Megan Frampton (29 page)

He withdrew for a moment and stared at her, his eyes dark green under lowered lids. The look he gave her nearly scorched her with its intensity.

“I wish we weren’t here.” That was the last thing she expected to hear. All her insecurities returned with a roar, and her heart stuttered. “Last night, I wished we were anywhere but in that ballroom.”

“I see.” Mary bit her lip and stared at the ground.

“No, you don’t, idiot.” Alasdair took her chin in his left hand—his right was still inside her gown—and turned her head so she could see his face. “I wished I was still on the road with you, listening to you recite your bombastic Donne poems, watching your
skin color whenever you thought of something inappropriate.”

His hand slid between her legs. “I wished I was touching you.”

I need you
. The words rang in Mary’s head as his fingers began a gentle rhythm right there, right where she throbbed for him. She needed him, too; it scared her, the need, the want, the thought that soon, too soon, she wouldn’t feel this.

And why do you want to leave anyway?
a treacherous voice asked in her head.

Because it’s the right thing to do
. And why did her father’s voice have to jump in anyway? Not what she wanted to hear when a man’s hand was caressing her breast.

She froze, trying to make the voices in her head stop talking.

“Am I that boring?” he asked softly, in her ear.

She shoved all thoughts of tomorrow away.

She was here now, with him, and she was choosing to enjoy herself. Hopefully it would be his choice as well.

“No.” She removed his hand and twisted so that she was facing him. She lifted her legs and placed each shin on an arm of the chair. Her gown was hiked up to her knees, the fabric bunching between her legs.

She leaned forward into his chest. “Unbutton me, maid,” she said against his neck.

His hands moved with alacrity to her back and began to quickly unfasten her gown.

“What else do you want, mistress?” he asked, raising his eyes to hers. She could feel him, hard and pulsing, underneath her bottom.

I need you
. “Take my gown off.” She sat up to allow him easier access.

He slid the sleeves down her shoulders. Then he slid her gown up her legs so she was exposed,
there
, to his avid gaze.

He stared at her, his hands still holding two fistfuls of material at her thighs. He blinked, shook his head, and slid the gown up past her waist and over her head.

When, at last, the gown was tossed on the floor—it seemed Alasdair had more pressing concerns than preserving her wardrobe, even if it was her prettiest gown—he shoved her shift up her thighs and placed his thumbs at her opening, forming a triangle with his hands. “Do you want me to touch you?” he asked, his eyes still fixed on her.

She felt naked, and exposed, and … utterly, intensely sensual.

“Yes,” she said, gripping the arms of the chair to hold herself steady.

“Ask me,” he said, a wicked grin playing about his mouth.

“Touch me, Alasdair. Put your hands on me, please.”

“Since you ask so nicely,” he said in a hoarse growl that resonated over her skin.

His thumb found the perfect spot, rubbing her gently as streaks of pleasure fired through her. “Aah,” she moaned, tightening her grip on the chair.

“What else do you want, mistress?” he asked, sliding his tongue across his lips.

“Everything.” She rocked gently back and forth on his erection, longing to feel its full, hard length inside her. “Everything you can give me.”

There will be time
, a voice said.
Tonight, there will be time
.

“You are the undoing of me, love,” he said in a rough voice. The pressure of his hands increased.

Suddenly, an image of the shocked staff intruded on her pleasurable haze. “The door—should we lock it?”

He paused, then hoisted her off his lap and stood her upright.

“Always planning ahead,” he replied. “The door definitely should be locked for this plan, love.”

He strode to the door and shot the lock home. Mary leaned back against the table, smoothing her shift. The plate behind her rattled as she settled back.

“Perfect. Dinner for one,” Alasdair said, returning and placing his hands on the table on either side of her. He bent down and kissed her, so gently it made her want to cry.

She drew his head to hers, tighter, forcing his mouth open with her lips, thrusting her tongue inside. He groaned deep inside his throat and reached for his cravat, unwrapping it with one hand while the other still leaned upon the table. He threw it on the floor and returned quickly to his shirt, unfastening his buttons. He drew back and yanked it over his head, tossing it also.

The candlelight from the table cast a warm glow on his skin, stretched smooth over well-sculpted muscles. His scar stood out in sharp contrast with the otherwise flawless beauty of his body.

Mary placed her mouth on it and kissed it. He trembled.

She lifted her head and gazed into his eyes. “You have to know, I … this has been the most exciting time of my life.”

His lips twisted in a wry smile. “I should hope so. Auctions; highwaymen; deranged relatives, both mine and yours; marriage; opium. If your life had ever been more exciting, I would be concerned about you.”

She placed her finger against his mouth. “I don’t just mean that it’s been exciting.” She exhaled, wishing she could explain everything he’d come to mean to her. “It has made me feel alive, intrigued, fascinated.” Wishing she could tell him she loved him. But then what would he say in response? What could he say?

“Donne couldn’t have said it any better,” he said. “But I’d like you to put your lips to better use.”

“Certainly, my lord,” she replied, trailing her hand down his chest and stopping at the waistband of his trousers. There was no mistaking the bulge just below her hand.

“You would like my lips here, perhaps?” she asked, placing her hand on him. He closed his eyes and made an inarticulate noise. “I take that as a yes?”

She rose off the table so they were standing body to body. Without taking her eyes off his face, she began to unbutton him. His trousers slid off his slim hips until he was standing only in his smallclothes. His cock jutted out in the thin material. It made Mary’s mouth water. “Those too, I think,” she said, sliding her fingers between the fabric and his skin.

When he was completely naked, she nudged him back to sit back down in the chair.

“You too?” he replied, eyes half-lidded. He gestured toward her shift.

“Of course, master,” she said, in saucy reference to his earlier submission. She drew the shift up over her head and knelt in front of him, sliding her hands up his thighs. “I haven’t had supper yet,” she said, “and I am so, so hungry.”

When she took him into her mouth, his head fell back and his arm muscles flexed as he gripped the arms of the chair as she had before. He pulsed in her mouth, hard and urgent and luscious, the tip of him engorged and demanding.

She licked and sucked him as though tasting a favorite treat, until he dragged her
up by the shoulders and pushed her back onto the table, stepping between her legs.

Her head crashed onto the plates, narrowly missing a platter of food, and silverware flew through the air, landing on the thick carpet with a thud. She was too involved with him, and what would happen next, to notice.

He bent over her and kissed her, hard, savagely, his hands sliding down her body to reach where his cock was demanding entrance. He spread her legs wider and thrust into her, the impact sending her further up the table.

He reached his arm up over her head and swept the dishes onto the floor in an impatient gesture. The clatter made her jump.

“Ever the arrogant lord, you would say,” he said as he pushed as far as he could into her.

She clasped her hands on his arms and relished the feeling of complete fullness.

She wanted to say something in return—something about arrogance being charming in its own way—but couldn’t speak. He withdrew and pushed in again, the rocking rhythm making her body hum.

I need you
, she thought. He’d said it, but she meant it. His rhythm built to an inexorable crescendo. She relaxed and let the rhythm take her, let him take her.

When she came, she clenched his arms and spasmed around him, wrapping her legs around his back. He came just a few seconds after, and she felt the warm, wet spurt of him inside her.

It was definitely a moment to remember him by.

“You can’t do that,” Mary said, giggling. Alasdair stopped pulling down the curtains and looked at her, adopting a deliberately disingenuous expression.

“Why not? They’re my curtains, aren’t they? I don’t,” he said, bunching the fabric in his hands, “want you to get dressed again. I want you naked, and in my bed, all night. But to get you there”—he shrugged as he walked over to her—“I need to at least cover you. We wouldn’t want to shock the staff now, would we?” He winked at her.

“And you?” she asked as she allowed him to drape the burgundy velvet around her.

“Men are much easier to dress—and undress—than women,” he replied.

“Thank goodness for that,” she said, giving his body an appreciative look.

The effect was immediate; his cock stiffened, and began to rise, even though he’d come inside of her not ten minutes before.

“Lord, woman, you will be the death of me.”

She giggled again and wrapped the curtain tightly around her. “Let us go upstairs so you can experience a slow death.” The promise in her voice was intoxicating.

Alasdair had never spent a night just loving someone. She was as hungry for it as he, wrapping her legs around his waist, urging him into her, finding new and inventive places for her tongue.

In between, they lay in each other’s arms, talking about everything and nothing: their childhoods, literature, the war, favorite pastimes, her teaching, his horses.

They did not discuss the future.

Alasdair opened his mouth to do so, more than a few times, but was too cowardly to hear what she might say. He knew what he was prepared to do, but he wasn’t prepared, at least not right now, to tell her.

For the moment, for the night, he wanted just to show her what she’d come to mean to him. Tomorrow—the future—would take care of itself. Somehow.

***

“Do I look suitable?” Mary said, as she bit her lip. Her mouth was swollen and red from the night before.

Alasdair’s mind was reliving every detail of what she had done with it, and he had a difficult time comprehending at first what she was saying.

“Yes, you look lovely,” he said in a sincere tone. And she did; the gown she was wearing was dark blue, trimmed in light-blue ribbons. It fell straight down from under her magnificent bust to the floor, showing just a tiny peep of matching blue slippers.

She looked every inch a respectable lady.

Not a woman who’d been sold at auction by her half sibling.

Not a woman who’d tried to disable a highwayman with wood torn from a carriage.

Not the woman who’d been fiery in bed just a few hours before.

Not the woman he’d rescued, but the woman he needed to set free. He knew that now.

“Thank you. You will be with me?” She sounded anxious, her voice higher than normal.

“Of course.”

Not forever, love
, he thought.
But I will see you safe, I vow it
.

“The Marquess and Marchioness of Datchworth,” the butler announced. He flung the doors wide, stepping aside to allow Alasdair and Mary to enter.

Lady Stainton rose at their entrance. She wore a puzzled expression; not surprising, given that Alasdair had asked to visit when most people did not pay social calls.

But this wasn’t a social call.

“Lord Datchworth, Lady Datchworth,” she said, walking toward them. “Thank you for your visit.” From her voice it was evident that the visit was still a mystery to her. “Would you like to sit?” She raised her voice to the butler. “Robens, bring tea, please.”

The butler nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

Alasdair helped Mary into her chair, then sat in one opposite. He wished there
was a sofa so he could hold her hand or something, but the room was sparsely furnished with only single seats available.

“May I ask …?” Lady Stainton began, only to be cut off by Mary.

“Lady Stainton,” she said in an abrupt, hurried voice. She pulled the letters and the book of poetry from her reticule.

The woman’s eyes widened at the sight of the book, and she returned her gaze to Mary’s face, an expression of shock on her face.

“Where—where did you get that book?” she asked. Her hand crept up to her neck. Alasdair saw her pulse throbbing there.

She looked almost as upset as Mary, whose skin had blanched to a porcelain white.

“It is—was—my father’s. You know it?” Mary asked, holding it out.

Lady Stainton recoiled in her chair. “No, no, it looks like something—but it cannot be.”

There was a moment of silence. Mary spoke again. “This belonged to my father,” she repeated. “And when he died”—Lady Stainton uttered a stifled sob—“he passed it to me. Later, when I was cleaning out his things, I found this.” She opened the book and withdrew the marriage certificate. “You are my mother, aren’t you?”

Alasdair found himself holding his breath as he waited for Lady Stainton’s reply.

An agonizing silence ensued. All he could hear was Mary’s failed attempt to keep her breathing under control.

Lady Stainton’s skin flushed red, and her hands clenched themselves into fists.

“I … I don’t …” It sounded as though the woman were deciding whether to scream or shriek. Either way, Mary needed him.

He rose from his chair and stood next to his wife, keeping his hand on her shoulder. She felt like a stone beneath his fingers.

“But how … after so long? And—”

The door opened, and all three of them looked at the butler, who had returned bearing a large tray, water steaming from a teapot, and an assortment of cakes and pastries on it. “Just there, Robens,” Lady Stainton said in a strained voice. He set it down, nodded, then left.