Bared to the Viscount (The Rites of May Book 1) (5 page)

His tongue did push hard inside her, matching the rhythm of the hand he had on himself, and the fingers of his free hand continued their dizzying swirl on her sensitive nub.

The spring breeze licked over her exposed skin. Above her, the green tree branches swayed, the clouds glided through the jewel-blue sky, birds swung in quick arcs of flight between the leaves, chattering bright melodies—and all of it seemed to rush and swell along with the pleasure of her flesh, until it shifted and swirled into a mad pinwheel of color and sound.

She had to squeeze shut her eyes, or she would have fallen straight into the sky.

The image of the couple she’d seen taking their pleasure in the shed came back to her—the way they’d seemed to move towards a crescendo of pleasure…and she understood now what they had been feeling.

Her hips bucked. She was rising, rising higher and higher, her body tensing as it arched upwards. Her thighs were trembling. Some deep primal rhythm deep within her seemed to take control of her blood.

The pressure within her coiled tighter, tighter, narrowing to one tight, blazing point of sensation, gathering where John’s tongue laved her.

Then all at once everything exploded. Heat roared outwards, a fierce, hot wave, racing past every boundary, shattering all barriers between him and her.

They cried out together and their bodies jerked. His hands and her hands seemed to be everywhere at once, pressing into one another’s flesh—though she knew she touched nothing but his hair—and she felt one more slow, deep wash of pleasure, and a sort of glow all through her flesh.

The tension all drained out of her, and she fell back against the earth, utterly languid, utterly spent. Her legs were still open, her eyes closed, and the sunlight on her face had never felt so golden and pure.

“Mary.” It was John’s voice. Almost a sigh.

And then again: “Mary.” Not so soft this time.

She opened her eyes to look at him. He’d risen up off his knees into a tense crouch. The trancelike look on his face began to clear, giving way to a look of something more like shock.

Horror, even.

“Good God, Mary,” he said, and this time his voice had an unmistakable edge of anguish. “What have we done?”

Her brain was still whirling, and all she could say was the truth: “It was wonderful.”

“Yes.” John shook his head while hastily stuffing his member back inside his trousers and rebuttoning his fall. “No.
No
, it was… Oh, Lord. I lost my head entirely.”

“It
was
wonderful.”

“I’m so sorry. I just…. Oh, Lord, we—we must get away from here.”

Mary managed to raise herself back to a sitting position, though her sense of stupor remained. Why exactly must they get away? This spot was Paradise.

John pulled her skirts peremptorily down to her ankles then hauled her to her feet. The blood rushed from her head. She swayed a little; her legs felt sore and rubbery and not entirely up to the task of keeping her upright.

“We’ll go home,” he said, sounding rather thick-tongued, like a man who’d had too much ale, or who’d been abruptly roused from deep slumber. “To our own homes.” His hands ran fretfully through his golden hair, trying to smooth it, but only mussing it further. “We’ll just—we’ll—oh, hell, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what we’ll do.”

He turned and set off walking in front of her, faster than was wise down the steep rocky slope, stumbling a little as he went. It occurred to her fuzzily that they’d abandoned his walking stick by the blackberries, but urgently as he was moving homeward, she doubted he’d appreciate her calling him back for it.

It was a silent walk down the hill, and the springtime air seemed suddenly to have turned very chilly indeed.

Chapter Four

Late that evening, Mary stood in her kitchen, drying the last of the supper dishes, trying to go about her domestic routine as always, though her mind was still in a daze. One moment, visions of what she’d done with the viscount in the woods that morning sent her stomach swooping with elation. The next, their cold parting twisted it into a hard knot.

He wouldn’t even
look
at her when he said goodbye.

He’d mumbled vague apologies, eyes darting in distress, unable to complete a sentence. Just “We can…” or “We’ll just….” or “Of course we shouldn’t have….”

She couldn’t help feeling that she’d wronged him in some terrible way.

And she had no idea how she’d ever put it right.

At least she had the house to herself for a few hours—the town drunkard, Donald Evans, had got deep in his cups again and was fighting with Mrs. Evans, and one of the Evans boys had come running for the vicar to calm the man down before he turned vicious as he sometimes had in the past.

She was just reaching up to slide the last of the plates onto its shelf when a series of hard, urgent knocks sounded at the vicarage’s front door.

She wiped her hands hastily on her apron. People came to the vicarage at all hours in need of her brother’s services, and one of her duties was to greet them. She felt rather grateful for the interruption tonight—if nothing else, a small emergency would take her mind off the viscount for a few minutes.

She hurried to the foyer, lit the small lantern they kept there for such occasions, and opened the door.

Out in the gloom stood Viscount Parkhurst.

A slew of emotions swept over her—half cold, half hot. Embarrassment, thrill, fear.

There was no helping it: his nearness sent a hot spark of energy rippling over the whole surface of her skin, and set off a throbbing pulse low in her belly. For a moment, she could scarcely resist pulling him into an embrace, kissing him hard, and trying to draw him down on the foyer floor with her so they could repeat what they’d done that morning, and more.

But the collar of his black wool greatcoat was turned up, a barrier to his face, and his tall beaver hat loomed darkly. He looked quite literally like a shadow of himself.

The little she could make out of his expression was grim.

Was he angry with her, or….

Did this have nothing to do with what had passed between them earlier? People who knocked at night often wore that look, and it usually meant a clergyman was needed in a hurry.

Oh, dear
.

A quick mental reshuffling was in order—a switch from lovelorn maiden to efficient vicar’s sister. She pushed her personal desires aside as though shoving them into a sack. “What’s the matter, Lord Parkhurst? Is someone ill?”

“What?” He blinked in apparent confusion, as though she were the one who’d surprised him at the door. Oh, his eyes were so startlingly blue, even in this half-light. It made her breath catch.

“Is someone
ill
?” she repeated. “At Parkhurst Hall? Your mother? Your brothers?”

“No,” he said, but his brow creased as if with worry. “They’re well. They’re all well. Is—is your brother at home?”

So he
had
come for the vicar. Something was certainly wrong, even if he wasn’t being quick to say so.

She schooled her voice to its usual rational self-control. “I’m afraid my brother was called out already. Donald Evans’s got drunk again, and fought with his wife, and Thomas has gone to get him into the care of one of his cousins before he does any harm.”

“Ah,” John said distractedly. “I hope someone found where Donald hid his musket and got it away before real trouble starts.”

Her heart flipped at the thought. “Thomas will calm him before it comes to that. I’m sure of it.”

“Yes, yes of course.” John seemed to realize he’d spoken rather alarmingly. “I’m sorry, Mary.
Miss Wilkins
. Your brother will know just what to do.”

“Donald will need watching till the drink wears off, and he minds Thomas better than anyone else, so Thomas may stay some hours. But if your need is urgent, I can go for him myself.”

“Oh. No. I—no, I wouldn’t trouble you like that.” Just then, he seemed to remember he was still wearing his hat. He snatched it off his head, but proceeded to spin it about by the brim, round and round in agitation.

She tried not to notice how the edges of his hair shone golden in the light of her lantern, how the shadows heightened the sculpted plains of his cheekbones. Lord, she wanted to touch him. Wanted to stroke her fingers through his curls once more.

Could he not say a single word, make a single gesture, to let her know he was aware as she was of what had happened between them that morning? Why must he be so stiff and uncomfortable with her?

Standing face to face with him in this formal mode was nearly unbearable. But sending him away seemed cruel, if he was half as troubled as he looked. “Would you like to come in and wait a bit? Thomas may be back sooner than I think. I could at least give you tea before you go home again.”

His eyes widened at the offer, as if shocked.

Why on earth? Granted, it wasn’t entirely proper to invite him into the house when her brother was away, but a vicar’s sister could bend the rules when a parishioner was in need. And considering what had already happened between them already that day, taking a cup of tea together could hardly be considered shocking.

He shifted foot to foot. “Well, I suppose I should talk to you anyway—first, I mean.”

“First?” That word turned her stomach instantly to water. What awful news did he bear that would concern
her
directly? “Is it one of the children from the school?” A panicked inventory flashed through her thoughts: little Jack Kelsey’s lungs were never strong. Billy Harrow was forever jumping out of trees. Annie and Lucy Turner’s father had been to market in Leeds just last week, where they’d had reports of scarlet fever.

But John only looked confused. “Children? No. Please, Mary, may I just come in?”

Apparently he wasn’t going to tell her anything until they were indoors. Her heart fluttering, she led the way into the kitchens, which seemed a more appropriate place to be alone with him than the sitting room, with its perilously soft and inviting divan and armchairs.

Once she had another lamp lit on the table, she got a good look at the man. He was rather green around the gills.

A new panic swamped her. “Oh, Lord, it’s
you
who’s ill! Why didn’t you tell me?” She couldn’t stop herself from laying a palm to his forehead. He didn’t feel warm, though his skin was a trifle clammy.

He sucked in a breath at her touch. “Mary. Miss Wilkins. Don’t.”

He jerked two chairs from under the table and pushed one towards her unceremoniously.

They both sat, and impulsively, she took hold of his hand. “Please, John. Just tell me what’s going on.”

His fingers gripped hers like a vise. He licked his lips. A muscle in his cheek jumped. He started to speak, stopped, started again, his usual easy eloquence apparently having abandoned him again.

She was beginning to be very worried, indeed.

And then he slumped forward off his chair.

“John!” She went to grab his arms to keep him from falling and hitting his head. But once his right knee touched the floor, his downward motion stopped and he was quite steady again.

He remained kneeling before her. This time it was John who took her hands, clasping them quite firmly in his own.

A new alarm rose in her chest.

This
couldn’t
be what it looked like.

It absolutely
shouldn’t
be.

But apparently it was.

“Mary,” John said, in a tight, choked voice. “You must do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

Someone might as well have dumped a bucket of icy water over her—chill mortification sank her every limb, threatening to pull her to the floor.

Dear Lord, he wasn’t deathly ill—he was
proposing
.

“John!” Her tongue tangled. “This—this…oh, gracious, Lord Parkhurst, this isn’t necessary.”

“Of course it’s necessary.” His face looked so distressed. His eyes despondent. “I…compromised your virtue.”

“You did no such thing.” She flung off his hands and jumped to her feet. “If anyone compromised anything, I compromised you. You climbed that hill to look for a site for a well, as a charitable act. I’m the one who begged and pleaded with you to….” Her cheeks flamed, and struggled for a decent way to put it. “To kiss me.”

He was still, stubbornly, kneeling. “It doesn’t matter. I’m enough of a man of the world to know how to resist temptation. It was my responsibility to stop things from going where they went. You were an innocent, you couldn’t know how—how things can become….so heated.”

Her cheeks flushed.

He broke off, his own cheeks going ruddy, and shifted his weight as though the very core of his body ached. “In any case, you only asked me for a kiss. I’m the one who…took it so much further. I did things with you only a husband should do.”

A ripple of heat went through her, despite her embarrassment. If that was his view of what husbands should do with their wives, marriage to him would be a living pleasure. She squelched that selfish thought. “Get up, John. Don’t be on the floor. I can’t bear it.”