Dangerous to Love (20 page)

He pulled back slightly, his hand dipping beneath the hem of her shift, wrenching it up, moving it over her thighs. She shifted, helping him to lift it over her shoulders and head. As her arms reached for him, he held her off. He was no stranger to Serena’s body, but his memory of it was tactile. This time, he wasn’t going to be cheated of a single thing.

Candlelight bathed her, touching her rounded curves in a satiny glow, veiling the womanly valleys in shadow, as if to protect her from his immodest masculine scrutiny. He would allow her no modesty. Eyes holding hers in an unyielding stare, he moved her, arranging her so that nothing was concealed from him.

Her breasts were full and firm, their aureoles like ripe crushed berries. Her waist was incredibly slender, no
wider than a man’s handspan. The flare of her soft thighs and the golden thatch at their junction were beautifully formed, perfect in their femininity. The one thing to mar so much perfection were odd scratches and abrasions on her ivory skin where she had scraped herself in her fall.

He touched her, brushing his fingertips lightly over her sleep-warmed skin, and the heat from her body seemed to enter him, constricting his breathing, tightening his loins. Dipping his head, he pressed little kisses to each scratch and abrasion that marred her beautiful skin. His lips brushed, his tongue stroked, tasting her, wallowing in her flavor and scent. When his hand cupped a breast, molding the fullness with his fingertips, she made a choked pleasure sound. He toyed with her, clamping with fingers and thumb over each rosy nipple, bringing them fully erect. She lifted herself into the caress, offering him more. Groaning, he replaced his fingers with his tongue, then his mouth, sucking gently, then hard. She was moving rhythmically beneath him, parting her legs in unknowing need. One hand slipped lower, his fingers brushing against the fleecy thatch between her thighs, not entering her, but enticing her, and she arched herself against the pressure of his hand. His fingers probed, entering her, becoming dewed with the essence of her body.

Serena mewed like a kitten as she felt those bold fingers parting and sliding, then delving into the quivering folds of her femininity. He stopped. Just like the last time, those exquisite sensations stopped. She would die if he stopped now.

“Please! Julian!” She was sobbing in her need.

He laughed softly, and the stroking began anew. It was hellish. It was heavenly. She knew she was panting, but she couldn’t stop herself. Her world seemed to have diminished to the clever fingers that were moving in and out of her body, flexing, then withdrawing completely as
he deliberately teased and tortured her. With the heel of one hand, he rubbed her delicately, revealing a pleasure point she had not known existed. His fingers delved deeper, became more rhythmic as he increased the pressure. Gasping, she clamped her legs together, trapping his hand. It was too intense, too much too .  .  .

“Ahh .  .  .” Head thrashing on the pillow, she twisted and turned as the convulsions stormed through her.

A long while later, she opened her eyes and looked up at him with something like awe.

Satisfied with what he read in her expression, Julian shrugged out of his robe and sat back on his heels. “Now you,” he said. “I have ached to feel your hands on me.”

She shuddered on the shallow breath she inhaled. Her eyes were wide and unflinching on his lap, as though she could not believe what she was seeing. His sex was so hard, so engorged that he was gritting his teeth in anticipation of the pleasure of her touch. She moistened her lips and looked up at him.

“Julian?” she said tremulously.

He gave a shaky laugh. “Oh yes, that too. But you can start by putting your hands on my shoulders.”

At her first shy touch, he caught back a groan, but as her fingers descended, plowing through the mat of dark hair on his chest, pleasure became pain. He sucked in his breath. “What the .  .  . ?”

Somehow, her ring had caught in a whorl of springy chest hair. She worked it free, twisting the ring around her finger. When it came away, releasing him, she stared at her hand thoughtfully.

“Julian, I’m not your wife. I’m your mistress. That’s it, isn’t it? You need not be afraid to tell me.”

“What?” His head jerked back.

“This ring. It’s not a real wedding ring. Don’t you think I know that?”

“But .  .  .” He didn’t want to talk. He was aching for completion. She
owed
it to him.

“And there are other things. I have a distinct recollection of you offering me a house and a carriage if I would become your mistress. Darling, don’t look so stricken. I think I always knew that you would never marry me. A man of your substance will look higher than a poor actress, no, an aspiring actress, for his wife. I don’t mind. Really I don’t.”

All the excellent reasons for keeping his hands off her marched through his head, making a timely though unwelcome appearance. He didn’t want to think of them. He ached with the pain of unfulfilled desire. He wanted to roar with the injustice of it. It was his resolve to make their coupling good for
her
that had brought him to this. If he had taken her the way he had wanted to, no, the way she had wanted him to, quickly, and with few preliminaries, by now they would be entwined, sleeping in sated bliss.

He felt outraged, and knowing he was being unreasonable did nothing to calm his sense of ill-usage. Jaw clenched, he hauled himself to the edge of the bed and got awkwardly to his feet. He kept his back to her as he donned his dressing robe, giving himself a moment or two, until his desire had ebbed to manageable proportions.

When he turned and saw the look on her face, his sense of ill-usage evaporated. She could not know that when the male of the species was sexually thwarted, he generally made an ass of himself. She was misreading his silence, blaming herself for the aggression that any fool could detect in him. There would be other nights like this one, he promised himself, other nights when nothing would save her, not even Serena.

Bending to her, he kissed her swiftly. “I thought you
understood that we were wed and coming to my house for our honeymoon?”

She shook her head. “I remember you saying something of the sort in the carriage that conveyed us here. Now that other things are coming back to me, I wondered if I might have been mistaken.”

“You are my wife,” he said, clearly and forcefully. “Believe it.”

“But this ring?”

He couldn’t tell her the truth, that it was a prop to deceive Serena into thinking that their marriage was a hastily contrived affair. Nevertheless, he told her no lie when he said, “Our marriage was sudden. That ring is only a temporary one. There is another that I meant to give you, but with the accident and everything, it slipped my mind. You have suffered a concussion. You are confused, you know you are. You were never my mistress, though it’s true that we were lovers.” He managed to smile ruefully. “I should be horsewhipped for forgetting myself. Dr. Ames warned me that you must have complete rest, and I aim to abide by his advice.”

As he spoke, he retrieved the nightshift from the floor, and on returning to the bed, assisted her into it. “Close your eyes and try to
get
some sleep,” he said, helping her beneath the covers. “I promise to abide by the doctor’s orders until you are more yourself.”

She caught his hand as he made to turn away. Tears magnified her eyes. “Julian, is this true?” she whispered. “Am I truly your wife?”

“Oh yes. I have the marriage certificate to prove it.”

Bringing his hand to her lips, she kissed it passionately on the open palm. “I am the happiest woman in the world.”

He felt the potent effects of that kiss all the way to his
loins. Before he could change his mind, he blew out the candle and strode from the room.

An hour later, he was still wakeful, moving restlessly in his cramped bed. In one part of his mind, he was regretting leaving—Victoria? Serena?—to her chaste bed. In another part of his mind, he was elated, remembering what she had told him.

Serena was going to be as mad as fire when she came to herself and discovered that Victoria had been betraying all her little secrets. Disgust and loathing? That’s not how Victoria remembered it. Though she was confused, she knew that they had been lovers.
I
ache for want of you.
Beneath Serena’s demure exterior, she burned with a passion to match his own. He had sensed it, once, until she had denied it in no uncertain terms. “Little liar,” he said, smiling smugly.

Her passion enthralled him, all the more so because it came in such an intriguing, complex baggage. Of the many passionate women he had known intimately, not one was memorable, though there wasn’t one he regretted. With few exceptions, their faces and bodies all ran together in his mind, indistinguishable one from another. Those connections had been easy and casual, the way he preferred it. Nothing with Serena would ever be easy, nothing would ever be casual. His last thought before sleep claimed him was that it was entirely possible he had finally met his match.

   Serena could not believe how shy she was with her husband when she met him at the breakfast table the following morning. She was an actress. Actresses she knew were bold, dashing creatures. Flirtation and dalliance came naturally to them. Surely she should have the confidence to make some teasing remark about what had taken place between them the night before? Julian was
the one to tease her, and all she could do was start babbling about the weather. It was unseasonably hot. She was sure a storm was brewing. Then again, mayhap not. The twinkle in his eyes set her teeth on edge. An actress should not be so gauche. She assumed that the concussion she had sustained had something to do with it. There were times when she felt like two women, Victoria Noble, the actress, and .  .  . someone else. Even the clothes in her wardrobe added to her confusion. They hardly seemed flamboyant enough for an actress.

When she mentioned her odd flight of fancy to Dr. Ames on his next visit, he was able to reassure her.

“Concussion is an odd business. Your memory may be erratic for some time to come. However, every day I see an improvement in you. You mentioned actresses a moment ago. You see? It’s all coming back to you, or how would you know what to expect from members of your profession?”

In his own mind, he was not nearly so confident. This was the third day after his patient had suffered a concussion, and though in all other respects he was well pleased with her progress, he could see no good reason for the selective loss of memory. He sensed brain damage, or a curious disturbance of the nervous system. He betrayed none of his uncertainties to Serena, but urged her in that hearty way of his to forget about the past and get out and about in the fresh air as much as possible. To Julian, in private, he cautioned patience.

Julian frowned at this. “I understood you to say that it was a mild concussion, and that my wife’s memory would be fully restored to her in a matter of days?”

“And so I thought. I still think so.” He shrugged helplessly. “It’s almost as though she does not wish to remember.”

“Are you suggesting that she is shamming?”

Dr. Ames was astonished. “Good God, no! What would be the point of it? All I am saying is that these are early days yet.”

He did not mention that he had decided to confer with an eminent colleague in London if the effects of the concussion had not worn off in another day or two.

“It was in my mind,” said Julian, “to post up to town to attend to some business matters. This would mean leaving my wife overnight.”

“Do so, by all means,” replied Dr. Ames at once. “Mrs. Raynor is in good hands here. I am close by—not that I anticipate anything untoward. As I said, Mrs. Raynor is the picture of health. The rest and quiet can only be beneficial.”

Once alone, Julian took a few moments to reflect on his conversation with Dr. Ames. He smiled grimly when he remembered the suspicion that had crossed his mind when the doctor had suggested that Serena did not wish her memory to return. She was up to something!—that’s what he’d thought. He’d dismissed that absurd notion almost as soon as it had occurred to him. As Ames had indicated, there would be no point in Serena trying to deceive him in this. In point of fact, the Serena he knew would not be able to sustain such a deception. She would burst if she could not tell Julian Raynor exactly what she thought of him for all that he had done to her.

Laughing softly to himself, he entered his bookroom. She would have her day soon enough. He had decided that the time had come to reveal everything to her. Perhaps it had been a mistake to keep her in ignorance of her true identity, but the doctor had assured him the effects of the concussion would quickly wear off and had advised him not to force things. The doctor had been too optimistic. She must be told, and soon. But not, he cautioned himself, before he had returned from town. Serena in her right
mind would get up to all sorts of mischief if he were not here to restrain her.

When his thoughts turned to his business in town, his smile gave way to a frown. There had been no word from Flynn, not a whisper to indicate what was going forward with Sir Robert Ward. There had been a delay of some sort, that much was evident. He would look in at Ward House and confer with Flynn, as well as attend to a few other matters that he had put off until Serena was safely his wife.

He wasn’t worried about his gaming house. Blackie had things well in hand. Every day a courier came from town with a full accounting of the night’s takings. Julian liked to be kept abreast of things. All the same, perhaps a quick visit would be wise. He might hear something of Sir Robert there.

His thoughts drifted. He had a vision of lush rosy contours, and deeply shadowed valleys, and virgin forests that tempted a man to chart them or lose himself in the attempt. Lost in Serena land with no hope of rescue. It was a tantalizing thought.

   Serena’s first inkling that Julian was keeping her a prisoner on his estate came when she tried to put the doctor’s advice into practice. A walk to the village of Twickenham, she decided, would help to while away an hour or two. But porters refused to let her through the gates, and no amount of arguing on her part could persuade them to let her pass.