A Lady Never Lies (20 page)

“Sweet Christ,” he groaned. “You’re tight as a winch.”

“A . . . a
what
?” She couldn’t think beyond the irresistible push of his body taking hers. “Is that all right?”

“God, yes.” He kissed her and moved his hips against her. “God, yes, darling. If I can bear it without disgracing myself.”

He was so large; he filled her so completely. The deepness thrilled her. She felt her body stretch and clutch at his length, felt an indescribable pressure against some madly throbbing core; she wanted more of it, more of that feeling, more and more and forever more of him.

She wrapped her legs around him, urged him on with her hands and her lips, and he understood, he responded, he thrust again and again, watched her keenly, adjusted his angle, thrust again, hitting her on the mark with a precision that tossed her head back in shock. She’d never dreamed of pleasure like this. She’d never dreamed, in all the nights she’d lain with her husband, that a man’s possession could feel like this. She felt Finn’s penetration all the way to her belly, felt him reach far inside her, felt their sinews strain together for more depth, more union, more sensation. Her body wound upward, coiling higher and higher, impossibly high, teetering toward an unknown brink she couldn’t quite reach.

“Let go, my love,” he said hoarsely in her ear, “marvelous, marvelous girl, you’re nearly there, just let yourself go,” and at last she soared off the edge, she shimmered; flawless waves of energy rippling through her body, her cry mingling with his. Dimly she felt him pull out of her, shuddering, supporting himself with one arm while his seed pulsed harmlessly onto her belly.

She reached up, still shimmering, and drew him against her, savoring for long, still moments the softness of his hair against her cheek, the heavy weight of his body, the wetness of his essence on her skin.

* * *

H
e came to himself by slow degrees, hardly recognizing his own befuddled brain. Alexandra’s arms were wrapped around him, one hand stroking through his hair, her breasts crushed beneath his chest. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, lifting himself away. “I meant to have a handkerchief ready . . .”

“Hush. It’s all right. It’s marvelous; you’re marvelous.”

He propped himself on his elbow, reached for his shirt, and wiped the smooth white skin of her belly. He wanted to say something, but the sight of her beauty, the idyllic contours of her body, stole his breath.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” she said, in a low voice. “I mean you needn’t have bothered. I’m barren.”

He returned his gaze to her face. She was watching him solemnly, her catlike eyes turned to gold in the candlelight. “What makes you say that?”

She shrugged. “I was married for five years, with never a sign.”

“Darling, you were married to an older man. Whose previous two marriages were also childless, if I recall correctly. I daresay you’re as fertile as the next woman.” He leaned over to kiss her magnificent right breast, as lush and perfect as he’d dreamed, and forgave it unreservedly for the torment of the past several weeks.

“What, Lord
Morley
? How is that possible? Men . . . I mean, it seems . . . well, as I understand it . . .”

“Oh, it’s likely enough. All sorts of things can go wrong. Have you never seen a sample of ejaculate under a microscope?” He moved on to the left breast, which was looking lonely and neglected.

It took her a second or two to reply. “Shockingly enough, I haven’t.”

“It’s extraordinary. Some subjects teeming, others quite deserted.” He drew back and laid his hand around her breast, admiring the way it overflowed his long fingers. “You certainly
look
quite capable of conceiving. When were your last menses?”

“
What?
” Her eyes flew open.

“Your monthly courses.”

She stammered. “I don’t . . . how did you . . . a week, I suppose . . . oh, for God’s sake, Finn . . .” Her skin remained flushed from arousal, but a fine pink still managed to intensify the blush in her cheeks.

He moved his hand to her belly. “Then I suppose we’re safe enough. Once we’re in Rome I’ll track down proper prophylactics. Withdrawal by itself isn’t foolproof, after all; there is some secretion before climax, which . . .”

She rolled over and planted her face in his pillow. “Oh, God.
Scientists.
”

He didn’t reply, being rather enjoyably distracted by the sight of her firm, round buttocks curving into the air. An ardent walker, no doubt. Perhaps tennis as well. Who knew that her skirts disguised such a decadent derriere? It was a crime, really.

“Finn?” Her voice emerged from the pillow.

“Yes, darling?”

“You’re sounding very matter-of-fact.”

“I’m generally a matter-of-fact sort of fellow, my dear, as I daresay you’ve noticed before.” His gaze still lingered lovingly on the arc of her arse.

She turned her head. “What
are
you doing?”

“Admiring you.”

She scrambled upward. “Look here, Mr. Phineas Burke. We’ve just . . . well, we’ve done the most intimate things together, lovely things,
passionate
things, and I’d really . . . I’d rather appreciate it if . . . well, if you’d
say
something about it. Take me in your arms and tell me how wonderful it all was. How all the other women . . .”

“Not so many.”

“Well, how you’ve never felt anything like it. Even if you have to make it all up.”

She looked adorable, all pink and tousled and utterly his. “Oh, is
that
what’s the matter?” he said. He reached out, enclosed her with his arms, and brought her down into the pillows with him. “It was wonderful, darling. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

“Thanks frightfully much.”

He chuckled. “Glorious. Shattering.” He trailed his hand along her arm. “In fact, I’d very much like to have another go, when you’re feeling up to it. Are you cold?”

“A little.”

“I expect the air feels chill, now that your body’s cooling off.” He felt for the edge of the sheet and blankets and worked them out from beneath their entangled bodies. “There,” he said, spreading them over her. “Better?”

“Much.” She tucked her head beneath his chin.

He lay there a moment, working his fingers through her hair, trying to summon the right words. “I realize I’m not particularly glib with women,” he began.

She snorted.

“Yes, all right. Thank you. Look, what I mean to say is this: I’m no libertine. I don’t take women to my bed on a mere whim, and what happened just now . . . the beauty of it, darling, the beauty of
you
 . . . was very special indeed. Unique in my experience.” He took a deep breath. “And you should know . . . It’s important you know this, you
must
know this . . . My intentions, as I intimated before, in the workshop, are . . . are entirely honorable. Are entirely permanent.”

She said nothing, but he could feel the tension hum like a current through her body.

He picked up her hand and brought it to his lips. “Was that sufficient?”

“Yes.” She spoke hoarsely. “I . . . you’re a darling, Finn. I adore you; I’ve told you so. But let’s not . . .” Her voice broke, cracking through the middle. She pulled her hand away from his mouth and placed her arm across his midsection. “Let’s not think so far ahead, shall we? We’ve months and months left here. Anything might happen.”

“You think my sentiments will change?”

“Anything might happen.”

He moved quickly, slipping free from her arms and turning over, so he hovered above her, his mouth inches from hers. “Listen to me, Alexandra. Listen closely. I’m not your bloody Wallingford. I’m a constant man. I’m not after swiving women in libraries and that sort of rubbish.” He captured her mouth in a tender kiss. “I’ve found you, darling. Found you alone, only you, and I don’t intend to let you go.”

“You don’t know me,” she whispered. “If you knew me, you wouldn’t say that. You don’t know what I’m capable of. I’m not the right woman for you, Finn.”

“Yes, you are. You’re clever and brave, full of wit and life and strength.”

“And vanity and selfishness.”

“No more than the rest of us mortals. Really, Alexandra, what do you think? That I should find myself a weaker woman? One who parrots my words and hides in my shadow and flatters my vanity? Do you think so little of me?” He spoke fiercely, intensely, willing his words to penetrate her.

“That’s not what I meant. I’m a creature of society, Finn,” she said, looking up at him with bitter eyes. “Conventional to the core. You need someone adventurous, willing to sacrifice for you.”

He heard himself laugh. “Look at yourself, darling. Listen to yourself. What other creature of society would take up a remote and inconvenient castle in Italy for a year’s academic study? How much more unconventional a woman could I find? One more willing to make sacrifices?”

She struggled upward and took his face in her hands. “That’s not why I came to Italy. Not at all.”

“But you said . . .”

“Do you want the truth? I’ll tell you.”

At the word
truth
, a thin layer of frost seemed to crystallize in his chest, stilling his blood. “Tell me what?”

She took in a long breath. “I’m destitute, Finn. Do you hear me? I’ve scarcely a penny to my name.”

He stared at her a moment, at the hard set of her features and the ferocity in her eyes, belying the softness of her voice. Her fingers held his cheeks with painful firmness. “Are you—are you serious?”

“It’s true! I gave up my house in London because I had to, because the lease was far beyond my means. I haggled with that fellow Rosseti . . .”

“But that’s impossible!” He covered her hands with his and gripped them tightly. “Surely . . . haven’t you a jointure of some kind? My God, that villain Morley, did he really leave you . . .”

“It wasn’t his fault.” Her hands fell away and twisted in her lap, and her eyes followed them. “His nephew invested the money in . . . invested it badly. I can’t get it out. I’ve scarcely fifty pounds a year on what’s left.”

“Fifty pounds!” The frost in his chest had melted, and now his blood whirred back into motion to feed his reeling brain. There was something important about this information, something that tantalized him with possibility.

“So you see, I’m not adventurous at all. I’m only rusticating, hoping things will improve, so I can return to London and my old life. The life I love, Finn. The life I’m used to, the life I’m good at.” She paused and ended flatly: “The life I want.”

His jaws worked, trying to take it all in, trying to find the vital hole in her logic. “But Lady Somerton . . .”

“That was only part of the reason.”

“Surely not. I’ve heard tales about that husband of hers . . .”

Her eyes shot back to his. “For a recluse, you’re awfully current on London gossip.”

“Darling, darling.” He took her unresisting hands in his and kissed each one. “I’m sorry for your troubles, dreadfully sorry. I daresay it’s been a jolly awful sort of year for you. But don’t you see? There’s an obvious solution, a quite satisfactory solution.”

Her head was shaking, slow and steady, like a pendulum, anticipating him.

He leaned forward and spoke in her ear. “Marry me, darling. God knows I’ve money enough. Buy a house in town; buy ten of them. Do exactly as you like. You’d be perfectly free from any worry of that kind.”

“Stop, stop.” She was trembling. A teardrop fell from her face into their entwined fingers. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t marry you. I
won’t
marry my way out of this. Not this time, not with you.”

His blood fired. “Why
not
me?” he demanded, squeezing her hands. “For God’s sake, Alexandra! What does
that
mean? Some other man, perhaps, but not
me
?”

“No!
Not
you!” She looked up at last. Her eyes were red and heavy; tears leaked from the corners. She dashed them away with her hand. “I won’t let this be about money! Everything else, but not this. This
one thing
, Finn. I want to keep it precious and sacred and unspoiled . . .”

He gathered up her shaking body against his. “Hush, darling. Hush.”

“Not marriage. Not a bargain, a contract.”

“Never that.”

“I shouldn’t have told you. I never meant to tell you.”

“Hush, darling. I’m glad you told me. I want everything open between us. No secrets.”

She gave a hysterical little laugh.

“Alexandra. Sweetheart. I’ll be damned if I let you marry
any
man for money.” He set her away, tucked her hair behind her ear, and spoke firmly. “Including me.”

Her eyes traveled across his face and stopped at his mouth. “Very sensible,” she whispered. “Very wise.”

He looked at her tenderly. He saw the way her skin glowed pink from the pleasure he’d given her, the way her eyes cast down, unable to meet his. The way her hair tumbled madly about her shoulders and curled atop her breasts; the way the high curve of her cheekbone gleamed in the candlelight.

He pressed his lips against her forehead.

“You’re going to marry me for love,” he whispered.

SEVENTEEN

H
e was serious. He had that look on his face, the same look he wore when he was working on his battery, filled with passion and conviction. She ought to be flattered, she supposed. To be ranked as high as a lead-acid battery was an honor few women, if any, could claim.

He was guiding her downward now, taking advantage of her momentary stupefaction to settle her on her back in the bed. “I realize, of course,” he went on, clasping her lips in gentle little kisses, “it’s a thoroughly bad bargain for you. Stubborn, taciturn chap that I am, liable to spending days on end in musty workshops and factories. Or, God forbid, laboratories.”

Her body stirred, responding to his touch. She couldn’t resist him. She put her arms about his neck and closed her eyes.

“Questionable colleagues littering the drawing room at all hours, leaving oil on the upholstery and drinking all your best brandy.” He drew his lips along her jaw and blew at her ear.

She giggled. “Surely not.”

“No title. No birth. My mother’s a scandalous Irish courtesan, no better than she should be, and my father . . . well.” He shrugged that off and kissed his way down her neck to her breasts, taking her nipple in his mouth with hungry enthusiasm.

“Your father!” she said, trying to pursue the thought past the delicious rushes of sensation smothering her brain. “Oh, tell me. Who is he?”

He ignored her. “And then there’s the physical package. Unpromising, of course. Too long, too lean, head overlarge. Damned gawky youth, I was. A pumpkin on sticks.”

“You’re beautiful. Magnificent. Oh!”

His tongue flicked into her navel with a lightning jolt to her senses.

“Finally, of course, there’s the ginger hair. Unlucky business. Nothing at all to be done about that.”

“I adore your hair.” She wrapped her fingers around it with a little purr of satisfaction.

“So I quite understand your reluctance to marry me. Most sensible. Levelheaded, even. Though, on the other hand, there
is
this.” He kissed his way down her belly and settled himself between her legs.

“What?” she gasped.

“This.”

At which point the thinking portion of her brain exploded into a cloud of useless particles, leaving only sensation: the hot slide of his tongue in her intimate flesh, exploring each fold in patient detail. She clutched at his hair, clutched at his shoulders, clutched at a pillow; tried to secure herself to something in the throes of this unbearable pleasure. His tongue circled her slowly, too slowly, driving her beyond madness; his mouth touched her everywhere but
there
, that raw, magical core, the part of her that cried out for him. “Oh please, oh please,” she heard herself say, and something glided inside her—his finger, two fingers—and then at last,
at last
his tongue found that locus of sensation and stroked it, expertly and lovingly. Her body jerked and spasmed beneath his mouth, outside all control, but he kept on licking her, steady and constant, the immutable center around which her world spun.

Climax bore down on her like a juggernaut, unstoppable, and when it came she threw her head back and flung the pillow over her face just in time to cover her howl.

He knew what to do: damn him, bless him. At the first throb he stilled his tongue against her, stilled his fingers inside her, let her body ricochet off the gentle pressure to even greater heights. The waves rolled on and on, gradually diminishing, leaving the most delicious floating languor in their wake. She was only vaguely aware of Finn’s body sliding upward, warm and solid; of his mouth covering hers with her own scent and taste. “Mmm,” she said, twining her arms about him.

He made a growling noise and went on kissing her, delicately at first, patient, letting her drift to earth by easy degrees. Then his tongue stole deep, hungry, and with gentle hands he turned her over onto the pillow.

“What . . .” She drew in a gasp at the insistent brush of his cock, hard and massive between her thighs.

His breath curled around her neck, her ear. “Trust me, darling. Let me. Let me show you. Let me love you.”

He eased himself between her swollen lips, millimeter by exquisite millimeter. She could feel the slickness of his penetration, her own arousal lubricating his passage, and her hips rose upward to take more of him, all of him, until her buttocks nestled intimately into his groin and the skin of his chest brushed along her shoulders. A deep groan came from her throat at the marrow-deep satisfaction of his cock buried so solidly, so snugly inside her, exerting wholly new pressures on her tender flesh. She was surrounded by him, immersed in him, her existence encompassed in the space of their two bodies rocking together as a single united whole.

Impossibly, beautifully, it was rising up again, the excitement and the friction, that now-familiar sensation of her building peak. He seemed to sense the escalating tension inside her. He rose up on his hands and began to thrust, slow, deep strokes in perfect rhythm, tilting himself just so. It was too much; it couldn’t be borne, pleasure so intense it was almost painful. She needed to escape, to climax, but he wouldn’t let her: He kept on thrusting at that same relentless pace, trapping her on the brink, just short of release.

On and on he went, holding her hostage, while her hands fisted into the bedclothes and the moans spilled from her throat. It might have been minutes; it might have been hours: She lost all sense of time and place, all sense of anything but the slow, infinite beat of his body, the weight of pleasure bearing forever down on her.

Finn.
She heard her own impassioned groan as if from a stranger.

Just when she thought she couldn’t take it any longer, when she thought she might actually expire from the eternally building crescendo, he quickened his thrusts, slipped his hand beneath their bodies, and pressed his broad palm against her, just above his own sliding flesh.

Release came hard and sudden and gorgeous, sweet relief and mindless exhilaration all at once. Her cry ripped into the pillow. She felt his swift withdrawal, felt him take up his shirt again in an agile gesture, felt him sink gently against her, bracing himself on an elbow and nuzzling at her neck as the spasms receded.

She couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Every last particle of energy had drained from her body. Her limbs were like lead.

He settled himself behind her in the bedclothes and gathered her up against his body, his hot, damp chest cradling her back, his legs following the bend of hers. “Now, my love,” he whispered, his breath rough in her ear, “
now
will you marry me?”

* * *

S
he hadn’t planned to sleep, hadn’t planned to waste a moment of the few precious hours allowed them, but she found herself emerging from a velvet unconsciousness to a darkened room, all the candles out except one, and Finn’s body curled solid and protective around hers, one hand cupped beneath her breast.

“What time is it?” she gasped, fighting upward.

“Shh. Not two o’clock, I should think.” His voice was low and soothing. His arms urged her back down in the warm cocoon of blankets and drowsy flesh and the mingled scents of lovemaking.

“You let me sleep,” she said accusingly.

“You were exhausted.”

“And you’ve been awake all this time?”

“Darling, I slept until five o’clock this afternoon. I’m as sharp as a dagger point.”

She turned in his arms to face him. “I’m sorry. You must have been frightfully bored, lying there.”

“Not at all.” He kissed the tip of her nose.

“Are you hungry? I’ve brought a basket from the kitchens. Cheese and bread and wine and the most divine almond cake. It might help to make you sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep.”

She put her hand to his cheek. “You’re an idiot. Go fetch that basket.”

He laughed and turned his head to kiss her palm. “As my lady commands.”

They ate in his bed, feeding each other, crumbs dropping indulgently into the blankets, and then they made love again with marvelous slowness: shifting positions, tasting and exploring, drawing out the pleasure until at last, when she dissolved into climax, it was hardly more than an intensification of an ages-long simmering of incomparable sensation; when he withdrew and spent himself, it was as if he’d ripped away a part of her own body.
Stay inside me
, she wanted to say,
don’t leave
, but that was tantamount to an acceptance of his proposal. Taking his seed inside her meant absorbing the possibility of his child, of a future with him, of marriage.

She must have drifted off to sleep again, because the next thing she knew, she was in his arms, her gown hanging loosely about her body, being carried down the darkened hallway to her room.

“No, don’t,” she whispered, muzzy headed. “Someone will catch us.”

His kiss touched her hair. “I almost hope someone will.”

He found her door without direction and tucked her into bed just as the fine gray light of dawn outlined the ragged hills to the east. She remembered his lips on her forehead and the faint scrape of the closing door, and nothing else.