Cheryl Holt (34 page)

At her avowal, his eyes glittered with a strange incandescence, and he immersed himself in her, taking her in a single, smooth thrust, then he embarked on his race to satiation. Setting a brutal pace, he penetrated her over and over, his hips thumping like the pistons of a gigantic machine. Sweat pooled on his brow, his muscles were taut and rigid.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking them behind his back so that he had a spacious cushion, and he reveled in the ecstasy. Raising up, he reached between their bodies, his thumb caressing her, while he persisted with his savage rhythm.

“Say my name,” he decreed.

“John—”

“Say it again.”

His thumb was unrelenting, compelling, and she arched up. “John!”

“Don’t shut your eyes. Look at me the entire time.”

Her orgasm promptly overtook her, and she shuddered and cried out. He captured her wail of dismay, swallowing the sound, though he persisted with his flexing.

As she reassembled, he was over her, his palms on
either side of her, and he gazed at her with an intensity that was frightening. It seemed as if he wanted something from her, or that he was about to remark on something profound that would shock and surprise her, but the episode passed as desire flared anew, and he enhanced the tempo.

The power of his movements was thrilling, startling, and he’d progressed far beyond reality or reason, into the realm where only sensation mattered. His exacerbated activity had shoved her across the bed until her head was banging the headboard, and she grappled for purchase, fortifying herself against the onslaught.

Gripping her rear, he lifted her so that their loins were more tightly aligned, and he hurled into her with accelerating strength. He was so near the culmination. The wave emanated—she could feel it—and she steadied herself, anticipating his habitual withdrawal, then the frenetic spew of his seed across her abdomen.

But it never came.

He clutched at her, providing no chance to escape or retreat, and with a groan of passion and despair, he emptied himself inside her, her womb drenched with his essence. It was fantastic, horrifying, unlike anything she’d endured before.

His phallus pulsated with each surge of his release, and though her flesh welcomed his invasion as the normal conclusion, mentally, she was alarmed and aghast.

He’d promised to be circumspect! He’d given her his word! Like an idiot, she’d believed his assurances, had consented to the ultimate sexual behavior. Didn’t he understand the consequences? Had he no inkling of the damage he might have wrought?

How could she have trusted him to constrain himself? She knew what he was like, recognized his negligent propensities, as well as his haughty opinion toward
those of the lower classes. Yes, he’d guaranteed caution, but when his pleasure was held up against her reputation in the village, he would never deny himself.

Why should he care? He was leaving in the morning. If he left her in dire straits, he wouldn’t be around to witness the outcome.

What had possessed her to wander down this dangerous path? She’d thought herself to be smart, discerning, yet she’d acted no better than the stupidest tavern girl who’d let some virile boy slither under her skirt after a hefty dose of sweet talk and false compliments.

What was she to do now?

His body shook, and he dropped down, his weight crushing her as it hadn’t previously. Suddenly, he seemed to be smothering her, with his size, his position, his attitude.

“Get off me!” she rabidly commanded, but he didn’t budge, and she whacked at his shoulders. “Let me up!”

He leaned back, but he was still partially erect, so he kept his cock implanted, and he searched her face, not able to grasp why she was agitated.

“What is it?” He was genuinely perplexed.

“You spilled yourself inside me!”

“Oh—”

“You swore to me that you wouldn’t!”

“I apologize. I was so aroused; I couldn’t help myself.”

“Are you a child?” She prodded at his shoulders, to no avail. “You’re a grown man! Have you no self-control?”

He inhaled, let it out slowly. “You’re afraid.”

“Of course I’m afraid! I’m absolutely terrified!”

“Of what?”

“Of making a babe, you fool!”

“You can’t become pregnant from doing it just once.”

“Who told you such half-witted nonsense?”

“Everyone knows it to be true,” he claimed.

“Do you have any idea how many babies I’ve delivered that were conceived after
one
time?”

He smiled hesitantly. “But Em, I can’t sire a child.”

“And if this is the first?”

“Don’t worry.

It’s not.” “If you’re wrong, and I learn in a few weeks that I’m with child, what will you do about it?”

There it was. Out in the open. A dare. A challenge. An affront to his character. By virtue of his illustrious title, he was omnipotent, and could commit any slight or indignity to someone of her station without recompense.

If she wound up in the family way, would honor impel him to marry her? Or, more likely, would he consider that any damage to her was so trivial that it wasn’t worth indemnification?

Lamentably, and much too soon, she was brutally informed of his answer.

“What would you expect me to do?”

“Nothing.” She tamped down a torrent of desperation. “Nothing at all.”

He shifted away from her, his waning cockstand gliding out, and the instant she was free, she scrambled to the edge of the bed and sat up. He rubbed his hand in soothing circles across her back. For a moment, she allowed the contact, treasuring the feel of his warm skin against her own, then she straightened and stood, traipsing to the dressing room where she’d bathed earlier. Her clothes were folded in a neat pile on the vanity.

“Em!” Clearly exasperated, he called after her, and shortly, he marched over to where she was hastily donning
her attire. On seeing what she was about, he was offended, and he inquired, “What are you doing?”

“I’m going home.”

“But we’ve got hours ahead of us. There’s no need.”

For such an intelligent man, he could be so obtuse! “I couldn’t possibly stay now.”

“Why?” He approached, rested a hand on her waist. “I said I was sorry. Don’t be angry.”

“Oh, John—” She breathed a ponderous sigh. He hadn’t had much experience at making reparation, so he didn’t realize that an inept assertion of remorse would never be sufficient.

He snuggled her to his chest and offered as an inadequate justification, “I wanted you so badly, Emma.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“But it was wonderful, wasn’t it?” He stuck his finger under her chin, urging her to look at him. “You can’t be sad.”

He was pleading with her, imploring her forgiveness, but for once, she wouldn’t bestow it. She stepped away, grabbed her chemise, and slipped it on.

“Can you even begin to imagine what will happen to me if I’m increasing?”

“You’re not.”

“Desist with your denials!” she shouted. “You’re insulting me.”

He flopped into a chair and quietly entreated, “What would it be like?”

“Well, I’d have to marry. Quickly.” She snatched up her dress and shrugged into it. “I’d either have to surrender to another man’s advances, then lie and pretend the child was his, or I’d have to be honest and confess my dilemma and pray that he’d have me.”

“Don’t ever do that. I couldn’t bear to contemplate you with anyone else.”

How typically arrogant of him to insist that she
forgo a resolution simply because he wouldn’t like it! She bit her tongue against a flood of scathing retorts.

“Fine, then.” She perched on a stool and drew on her stockings and shoes, occupying herself in a meager attempt to contain her ire. “Instead, I’d be an unwed mother, which means—at best!—that I’d be a pariah. I’d be cast out of the community, forced to move on with my invalid mother and young sister. With no money and no place to go.”

“And at worst?”

“Maybe they’d stone me. Or resort to tar and feather.”

“This isn’t the Middle Ages,” he scoffed. “Don’t be melodramatic.”

“I’m quite serious.”

She rose, anxious to exit without so much as a goodbye, but he wouldn’t let her skirt around him. He clasped her hand, cajoling her over and tugging her onto his lap, and she didn’t struggle to resist, for she knew that he’d have his way in the end. He always did.

“I’d never let anyone harm you,” he ferociously maintained.

“Well, you wouldn’t be here to prevent it, would you?”

She stared forward, declining to so much as peek at him, and he nuzzled under her chin, and kissed her nape.

Stunning her to her core, he suggested, “Come to London with me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. Come with me.”

“As your what?”

Her query confounded him beyond measure, and a lengthy, painful interlude ensued before he could respond.

“As my mistress. What would you suppose?”

“Naturally,” she muttered falteringly. “I’d be your mistress.”

“I’d set you up in a grand house; you’d never want for anything.”

“How about your current mistress? Would you split with her, or would we share you?”

“I’d let her go.” But he evinced no enthusiasm for the dissociation, and he was far from being prepared to make it.

“What about my mother and sister?”

“I’d make arrangements for them.”

“They couldn’t live with me?”

“Well, I had fancied having you all to myself.”

Her volleys had him so disconcerted that he couldn’t verbalize what he wanted, and his bewilderment underscored how flippant his overture had been.

“And if there is a babe? Then what?”

“I’d . . . I’d . . .”

“I’m sure you mean that you’d support me for the remainder of my life, that you would contribute to the child’s upbringing so that he would know and love you, and that you would guide and nurture him as any father would.”

“Certainly,” he mumbled, sounding as though he were choking on the prospect, and his lack of sincerity hurt and outraged her.

“Stop it! Please!” She jumped up and stomped away from him. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Emma, calm down. We can work this out.”

“No, John, we can’t.”

She gazed at him then, and her heart broke. He was so handsome and robust, but so despairing and despondent, too. She’d ceaselessly enjoyed looking at him, watching him, studying him. He enchanted her, intrigued and tantalized. He fascinated her as no one ever had, and as he sat there in his expensive chair, the elegant accouterments
of the room highlighting all that he was, he appeared so alone, so lost and forlorn, a rich, dissolute man with no friends or family on whom he could rely, or to whom he could turn in a crisis.

When she walked out the door, her mother and sister would be waiting for her. They might be poor, but they had each other. Their small, tumbledown cottage was filled with vivacious chatter, with camaraderie and affection. She passed her days with people who loved her, people she cherished in return.

John had no one. There wasn’t a person in the world—save perhaps Ian Clayton—who cared a whit about him.

He’d go back to London, to his gambling and his whores and his decadent habits, and then what? How tragic that his life had so little purpose. That he’d been given so much, but he saw his gifts as burdens. There was so much he could do, so many ways he could benefit others, if he’d open himself up to the possibilities.

Though she yearned to tell him so, to hug and comfort him, to explain myriad methods by which he could find contentment, she kept silent, refusing to be the one who bridged this final gap. He’d created his obstacles, had fostered his image as a cad and a ne’er-do-well, and he thrived on his negative reputation.

He was an adult, with the resources to change his fate whenever he was ready.

She was about to bid him farewell; then she would never see him again, would never hear from him again, but in the coming dreadful months, she didn’t intend to worry about how he’d fared. She had her own problems. Problems that were pressing, real, and overwhelming. In comparison, his adversities were petty, and she wouldn’t let herself be influenced by his distress.

She couldn’t fix everything for everybody.

“I must go.” She took another step toward the door and the freedom of the corridor that lay beyond.

“Emma,” he repeated, annoyed. He strode over to her, taking both her hands in his. “Not like this. Not when you’re so upset.”

“It has to be now.”

“Come tomorrow. I’ll delay my departure, and we’ll talk this over.”

“I can’t think of a single word that still needs to be said.”

She wanted only that the hideous scene be concluded, but her determination, and his inability to sway her, infuriated him. “I’ve tarried here for almost a week just so I could see you one last time,” he complained, in a temper, “but all you can do is argue.”

“I’m not arguing. I’m leaving.”

“You’ve worked yourself into a lather over some vague, nebulous potentiality, and you’re angry with me because I can’t give you instant answers to complex questions.”

“I don’t expect anything from you. I never have.”

“So you say!” He waved an irate finger under her nose. “What is it you really want from me?”

“Nothing!”

“Liar,” he chided. “You’re beseeching me with those pretty brown eyes of yours! To do what? You’re intimating that I don’t care about you. That I wouldn’t provide for you if there was a child. That I have no honor or integrity. I thought you had more faith in me than that!”

“What have you told me, in the past few minutes, that would make me presume you would assist me if I was in trouble?”

“You’re asking me to make life-altering decisions in
a thrice, to give promises to you that I’m not certain I could keep. When I can’t furnish an immediate solution to a situation that doesn’t exist, you’re furious that I won’t! You’re acting the lunatic!”

He threw out his arms in aggravation. “Would you have me prostate before you? Begging you to wed? So be it!” Abruptly falling to his knees, he gripped her hand in his, squeezing it so tightly the bones ached, and he snapped, “Will you marry me?”