A Reckless Desire (33 page)

“Oh, Rivers,” she whispered haltingly, regret and remorse sweeping over her as she shook her head back and forth. “I never meant—”

“No more, Lucia,” he said roughly. “No more
words.
”

He bent to kiss her, still holding her jaw captive as he slanted his mouth over hers, his tongue plunging and searching and marking her as his. His unshaven face scraped against her lips, burning them. His anger hadn't lessened: his kiss was demanding and possessive, and just short of punishing. If his words had failed to make her understand, then he clearly intended to do so this way.

But she could do that, too, and she reached up to hold the back of his head, her fingers tangling into his hair as she held him as steady as he'd done her. She freely gave herself up to the kiss and to him as well. She should never have doubted him, never have questioned his trust, and she kissed him in hungry abandon to prove that she was completely his. Off-balance, she clung to him, and together they toppled backward onto the bed.

Still joined to her by the kiss, Rivers shoved open the bodice of her sultana, not bothering to untie the sash as he exposed her from the waist. Immediately he bent to lick her bared breast, drawing her nipple into his mouth and rolling his tongue against it, a pleasure that was velvety-deep and streaked straight to her core. He ran his hands along the sides of her rib cage, caressing her but also holding her in a way that was every bit as possessive as the kiss had been. Lucia arched into him to seek more, and blindly tried to unfasten the silk frogs on his dressing gown.

He pushed her hand aside and impatiently tore at the fastenings himself. She'd a fleeting impression of Rivers in all his perfection, of focused power and hard muscles and a lion's mane of blond hair. His eyes were dark with lust, his entire body taut with it, and she could tell he'd crossed the point of self-control. Not that she cared; she'd crossed it, too.

“Hurry,” she said breathlessly, whispering her legs apart in invitation. She felt heavy and full from wanting him, already wet with desire and longing. “Please.”

There was too much tension in his face to answer as he settled between her legs, and she sighed as he eased his cock into her passage. She always loved the moment of joining with him, of becoming truly his, and she caught her breath as he sank deeper and filled her all the way. He hooked his arms beneath her bent knees to open her even farther, and began to thrust in steady, forceful strokes that pushed her back across the bedcover. She reached up to hold his shoulders, the rose-colored silk sleeves slipping back and pooling around her arms, and crossed her legs over his back. Their bellies struck together with each thrust, and she loved that, too, arching her hips from the bed to meet him.

“Open your eyes,” he ordered. “Damnation, Lucia, look at me. Don't hide. Don't run away again.”

She hadn't even realized that her eyes had been closed, but she opened them now, wide, her gaze locking with his and her lips parted. With each plunging stroke she felt the tension building inside her and growing in shimmering, heated waves that melted away the last of her doubts. He was relentless, giving her everything she needed and more, and she writhed beneath him, doing the same for him.

It was always like this between them when they made love. Here there were no doubts, no suspicions, no secrets, no difference of ranks. Here everything was reduced to the essence of love, and the two of them bound together.

“I love you,” she said raggedly, her words punctuated by the rhythm of his thrusts. “Oh, Rivers, yes!”

“Yes,” he repeated, a single raspy, guttural syllable as he bowed his head against her shoulder.
“Yes.”

She came before he did, clawing at his shoulders, with her cries of release echoing in the bedchamber. Still she shook beneath him as he joined her, tensing as at last he spent in waves that shook them both.

Afterward they lay close together, their arms and legs entwined. She held him, and he held her, neither wishing to relinquish the other. It had as much to do with peace as with love: peace, and love, and trust, and contentment, all woven together so perfectly that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began.

She shifted just enough to pull the coverlet over their bodies, and then curled against his body. She smiled down at him, lightly tracing the bow of his lips with her fingertip.

Without opening his eyes, he caught her finger to stop its roaming.

“You're tickling me,” he protested mildly. He turned her finger to kiss the tip, then swiped it wetly with his tongue.

She laughed, thinking of how impossibly dear he had become to her. It wasn't just their bodies that were joined, but their souls as well.

“What you said about McGraw and the audition and the rest,” she said softly. “Why did you do that for me?”

He opened his eyes, as blue and clear as truth itself.

“Because I love you, Lucia,” he said. “Because I love you, I will give you whatever makes you happy.”

“
You
make me happy, Rivers,” she whispered, bending down to press her lips to his. “You make me, oh, so, so happy, and you must know I'd give the world for you to feel the same.”

He smiled. “You already have.”

She smiled, too, and bent to kiss him. So it was as simple, and as complicated, as that. It was love, and she felt the tears well up clear from her heart.

Rivers slowed his horse as he came within sight of the Lodge. This was his favorite time of the day in summer, early in the morning when the dew glistened on the grass and the still-rising sun hadn't yet found its midday heat. He smiled fondly at the Lodge and its imposingly homely façade, wanting to remember it like this when they returned to London this afternoon. He'd been happier here these last weeks than at any other time in his life: so blissfully, joyfully happy that he'd sound like a complete love-struck fool if he ever tried to describe it aloud.

His smile turned into a grin. He
was
a love-struck fool, and he'd make no apologies for being so. He glanced up at the corner window that belonged to Lucia's bedchamber, imagining her as he'd left her earlier to go riding. She'd been sleeping, curled on her side with one little hand tucked beneath her cheek, and she'd scarcely stirred when he'd smoothed her hair back from her face to kiss her.

But sleepy or not, she
was
happy again. He was certain of that, and the certainty was what made him so happy now as well. He supposed they'd had a quarrel last night—he wasn't entirely sure—but he did know that he'd managed to say the proper words to make things right between them once again. No, he hadn't just said the proper words, calculated to please her. He'd spoken the truth, straight from his heart, and that was how she'd heard it, too. Love and truth and Lucia: what better combination could there be?

She'd be awake by now, and likely reading. She was desperate to finish
Tom Jones
before they left, even though he'd told her she could have the book to take with her. He imagined her now, lying naked beneath the sheets that still smelled of sex, a little frown on her face as she raced through the book. He could already predict they'd spend most of breakfast discussing Tom and Sophie, and that made him smile, too.

He whistled for Spot, and turned his tired horse toward the small stable yard. He could hear voices from the other side of the tall stone wall, though he couldn't yet quite make out who it was. The hour was too early for any tradesmen; most likely it was simply stable boys or one of the footmen from the house.

But as soon as he turned the corner, he saw it wasn't a servant at all. It was his father, watering his large bay gelding as he addressed Rivers's groom. He'd thought Father would remain in London at least another fortnight, but apparently he'd decided to follow the ladies to the country early.

Even at this hour of the morning, Father cut an impeccably imposing figure. Although he was past sixty now, he still sat straight and tall in the saddle, his crimson riding coat perfectly tailored over his shoulders and the long row of engraved silver buttons glinting in the sun. His queue was tied back with a black silk ribbon, and his boots were polished to a mirrorlike gleam. Even the silver spurs on his heels shone.

And from the clipped way in which he was speaking to the way his black cocked hat was jammed low on his head, it was also abundantly clear that His Grace the Duke of Breconridge was not in an agreeable humor.

“Good day, Father,” Rivers called, striving to remain cheerful in the face of his father's grimness. “How fine it is to see you here this morning. I didn't expect you to leave town this early.”

“I came because of Gus.” Father's expression did not change. “If she has come down to Breconridge Hall to birth my grandson, then I wish to be here as well. And you needn't ladle out the pleasantries, Rivers. Under the circumstances, they are unnecessary, even distasteful.”

“Ahh,” Rivers said as he dismounted, handing his reins to one of the grooms. “Then at least let me offer you a bit of refreshment.”

“Thank you, no,” Father said curtly. “We shall walk amongst your mother's wildflowers. It will not take me long to say what needs saying.”

Immediately he turned on his heel, expecting Rivers to follow. For a moment Rivers considered not doing so. He wasn't a child, but a grown man, and it irritated him to be treated this way. On the other hand, he'd no wish to make a scene before his own stable men, and so in the end he did follow, catching up to Father in several long strides so that they were walking together.

“Are you certain you would not prefer to go inside, Father?” he asked. “The sun—”

“The sun does not offend me,” Father said, pointedly looking Rivers up and down. “If you were dressed like a Christian gentleman with a hat on your head and a coat on your back, then it would not affect you, either.”

Self-consciously Rivers raked his fingers back through his hair. Beside his father, he did look like a ruffian: he hadn't bothered to shave or tie back his hair, his most comfortable boots were scuffed with muddy heels, and he wore a well-worn and grimy pair of buckskin breeches, a shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and an old waistcoat.

“If I'd known you were coming, Father, I would have dressed with more formality,” he said, trying to make a jest of it and not sound defensive. “My guests at the Lodge are infrequent.”

Father made a dismissive grumble deep in his throat. “A gentleman of your rank should always take care of his appearance, no matter the hour or expectation.”

Rivers didn't answer, letting his father have his rebuke. Arguing wouldn't solve anything, not with Father. It never did. Besides, he doubted that his attire was the reason Father had come here today, and it would be better to marshal his defenses for whatever the real reason was for this visit.

“I'm glad to see you've kept up the flowers,” Father said with brusque approval as they entered the garden behind the house. “They always gave your mother great pleasure.”

“They do to me as well,” Rivers said, thinking of Lucia bending over the blossoms to relish their fragrance. “They've flourished this summer, thanks to my gardener, and I—”

“I haven't come here to discuss your servants,” Father said, wheeling about to face Rivers. “What I wish to know is your reason for foisting that impudent little baggage on Celia and the other ladies yesterday afternoon.”

Rivers stared, aghast. He had not expected that, not at all. “You mean Lu—that is, Mrs. Willow?”

“Her name does not matter to me,” Father said sharply. “What matters is that you had neither the right nor the decency to present such a creature to those ladies as if she were their equal.”

“Mrs. Willow is not a creature,” Rivers said, “nor did the ladies themselves appear insulted by her company. In fact, Celia herself welcomed her most cordially, enjoying her company, and invited her to return.”

“That is because they did not know who or what she is,” Father said, his voice rising. “You know I don't give a fig about the low women that you choose for sport and amusement. I do, however, expect you to have the decency to keep your tawdry misadventures apart from the ladies of your family, as a gentleman should. For you to bring her into my home, to parade her about as if she'd a right to be there, is despicable. Utterly despicable.”

“You are wrong, Father,” Rivers said firmly. “If you were to put aside your pride and permit me to present Mrs. Willow to you, then you would see what a wonderful woman she is. You would understand.”

Father stared, appalled, his face mottled with outrage above his snowy linen shirt.

“
Present
her to me, Rivers?” he demanded. “Have you lost your wits entirely? Do you truly believe I am ignorant of who this person is? She is a foreign-born dancer from a family infamous for rascals and harlots. She has agreed to be a part of some outlandish theatrical wager between you and Sir Edward Everett that is the talk of London, and she has spent the last month sequestered alone with you here as your mistress. What else need I know of her?”

“That I love her,” Rivers said. He couldn't help glancing up at the Lodge, thinking of her in her bedchamber on the other side of the house. He almost wished she could overhear this conversation so she'd know exactly how he felt, though it was just as well she couldn't hear Father's side of it. “That is the truth, Father. I love her as I have never loved any other woman, and I am happier in her company than I have ever been in my entire life.”

“Then you are mad, Rivers, as mad as any happy lunatic in Bedlam!” Unable to contain his disgust, Father stalked away from Rivers, his boots crunching on the gravel, and then stalked back again. “You are in lust, not love. The damned chit has beguiled you, that is all, and will no doubt try to take as much money from you as she can. A woman like that is a born mercenary. Consider who you are, and who she is. There is nothing to sustain an impulsive infatuation such as this.”

“There is everything,” Rivers insisted. “She is beautiful and intelligent, and she loves to read as much as I. She is quick and amusing, and she makes me laugh.”

“Oh, yes, and I'll wager since she's an Italian dancer, she can put her ankle behind her neck, too,” Father said, his words full of sarcasm. “That would certainly amuse most men.”

“What of Serena?” Rivers shot back. Geoffrey's wife had been born in India, the illegitimate daughter of an Englishman and his Hindu mistress—a fact that Serena had kept to herself from shame until Geoffrey had discovered it, long after they'd been wed. “Certainly her heritage was more challenging than Lucia's.”

“Serena's situation is entirely different,” Father answered without hesitation. “Her grandfather is the Marquis of Allwyn, her father was a gentleman, and she was raised as a lady. Besides, she had a large fortune of her own. There was never a question of her making a fool of your brother.”

“Lucia's parents were married.”

“What else would she tell you?” Father said with a disdainful flick of his hand. “You know how those people can be, living indiscriminately together. They might as well be Romani living in wagons.”

“Father, I am serious,” Rivers said, and he was. He hadn't realized exactly how serious until the words were spoken, but there they were, more truth, more honesty. “I love Lucia, and nothing you say will change that.”

“There is no reasoning with you when you insist on being stubborn like this.” Father shook his head, his mouth tight. “Go, indulge in your little frolic for the sake of this wager. But there must be an end to this, Rivers, and soon. I don't want you to suffer. It's past time you married, and I have already begun considering suitable ladies on your behalf.”

“Damnation, Father, we have already been over this bridge, again and again and again,” Rivers said, exasperated. “I am not of a mind to wed some sow-faced lady of your choosing. I know you long for an heir, but that's a task for Harry and Geoffrey, not for me.”

Father raised his chin. “It becomes yours since your brothers have failed me in that regard.”

Rivers sighed, feeling his father's impatience closing in around him. “Harry and Geoffrey are both still young, as are Gus and Serena. There's no reason they won't give you that grandson. Why, the babe Gus is carrying now might well be your precious heir, and then all of this will be moot.”

“You know as well as I that Gus's child is more likely to be another girl,” Father insisted. “That's the way it is with women. Your dear mother gave me only sons, while Celia, as admirable a lady as can be, produced only daughters for her first husband, and lost his title because of it. I won't have that happen to this family. I will not have it.”

Father could bluster all he wanted, but Rivers could see the undeniable desperation in his faded blue eyes. He had devoted his entire life to improving the dukedom he'd inherited, increasing the properties that supported it and gathering more power in the family name. The notion that it could all disappear for the want of a grandson plagued him day and night, and Rivers had witnessed how mercilessly he hounded poor Gus about disappointing him three times with daughters. Rivers understood it all, and yet he had no wish to bend his own life to secure his father's ambitions.