0062412949 (R) (35 page)

All at once, his resistance snapped.

She said it again: “I will not stop.” And then, “Please!”

“Fine.” The word came out in a hiss. He used his knee to knock her legs apart. “You want this?”

“Yes!” she said, pulling him down. “Please, my husband, please!”

Those words were his final undoing. With a shout of pleasure, he drove into her.

“Ouch!” She yelped, and he was reminded to slow down, to give her time. He gathered her up and kissed her, waiting for her body to accommodate him.

“It’s like a knife,” she said into his neck.

“I’m sorry, darling.” He comforted her. “Deep breath. That’s right.” He dropped soft kisses across her cheeks and brow. It took all of his self-control not to move until she was ready, but the kisses helped, distracting them both. In a timeless interval, she began to move again, making the sounds of pleasure. He sighed and moved, too. She cried out again, and again he waited. It was an exquisite eternity.

Finally, she pulsed upward with her hips—once, twice, then a rapidly advancing rhythm. The motion set him on fire. He tried to go gently, God, how he tried, but he had waited so long to have her—indeed, he thought he never would—and now he could barely contain the pounding need. And she did so very little to help him. How quickly she had become accustomed to the timeless dance of making love.

Within seconds, he lost himself. He meant to go slow, but she began to sigh and gasp, coiling herself around him. He was incapable of doing little more than
feeling
, reverberating, inside and out, soul-deep.

By some miracle, considering his sloppy, selfish efforts, she peaked before him. It was the final, unbearable impetus. She gasped and cried out his name, and he finished it, letting out a near-animal sound of complete and blissful surrender. When he was spent, he collapsed on top of her, trying to catch his breath.

“Are you all right?” she asked after a moment, squirming beneath him.

He laughed. “Am I all right? I just ravished you in the most selfish way, and you are inquiring about
my
well-being?”

She was quiet a moment. “It’s merely that I have never heard you be quite so enthusiastic. About anything.”

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, swallowing hard, “I have never felt so enthusiastic. About anything. Are you hurt?”

“Hurt? Ah, no. I am well.”

He lifted himself up and stared at her, worried. “Well?”

“Perhaps a trifle better than well.” She smiled at him. “Is it always like that?”

“I can honestly say that it has never actually been like that before.” He rolled off her, gathering her against him. “But I believe we have the idea.”

“Oh,” she said. “Perhaps I am good at it.”

“Darling,” he said, kissing her hair, “as with everything else you undertake, you are indisputably good at it.”

“Then we must try it again,” she said matter-of-factly. “I love doing things at which I excel.”

He rolled over, foisting her on top of him. “Why not give me a chance at aptitude this time, hmmm?”

She laughed, looking down, “But you were perfect!”

“I was entirely out of control, selfish, and boorish. But that is not typically the case.”

She swatted him. “Do not speak of your other women.”

“Please know that any other woman is but a faint, pale haze on the horizon of my memory when compared to you. I should like to have
you
howling at the moon and begging for more, instead of me.”

“But I liked it when you begged.” She toyed with his hair.

“I could tell. But it’s only fair to let everyone have a turn, no?”

“Well . . . ”

“Believe me,” he said, rising up to capture her mouth again. “I will beg, too.” She kissed him back. “I can scarcely contain my begging right now.” He grabbed her bottom, pressing her against him. He felt a flicker of fresh desire and sighed in spite of himself.

She giggled. “Now you know how I felt, begging you all those weeks for help with my stairs.”

“You did not beg.” He growled and flipped her over. “At least not in this manner—and thank God for that.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

T
he Earl and Countess Falcondale were awakened by an insistent rapping on the bedroom door, not ten minutes after seven o’clock. Piety was the first to hear it, and she sat up in bed, wondering who in God’s name dared to disturb them on this of all mornings.

“I wish to examine the sheets,” came a muffled proclamation from the hallway.

It was Idelle. Of course.

“She knows no shame.” Piety glanced to Trevor. His eyes were still closed. He rolled to hide his face.

“Your mother is deranged,” he mumbled into the pillow.

“We are asleep, Mother,” said Piety. “Go away!”

“I will not go away!” came the shouted reply.

Falcondale swore and pushed himself up to the edge of the bed. He sat there for a moment, staring at the floor. Piety reached out to touch him, her flat palm in the center of his broad back. She could never, she thought, grow tired of touching him. How long would he allow it? He did not mind her touch—considering his enthusiasm the night before, she knew this was true—but his future did not adhere to likes or dislikes, only freedom.

Idelle knocked again, and he shrugged her hand away. His trousers and shirt were on the floor, and he turned his back and yanked them on. Piety watched, remembering the planes of his body that her hands had learned last night. He took care to not look at her, trudging to the door, whipping it open.

“You were asked to leave,” he said.

“My lord.” Idelle studied him carefully. “As the bride’s mother, I have every right—”

“You have no rights whatsoever. Get out.”

“Mind the linens are not laundered before I inspect them!” She called the instructions as the door slammed in her face.

“Part of me wants to simply show them to her,” said Piety from the bed. She fingered a smudge on the sheets. “Maybe she would finally leave me alone.”

Trevor shook his head. “That would be a death knell to the annulment. Parading around with sheets from our wedding night? No.”

She watched him stalk around the room, clearly disinclined to return to bed as she’d vainly hoped. Disappointment settled in like a fog that choked out the sun. The sheets felt cold. The night was over. He was as before.

Before she could stop herself, she said, “Won’t you come back to bed? We needn’t rise simply because she disturbed us. No one will expect—”

“I have business to attend in Berkshire before we leave. It’s quite urgent, actually. But hopefully it will be quickly resolved, and we can make haste for London.” He walked to the middle of the room, hands on his hips. He looked around. “Boots? Where are my boots?”

The room had seemed warm when she awakened, but now she could scarcely contain her shivering. She pulled the sheets up to cover herself and watched him.

He found his boots beneath the bed and dropped to all fours to fish for them. His cuff links were on the cart with the food, his suspenders on the floor. Watching him dress, however hastily, was a new and intimate thing, and her heart broke a little more, thinking she would never again see him wrestle into his boots, give his coat a shake, or shrug it onto his shoulders.

If he disliked her watching him, he did not say. He stole glances at her every now and again. A quick look between buttons. Another when he struggled with his cravat. She raised her eyebrows and stared back, but he looked away.

Soon he was a disheveled, untucked version of himself the day before. His hair was curly and floppy, falling into his eyes. It took all of her strength not to go to him, to straighten his collar, to smooth the wool of his coat. To kiss him one last time.

“Where are you going?” she asked. “What is your business in Berkshire?”

“It’s nothing to concern yourself with,” he said.

Piety nodded to herself. Deflection. This was new. In the past, if he had not wanted to include her, he would say,
no
, but also why not.

Tears burned the backs of her eyes, and she squeezed them shut. She slid to the edge of the bed.

He saw, of course, and she heard him sigh.
“Piety
.
”

She shook her head and padded to her dressing table, taking a seat and staring at her reflection in the mirror. She barely recognized the woman in the glass. Wild, disheveled hair. Whisker-bussed cheeks. Kiss-swollen mouth. Heartbreak, clear in her eyes.

She saw him watch her reflection in the mirror and then briskly walk to the door. He paused. “This just keeps getting worse and worse.”

T
here was so much more to say, Trevor thought, volumes of things: apologies, considerations. But also was there
no time.
No time to entertain it; not to mention, no idea how to begin to mince through the emotional and logistical labyrinth of it all.

Instead, Trevor summoned Miss Breedlowe and bade her to remain with Piety every second. They were not to leave the house or garden, he told her, and they were not to speak to anyone but the marchioness, Tiny, Joseph, or Garnettgate’s familiar staff.

In the meantime, he would locate Straka, discover his purpose, and concoct some way to dispatch him. Only then could he allow himself to contemplate the possibility of a wife.

He searched first for Joseph. Predictably, the boy could be found in the presence of food. Trevor found him in the kitchen, taking breakfast with the staff.

“Please tell me,” Trevor whispered, leaning beside him at the long table, “that you’ve been up since dawn, searching for our uninvited guest.”

The boy swallowed, grabbed a stack of toast, and trailed behind him to the stable.

“I have, actually,” Joseph said. “I would have come for you, if I’d seen anything, Trev. But I didn’t want to, ah, disturb you. With no news.”

“What about the tavern in Ruscombe?” Trevor asked.

“Aye. And in Twyford. I checked everywhere. He’s nowhere. Not a trace. I would think you dreamed it, if I hadn’t seen him with my own eyes.”

“But you did see him, no? I have not imagined this. Straka was
there
.”

“Oh, yes,” said Joseph, “he was there, big as you please, Iros and Demetrios with him. All dressed up like English gentlemen.”

Trevor nodded, running a hand through his hair. “What in God’s name could they want?” He began to pace. “Straka
allowed me to go
. Gave me his bloody blessing!” He stopped and stared at Joseph. “Was I fool to believe that it would be that simple?”

“Maybe he was here to wish you well? To celebrate your wedding?”

“Ha!” Trevor scoffed, looking around. “He detests weddings—hates the whole institution of marriage. It was one of the few things on which he and I were in total accord. Besides, the wedding’s only been on for two weeks, and I’ve told no one. Without telling her why, I’ve asked Piety if she invited anyone by name. God knows I’ve prattled on about Straka enough that she could have misconstrued my affiliation to him and invited him as a surprise. But she said there were no posted invitations, and I believe her.”

Trevor stropped pacing and studied the trees beyond the garden. “No, he’s had me followed. Likely, he’s kept tabs all this time. Damn!” He turned away and strode to the stable door. “Why have I lingered in England? It was foolish and reckless and indulgent to stay. “Instead I . . . ” He thought of Piety. Piety laughing, Piety teasing, Piety listening or fighting or reaching for him. Piety vowing at their wedding to love him forever.

He sighed heavily. What a disaster.

“How is the countess?” asked Joseph, watching him.

“Fine. Thank you. I would say, ‘None of your business,’ but I need you to guard her now—immediately, as soon as we’ve finished here. She’s been unprotected in her chamber for too long already. I will commence the search.” He squinted down the long gravel drive to the road beyond. “Straka could be anywhere. He is just as likely to make camp and sleep in the woods as take rooms at an inn.”

“Perhaps he’s gone back to Athens,” the boy said. “Maybe he wanted to see if you really were an earl. Now he’s seen it, and he’s gone.”

“Yes,” Trevor glanced at him, “or maybe he wants me dead. It’s far more likely. You were too young to understand the subtleties of his regard for me, Joseph, although you have heard me complain often enough. I may have been a close confidant and valued advisor, but he would easily kill me, given half the reason. He’s killed for less than half. I have seen him beat his own cousin to death for a petty slight to his manhood. How do you think he became ruler of his seedy domain? Ruthlessness, that’s how. No,” Trevor went on, “he
wants
something. And he won’t leave for Athens or anywhere else unless it’s got.”

“Why did he disappear, then?” asked Joseph. “Why come to the wedding only to vanish?”

“Oh, but this is one of his favorite tricks, or don’t you remember?” Trevor located his horse in the third stall. A groom dashed to assist, but he waved him away. “He loves nothing more than popping up, unexpected, making himself known, and then disappearing, leaving his quarry to wonder and worry and become full-blown panicked by the time he turns up again.”

Trevor checked over his horse, stroked him, and led him into the sun. He worked quickly to saddle the animal, collecting his tack from pegs on the wall.

“Have you told Miss Piety? Er, Lady Piety?” asked Joseph. “About Straka? Does she know he’s in Berkshire?”

“Absolutely not, and I won’t.” He glanced up. “And neither will you, do you hear? You will remain outside her door until she emerges, and then close by her side wherever she goes. If she questions you, tell her that I’ve assigned you to guard her against the Limpetts. That won’t be too far off the mark, considering her mother’s already snooping around.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Joseph, watching him mount.

“Joseph?” Trevor added, looking down. “Thank you. I know you would have rather enjoyed the party last night than prowl around, searching for a man who is an expert at not being found.” The horse danced beneath him. Trevor whipped around to finish. “Assuming I can put things to right with Straka and set him on his way, you and I will most likely sail when we return to London. Prepare yourself. It will be a rushed thing, but considering this new intrusion, I see no other way.”