A Lady of His Own (18 page)

In the mirror, she smiled at Ellie. “Thank you, Ellie. Good night.”

She continued to brush, laying the long strands of shining pale hair over her shoulders, then she sighed, stood, and snuffed the candles in the sconces on either side of her mirror. Crossing to her bed, she extinguished the candle left burning beside it.

The moonlight streamed in through her windows, a ghostly white light painting all in muted shades.

She was tired, she decided, that was why her mind wouldn’t focus, wasn’t interested in thinking about the five strangers or whether Nicholas knew Phillipe Gerond. Slipping her robe from her shoulders, she tossed it across the foot of her high bed; drawing back the covers, she hitched up her nightgown and set one knee on the white sheet.

A faint, muted click reached her.

She looked toward the door—and saw it opening.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Frozen, she stared as Charles slipped around the door, shut it silently, then locked it.

He turned, saw her, nodded, then walked to the armchair before the fireplace. Dropping into it, he stretched out his long legs, crossing his booted ankles…with a start she noticed that he’d changed out of his evening clothes; he was now garbed in breeches and boots, a neckerchief loosely knotted about his throat, a soft hunting jacket hugging his shoulders.

Sitting up again, he pulled the cushion out from behind him and tossed it on the floor, then he shrugged out of his coat and flung it over the chair’s back, then relaxed back once more.

Remembering her position, her raised and bare knee, and that he could see extremely well in poor light, she abruptly lowered her leg, twitched her nightgown down, fleetingly considered redonning her robe, but decided that smacked too much of accommodation. She wasn’t feeling accommodating at all.

She marched around the end of the bed, but halted a safe five paces from him. “What the devil are you doing here?”

Her hissed whisper filled the room.

He turned his head and looked at her. “I told you I’d see you later.”

“I thought you meant tomorrow. What on earth do you think you’re about, settling down there like that?”

“I was thinking of going to sleep.”

“You can’t sleep
here
, in my room—you know that perfectly well!”

He regarded her for a long moment. “You don’t seriously imagine I’ll allow you to sleep under the same roof as Nicholas, a potential murderer, unguarded?”

T
HE QUESTION HADN’T, UNTIL THAT MOMENT, OCCURRED
to her, but now he’d uttered it, the answer, she realized, was in fact
No
.

However
…she drew in a deep breath, focused on his face. “This is not possible. You can’t just sleep here, in my room.”

“I grant you this chair isn’t the most comfortable bed”—he shifted his shoulders—“but I’ve slept in far worse. I’ll manage.” Putting his head back, he closed his eyes. “Where’s Nicholas’s room?”

“In the other wing. You can’t stay here—if you insist on guarding me, I’ll lock my door, and you can sleep in the next room.”

“The lock on your door’s too easy to pick—I looked. If I’m next door and Nicholas is good at this game, I’ll never hear him. Get into bed and go to sleep.”

The sheer command in his voice had her turning back to the bed before she caught herself; exasperated, she swung around and, seeing his eyes were closed, marched up to the chair. “Charles.
No
. Wake up.” She put a hand to his shoulder. “This is simply—”

He moved.

She landed in his lap. Swallowed her shriek.

“I did tell you to get into bed.”

His arms came around her.

Planting her hands on his shoulders, she tried to hold him off—tried to stop him from drawing her to him. “Don’t you
dare
kiss me!”

From a distance of inches, his eyes met hers. A fraught second passed, then one black brow arched. “Or you’ll what?” His voice had dropped an octave. “Scream?”

She blinked at him.

He closed the distance, closed his lips over hers.

He kissed her. Not as before but as he never had before.

Ravenously
. With a hunger, a need, that simply slayed her. That poured through her, vanquished any resistance she might have made, vaporized any wish to do anything other than gather to her that greedy, rapacious, devastatingly desperate need, and appease it.

Her hands rose; she wrapped them about his head, clung rather than pushed him away. Held on until she found her feet in the welling, surging tide. Until she could meet him and kiss him back—give all he so flagrantly wanted, take all he so blatantly offered in exchange.

Their mouths melded; their tongues dueled. Heat flared and raced under their skins.

Sexual awareness awoke; she had nothing on beneath her lawn nightgown. The realization only fired her more, anticipation flashing like lightning down her nerves—neither modesty nor caution rose to cool her ardor.

Nothing, she was sure, could cool his; he was like a living flame, burning for her. She spread her palms over his chest, through the fine linen of his shirt drank in the pulsing heat of him.

Like before, yet not. He’d been twenty then, not a boy yet a mere shadow of the man he now was. What he now was held more than fascination, was more than enthralling. To her, he was life, all she’d denied herself for so long, all she’d forced her lonely self to do without—and he was here, potent, powerful, and so clearly hers if she wished.

He was temptation incarnate, at least to her.

She wasn’t even aware of undoing the buttons down the front of his shirt, yet the instant it fell open, she wrenched the halves apart and spread voracious hands over his burning skin.

Traced the taut muscles, fingertips curling, sinking in.

She sighed with satisfaction, felt giddy delight surge as through their kiss she sensed his groan. Sensed his pleasure. She pandered to both—his and hers—and let the sensations pour through her.

She was unaware he was opening her nightgown until his hand closed over her bare breast, skin to naked skin. Something leapt within her; for one instant, she thought it was fear, then she recognized it as excitement.

He caressed, artfully stirred her senses, and excitement heightened to anticipation. Anticipation that grew with every sweep of his fingertips, every whorling caress, until her nerves were tight, and anticipation edged into desire, and desire became edged with need.

She gasped, pulled back from the kiss, had to; she needed to breathe. He let her lean back against his arm and catch her breath.

His lips traced her jaw, then dipped beneath to follow the long line of her throat. They skated into the hollow between her collarbones, pressed heat into her veins, then drifted lower.

Over the full curve of her breast, to just lightly, oh so lightly brush the aching peak. Then with his tongue, he traced the same path; when he reached the end, she heard a shocked gasp and realized it was hers.

Realized her fingers had speared through his black locks and she was holding him to her, arching in his arms.

He accepted her wanton invitation, caressing her with lips and tongue, following some slow, orchestrated score that ran in counterpoint to the fiery compulsion that seemed to hover about them, enfolding them yet not infusing, not driving them.

Not yet.

This was new, at least to her. She knew in her bones he’d traveled this road so often he knew every inch of the way. Yet last time he hadn’t known this, hadn’t known to linger as he was, stirring her in ways she’d never experienced, never even imagined.

From beneath his lashes, Charles watched her, watched passion swirl through her stormy eyes and draw her lids down, watched desire fraction by fraction lay seige to her features, watched it color her delicate skin a soft rose.

If she’d returned to her bed, he would have stayed in the chair and pretended to sleep, but she hadn’t. She’d argued, and the fastest way to resolve the looming battle in his favor had been to kiss her. It was also the perfect opportunity to take the next step in his personal pursuit of her, a pursuit that with every night that passed took on a keener, hungrier edge.

Pressing the halves of her nightgown wide, he languidly feasted, let his senses drink their fill, let his eyes see, his hands possess, his mouth and tongue claim. As he’d imagined doing for years; triumph lent a subtle edge to his exploration, a hint of possessiveness creeping in to tinge his ministrations.

He was not so much surprised as reassured by her responsiveness. On this plane, she’d always been his equal no matter how little she knew it. He’d always known, an instinctive knowledge, one that had fired his ardor all those years ago; it still smoldered, unquenched.

One thing the passage of the years had taught him was a greater, more educated appreciation. The heated silk of her skin was a wonder, the dusky rose peaks of her swollen breasts a temptation he couldn’t resist. Dampening one, he rasped it with his tongue, then gently drew it into his mouth.

He suckled, lightly, then more powerfully. Her breathing fractured; with a strangled cry she arched in his arms, fingers tightening on his skull, tangling in his hair. He released her, caught a glimpse of her eyes, beaten silver beneath her lashes, took in her parted lips, her harried breathing, the rise and fall of those beautiful breasts—blew gently over the ruched peak and heard her sigh.

Lips curving, he transferred his attention to her other breast. She made no attempt to distract or divert him. Her breathing fractured further; skillfully he tightened the tension that held her, notch by notch, until she was quivering.

He had her complete and focused attention. If Nicholas had chosen that moment to walk in, he doubted she would have noticed. He would have; he’d long ago mastered the knack of leaving a part of his mind on watch while otherwise devoting himself to the woman in his arms.

This time, with her, his absorption ran fathoms deep; more than with any other, he wanted, needed, to learn, to explore. To know not only in the biblical sense, but in every imaginable way. To understand and be sure. His concentration was enough to block the ache in his loins, strong enough for him to set his own needs aside, wholly to one side. This time with her he had to get everything right—fate had handed him a second chance; he had no faith he’d be granted a third.

Having her as his—seizing that second chance he’d always craved—was now too important to risk.

She’d grown restless, urgent under his experienced touch—to his mind flying too high too fast, but she’d always been impatient. And, perhaps, given where they presently stood, not yet where he wanted them to be, a quick, uncomplicated end would serve them best.

Relinquishing her breasts, he raised his head, found her lips, and covered them with his. Plunged into her mouth, intending to harness what little consciousness she still possessed and draw her back to earth—instead, he discovered she had her own demands to make, her own agenda.

Her tongue surged against his; her hands slid from his head to his chest, swept, lightly exploring, over the heavy muscles, then slid lower—and made him shudder.

Her unexpected boldness shook him, distracted him, and left him momentarily disoriented.
He
was the one in charge—in this arena, he always had been, always would be; he knew much more than she. Yet…for long, heated moments, he followed her script, just to see where it led.

Unwise, but he realized too late—realized that while his control had been forged over the years, hers hadn’t. She was still his implusive
ange
; her reckless play had only tightened the tension gripping her to an unbearable degree.

He heard the truth in her shaky gasp as she pulled back from a kiss that had plunged into desperation. Read confirmation in the tremors racking her, in the frantic pressure of her nails on his skin.

She’d journeyed too close to the edge.

Her nightgown opened to below her waist; pushing the halves wide, he bent his head to the furled peak of one breast, simultaneously slid his palm down, over her taut belly to the fine thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs. Brushing through them, he found and circled her slick, swollen flesh, with one fingertip caressed until she sobbed.

Drawing her tightly furled nipple deep, he suckled powerfully, at the same time stroked lightly, then increasingly firmly.

She shattered.

With a choked cry, she fell from the peak she’d so intently yet unexpectedly, he suspected unintentionally, climbed.

Cupping her mons, he felt completion sweep her, draining away the almost painful tension, blunting desire’s spurs.

She sighed, and the last of passion’s fury left her, and she relaxed, boneless, in his arms.

He blew lightly, soothingly, over her breast, then lifted his head, reluctantly withdrew his hand, leaning back in the chair the better to support her. He ached, yet all he wanted at that moment was to study her face, faintly limned by the moonlight; he’d never seen it as it now was, peaceful and serene in aftermath.

Long-buried memory intruded; he pushed it aside, only to have the thought that some other man must have seen her like this fill the void.

It was his thought, yet a faint frown tangled her brows; slowly, she lifted her lids and looked at him.

Puzzled. For an instant, he thought he couldn’t have read her look aright, but then she put up a hand to push back the fine curtain of her hair, and said, “That was…strange.”

Her voice shivered, quivered. She looked at him. This time her look was clear—she expected him to explain.

He stared at her. Disorientation wasn’t the half of what he felt; she was the one who’d climaxed—he was the one who felt giddy. But he had to know. “How many men have you been with since…before?” Since before when he’d botched things so thoroughly.

Outrage flowed into her face; she stared at him, then struggled to sit up, but she really was boneless. “None, of course! What a stupid question.”

Not stupid at all.
He bit his tongue. She was an attractive, twenty-nine-year-old nonvirgin who he knew had more than her fair share of sexual need—what was he supposed to think?

Suddenly, he wasn’t sure at all.

Hands on his chest, lips setting, she tried again to sit up and push away. He held her easily. “Stop wriggling.”

She knew enough to freeze at his growl.

She frowned at him warily, but he simply drew her closer, settled her more comfortably in his arms. “Just lie there and go to sleep.”

Cradled in his arms, she stared up at him. Opened her lips.

“
Shut up
, lie there, and go to sleep.”

Her eyes narrowed, but after a moment, she shifted carefully and settled her head against his chest. The last of her fight went out of her. She muttered, “I’ll never be able to fall asleep like this.”

She did, of course, leaving him painfully aroused, yet content enough. Content that she was sleeping sated in his arms. He hadn’t planned the interlude, yet was more than satisfied that it had occurred.

Bringing her to her first climax was another role he’d never thought would fall to him, not after what had happened thirteen years ago. Yet it had.

Which left him wondering why it had.

As the moonlight faded and the shadows closed in, he changed his mind and did what he’d told her he didn’t want to do. He revisited their past, and tried to fill in the gaps to her present.

Penny awoke the next morning, warm and relaxed, snuggled in her bed. She remained where she was, eyes closed, deeply, oddly blissfully comfortable. The brightness beyond her lids informed her the sun was shining. It was another lovely day…

She remembered. She sat bolt upright and stared across the room.

Charles wasn’t in the chair.

She searched, but could see not a single sign that he ever had been.

But she hadn’t dreamed it; he’d been there—he had, they had…

She glanced down. Her nightgown gaped to her waist.

Muttering a curse, she yanked the halves together. Doing up the buttons, she tried not to blush as memories crowded in. She would have liked to lay the entire incident at his door, but, unfortunately, remembered all too well that she had, somehow, succumbed, and been a more-than-willing partner.

It was because it had all been so different—in many ways novel, the sensations so very pleasant and prolonged. Long, slow,
sweet
caresses—and he’d let her touch him, explore and indulge her own desires, too. So unlike that long-ago grappling in the barn—rushed, heated, frantic, and rather painful.