A Reckless Desire (23 page)

It was
,
Rivers decided, the best sex he'd ever had in his life.

He lay with his cheek pillowed on Lucia's breast, which was likely the best place he'd ever laid it. In fact, everything at this moment was about the best in his entire life. He was agreeably exhausted and drowsy and supremely content, lying inside the body and in the arms of a woman he loved, beneath a cloudless summer sky. How, really, could anything be improved?

“Love you, Lucia,” he mumbled into her hair, as many words as he could muster. “Love you.”

“I love you, too,” she whispered, sweetly, as if a secret meant for his ears alone, and he smiled. How could he not love her?

With a sigh, she struggled to shift beneath him. Of course, he must be a weighty, thoughtless, male lump, crushing her as he was, and with a grunt of regret he withdrew and rolled over on his back. He pulled her with him so that she'd curl beside him, her head nestled in the crook of his arm and her warm little body against his. Fondly he kissed her forehead, and thought of how well she fit with him.

“Oh!” she said, that small, familiar sound of uncomfortable distress that women often made under these circumstances. He understood. Usually he'd offer a convenient handkerchief to swab away the sticky embarrassment of their spendings, and the distress would be resolved.

But his handkerchief was well out of reach, being elsewhere on the roof, with his coat and breeches. He considered himself to be gallant and all, but right now he felt so bonelessly relaxed that the thought of having to leave her and the bed to fumble about for a handkerchief seemed beyond his ability. Fortunately Lucia seemed to feel the same, saying nothing further. He kissed her again, and let himself drift back into that charmed, hazy state of nonthinking bliss.

But the bliss was soon to be shattered, and nonthinking with it. In fact he was going to be forced to think quite a bit, whether he wanted to or not.

“Forgive me, Rivers,” Lucia said, her voice filled with dismay. “But I fear I've—I've ruined your counterpane.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” he said, unconcerned. “I'm sure the laundress can cope with whatever we've left.”

“It wasn't you, Rivers,” she said, her dismay shifting to mortification. She disentangled herself from Rivers and slipped from the bed. “It was me. On silk
velvet.
”

Missing her already, Rivers sighed again and reluctantly rolled on his side to survey the damage that so disturbed her.

She was standing beside the bed, her hands pressed to her mouth. As far as he was concerned, there was no reason to feel any shame, not over something as inevitable as a wet place on the bed.

Then he looked lower. Her thighs were daubed with blood, with more on the counterpane. Quickly he looked down at his shaft, and saw that he hadn't escaped, either.

He took a deep breath, reminding himself once again that these things happened.

“It's nothing to fuss over, Lucia,” he said. “Unfortunate, yes, to happen now, but I understand that a woman's monthly—”

“It's not from that.” She raised her chin, bravely striving to rise above her dismay even as she flushed. “This was my first time, Rivers, and I—”

“You were a maid?” he blurted out in disbelief. “A virgin?”

The stain to her cheeks deepened as she nodded.

“A virgin.” Abruptly he sat upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and pulled one edge of the counterpane over his cock. He wasn't ordinarily so modest, but under the circumstances, his naked parts didn't seem appropriate. “Damnation, Lucia, why didn't you tell me?”

“Because I didn't.” She grabbed another of the coverlets from the end of the bed and wrapped it around herself. “Would you have believed me if I had?”

He took another deep breath, fighting the uncomfortable realization that she was right. Most likely he wouldn't have believed her. She was a Di Rossi, and Di Rossis weren't virgins, at least not at her age. He'd known that she wasn't promiscuous, that she didn't have any protectors or admirers, but he'd assumed that somewhere, at some time, she'd had at least one lover.

“You still should have told me,” he insisted, not answering her question, to avoid wounding her further. “Had I known, I would have, ah, done things differently.”

Disappointment flickered across her eyes.

“And that is why I didn't tell you, my lord,” she said, biting out each word with bitterness. “Because I have no regrets at all, and I would not have changed a single thing. Not
one.
”

“Lucia, please,” he began, hating how she'd begun using his title again. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, and yet it seemed with every word he was doing exactly that.

“No,” she said firmly, in the same tone that she used when Spot misbehaved: a single word that was as sharp and definitive as a slammed door. “If you are done with me, my lord, I will return to my room.”

“Don't leave,” he said quickly, before she could do exactly that. “Please. Damnation, Lucia, that's not what either of us wants.”

To his relief she didn't go, but her expression—wounded and guarded and trying to be neither—didn't change as she waited for him to say more. He'd no idea exactly what that should be, what to say to put things back to rights between them. Still, he had to say something, and so he said what came first to his head.

“I don't want you to go,” he said. “Not at all. Instead I want you to stay here with me all the night through, and I want to watch the sun rise, there to the east, with you in my arms.”

“Why?” she asked, the most direct and disarming question she could have asked.

“Because I love you,” he said, the simplest answer, and the truest as well. “I love you, Lucia, and I want you to stay so I can tell you again and again until you listen and believe me.”

Still her expression didn't change. She touched the cameo around her neck, rubbing it lightly between her thumb and forefinger, and then sighed. “I must wash.”

“Behind that screen is a washstand,” he said quickly, pointing across the roof to the other side of one of the chimneys. “There's water and soap and a chamber pot. Everything you could need.”

At once she turned and headed to where he'd pointed, her long hair wafting behind her. He had wanted this night to be special, not the disaster it had turned into, and he'd only have a few minutes before she rejoined him to try to redeem it.

As soon as she'd gone behind the screen, he jumped from the bed. He wiped himself as clean as he could with the counterpane, then wadded it up and shoved it from sight beneath the bed, where she wouldn't be reminded of it, and neither would he. He retrieved his breeches and pulled them on, hopping across the floor in his haste, and threw his shirt on over his head. He turned again to the bed and smoothed the sheets as best he could, plumping the pillows and generally trying to make it look inviting and not like the scene of a ravishment.

A
virgin.
He'd no experience with virgins and maidenheads. None. What he'd interpreted to be a charming boldness on her part had really been innocent ignorance, and he cursed himself for not realizing it. That was what he'd meant about doing things differently. He still wouldn't have been able to resist taking her to his bed. But if he'd known it was her first time, he would have been much more gentle, more careful, instead of roaring ahead like the village bull in rut.

At least he knew he'd given her pleasure. There'd been no mistaking that. But he hoped she'd give him the chance to show her how he could make things even better for them both, and to really, truly make love to her.

He did love her. He'd meant it when he'd said it, and love wasn't something he took lightly. He wasn't one of those gentlemen who professed heartfelt love to every pretty face that crossed his path.

In fact he couldn't recall ever feeling as much in love with a woman as he was with Lucia, nor could he think of another woman whose company he enjoyed more. She made him laugh and she made him think, and she kept him guessing because he never quite knew what she'd say or do next. He liked her intelligence and her wit and her breasts, though the order of those likes could change depending on what she was wearing.

But most of all, she made him happy, which was why he'd already been trying to think of a way to continue seeing her once this time at the Lodge was done and they were back in London. He wasn't ready to give her up, especially after tonight.

If only her father had been an earl instead of some drunken Neapolitan dancer…

Would he find her as fascinating if she'd been born a lady? Would he still find her as beautiful, as seductive, as endlessly intriguing? What if she were that earl's daughter, the kind of suitable young woman who would earn his father's approval as a future wife?

But she wasn't, he argued firmly, turning back those questions with logic. Logic and reason said that the lessons in etiquette and speech could transform her into an actress, not a lady. Logic said that they were the gloss of appearances, not reality. Because if she truly were a lady and he'd just taken her maidenhead and ruined her, there'd be no question of what came next. He'd marry her, as soon as could be decently arranged.

Logic said—loudly—that a young woman from the theatrical world like Lucia wouldn't be considered ruined, and no one would be demanding a wedding. Instead he should offer to put her into keeping, with a small house, a servant or two, and an allowance. Even that would be considered generous of him.

That was the logical, intellectual argument, with the full force of reason to support it.

But when had logic anything to do with Lucia? He looked up at the stars, heartily wishing the evening were back at the beginning again.

“Rivers?”

Startled, he turned around quickly. He hadn't heard her come up behind him, her stockinged feet quiet on the carpet. She had replaced the coverlet with the silk dressing gown that he'd hung from a hook on the screen. The dressing gown was cut from an extravagant striped yellow silk and sized for him, and she'd tied it close to her body with the sash wrapped tight, twice around her narrow waist. Although the sleeves were still too long and the hem trailed behind her like a train, it was surprisingly becoming with her long, dark hair, and as sensuous as hell.

“Are you better now?” he asked, and immediately could have kicked himself for asking such an inane question. “That is, I trust you are, ah, recovering.”

“Recovered, and restored.” She smiled shyly, smoothing her hair behind her ears, and instantly the world seemed more back to rights.
“ ‘The chariest maid is prodigal enough, / If she unmask her beauty to the moon.' ”

He frowned, not expecting her to quote the play now. “That's Ophelia, not you,” he said. “I should hardly call you prodigal and extravagant, Lucia, even if you are beautiful by moonlight.”

She gave a little shrug, unconsciously making the silk dressing gown slide farther from one shoulder. “Very well, then,” she said. “I was unsettled.”

“Entirely understandable, given the, ah, circumstances,” he said, restlessly tapping his hand against one of the canopy posts. The oversized dressing gown kept gliding open at the neck, giving him a distracting glimpse of her naked body beneath it. Even after her sobering revelation, he still wanted her again, wanted her now.

“But the circumstances could not have been more splendid,” she said wistfully. She looked around at the elegantly set but neglected table, where candles in two of the lanterns had already guttered out. “You went to such trouble for me.”

“I could have gone to a great deal more,” he said, his regret tinged with guilt. “Lucia, when I said I wished I'd known of your innocence so that I could have done things differently, I meant that, had I known, I could have shown more kindness toward you. I would have been more gentle, more—”