Oh, yes. No other. Let me,” she begged him, “let me have more of you.”
He pulled away, the arch of his brows and the caution in his eyes showing her his thought that she meant more. “I… No, we shouldn’t.”
She dropped little kisses to the firm curve of his lips.
With one hand, she learned the contours of his biceps and his corded torso.
She’d had her husband…or rather, he had had her.
Often and in moods more of dominance and possession rather than the tenderness or love.
She’d had other lovers, briefly, as a means to slake desire.
With none had she found more than physical fulfillment.
With this man, she knew she would have more, give more, find more than she had with any man. “Oh, Clive, we should.”
He sucked in a breath and shook his head. “Giselle. Soft and sweet. It suits you. All of you.”
“And you are Clive. Darling, daring Clive who knows how to kiss a lady.”
“Ah, Giselle, my lovely. I know how to kiss you.”
“Then do not stop.” She put her lips to his. “Never stop.”
He held her away from him, his gray eyes full of reluctance. The gentleman again came forth, and she loved him for it. “You are certain?”
“Never more so.”
He put her to the settee, got to his feet, and turned to scoop her into his arms, then marched through to her bedroom.
He stood her by the bed and turned her away from him.
In the hushed silence of the night, the music from the ballroom drifting up and curling around her euphoria, he worked on her gown and put it to a chair.
Then her stays, but he left her in her chemise.
Then he spun her toward him.
She held the muslin up with one hand to her chest. “Don’t think.”
“No.” He plucked pins from her coiffure.
“There is no logic here. Not tonight. My God,” he crooned as he threaded his fingers through the wealth of her hair and spread it over her bare shoulders.
“You are a beautiful dream. Giselle.” He murmured her name as he drew her near him and took her lips in a savage kiss. “Giselle.”
As he broke away, she lifted her arms and let fall the cotton shift.
He gasped.
She smiled to herself. She was not shy, had not been since her husband had made her parade her bare skin before him. But this, with this man, was so different. He gazed upon her nakedness not as prurient display, but in his soft gray desire stood a reverence that took her breath away.
He unbuttoned his frockcoat and waistcoat and shrugged out of them, allowing them to grace the floor, no time, no need to pick them up.
His shirt came over his head. Suddenly it was her turn to gasp. Her turn to admire. Her turn to kiss the wealth before her. His clavicle. His breastbone. His nipple. The crisp hair that began on his chest and wended down beneath his breeches.
His hands were atop hers, unbuttoning, pushing away what separated them. He toed off his shoes and sat her on the bed. Naked save for his socks, he removed her slippers. With care, he undid her garters and slid down her stockings.
In a moment, he opened wide her legs and looked at the junction of her thighs. His fingers he wrapped around her ankles, slid them up her calves to part her aching folds and lace his fingers in her nether hair. “Giselle. You are so lovely.”
She arched, giving him wider access. Her pulse racing, her body wet and needy.
He was so reverent, tears rose to her eyes. But this was no occasion for sadness. It was a time for earthy smiles and sighs.
She sank back on the bed, one elbow to the mattress, one hand leading him to cover her.
He was hot, heavy and so gentle, a kiss made of sunlight and midnight desire, a caress of wind and fire. She had never imagined a man could be so indescribably sweet in bed.
He dragged her up beneath him and spread her out, her arms wide, his long legs between her own.
He dipped his head to inhale the lavender scent she’d put in her hair.
Then he kissed her shoulder, the hollow of her throat, and the center between her breasts.
He laved her nipple, sucking her to a point and letting her go to admire his handiwork.
Grinning, he put his lips around it again and sucked her up so slowly, so powerfully, that she groaned at his ardor.
Between her thighs, she felt his hardened cock. He nestled himself against her hungry lips and probed for the center of her. He was all flame and power as he took himself in hand and painted her wet folds with his tip as if he rendered her his art, he the master artist, she his canvas.
Yearning to blossom in the color and form he saw, she bucked up. “More,” she told him, as she had on the balcony. “Much more.”
Her eyes closed in the ecstasy he produced, she thrashed her head as he separated her flesh and stroked her to wild readiness. “Please,” she urged him when she could take no more without him.
And he, good man, obliged her. He took himself in hand and, with excruciating slowness, sank bit by bit into the fullness of her.
“Ohh,” was all she could say as she lay quite still, not daring to move for the brilliance that blinded her.
“I know,” he gritted out, nipping her ear. “You are delicious, my darling.”
She grinned at him. “Not half as wonderful as you, my dear man.”
“Let’s test that, shall we?”
She dug her nails into the smooth, taut skin of his back. “Start now. I need you.”
The essence of his loving was a blur of thrust and parry, a bliss of ravishing sweetness that rocked her.
He took her mouth as he took her body in bold, long strokes, endlessly, in mindless madness.
And when he touched a certain part of her with his fingers, she exploded with delight.
Her pulsing result sang through her, and his loud, long groan of climax was her finest reward.
She lay there, panting, as he rolled to his side.
He turned her to him and brushed the tendrils of hair from her lips. “You are spectacular, my darling.”
“I did so little.”
He cupped her cheek and had her look at him. “You wanted me, and I you.” He took her lips in a sultry kiss. “That is the charm.”
“I’ve never had that.”
He used his thumb to outline her lips. “Your husband did not take care with you.”
“Not like you.” She stared at him and told the truth. “Not like this. I have never felt so…”
“Wanted.”
“Filled. Complete.”
His eyes blazed with triumph. “Neither have I.”
“Your wife did not like…?”
“The marriage bed?” He shook his head. “No.”
“Were you good together? Otherwise?”
He ran his hand down her arm to her waist to rest on her belly.
“She didn’t like disarray. The muddle. The mess, she called it.
She feared for pregnancy and complained.
She would come to me and offer herself up like a sacrifice, claiming her duty was to give me an heir.
We…learned to go about this mating thing as an event.
She did get pregnant just once. The result is the delightful Bella. ”
He was so distressed, his brows knitted together, his magnificent mouth strained, and she could not see him so sorrowful. She put her hand atop his and led him to cup her. There, she led his fingers inside her. “I love you inside me. Have me again.”
He dropped a quick kiss to the tip of her breast. “I would not want to make you hate me.”
“You could never.”
“Or make you sore and uncomfortable.”