Chapter Thirty-One
The Resolution Fails Completely
He sounded unsure of the answer. A stifled sob caught in her throat, and she flew to him, throwing herself against his broad chest. “Yes…oh, yes.”
Recoiling from the force of her embrace, he froze for a moment, then held her at arm’s length. “Do you?” he asked in disbelief, his eyes searching hers. “Say it again.”
“I love you with my whole heart.”
With a deep, knotted sigh, he pulled her to him, whispering her name. She had forgotten to pin up her hair, a thing nearly as shocking as his bare feet, and he wound a skein of curls through his hand and brought them to his lips.
“So beautiful,” he murmured hoarsely. “It doesn’t matter if your father wants you back. I’ll be damned if I let you go again.”
His lips were ruthless and demanding at first, then his kisses deepened and lingered as if learning every curve and hollow of her mouth. Their breathing entwined until she could no longer say where his ended and hers began. She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing closer.
“Richard…mo chroí…I’ve been so miserable thinking I must leave.”
“When I heard your music, I thought I must be dreaming.” Kissing her fingers, he turned his face into her palm, the unshaven stubble rough against her skin. “What did you call me?’
“Mo chroí…my heart. Cushlamachree…vein of my heart. Acushla…my beloved. Asthore…my treasure. Mo ghrá…my darling—”
With a groan, he caught her mouth in another searing kiss, and his lips trailed fire across her collarbone to the hollow behind her ear. “Mo chroí…Acushla…tell me again that you love me…”
“I love you, Richard Anthony Creighton Merrick, ninth Earl of—”
“Minx,” he growled softly, nuzzling her earlobe. “Are you making light of my title?”
“Did you try to impress my father with all your names?” It was difficult to be coherent with the aching deep between her thighs pulsing so insistently.
Unbidden, her eyes dropped to the opening of his shirt.
The thin cotton parted to reveal a broad expanse of sculpted muscles, dusted with dark hair that tapered to his navel.
He followed her eyes, his nostrils flaring. “Yes…I want you to touch me—anywhere…everywhere.”
She lifted her hand, trailing her fingertips over the curve of his pectorals, then the shallow between. She traced the light whorls of hair, bypassing his taut nipples.
“Is this how it’s done?”
His heart thumped rapidly under her hand. “I would say so.”
She chuckled softly. “And here?” Her palm skimmed the dusky crests and he shuddered. “Are they as sensitive as mine?”
“God, yes.”
Richard’s buff breeches clung to his thighs, outlining the blatant evidence of his arousal.
His eyes glittered as she slid her hand over the tense ridges of his abdomen.
She made a small sound of satisfaction. When her fingers brushed the waistband of his breeches, he sucked in a sharp breath, stilling her hand.
“This is madness,” he muttered, bending to kiss the column of her throat. “We are in the music room, for God’s sake. Anyone might come and…Christ, Fiona, what is that scent you wear?”
Her heart sang with happiness, and she reached up to smooth back the dark locks of hair falling over his forehead.
“Lilies of the valley, lavender, and rosemary, mo chuisle. From an apothecary hidden deep in Dublin and made to bewilder men—”
“Laughing at me again, my love? You should, because I’m behaving like a lunatic.”
She giggled softly. Taking his face in her hands, Fiona stood on her toes and kissed him. His tongue slipped between her lips and thrust hotly, tangling with hers, then exploring her mouth intimately. She sighed, letting her damp femininity settle against the column of his thigh.
“Fiona…” he groaned.
Her wrapper bunched around her hips, and the delicate nightgown she wore clung to the moist heat of her sex, which throbbed unbearably.
She had to get closer to assuage the persistent ache.
Tentatively, she slid her cleft against his muscled leg.
Her breath hitched with pleasure and he jerked, breathing harshly.
She slipped her hands under the heavy silk of his dressing gown and pulled the lawn shirt from his breeches. “I want to know you, chomh ládir, an-álainn,” she whispered. “To see everything, every part of you, Richard.”
“Not yet, love…” His eyes dropped to her breasts, which rose and fell rapidly under his heavy-lidded gaze. He reached for the tie of her turquoise wrapper, pulling it through long, elegant fingers. Five satin-covered buttons held the garment closed.
She shivered in anticipation. The gold-and-onyx signet ring on his hand gleamed in the dim light as he went to the first button.
When he paused, his handsome face a study of conflicting emotions, she knew his scruples had won.
His hands fell to his sides, fisted so tightly that the knuckles gleamed white, and he gently disentangled himself from her grasp.
“Fiona…my restraint is tenuous. I won’t seduce you when I’ve already cornered you into an engagement. One that we have no idea if I can convince your father to accept.”
She didn’t reply but looked him up and down, pressing her palm to her racing heart as if that could still its wild thumping. “I’m tired of you both deciding my future, Richard. And I’m at my wit’s end with your inconsistent conscience.”
“That stubborn look on your face scares the hell out of me, Fiona. I’m asking you to please go to your bedchamber now. I have only your best interests at heart. You don’t realize how easily things could get out of control.”
Enough was enough. “If I did this…” Fiona reached down and lightly traced the length of his arousal through his breeches. The iron-hard shaft seemed to leap under her touch. “…would I change your mind about sending me to my room, gra mochroí?”
“No,” he said through clenched jaws. “There will be a wedding. And then there will be a wedding night—oh God…Fiona…will you desist? I am not made of iron.” Roughly, he stilled her hand from its explorations.
“I think you surely must be,” she teased breathlessly.
“Fiona—”
“Let’s go to your chamber, Richard, and show me all about making love. I don’t want to wait until a wedding.”
“Believe me, sweeting, you demonstrate far more understanding than I gave you credit for…Fiona! For Heaven’s sake, stop!” He jerked away, his eyes stormy. “Do you imagine that you are playing with some boy from your conservatory?”
“At least I don’t flaunt a former mistress in front of my betrothed at a ball in her honor,” she flashed back.
In the next breath, he seized the front of the satin wrapper and jerked it apart, scattering buttons across the floor.
“You couldn’t listen, Fiona, and do what I asked, just for once, could you?”
She squeaked, attempting to gather the material together as it slipped off her shoulders. He froze, staring at the cambric nightgown underneath. It was sheer as cobwebs, with fine Irish lace worked into the sleeves and worthy of a princess.
“Good God,” he finally muttered.
She looked down. The transparent fabric clearly outlined her ivory breasts and worse, the rosy nipples had reacted to his intense stare by peaking to hard buds. Surely, the triangle of ebony hair at the juncture of her thighs was entirely visible.
His struggle to overcome his arousal was palpable, and she was determined to conquer him more than ever. This ridiculous chase and retreat had gone on too long. If they were to be parted, at least she would have something to remember. She’d know he was completely hers, if only for one night.
Her hands dropped to the pearl buttons of her nightgown, unfastening the first two with unsteady fingers.
He swallowed visibly, and his hand hovered over the placket of his breeches.
As she reached for the last button, he closed his eyes, and his fingers closed around the outline of his arousal.
He ground out a muffled curse and looked at her with narrowed eyes, then shrugged loose his dressing robe so that it dropped to the floor.
The size of his jutting erection was impressive, even confined by the buff breeches. Her sense of triumph waned. Had she pushed too far? She backed toward the door, and his lips curved in a sardonic smile.
“Come, love—it’s too late for regrets.”
She looked at him, little ripples of desire dancing through her body. He would solve this mystery, this frustrating craving for something—probably, the elusive intercourse she had often wondered about. And she would bring her arrogant fiancé to heel.
But he had other ideas and scooped her up, depositing her on the settee.
“This is for looking at me like I’m a sweet to devour, darling…and for provoking me beyond measure.” He lifted the cambric nightgown over her hips.
She tried to wriggle away. “What are you doing?”
He dropped to his knees on the Aubusson carpet.
“This.” Cupping her bottom, he pulled her back toward him. And he lowered his dark head between her thighs.
“Richard, you wouldn’t!” She struggled to rise as his incendiary mouth nuzzled her inner thigh. “Oh, stop, Richard—you can’t do such a wicked thing—”
“I certainly can, and most emphatically will. And what is more, my headstrong pain in the arse, you will beg me to continue.”
His lips explored the sensitive flesh, trailing upward to trace the crease of her leg with his tongue. Her traitorous legs fell open of their own accord.
He paused, his warm breath hovering over her ebony curls. Panting, it was all she could do not to pull his mouth to her aching core.
But he skillfully skirted around the folds of her femininity, feathering lingering kisses everywhere but the place that she wanted him to touch most desperately.
She choked back a whimper of frustration.
“Are you asking me to continue, Fiona?”
His guttural tone told her that he too was barely in control. But all thought of victory vanished when he swirled his tongue over the cleft of her sex, then flicked it back and forth as the bud within blossomed and throbbed.