Chapter 7 #3
Verity burst into fresh tears, though these were now ones of relief, her shoulders shaking as she clutched the handkerchief.
“Lucien,” she sobbed, her voice muffled against the fabric.
“You cannot know what it means to hear such words. The scorn of those I thought friends, it has been a torment, a daily crucifixion of the spirit. It has been difficult to live with that treatment. To be defended as you are doing now … it is more than I dared hope.”
Lucien’s heart ached at her distress, and without thinking, he drew her into his arms, enfolding her slight form against him. She melted into him, her head resting against his chest.
“Hush now,” he whispered, “No one shall harm you under this roof. You are safe here at Blackfen. Let the past remain buried in Somerset’s mud.”
“Thank you,” Verity whispered through the storm of emotion, her voice as fragile as glass. “It has all felt so terrible. For so long, I felt like a ghost haunting my own life. Thank you for your kindness, for believing me when so many turned away.”
Lucien held her closer, his arms a protective cage around her trembling form. He murmured soft assurances into the crown of her hair, inhaling the intoxicating blend of her. “Let the tears come, but know they wash away the past. You are not alone in this any longer.”
As her sobs gradually subsided into quiet hiccups, Lucien continued to stroke her back in slow, rhythmic circles.
The warmth of the fire seeped into them both, but a different heat began to build between their bodies.
That magnetic pull, the one that had drawn him to her in the snow that morning, took hold once more.
What had started as innocent comfort shifted imperceptibly, his hand lingering a fraction too long at the small of her back. She lifted her face to his, her green eyes still glistening with unshed tears, her lips parted in a way that sent a jolt through him.
Without conscious thought, he lowered his head, capturing her mouth in a kiss. She responded by kissing him back, her hands sliding up to frame his face, pulling him nearer as if afraid he might vanish. Their lips moved together in a dance of shared need, her taste intoxicating on his tongue.
Lucien felt the world dim away, the study fading around them until nothing remained but the press of her lips against his, the rapid flutter of her heartbeat echoing his own.
His fingers moved up her back, supporting her head, tangling in her hair, those soft crimson strands that cascaded down her back like silk as pins fell out.
Sheer bestial lust surged through him then, raw and primal, as he became maddened by the feel and the unique scent of her. It was a blending of purity, of sunshine, with the sultry warmth of a woman’s awakening passion, underpinned by the subtle, haunting note of sunlit lavender.
She was warmth and light, a beacon in his shadowed existence, and he craved her, needed her, with an intensity he had never felt before.
He pressed her back against the settee, his body covering hers, the heat between them building to an inferno.
She arched into him, and the movement ignited a fire in his blood that threatened to consume him whole.
A soft, throaty moan escaped her lips as he pressed his tongue against hers softly, the sound vibrating against his mouth.
He moaned back instinctively, a deep, guttural rumble that rose from the depths of his being.
That single note of pleasure from her fanned the flames of his arousal, pushing him closer to the edge of his control.
The kiss grew more urgent, his tongue exploring the soft recesses of her mouth while his hands roamed down her sides, tracing the curve of her waist. Her hands slipped beneath his coat, tracing the hard planes of his chest through his shirt.
Every touch sent sparks racing along his nerves, his passion being encouraged by her willingness.
He savored the rapid pulse beneath her skin, the way she tilted her head to grant him better access.
“Lucien,” she whispered his name in response, her breath hot against his ear.
The sound of his name in her mouth, the way she sounded so innocent yet so full of desire, maddened him further. “Verity,” he murmured, his voice husky with desire, “you undo me completely.”
He captured her succulent lips once more, the kiss a storm of passion that left them both breathless. In that moment, duty and curse faded, replaced by the overwhelming need to claim her, to make her his in every way.
As his hand slid lower, brushing the swell of her hip, the tiniest sliver of reason pierced the haze.
In the back of his mind, a memory surfaced.
It was a dim recollection of a long-ago conversation by the fire, his father’s tone grave and warning, his voice deep, heavy with the weight of ancestral secrets.
“Northwood men lose their heads when they find the right woman, my boy,” the old earl had said, his eyes distant as if recalling experiences from his more youthful days. “It is in the blood, a madness that strikes like lightning and burns everything in its path.”
Lucien wondered, even as he nipped at Verity’s lower lip and drew a gasp from her, if this was that very madness his father had spoken of. Or was it moon-madness, the quickening amplified by the impending full orb in the sky, making it impossible to keep his hands off the sweet Verity?