For the First Time (21 page)

Well, shite.

He nodded. “Perhaps you might save one for me later in the evening then?”

She smiled—in relief, it seemed. “I have the quadrille open.”

He hated that one. He didn’t know the steps well at all. “Wonderful.”

Silence followed. He counted to six before she spoke. “Thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful.”

“You’re welcome.” He’d sent her three batches of roses over the past few days.

More silence. This was ridiculous. Simply stupid. Why were they acting this way? Why was it so awkward? It struck him then that even if he danced with her later, this was probably the only time alone he’d have with her.

“Here,” he said, taking the small wrapped box from his pocket. “I wanted to give you this personally.”

Her eyes were wide as she accepted the gift. “Oh. Thank you.”

The anticipation in her face was almost enough to make up for everything else. Almost. But his little offering couldn’t compare to Carny’s, and he didn’t want to see her disappointment.

His fingers clenched into tight fists at his sides. “Do me a favor. Don’t open it now. Open it later—when I’m not around.”

She frowned, her confusion evident as she raised her gaze to his. “Why?”

“Just promise me you won’t open it in front of me.” Lord, she probably thought it was a severed finger or something.

She nodded, albeit hesitantly. “All right.”

“Thank you. I shall leave you to your festivities then.”

Her face fell even more. “Of course.”

Instead of leaving immediately as he planned, he reached down and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Happy birthday, princess.”

Then, without waiting for her response, he released her hand and walked away. He had to find Brahm. Brahm was the only person who could keep him from giving in to what he truly wanted—

Have a drink and forget all about Blythe Christian. At least for tonight.

Tired from dancing and pleasantly full from supper, Blythe wearily closed her bedroom door behind her. The last of the guests had finally left and now she could wrestle out of her gown, pull these blasted pins from her hair, and blessedly go to bed.

Her room was dark save for one candle on the bedstand. The dim light was a welcome respite after the brightness of the chandeliers and outdoor lanterns that had lit the evening’s festivities. She didn’t bother to light a lamp or any more candles; she knew this room like the back of her hand.

Stifling a yawn, she removed the pins and fragile gold chains from her hair and let the mass tumble down her back. Her scalp ached from the elaborate hairstyle Suki had designed, and she massaged it gently before lifting her brush to the heavy waves. After ensuring there were no tangles, she worked her hair into a loose braid and secured the end with a bit of ribbon.

Then she crossed the soft carpet to the wardrobe. Leaning on the open door for support, she removed her slippers and tossed them inside. Ahh, it felt good to have them off. She wriggled her stocking-clad toes as she shut the door.

Her hands then went to work on the hooks on the back of her gown. She loosened them enough to shrug the bodice down around her waist and then unfastened the rest. The silk fell to the floor with a faint whisper of protest. She picked it up and draped it over the trunk at the foot of her bed for Suki to take to the laundry in the morning.

Lifting a foot to the trunk, she raised the hem of her shift to untie the garter just above her right knee. As the silk stocking rolled down her calf, her thoughts turned to Devlin. Where had he gone when he left earlier? Why hadn’t he said good-bye?

Shaking out the stocking, Blythe dropped it on top of her gown and bent to remove the garter from her left leg. Had she said something to offend him? Had someone else done something to anger him? It wasn’t like him to leave without speaking to her. It hurt—more than she wanted to admit.

Perhaps he was losing interest in her. Perhaps that was why he’d never come back to collect his dance, why he had seemingly disappeared.

Her fingers went to the pendant around her neck after she added the second stocking to the pile. That couldn’t be. If he was truly losing interest in her, would he have given her such a personal gift? He must have had it made especially for her—she couldn’t imagine diamond horseshoe pendants being heavily in demand in London.

It was the perfect gift, touching her heart with its simplicity and thoughtfulness. He instinctively knew how to please her. He knew the very soul of her, faults and all, and didn’t find her lacking. He was the only person to ever think that, and just now she realized what a rarity it was to find a person who liked you flaws and all. It was a precious gift to have such a person come into one’s life.

Please God, don’t let her have done something to lose him. Panic swarmed the edges of her mind. She didn’t want to lose him. She couldn’t lose him.

Why
? The question echoed through her head like a shout across a mountain valley.

Trembling fingers fumbled with the hooks on the font of her demi-corset. They wouldn’t budge. She sucked in a deep breath. Her fingers wouldn’t work properly.

Why did it mean so much to her to have a man who didn’t know if he loved her in her life?

Because…because she…

“Oh, damn these hooks!”

“Allow me,” came a low, velvety-rough voice.

Blythe’s head snapped up as her heart jerked against her ribs. The pounding filled her ears, thrummed through her blood, and trembled her legs with the sheer force of it. Out of the darkest corner of her room—where a comfortable chair sat before the fireplace—came Devlin. He had removed his coat and his cravat, revealing the golden expanse of his neck and upper chest.

How long he’d been there, she had no idea, but he had been there since before she walked in—long enough to watch her undress. Long enough to intrude upon her privacy. If she hadn’t cursed her corset, would he have sat silent still? Would he have waited until she was entirely naked to announce himself? The idea both angered and aroused her.

In the flickering candlelight, his hair was black as pitch, his eyes almost as dark, save for the warm reflection of flame within their depths. His features were sharper, rougher, and somehow he seemed taller, wider.

For the first time since meeting him, Blythe realized that Devlin Ryland was a dangerous man. He was flesh and blood, heat and strength, and some part of her responded to that—it trembled and thrilled to it.

“How dare you invade my privacy like this,” she whispered, her voice pathetically hoarse. “You should not be here.”

He nodded, his lips curving into a mockery of his normal smile. “I know that. I shouldn’t have done a lot of things in respect to you.” He stepped closer. He was right in front of her now, so close she could smell the warm spicy scent of cologne and flesh.

“If we are caught I will be ruined,” she reminded him—feebly.

He was so close she could feel the heat of him through the thin lawn of her shift. “I thought that didn’t matter to you.”

“I lied.” No she hadn’t, but he had her emotions so raw right now, she didn’t know what she wanted.

He ran his fingers through the heaviness of her hair with surprising gentleness for a man so large. “You’re lying now. Do I frighten you?”

“No,” she whispered. He didn’t frighten her. Her reaction to him did.

“I should never have kissed you that first time.” He touched her cheek with the back of his hand, and she shivered. “Because all I’ve been able to think of since then is kissing you again. That’s why I’m here.”

She gazed at him, swallowing against the lump of fear—no, anticipation—in her throat. “Because you shouldn’t be?”

He chuckled and dropped his hand. “No, because I want to kiss you. I want to do more than kiss you.” His gaze flickered to her chest.

Blythe’s nipples tightened in response. How could he do that? Make her want him without even touching her.

What could she say? If she told him she didn’t want him to kiss her, it would be a lie. “Devlin—”

“But first…”He cut her off, his hands sliding around her ribs, his thumbs resting just below her breasts.

“Let’s get you out of this.”

T
he second his hands touched her, Blythe knew she wasn’t going to stop him. Was this not what they had been working toward with all their secret embraces and clandestine meetings?

Still, she hadn’t been quite prepared for the effect his touch would have on her. No man had ever seen her in her underclothes before, and here she was standing before a man who was also in a state of undress, in nothing but her shift and corset.

He had watched her remove the rest.

That was why he hadn’t danced with her, why he had disappeared earlier in the evening. He’d snuck up here to wait for her, easing his obvious jealousy with thoughts of what would happen when she joined him. What he’d been jealous of didn’t matter.

He hadn’t lost interest in her.

“Take a deep breath,” he commanded.

She did, her hands going to the hooks on the front of her corset. As he squeezed against the boning, she popped the hooks one by one, until finally the offending garment fell to
the floor, leaving nothing but a thin layer of lawn between his hands and her body.

She shivered, her nipples tensing in response. His hands slid up her ribs, across the tips of her breasts, to the ribbon at the neckline of her shift. He wound one delicate length of satin around his finger and tugged. The knot let go, and the flimsy fabric it had held together gently gaped.

“Wait.”

His hands stilled, just seconds away from loosening the ties even further. His gaze was dark and sweet as it met hers.

“Second thoughts?”

She knew without a doubt that if she told him to stop, he would, but that wasn’t what she wanted to tell him.

“It isn’t fair that I’m standing here in next to nothing while you still have so many clothes on.” It didn’t occur to her to put a stop to this madness. She didn’t want to stop it. She wanted him to show her how it felt to be a woman.

A woman loved by a man.

He smiled, that slow little smile that she’d come to adore. “What would you like me to remove?”

“Your shirt,” she replied without hesitation. It was less intimidating than his trousers, but would still give her ample opportunity to touch him. “Take it off.”

He did as she bade, first removing his ivory-colored waistcoat and tossing it on the floor by her corset before grasping the fine linen in both hands and pulling it over his head.

With his arms up, his stomach was concave beneath the arch of his ribs. A fine dusting of silky hair trailed into the waistband of his trousers from the thicker crop on his chest. His golden skin was smooth and would have been completely unmarred, were it not for the awful scars that claimed it.

His shirt joined the rest of their clothing. Arms lowered, he stood before her, gold and dusky in the flickering candlelight. He must have noticed her stare because he reached
down and took one of her hands in his and lifted it to the twin patches of white, puckered flesh high on his chest and left shoulder.

He placed her fingertips to the scars—they were smooth and satiny to the touch. “French musket fire, one at Talavera, the other almost exactly three years later at Salamanca.”

Blythe swallowed. Two shots, so close together in target, but so far apart in time. She couldn’t imagine what it was like to be shot once, let alone twice.

Devlin guided her hand down further, to his right side, along the bumpy ridge of his ribs. A long, thin scar slanted across there. “Knife wound, from a woman I thought I was saving from a fate worse than death. She hadn’t wanted to be saved.”

“Oh,” was all she could think of to say.

Over to the left side now, high on the side of his ribs just underneath his arm. “Bayonet. San Sebastian.” He dropped his hand.

“What about this?” Her fingers dipped to his left hip, where a rough, jagged scar disappeared beneath his trousers.

He stilled. “Waterloo.”

She knew from the tone of his voice not to ask any more questions about it. Instead, she placed both hands flat against his stomach and slid them upward, feeling the heat of his skin and the delicious tickle of his chest hair against her palms. She went up to his shoulders and then down his arms, feeling the solid, ropy strength of muscle beneath flesh.

She should stop. She should tell him to go while there was still time for them to turn back, but she could not. She was going to see this as far as it would go because she wanted him. Because when she’d opened the pendant earlier that evening she had realized that he knew her better than some people who had known her for her entire life. Maybe he didn’t know her favorite color or her favorite food, but he
knew her in her soul, or as her grandmother used to say, “right down to the bones.”

He was the man for her. He was her match, her mate. She knew it in her heart. The future didn’t matter—not at this moment.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

She didn’t need to ask twice.

His lips came down on hers with a gentleness that surprised her. Beneath her hands his muscles trembled with restraint. He didn’t want to be gentle, but he would be because he knew she had never done this before, and he didn’t want to frighten her. It was the way a man treated a delicate woman. Not just that, it was the way a man treated a woman he cared about the first time he made love to her.

Blythe clung to his shoulders as he tilted her head back further. His fingers cupped her jaw and slid around her head into her hair, holding her still as though he was afraid she might try to run.

She had been kissed before in her life. Over the course of her acquaintance with Devlin she had become quite familiar with the feel of his mouth on hers, his taste, the texture of his tongue. What was so amazing was that it was different every time he kissed her. Her heart sped up and her blood warmed, of course, that was nothing new, but every time he kissed her it felt like the first time. There was a spark, a jolt, a feeling that nothing like his kiss had ever happened to her before, even though it had.

Pressing herself against his beautiful, scarred chest, she opened her mouth to the warm intrusion of his tongue. Slowly, he drank of her and she of him. This was what a kiss should be.

He picked her up—not just off her feet, but swept her up into his arms like a knight with his lady fair. How light he made her feel. She was in awe of his strength. She was used to being able to do a man’s work, hold her own with any man, but Devlin was stronger than she was. He could protect her if
the need ever arose. She hoped it never did, but she liked knowing she had someone to run to, someone to hide behind and tell her everything would be all right—that
he
would look after her and that he meant it.

A few steps and then he was lowering her onto the bed—her bed, and yet she’d never noticed before just how wonderfully firm it was, or how soft the coverlet was against her skin. Even the pillows seemed plumper.

In the dim, wavering candlelight, she watched as he stood beside the bed, her battered warrior. He kicked off his shoes, his fingers going to the fastenings on the front of his trousers. Was it just she or had the temperature suddenly gone up? She was so warm, her mouth so very dry. She licked her lips.

Devlin kept his gaze locked on hers as he opened his trousers and slid them down the long length of his legs. She told herself not to look when he straightened, but how could she not when he had bared himself to her like a humble offering?

His legs were strong and hairy, just as she expected. His hips were narrow, the golden flesh taut across jutting pelvic bones. The scar on his left hip ended near the top of his thigh. It had been a nasty wound.

And then there was nowhere else to look but at the one place she’d tried to avoid. Her gaze moved toward the center of his hips, to the thick springy hair that surrounded his penis—cockstand, some of the tenant men liked to call it, rod, or John Thomas. Those seemed silly names now that she was confronted with the actual organ.

It was fairly long, not that she would know short if she saw it, and thicker than she’d imagined. It grew under the weight of her stare, stiffening and rising, the sheath around it pulling back to reveal the blunt, round head. Awed, she sat up on the bed and reached for it.

“Jesus!” Devlin hissed as her fingers closed around him.

Blythe would have let go but he grabbed her hand when she loosened her grip and held it around the warm, hard length of him, moving it up and down. “Touch me,” he murmured.

She did. Her fingers stroked the satiny shaft, marveling in its smoothness and the veins that ridged it.

“What do you call it?” she asked, raising her curious gaze to his.

His eyes were heavy-lidded and she knew it was because of her touch, but he smiled all the same. “You mean me personally?”

She nodded.

“Usually I refer to it as my prick.”

“Prick.” The word felt odd on her tongue.
Pah-rick.
“I don’t like that. It sounds painful.”

His smile faded. “I would never hurt you.”

Blythe’s heart seized. “I know.”

Devlin shoved his hips against her hand. “Name the damn thing whatever you want, just don’t let go of it.”

Thrilling at the power she had over him with just a touch, Blythe leaned closer to his groin and studied the shaft of flesh in her hand. Slowly, she pumped the foreskin. A drop of clear fluid beaded on the tip. She touched it with her finger. He groaned in response. Ahh, this was the sensitive spot, just as when he touched her so intimately.

“Enough,” he said, pulling himself free of her inquisitive fingers. “You can play with it all you want to later. Right now I want to see you.”

Blythe raised a coy brow. “All of me?”

“Fuck, yes.”

She should be offended by his vulgar language, but she wasn’t. The harshness of it reminded her of what he was—a man, a soldier. It also told her just how utterly desperate he was to have her. What woman could possibly object to that?

Brazenly, she shrugged the straps of her shift off her shoulders, loosening the ties at the neck even more as she did
so. It took only a few tugs to send the lawn pooling around her waist.

She lay back on the bed revealing her exposed flesh to his gaze, offering herself up for his approval and his will.

“My God,” he rasped, crawling onto the bed with her. He knelt over her, his dark gaze leaving a trail of blazing heat along her sensitive flesh. Her breasts tightened under his scrutiny, her nipples puckering into hard, aching peaks.

Those black eyes met hers. The need on his face was so stark, so incredibly humbling. He looked on her as though she was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen, as though his very existence depended on having her and the pleasure her body offered.

“You’re beautiful.”

Even though he made her want to believe it with the sincerity of his gaze, Blythe said the first thing that came to mind—the thing that always came to mind. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You are light and peace. There’s nothing more beautiful—and unobtainable—to a man like me.”

How was she supposed to respond to that? How could anyone even begin to think of a worthy response?

“Make love to me,” she whispered, her throat clenching with emotion. “Don’t tell me how you feel, show me.”

His fingers, reverent and warm, slid down her stomach to the shift twisted around her hips. “We could stay like this for a hundred years and I would never find the right words to tell you.”

Whatever Blythe might have thought of in reply was nullified as he grabbed her shift and pulled. She arched her hips to accommodate him, feeling the soft fabric brush against her legs as he pulled it free.

She was naked. Naked and vulnerable before a man whose opinion of her mattered above all others. Her breasts were large as were her hips, and her belly was far from flat. Her arms and legs were stronger than a woman’s should be and
had the musculature to prove it. It was far from what society would call the “ideal form.” Would he find her lacking? Or would he find her perfect in all her imperfection just as she found his scarred chest?

His attention slipped to the vase on the nightstand. Was this the third or fourth bouquet he’d sent? She couldn’t remember, but every one since the first had come without a note. They hadn’t needed one. She knew who they were from—and what he wanted to do with them.

He plucked a rose from the arrangement, its stem dripping tepid water on the bed and Blythe’s chest. She gasped as it hit her heated flesh.

“I knew as soon as I saw these roses that they would look magnificent next to your skin.” Inching closer, he straddled her legs. The hair on his legs tickled hers; the head of his sex brushed the curls at the juncture of her thighs, sending a flood of warmth swirling through her lower abdomen and loins.

The petals of the rose touched her cheek first, velvety soft, whisper light. She breathed the heady fragrance as it trailed along her jaw to her neck, down her chest to circle one breast.

Bracing himself on the other hand, Devlin leaned down, brushing his lips along the same path the flower had taken. His beard scratched the skin of her throat and shoulder as he drifted downward.

The rose tickled her left nipple. She gasped. Devlin’s tongue flicked the puckered flesh. She groaned. The hot wetness of his mouth engulfed her breast, sucking and laving until the throbbing between her legs grew to a fevered rhythm. Then he took the rose to her other breast, and his mouth repeated the exquisite torture on that side.

Blythe arched under his ministrations. She wanted to part her legs, to press her pelvis against something hard until she achieved the release she sought, but Devlin held her prisoner between his own thighs, making it impossible for her to arch
against the sweet weight pressing against her dampening curls.

This was how she knew it would be with him. This insistent ache, the driving need to have his body inside hers was so incredibly overpowering that it robbed her of all propriety and reason. She didn’t care what he did to her, she just wanted him to do it and do it now.

The rose slid down her stomach, circling her navel before dipping lower still. Devlin shifted his weight; he straddled only one of her legs now, down by the knee, and the rose drifted between the spread of her thighs, teasing the inflamed cove there.