Chapter Twenty-Five
An Intimate Encounter Proves Uncomfortable
Upon returning from the stables, Richard retired to his study, foregoing tea to meet his secretary for several hours of intense work.
When the door closed behind the young man, he sighed in relief and put aside the last stack of papers with his signature and seal.
Adam had carefully studied the details of the Merrick holdings and already offered several excellent suggestions for improvements and future investments.
The primary concern of their visit was organizing a much-needed refurbishment of the hunting lodge in Kilbride. No longer necessary as a bachelor’s establishment, it would make a comfortable residence on the many visits Richard hoped to make to Ireland.
He rubbed his temples absently; the tightness there could easily develop into a bout of headache.
His dinner of trout lay untouched on the corner of the desk.
Stretching, he walked over to the sideboard and poured a glass of whiskey.
By now, his mother and sister would have left for tonight’s soirée and he was eager to take advantage of Fiona’s invitation.
Several times today, he had caught her looking at him in a way that fired his blood.
Tossing down his drink, he opened the study door and heard faint music.
When he entered the music room, Fiona sat at the piano, studying a transcription.
She wore a flowing muslin gown that reminded him of the abundant forget-me-nots in the gardens of Seldon, and a simple blue ribbon pulled her black hair back at the nape.
She glanced up at him. A wash of pink suffused her cheeks, and all the women of his acquaintance seemed bland in comparison.
Richard wanted to pull out the ribbon and bury his face in her loose, dark curls.
He could have listened to his inner warnings against remaining alone with her, but he took the chair beside the piano instead.
“Play something from memory, a piece that moves you.”
She didn’t choose a tour-de-force piece to impress him, but an introspective, deceptively simple blend of melody and interpretation. He exhaled softly as the last notes lingered in the air.
“My favorite Bach,” she sighed. “The Prelude in C minor.”
“I’m unfamiliar with Bach, but the haunting simplicity suits my mood tonight.”
She smiled. “Mine, too.”
The pieces after that varied in length and texture, but each held a depth of feeling that kept him spellbound.
Occasionally, he offered suggestions or recommended a change and she listened intently to his advice.
The clock chimed, a late hour, but he was completely caught up in the music and her company.
“More?” she murmured.
He nodded, desiring to hold on to the intimacy of their connection as long as possible.
After some thought, she bent over the keyboard and began the opening chords of Mozart’s Lacrimosa in D minor, one of his favorite pieces.
“Ah. The Requiem. Mozart, at death’s door…composing the music he never dreamed would serve as his funeral.” For the first time since he was a boy, Richard wished he could play again.
The final progression reverberated in the room, so solemn, so full of longing and pathos, and luminescent in its despair. He was silent, too full of emotion to speak.
She lifted her hands from the keys and flexed her fingers. “The most meaningful music always holds sadness. Sorrow is intimate, yet universally understood.” She arched her back, stretching. The languid movement was innocently sensual.
He rose from his chair. “I have overtaxed you.”
“It’s wonderful to play for someone who loves music as you do.”
The faltering fire cast a faint glow across her features. Leave now, reason warned.
“This is a superb piano.” She reverently closed the Brentwood’s fallboard. “Why did you keep it in your possession when no one plays?”
“It seemed a shame to sell such a fine instrument.” He stepped behind her and glided his hands across her tight shoulders. Careful, prudence urged. “I’ve ordered a smaller one for the library as a wedding gift.”
Her creamy skin gleamed in the firelight, and he could see the curves of her breasts clearly outlined by the thin muslin gown. His cock stirred against the placket of his doeskin breeches.
“Will you cloister me there? To keep from causing you trouble?” she bantered.
He had a sudden image of Fiona half undressed, sitting at the piano and playing in the soft candlelight, rosy and lambent from his lovemaking.
“So we might have many nights just like this,” he said unsteadily.
He bent and placed a heated kiss on the nape of her neck. Her breath caught, and she slipped from the bench and stood before him. They were so close that his recalcitrant rod pulsed and stiffened.
“I should go.” But she didn’t move. She was looking at his mouth, and the pink tip of her tongue ran across her lower lip.
At first, he thought she might protest when he pulled her close, but after a moment of resistance, she melted against him.
It was like setting a match to tinder. His blood pounded as the scent of lilies of the valley and rosemary rose from her skin.
Inhaling deeply, he buried his face in the silken heat of her neck and shoulder.
When he raised his head, it was to plunder the honeyed depths of her mouth.
As she responded, seeking his tongue, something close to a growl rumbled from his chest. She shuddered against him.
Christ, he was aroused. His cock leaked against his smalls.
The entire evening had been foreplay for this moment.
“Fiona.” It was a low question, primal in its intensity. Her bodice rose and fell rapidly. She stared up at him, her dark pupils huge, and laid a tentative hand on his chest. He covered it with his own, pressing it to his heart, which was galloping like a herd of wild horses.
“Do you know what you do to me?” he asked, his voice hoarser than he intended. “Every time we are close, I want you and I’ve no defense for it.”
“Nor I,” she whispered. “I desire. It is becoming an addiction to want your kisses, to be near you, to have my hands on you.”
“Take what you want, Fiona.” He unbuttoned his waistcoat with unsteady hands.
She lifted the thin lawn shirt from the waistband of his breeches and slid her cool hands up his heated skin, caressing his chest. His nipples became rock hard.
When he pulled away, there was no disguising the blatant arousal tenting his pants, but he was past the point of caring.
Groaning, he attacked the tightly fitting coat.
“Damn Maxwell,” he grunted. The sound of ripping fabric registered vaguely amid the roaring in his ears as he shook it off and pulled at his starched cravat.
When he finished, the wool superfine and ruined neckcloth littered the rug, along with the silk waistcoat.
His shirt was open to the waist, minus several buttons.
He could not remember undressing in such haste, ever. He was acting like a madman.
Fiona murmured a breathy approval, and he exhaled a ragged gasp of satisfaction as her fingertips grazed the crests of his taut nipples; his swollen member twitched involuntarily.
“Fiona,” he hissed, closing his eyes. It was almost more than he could bear and he seized her hands, cradling them in his own. She made a soft sound of protest, but he buried his heated face against her open palms. “I am desperate for you.”
She freed her hands and reached up to throw her arms around his neck. “A rúnsearc, mo cheol, come to me.”
He pulled her close and covered the swell of her breasts with kisses, cupping them through the thin muslin.
“So lovely.” The pink buds crested and clung to the delicate fabric of her gown, and he nipped them softly as she moaned, her head falling back.
The blood thundered through his veins, but he managed to hold on to reason.
Until she moved her hips, seeking and finding the length of his straining cock.
They gasped in unison, locking mouths violently, and without thinking, he swung her up into his arms and strode to the plush sofa.
Richard lowered her to the cushions, fully intending to tear open the placket of his breeches and take her then and there.
His hand was reaching for the buttons when he froze.
She gazed up at him mistily, caught up in arousal and ardor—but also something that shook him to the core.
Trust. She trusted him. Not just with her virginity, but as her one lover and partner in intimacy.
Possibly for the first time, he realized the responsibility he held in his hands.
His future wife deserved better than a desperate deflowerment on the music room sofa.
Ignoring his aching need, he bent and rearranged her gown with unsteady fingers. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly; he could feel her heart beating like a captured bird.
“Fiona, forgive me. I should have never let things go this far.”
“B-but…I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong?”
“No. I behaved abominably, and this debacle is entirely my fault. It won’t happen again.”
Embarrassment replaced confusion; she sat up, pale as linen. “Oh, God. What was I thinking to behave so wantonly?”
“No—I—” He lifted a hand, then let it fall. He had used his experience to seduce her, then lost all control. There were no words for his behavior.
“Was this a test of my modesty? Did I fail by responding so easily?”
“Fiona—”
“Or did you simply want to prove that I can’t resist your advances?” she asked icily. “Aren’t I a bit inexperienced for your tastes? Surely, Mrs. Davenport is better suited to your needs.”
“If you were more experienced, you would know you are mistaken,” he said, stung.
“I realize I have few options other than marriage to you, Lord Richard. But when we do marry, please take all the mistresses you want and leave me alone.”
“Rest assured, I won’t disturb you with my distasteful attentions.
” The words were rash, and he regretted them the moment he spoke.
Something had gone terribly awry. He had given the impression that he didn’t care, which was the opposite of what he wanted.
She was pushing him away, perhaps for good, and it was as if some horrible chasm loomed before him.
He realized there was no guarding his heart this time, no barricade of reserve left to erect. He was in love with her. And the pain that his love might burn unrequited was excruciating.
With a stiff bow in her direction, he picked up his fallen clothes and left the room.