Chapter 9 #3
“Don’t want you! Don’t want you?” He marched forward, forcing her to back up until she came up against the door. “I go to sleep wanting you, Giselle. I wake up wanting you. I sit in my lawyer’s office unable to think of anything but you, ma chérie, and how very much I want you!”
Her heart pounded as she realized he meant what he was saying. She had assumed he was toying with her or that perhaps he even thought it would be amusing to take her to bed. She had not for one moment believed he had this . . . this powerful an urge for her.
His face now full of frustration, he planted his hands against the door on either side of her.
“Why do you think I didn’t want to dance with you?
You’re dressed like . . . like some Greek goddess of old, and I knew I’d never be able to keep my hands off you the rest of the night if I got the chance to hold you in my arms for the space of one . . . damned . . . dance!”
She could not breathe, could not think. He was staring at her like Zeus coveting a maiden, and suddenly she just wanted to have him touch her again as he had that day in the park.
Then she remembered what he had said that day. Without stopping to think, she leaned up to kiss his mouth.
He jerked back. “What the bloody hell are you doing?”
“When we were in the park, you told me that the next time we kissed, I would have to be the one doing the kissing. So . . .”
He closed his eyes, as if to shut her out. Then he leaned in and growled, “God help us both,” before giving her a kiss so hot and devouring that she thought for certain she would melt down the door. Indeed, her legs were so shaky, she had to loop her arms about his neck to stay on her feet.
Meanwhile, the force of his kisses made her want to crow her delight, to exult in the power she seemed to have over him, at least in this. His tongue took her mouth boldly, demandingly, tempting her to slide hers between his lips. Thus, she did.
He groaned low in his throat, his mouth laying waste to all her vows to resist him. His hands swept her ribs as if seeking entrance to her very soul, and she ran hers down the front of his chest before slipping them inside his coat just to have less layers between his body and her fingers.
Lord, he had a fine physique. There seemed to be not a morsel of fat on his very firm waist, or none she could feel through his starched linen, anyway.
“Mon petit chou, I could eat you up,” he whispered against her lips, nibbling them, then lavishing kisses upon her cheeks and lower to her neck until at last he was scattering them along the upper swells of her breasts.
Before she could react, he tugged her gown off her right shoulder enough to expose her right corset cup, which he then drew down to bare her chemise.
His breath came in heavy staccato gasps, mirroring hers as he tugged her chemise ties loose, finally revealing her bare breast for his devouring gaze.
Why was she not stopping him? Why did his dark glances make her heart turn over and her will melt like butter?
His eyes lit up. “Happy birthday to me,” he murmured, before pressing a kiss to the slope of her breast, making her want to tell him More, please, more.
Still, she felt duty-bound to protest. “Heath, you should not—”
“Just this once let me taste you, sweeting,” he said hoarsely. Then, without waiting for her to protest again, he bent his head to seize her nipple in his mouth.
She gasped. “Oh, Dieu, aide-moi!” How enticing was this? The more he sucked and laved her nipple with his tongue, the more she wanted him to continue. His mouth felt as hot upon her as the fire building in her belly.
Then he dragged down the other side of her gown so he could plunder her other breast with his hand, teasing that nipple between thumb and forefinger and kneading her breast with warm, tender sweeps of his fingers.
Her eyes slid closed. She thought she might explode with her need to have him keep doing what he was doing. The pleasure of it stunned her. How could it feel so very wonderful?
When he paused in his sucking, she lifted one hand to slide her fingers into his hair, gripping his head to keep him there. He obliged her by changing breasts to close his mouth around her other nipple while his left hand fondled her right breast, already dampened by his mouth.
“We . . . should . . . stop,” she managed to choke out, despite the mad frenzy of her pulse.
He muttered, “We should” against her breast, although he gave the lie to it when he kissed his way back up to her lips. But instead of taking her mouth again, he angled his lower half against her below.
She caught her breath. He had an impressively thick verge. She wished she dared touch it, but she knew enough to know that was unwise. Still, when he undulated against her, she sorely wanted to.
Then he rasped against her lips, “This is what you do to me, mon coeur. This is what I keep under strict control around you.”
“Not so strict at present,” she whispered.
“No. But I fought to do so.” His mouth toyed with hers, making her body thrum from tip to toe. “Never accuse me again of not wanting you. I want you most desperately.”
“You want my body in your bed,” she murmured as she felt a strange warming sensation where he was pressed against her. “That is not all I am.”
“I’m aware.” He drew away from her, and then, with a sigh, tied her chemise with surprising care before restoring the clothing he had disordered. “I’m more aware than even you could possibly realize.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, her heart in her throat.
Suddenly, she felt the handle of the door turn, and terror struck her.
“Damn it, move,” he whispered, then grabbed the handle to open the door in such a way that she was behind it.
“Madame Bernard,” he said, a hint of surprise in his tone. But he quickly seemed to adjust. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I came looking for Giselle’s reticule, but though I have searched this room over, I have not found it.”
“She left it with me, of course,” her mother said. “I wonder that you didn’t notice, monsieur.”
He headed out the door, pulling the door shut behind him. “Surely you realize that men don’t notice such things as their fiancées’ reticules. Why, even Giselle couldn’t remember where she’d left it.”
Must he make her sound like an idiote to her own mother? She made a vulgar gesture at him through the door.
Meanwhile, Heath went on. “We were in here earlier speaking to an old friend from Verdun who then asked her to dance, so she thought she might have left it in here. I came to check while she went to check the ladies’ retiring room. She said she’d meet us in front.”
Their voices began to trail off down the hall, but not before she heard Maman ask, “Then why was the door closed?”
She had to strain to hear Heathbrook’s answer. “Do you think I wanted people to see me crawling about the floor on my hands and knees to look for a reticule? I would be the laughingstock of Society.”
As her mother’s chuckle wafted back to her, she sank against the wall. Lord, but how smoothly that man could lie when he had to.
She would have found that more disturbing if he had not been doing it to protect her reputation. Or rather, to protect her from her mother’s disapproval. That seemed to say he cared for her.
But if so, why only show it when he was kissing and caressing her in secret?
No, that was not fair. He had also entertained her throughout the procession and had been kind to Maman in many ways. He had even defended her cousin when Sir Percy had maligned her.
To be honest, with every day that passed, Giselle had less and less idea of where she stood with him.
I go to sleep wanting you, Giselle. I wake up wanting you. I sit in my lawyer’s office unable to think of anything but you, ma chérie, and how very much I want you!
The thrill that coursed through her made her roll her eyes at herself. In that, at least, she knew where she stood. He’d made that perfectly clear tonight.
But in everything else he confused her exceedingly, and that gave her pause.
Notwithstanding his struggles to gain custody of his brothers, an Englishman like him held all the power .
. . especially in England. She could not afford to be lulled into complacency with the Earl of Heathbrook until she knew what he was about.
Very well, she would simply have to keep her feelings for him safely locked away until she knew what he was up to .
. . or not up to, since he certainly was not up to marriage.
She could be friendly— they had been friends of a fashion before, after all—but she must proceed more cautiously when he started to flirt.
And the next time he said such luscious sentiments and gave her such passionate kisses?
She would hold his feet to the fire until he confessed why he continued to toy with her.