Lord Braybrook’s Penniless Bride (20 page)

She opened to him anyway. He forced his fingers to stillness, struggling for sanity. Her hips lifted. Very slightly. Just enough for him to feel the silent plea. This was the response he had wanted from her. Here. Now. His. All his for the taking.

With a groan, he surrendered. To her desire, not his, his seeking touch finding a softness that blossomed in liquid fire as he caressed her with growing intimacy. And she touched him, shy hands exploring and discovering, curious fingers finding his nipples, lingering to tease when he groaned in aching pleasure.

This was the sweetest kiss he had ever known. And then he remembered.

Would you…would you kiss me again?

She had asked him to kiss her. Not seduce her! And she was so damned innocent, she didn’t have the least idea what she was doing to him! Where this would lead. Furious with himself, he tore his mouth free and sat up, shuddering with the need to tear his breeches off, push her thighs wide and sink into her wet,
scented heat. Instead he grabbed his shirt, hauled it over his head and began to do it up with clumsy shaking fingers.

‘No more,’ he said, frustration roughening his voice. He tried not to look at her, but even so there were scorchmarks on the remnants of his self-control.

Forcing himself to his feet, he took several painful strides towards the bank.

‘Cover yourself,’ he said shortly. God help him if he turned and saw her lying there, dishevelled from his lovemaking. He shook at the thought.

She was his wife. She deserved better than to be tumbled on a river bank when all she had asked for was a kiss, just because he had all the self-control of a rutting stag.

‘I’m…I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.’

He didn’t dare look at her. ‘Won’t do what?’

‘That. Here. I mean, I won’t—’

Her voice broke and he turned.

‘Christy.’

The sight of her quiet self-possession dissolved into tears lanced through him and three strides had him beside her, all control shattered by the need to comfort her.

‘Christy, sweetheart, it’s all right. I’m sorry. I never meant it to go so far. You don’t have to be frightened of me.’ His voice cracked as he rocked her. ‘No matter how much I want you.’

She wriggled free and faced him. ‘You
do
want me?’

He nodded, not trusting his voice, desperately trying to banish the memory of Christy yielding beneath him in the fragrant grass, her mouth soft with his kisses…Helpless, his fingers traced the line of her throat, feeling the warmth, the flickering pulse leaping to his touch.

‘Then, why did you stop?’

Why?
Directness was the only possibility. ‘I stopped because you had no idea what you were doing,’ he informed her. No idea she’d reduced his control to smoking ruins.

She reddened. ‘I know, but how…how can I know what pleases you, or…or how you want me to behave, if—’

‘What?’

The small part of his mind retaining a semblance of rational thought observed that her blush had deepened.

‘Christy, I didn’t stop because I wasn’t enjoying what you—what
we
—’ Dammit! Now
he
was blushing!

‘I was enjoying it so much,’ he told her, ‘that I was within about two heartbeats of taking you.’ It might have taken him a little longer to remove his breeches, but not much.

‘Then, you…you didn’t mind that I…that I was enjoying what you—’ The break in her voice turned him inside out. There was light now at the end of a very dark and mystifying tunnel. He had no idea what was out there in the light, but if he went just a little further, committed himself to chance—

‘Christy—I loved that you were enjoying it.’ Her eyes widened and it was as though he had opened a gift early, breaking it in clumsy greed. But then someone had taken the broken gift and wrapped it again, renewing it, giving him a second chance.

A humming silence spread around them in which the golden late summer air fizzed and sparkled, rippling like the river, alive with promise.

Then she said, ‘Well, you did say this morning…and I…I suppose there must be worse places, must there not?’

His mouth dried. He had told her this morning that he would leave it to her to decide when she wished to come to him. And what did she mean by
worse places
? Was she deliberately…?

He forced himself to ask. ‘Worse places for what, Christy?’

She looked at him uncertainly. ‘You didn’t mind?’

‘No, I didn’t. Trust me. Worse places for what?’ he repeated, unbuttoning his shirt again, just in case he was right.

She reached out and fumbled with a button. His heart contracted.

‘Worse places to…to…’ She floundered to a halt, obviously uncertain of what to say, what to call it.

‘To make love?’ he suggested, capturing her hand and taking it to his lips, drawing her to him.

To make love.
He had never used those words. Not to any
woman. Always, always it had been sex. No more. But the words sounded right with Christy in his arms, just as kissing her was right.

She hesitated and his heart nearly stopped beating. ‘Only if…I mean, it’s not the sort of thing you expected of your wife, is it?’

His heart tried to catch up and failed. He hauled the shirt over his head and dropped it.

‘No,’ he said, easing her down to the grass. ‘I have to admit it never occurred to me I’d be lucky enough to marry a woman who would seduce me on a sunny river bank.’

‘And you don’t mind? Even though I am your wife—’

Pardon?

‘—not your mistress.’

Wife, not mistress?

The painful words rocked him to the core, the wound he had dealt her laid bare. He heard his own cynical voice outlining the roles of wife and mistress—he had convinced her that a woman’s passion was something furtive and shameful, only acceptable in a mistress. That in his wife it was unwanted. That
she
was unwanted.

‘The only thing I mind,’ he said, sinking on to the grass beside her and taking her in his arms again, ‘is that I was such a damned fool. This is what lay between us, isn’t it? You thought I didn’t want you to be like this?’

‘Yes.’ The merest whisper, as though she could barely draw breath.

He took her lips, teasing the sensitive curves with his tongue until she opened to him and he could ravish the sweetness within. By the time he lifted his head she was soft and yielding, half beneath him, and his senses were reeling again.

Dear God. All he’d had to do was kiss her?

‘You thought wrong,’ he murmured, and kissed her again.

Dazed by his kisses, Christy was still aware as wickedly skilled fingers unbuttoned her bodice, that he had lifted her in his arms and peeled the muslin away, leaving her in her stays and chemise. She blushed, but it was too late for modesty. He had turned her and was loosening her stays. Heat flooded her at his hot breath on her nape, his lips brushing warmly over the curve
of neck and shoulder and her lungs seized as he nipped gently at her ear.

‘Julian—’

One arm slid around her, drawing her against him, still nibbling as he fondled her breasts. ‘Do you want me to stop?’

‘No. Oh, no,’ she breathed. She no longer cared about being a wanton hussy.

The arm tightened, his tongue traced the curve of her ear and her mind and body melted in delight. ‘Thank God.’

Moments later her stays and his breeches were gone and she was in his arms, only her chemise between them. He cupped one aching breast through the fine linen, his thumb stroking lightly over the urgent nipple. Lightning shot through her and she cried out, arching. This time there was no need to hold back.

Slowly he lowered his mouth to her breast and kissed it, his tongue laving the sensitive peak until the fabric clung wetly.

He drew the taut crest deep into the heat of his mouth, suckling gently, then, as she cried out in pleasure, harder before turning his attention to its twin while one hand slid down her body, sliding up under the linen to tease gently over her belly.

Shaking hands stripped away that last barrier. Caressing. Learning. Loving.

His hand moved lower, reaching between her thighs and her breathing fractured as he cupped her and stroked gently into slick, aching need. Pleasure, bordering on agony in all it promised, rippled through every vein in torrents of fire. And at the centre of it all a shattering emptiness, crying out to hold him within her. Her hips lifted involuntarily against the wicked play of his fingers.

His control quaked at the pleading dance of her body, all soft, wet temptation, burning him alive. Lifting his mouth from her breast with a groan, he gripped her hip, stilling her. ‘No. Just lie still.’ Any more and he’d be buried in her, and he wanted to take his time, make it right for her…

She tensed, pulling away, and he knew what he’d said. With aching care he brought her back, gathering her close.
‘No, Christy,’ he whispered, feathering kisses over her face. ‘Not that. Never that. It’s just…I want you too much.’ He kissed her, his tongue plundering gently until she sobbed in need and her hips lifted again, seeking, urgent against his teasing fingers.

He lifted his head, breaking the kiss. ‘I want it to be right for
you
,’ he said, tightly, continuing to ravish the slick heat that lured him. Groaning, he slid one knee between her thighs, opening her, feeling the sweet tremors shake her body as he settled in the intimate cradle. He braced himself on one elbow, reaching down between their bodies to guide himself to her.

‘Julian?’

He kissed her. ‘Yes, sweetheart. You’re soft, wet—do you want me?’

‘Julian…oh, God! Yes. Please!’

‘Where, love? Here?’ He pressed carefully against the hot entrance.

‘Yes, oh, yes. There. Inside.’ Her voice broke as he pressed into her, feeling the clasp of her body.

‘Slowly,’ he whispered as his control shook, whether in reassurance, or to remind himself, he couldn’t have said. He withdrew a little, waiting. And it came—the urgent lift of her hips, following his retreat. He hung on, shaking, as her response, hot liquid silk, welled up, her breath trembling on her lips.

Her eyes opened. ‘Please…now,’ she whispered.

He lowered his mouth to hers, consuming her soft pleas as they fell from her lips. One thrust, deep and true, and he lay buried to the hilt in her sweet sheath. And held utterly still as her cry stabbed into him.

Her eyes were shut tight, her breasts rising and falling in trembling breaths. He hung on to control as she softened, hot and sweet around him. Slowly her eyes opened again, and he saw the dawning knowledge, the realisation of him buried deep within her body.

‘Christy,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Christy.’ This then was what he had wanted. He had wanted her to let go. Steel bands contracted savagely in his chest. He had been forced to let go first. Tenderly,
he pushed back a tumbled curl from her face, threading his fingers in the silken skeins, and feathered his lips over hers.

There were no words to express how she felt. She didn’t know what she felt. Never in her life had she felt so helpless, so vulnerable as she did lying impaled beneath him, her body captive to his. It did not hurt this time. She had trusted him that it would not. But she had not thought, had not realised, that feeling him so deeply within her, filling her so tightly, a
part
of her, might be joy itself. She had not thought desire could leave her shaking, frantic with need, longing only for his utter possession.

She had not thought it could feel like this—his weight a heated intimacy, mingling with his musky masculine scent, lean fingers tangled in her hair, his thumb clumsily brushing tears from her cheeks…all her nervous embarrassment gone, replaced by aching need, to feel him move within her, to move herself. To give until nothing was left, except the need to give.

She had not thought at all.

Certainly she had not thought to see her own vulnerability reflected in his eyes, or hear it in his voice as he soothed her, nor expected his hands to tremble as he cradled her face.

‘Julian—’ Her voice broke as he shifted slightly within her, fire streaking through every vein. She wanted, needed, more.

He stilled, tension pouring from him—evident in the flickering muscles of his shoulders, the corded tendons of his neck.

‘Am I hurting you? Do you want me to stop?’ His voice, harsh with restraint, pierced her to the core. She could hear the need in his voice—taut, hungry; see it blazing in his eyes; feel it in the minute, helpless shifts of his body, ravishing hers, melting her senses in fiery delight. Those tiny movements, splintering in fierce pleasure, told her what she needed.

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Never. I want you.’ And shifted against him.

He was lost. The silken caress of her body raked him with fire. So hot and soft and tight around him. The chains of control snapped and his mouth came down on hers, taking her sobs of pleasure as he began to move, claiming her, urgent and posses
sive. Yet still, at the very depths of his desire, one gossamer thread held true, stretching, never breaking, binding him as surely as iron chains; he took her with a fierce tenderness he did not understand, and had never imagined could exist.

She had not known, had never imagined it could be like this, her body winged, frantic for release, as he possessed her deeply, irrevocably in a rhythm that sang with time itself. Above her, on her, within her, he took her spinning into the heart of fire. The very edge of madness.

She tried to hold back, her fainting reason crying out, warning her that from this point, if she went any further, there would be no going back.

He would not let her hold back. He took her to the brink and held her there, breaking, then went with her as she shattered, her body dissolved in delight.

H
e lay, Christy asleep in his arms, staring up through the sun-dappled green, hearing the hum of insects and the call of birds. A faint splash from the river told him a trout had risen. The air fizzed gently. Alive. Glowing. He felt part of it as he never had before. As though heaven and earth had contracted to the space occupied by their bodies and infused them.

Something nameless within him had broken loose.

His arms tightened, and she wriggled against him with a sigh, sending shards of rekindling desire splintering soul deep. Whatever it was that had got loose shook again. The other night she had given him her innocence. Today, here on the river bank, she had given him herself.

Neither of which gifts he deserved. Could they start again? Could they have the marriage he had always intended for himself? True, she had not brought any money to the match, but she was intelligent, caring. She was interested in the estates and his people. Now their misunderstandings were largely behind them, surely they could create a solid, rational union.

A wry voice suggested the passion unleashed between them had nothing to do with rationality.

Christy stared at the book in her lap. The pages might as well have been blank. Even though she was alone in her bed, everything was different now, wasn’t it? She had come up half an hour ago. Julian had been reading a report sent down by his bailiff.

It had been such a lovely evening. They had talked. Really talked. She had asked him about this house and he had told her about all the summers he had spent here as a boy. About his friends. About himself. She knew so much more about him now. It was as though what had happened on the riverbank had breached his barriers. It was not just the lovemaking…

It never occurred to me I’d would be lucky enough to marry a woman who would seduce me on a sunny riverbank…

She blushed. Had she really done that?

No, it was not just the lovemaking, although it had been…She searched for a word—beautiful? Shocking? Exhilarating? All of that. But now there was an intimacy between them. Julian—his name came so easily now—was so much more relaxed, as though he had been on his guard before. She supposed the same could be said for her. Indeed, she knew it; making love like that left all of herself, all she kept hidden, exposed to him.

It was terrifying.

Because that complete, unreserved, nothing-held-back physical intimacy had revealed her own unacknowledged longings. For tenderness.

For love.

She was falling in love with a man who had married her only because he had to. Worse—only because
he
thought he had to. His world would not have cared a scrap about her fate. His sense of honour, the unexpected streak of kindness, disarmed her. He hadn’t cared about the world’s opinion. Only his own.

He didn’t love her. She must remember that. Only his tenderness
felt
loving…his kisses…the gentle way he’d touched her, held her afterwards—close, as though he couldn’t bear to release her. But her mother had warned her men were different. They
could feel only physical pleasure where a woman felt as though her heart had left her breast.

That was my mistake, dearest. Don’t repeat it.

Other women must have felt this way about him. Jane Roberts, perhaps. Coldness gripped her. Jane and her daughter, Nan—did he have other children? There was no point resenting his past involvements; she was the product of such a union herself. It was just that she was falling, or had fallen, in love. She was jealous. Possessive. She wanted him to be hers alone from now on, and he never would be. He had been very honest about that.

She had tried not to let this happen—even this afternoon she had tried to hold some small part of herself apart, inviolate, but afterwards he had coaxed her into the river, teaching her to swim, endlessly patient and encouraging. And, oh! The touch of his hands on her body through the wet, clinging chemise. She’d been too shy to swim naked, but in the end the chemise had been worse than nothing. A tremor coursed through her—it had not just been his hands, but the sensation of his wet, powerful body sliding against hers, and the hot, hungry touch of his gaze, and his laughter. His encouragement of her efforts and his delight when she could keep herself afloat and swim a few strokes.

She had to remember that to him it was nothing more than kindness.

They had walked back to the house, his horse trailing behind, hand in hand like lovers.

We are lovers
, she thought. But only in the physical sense.

The opening door scattered her thoughts.

The sight of her husband seized her breathing. He stood just inside the open door, his expression serious, the dark hair tousled and slightly damp. Beneath his robe she could see only bare, muscled chest. Her lips parted on a soundless gasp—he hadn’t bothered with a nightshirt. She steeled herself against possible disappointment; perhaps he had merely come to say good—

‘May I come to you?’

Shock slammed through her. He had every right to take her whenever he chose. That even now he had not taken her consent
for granted—the last little bit of her that she had tried to hold back was lost, utterly lost.

Joy flared, blocking her throat.

‘Y…yes,’ she stammered.

Then, seeing his hesitation, she repeated in a despicably wobbly voice, ‘Yes, oh, yes—please.’

His eyes darkened. The door shut with a thump and he came to her.

Her mind shattered, dazed with pleasure, Christy opened her eyes to stare down at her husband, her lover—the man who lay beneath her, one strong hand on her hip more to share her rhythm than to guide, while his hot gaze and free hand caressed and loved her. He was so hard and deep inside her and she was burning, dying with need, yet she could not find her way over…
Please! Please!

‘Like this, sweetheart. Come to me, love. Now.’ The hand at her hip tightened, bringing her down hard just as his questing fingers found that place, the special place hidden in her damp, soft curls, and pressed so the storm within her broke. She cried out, convulsing helplessly around him as her release swept through her and he was holding her, rolling her beneath him and the firestorm redoubled, roaring through her again as he drove to his own climax.

He had called her ‘love’.

She lay exhausted in his arms, thoughts and emotions tumbling through inextricably tangled, but through the whole shimmering web one thread wove brightly…

I love you.

His arms tightened and she realised sleepily that she had spoken aloud. That the last barrier had fallen, and he had said nothing.

He should return to his own bed. But an hour later Julian lay sleepless, listening to Christy’s quiet breathing.

I love you…

The sleepy words haunted him. Had she meant them? Or believed she meant them? Hell! Had she even been awake? Other
women had spoken those words to him. Especially in the throes of passion. Often they thought love was the only ladylike reason for their own sexual desire. He understood that. But sometimes they actually believed it. He always tried to pull back gently from those
affaires
. It did not seem fair to tacitly accept a woman’s love when he was not prepared to return it in any way. As he grew older he had learnt to recognise and avoid women likely to believe they had fallen in love, and he had been careful not to use the word
love
as an endearment. Nor to call what happened in bed
making love
. Sex was safer. Less open to misinterpretation.

He could not avoid Christy, though, and all his rules had flown out the window. He had called her
love
. The word had just come out, and he had called sex
making love
. Now he had to explain as gently as possible the terms of their marriage. After all, a marriage of convenience would be the safest thing. For her especially, he told himself. As long as he could assure her that her response to him was nothing to be ashamed of, that it delighted him, and she did not need to excuse it in any way.

I love you…

But the memory of the words, her sleepy, unfocused voice, pierced him. It was highly unlikely that she meant it. Making love—having
sex
—could be like too much to drink. One could find oneself saying and doing things one would not dream of normally. She might not recall saying it in the morning.

He should return to his own room. That was what one did in a marriage of convenience…he yawned and her fragrance sank deep…one bedded one’s wife and returned politely to one’s own bed to sleep. His eyes drifted shut…he supposed he ought to leave…rolling towards her he hooked an arm around her waist, drawing her against him. She came with a sigh and a wriggle, all soft curves, and drifting curls tickling his nose. Brushing one aside gently, he breathed her sweetness and slept.

Sleeping with her had been a mistake. He’d meant to make an early start. And he had. Only it hadn’t involved getting out of bed. He hadn’t meant it to be like this.

Like what?

This…this warmth. The pleasure of looking forward to her company on the journey. The remembered intimacy of lying with her this morning, her silken body snuggled against him, limp with pleasure.

This was dangerous, Julian realised as he handed Christy up into the curricle. Bedding her, yes, but not sleeping with her. And he’d intended to ride today while Christy travelled in the coach. Somehow he had to create some distance between them. But she had barely touched her breakfast and he’d remembered her tendency to carriage sickness. Her unwillingness to make a fuss about it.

‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling down at him as she settled her skirts.

His wits fractured and he dragged in a breath.

Lust. Reduce everything to its component parts, and she was an attractive, innocently sensuous, responsive woman. He’d have to be dead not to desire her. But that didn’t explain the aching tenderness, or splintering joyous agony of holding back to ensure her pleasure. Oh, he’d always been careful to please his partners. That was only fair. Part of the exchange. And their pleasure also increased his own.

He stepped up into the curricle and nodded to his groom to release the horses.

It was not like that with Christy.

He wanted
her
pleasure. For
her
.

Duty and his own gratified lust had little if anything to do with it.

He glanced at her as he set the horses in motion and guided them out into the lane. Her cheeks were softly flushed, and her mismatched eyes shone. His breathing shortened as he remembered those same eyes dazed and unfocused, the aftershocks of pleasure trembling through her this morning…and last night—those sleepy, haunting words…

I love you…

His blood surged and the horses snorted and tossed their heads as his fingers tightened on the ribbons. Quickly he eased the
pressure on their mouths. He wasn’t a green youth to be addled by a pretty smile or passion-induced declarations of love. He
had
to put this marriage on a proper footing. Bed was now satisfactory for both of them. Surely he could arrange everything else as neatly?

They liked—yes,
liked
and respected each other. The marriage would work, and it was time his bride—he stole another glance at her—understood how.

He drew a deep breath and began.

Christy listened to her husband’s careful detailing of family finances, her gloved hands gripped painfully in her lap. He seemed quite unmoved as he explained his responsibility as head of the family to ensure everything was passed on intact to succeeding generations.

By marrying her he had made his task a great deal harder. Not that he had actually said that.

She glanced up at him. He was watching the road, as calm as though he had told her what he liked for breakfast. Not as though he had just explained why marrying her was the greatest mistake of his life.

She bit her lip.

He flicked a glance at her. ‘You needn’t look so downcast—I merely wished you to understand how things work.’

‘We should not have married.’ It was all she could say.

‘I beg your pardon?’ His voice was frosty.

‘You can’t afford me.’

The horses slowed.

‘What the hell do you mean?’ Anger incinerated the frost.

She struggled for the right words. ‘When Harry insisted on that enormous settlement, and—’

‘It was the right amount. What I would have provided for you without Harry’s intervention,’ he informed her. ‘What do you mean—I can’t afford you?’

‘I brought nothing to the marriage,’ she said. ‘No dowry to provide for myself or my children. The money settled on me is money you should be using for your brothers and sisters. And for your property. Isn’t it?’

His silence told her she was right, and she risked looking at him. He eased the curricle around a farm cart.

Safely past, he said, ‘None of that matters. I didn’t say I regret our marriage!’

No. He was far too polite. But it could not be far from the truth. From his explanation she had understood that what was left of Serena’s dowry would provide for Lissy, Emma and the two boys. How were her own younger sons to be provided for? Where would
her
daughters’ dowries come from? For Julian to hand on his lands and wealth intact he had needed a wealthy bride. Instead, he had her. Penniless, illegitimate Christy Daventry.

‘How can you not?’ she whispered. What a fool she was to have thought that what they had found together was something more than sex. And she had been fool enough to speak words he did not want to hear.

He pulled the horses into the hedge, transferred the reins to one hand and his free arm came around her. ‘Damn it, Christy! How can you believe that I regret it?’ he demanded. ‘After yesterday afternoon! And last night!’

She forced herself to meet the blue fire of his gaze, and swallowed, heating at the memory of his passion, her own passion leaping to meet it. The soul-wrenching delight as they made lo—