My Fair Princess (27 page)

“Well, I suppose that's it,” she said, desperate now to escape to her room. She had an awful sense that she just might burst into tears at any moment. “I'll explain things to Mamma, of course. I promise that she won't give you any trouble about ending our engagement. After all, it was never really official.”

His eyes popped open, then narrowed on her face. A chill slithered down her spine.

“Trust me, sweet, we're barely getting started,” he growled.

He wrapped a hand around her wrist and dragged her back to the chaise. When he scooped her up in his arms and plopped her back down on the cushions, she was too stunned to object.

“Do not move,” he ordered, pointing a finger at her.

She finally found her voice. “There is no need to manhandle me. All you had to do was ask me to resume my seat.”

His only reply was a derisive snort as he retrieved their glasses from the side table. Handing her one, he tossed his own back, as if fortifying himself. Then he sat next to her, once more crowding her against the cushions.

Shrugging, Gillian followed suit with her drink and then gave him the empty glass, refusing to even acknowledge the burn of the alcohol as it seared its way down to her stomach.

He shook his head. “You will be the death of me, do you know that?”

“I know I'm a trial,” she said a trifle hoarsely.

“What you are is a menace.”

She scowled. “There is no need—” He interrupted her protest by reaching over and dragging her onto his lap. She let out a little yelp and clutched at his shoulders. “What are you doing?”

“Getting comfortable.”

“I don't think this is a very good idea, Leverton.”

“I disagree.” He settled her snugly against him. Then he tipped her chin up and gave her a brief kiss. “Now, I want you to tell me exactly what happened between you and this scoundrel who betrayed you. A cad whom I would like to murder, by the way.”

“You'll have to get in line after me. And you've gone mad if you think I'm going to discuss
that
with you in any detail.”

“You will, but first things first. What was his name?”

The duke now seemed relatively calm. In fact, he was back to being Perfect Penley, at least in his manner—in control and expecting everything and everyone around him to fall into line.

Gillian let out an aggrieved sigh, knowing she might as well get it over with. At least she had the compensation of sitting on his lap for the duration. “His name was Pietro,” she said, trying to sound grumpy instead of happy to be snuggling against him. “He was the younger son of a Sicilian aristocrat.”

“How old was he then?”

“Twenty.”

Charles made a disgusted noise. “Old enough to know better.”

“So was I,” she said, trying to be fair.

“Had you known him for a long time?” Leverton asked.

“No, not long at all, actually,” she said, wriggling a bit to get comfortable.

He let out a little hiss, then picked her up and resettled her. He was ridiculously strong. Leverton generally preferred to use his brains rather than his brawn, but there was no doubt he was a prime physical specimen.

And he's mine,
her foolish brain whispered.

“How did you meet him?” His tone was gentle.

“It was a few weeks after my stepfather's murder. We'd just moved back to the Marbury villa in Palermo. We'd been living on Step-papa's estates in the country, but his heir wished to take possession of them.”

Charles moved one hand to rest low on her spine. She couldn't help leaning into it.

“Did he force you to leave?”

“No, he invited us to stay, but Mamma didn't feel comfortable about it. I didn't want to leave, of course. It was my home.” She grimaced, remembering the fights she'd had with her family over that. “But Grandmother was adamant. She told me later that she didn't like the way the count looked at me. Like he somehow had a right to me, as if I were like the rest of the property.”

“That's bloody awful,” Charles said in a grim tone.

She hated the idea that he might pity her. “My grandmother was overreacting, which is ironic, considering what happened next.”

Piece by piece, he gently drew the story out of her. He didn't push her, but it was clear that he wouldn't rest until he knew the entire history of that sad and ultimately sordid affair. Pietro's mother was a cousin of Gillian's stepfather, and a good friend to the family. As such, she and her husband had provided a great deal of comfort and support in the aftermath of the murder.

“Mamma was beside herself, of course,” Gillian said. “She took to her bed, almost insensible with grief. That left my grandparents to deal with everything, including fighting with the authorities to bring the murderers to justice.”

“Leaving you mostly on your own, I expect,” he said.

She nodded. “I was very sad too, of course, and I hated living in Palermo. My grandfather forbade me to go out, even to take rides in the countryside. I thought I would go mad.”

“And that's when you met Pietro?”

“Yes. We were thrown together quite a lot, since his mother spent so much time with Mamma. He was . . . kind to me when I felt so terribly alone.”

“You mean he took advantage of you,” Charles said in a low, gritty tone.

Gillian grimaced, hating to even think of those dark days. “He did, but I let him. I mistook his kind manner for love, I'm sorry to say.”

He tipped her chin up. She gazed into his intent blue eyes.

“It was anything but kind, Gillian,” he said. “And you were little more than a child, one who was grieving and vulnerable. The bounder should have been horsewhipped and then shot, as far as I'm concerned. Where the hell was your grandfather while this was occurring? He should have protected you.”

“I did my best to stay out of Grandfather's way. I had a knack for annoying him.”

He cuddled her even closer. “I'm deeply sorry for that. You deserved better.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“How long did the affair last?”

“Just a few weeks. Pietro quickly tired of me, especially after I told him that I loved him. I was so silly. I truly believed he would marry me.” She still remembered every detail of that awful day. How he'd stared at her in genuine shock before bursting into laughter. “He told me that men like him didn't marry a bastard or the daughter of a whore,” she added.
Puttana.
He'd tossed out that awful word so casually, with a wry smile that had suggested she should accept his judgment without a fuss.

Charles's voice sounded more like a growl. “If we ever visit Sicily, I will hunt this man down and kill him,” he said. “Or beat him within an inch of his life.”

“No need. He received his comeuppance.”

He leaned back a bit to look at her. “What did you do?”

“I threw a vase at him, then chased him out to the stables. Somewhere along the way I acquired a horsewhip. Unfortunately, I didn't really have the opportunity to do much with it because Stefano pulled me off him.”

Charles let out a strangled laugh. “Holy hell. Remind me never to cross you.”

“I did it mostly because he insulted my mother,” she said. “It was my own fault that I let him take such thorough advantage of me. I had only myself to blame.”

“As you said to me only a few minutes ago, you were not to blame.” His tone was firm and unequivocal.

“But—”

He pressed a finger to her lips. “I will not debate this with you. I have no doubt you were impetuous, but he was at fault, as was your family for not taking better care of you. Are we clear about that?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said in a meek voice.

“You mock me at your peril, Miss Dryden. Now, did this poltroon ever bother you again?”

“Indeed not. My grandmother issued a stern warning to his mother about her son's loutish behavior. Stefano also made it clear to Pietro that he would set the bandits on him if he ever besmirched my name. It was an empty threat, but the silly boy believed it.” She let out a rueful sigh. “He was rather stupid, I'm sorry to say, which doesn't reflect well on me.”

“He sounds like a thoroughly contemptible character. Thank God your taste in men has vastly improved.”

She stared at him in wonder. For days, she'd carried an awful weight on her shoulders, dreading the moment she would have to reveal her great shame to him. That Leverton could actually joke about it struck her as a true miracle. Gillian wasn't used to miracles in her life.

Suddenly, she felt light, as if a great rock bearing down on her had smashed and shivered into dust, blown away on a bracing wind of change. She could hardly keep from laughing. “In my defense, he was very nice looking. Not as handsome as you, of course. That goes without saying.”

“Naturally,” he said, tucking her back against him. He went silent for several moments.

“Why do I have the feeling there's something else you want to know?” she finally asked.

“That is alarmingly perceptive of you. I do wish to ask you something, but I'm afraid of giving offense. And the vases in this room are shockingly expensive. I would hate to lose them.”

She grinned against the silk of his vest. “I promise not to destroy your property.”

“Very well, although I suspect I'll regret asking. Did you enjoy it, Gillian?”

She pulled back to look at him, and saw he wore a rather odd expression. “Did I enjoy what?”

“Did you enjoy your physical intimacies with Pietro?”

“Yes, I did, actually. But I gather from the expression on your face that I should not have.”

“It's not that,” he said, sounding a tad disgruntled.

It dawned on her that he was jealous, and a lovely warmth unfurled inside her. “Well, he was Italian,” she said, unable to resist. “They're rather good at that sort of thing.”

His gaze narrowed. “Now you're just trying to annoy me.”

“Is it working?”

“All too well, but that is more a problem for you than for me.”

With that, he tipped her back over his arm and fastened his mouth on hers.

Chapter Twenty-Three

When Charles finally pulled back, Gillian found herself clutching his shoulders, gasping for breath. And that was from one simple kiss. God only knew how she would react when he made love to her.

“Does that answer your question, my dear?” He slid one hand under her skirt, his fingers brushing up to settle on her knee. When he started to play with her garter, she could hardly remember her own name.

“Um, I think I've forgotten the question,” she said.

He easily cradled her, one arm around her shoulders as he made little circles on her thigh. The feel of his warm hand on her skin made her weak everywhere, and she had to resist the urge to part her legs, silently begging him to explore.

“It's a national competition, of sorts,” he said. “Who is better at making love—an Italian or an Englishman?”

“Well, you're certainly very good at kissing,” she said. “But . . .”

He lifted an arrogant brow. “Miss Dryden, are you about to issue another challenge?”

She wanted to make a jest out of it, to show that she could manage their relationship with a light touch, too. But she couldn't. Lovemaking would never be simply a pleasant diversion for her. Not with him. Their encounter on the beach had seared that into her. That night, she'd wanted to take nothing
but
pleasure from him. Instead, she'd discovered herself tumbling headlong into love.

He frowned when she failed to reply. His hand stilled, his fingers holding her thigh in a gentle yet possessive grip. “What is it, sweetheart? Am I rushing you?”

She scrunched her nose. “I don't think so. It's just that I'm not really sure what we're doing. Especially in light of what we just talked about.”

His hand started circling again, brushing closer to the curls between her legs with every slow pass. Gillian shivered. Her brain was going fuzzier by the moment, what little focus she had left riveted on the moment when his fingers would finally touch her sex.

“I'd like to make love to my fiancée,” he said, “as shocking as that unorthodox request might seem. But I know you're rather a high stickler when it comes to this sort of thing.”

She forced herself to pay more attention to his words and less to the sensations he aroused in her. “I'm nothing of the sort. And given our recent conversation that's a beastly thing to say.”

He tipped her upright but kept her cradled against his chest, his hand still under her skirt. His erection pressed insistently against her bottom, and it took a mighty effort of will not to wriggle against it.

“I'm sorry, love,” he said ruefully. “I couldn't resist. You're remarkably easy to fire up, you know.”

“Hmm. I can think of a better way to fire me up than poking fun,” she grumbled.

“I agree. Shall we get on with it?”

When he dipped down to kiss her again, she placed a hand on his lips. He kissed that too, then sucked one of her fingers into his mouth. Gillian gasped, shocked that such a silly gesture could feel so enticing.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, struggling to form a coherent train of thought, “I'd like very much to get on with it. But I must ask a question first.”

He pressed a kiss to her palm and then placed it on his chest. She could feel the thumping of his heart beneath her fingertips. “You can ask me anything, Gillian. Always.”

Curling her hand into the soft linen of his shirt, she gripped it for courage. “Are you sure about this?”

“Sure about making love to you? More so than I've ever been about anything.”

“And you truly don't mind that I'm not an innocent?”

He shook his head. “You were vulnerable and in need of comfort. In every way that matters, you did nothing wrong.”

“That's very kind of you. But it's a tad hard to believe that you're not bothered by it.” She knew what men were like. Charles was certainly better than any she'd ever met, with the exception of her stepfather. But he was a proud man, nonetheless.

He studied her, apparently giving her question some thought. Her heart warmed that he didn't try to kiss her concerns away, or ignore them in a blaze of ephemeral passion.

“It's mostly a relief, now that I think about it,” he said. “Bedding a virgin can be a complicated business.”

“And have you bedded many before?” she asked tartly.

He leaned down and nipped her lower lip. It stung, but it also made her body clench with longing. “None, which you should understand by now.”

“Just checking,” she said. “But to be relieved I'm not a virgin seems very odd.”

He laughed. “Let's just say it takes the pressure off. I don't have to worry about maidenly swoons or reviving you with smelling salts. Or, worse, that you'll lock yourself in your boudoir and refuse to come out because I've intimidated you with my manly vigor.”

When Gillian giggled, she mentally blinked. She never giggled. Then again, she'd never had fun while making love before. How unexpected that it should be that way with Perfect Penley, of all people.

She began to stroke his shoulders. She loved how broad they were, and how strong. “Well, Your Grace, I would say that the pressure is on, rather than off.”

“How so?” The hand on her thigh was moving again. This time when his fingers brushed against her curls, she inched her legs open, inviting his touch.

“Unlike a virgin, I'm aware of what will happen next,” she said. “And I have high standards, which I expect you to exceed.”

Heat sparked in his gaze. “Witch. I'll take that challenge, madam, starting right now.”

She stopped him again before he kissed her, her nerves wobbling for a moment. “You're absolutely certain about this. About us?” Gillian had barely any defenses left against him. If she let him make love to her, it would bring the last ones crashing down.

He nuzzled her mouth for a brief, delicious moment before pulling back. “Let me show you just how much I want you, Gillian. How much I will always want you.” His deep, serious tone made it sound like a vow. She rested in the moment and let his promise settle deep inside. It slipped into her heart with peaceful joy, as if she were returning home after a very long time away.

Gillian cupped his cheek, relishing the feel of his bristle against her palm. “Yes, please show me,” she whispered. She leaned in to kiss him, but he surprised her by picking her up and depositing her on the chaise.

“Oh, Lord. Now what?” she asked, exasperated. Now that they'd settled on the way forward, she couldn't wait to get there.

“Patience, my love,” he said, striding to the door. He turned the key in the lock. “I hardly think Hewitt's coming in to douse the lamps would be a pleasant experience for any of us.”

“Oh dear, especially not poor Hewitt.”

When he returned, Charles took her hands and pulled her up. “Time to get you out of that dress.” He spun her around and swiftly went to work on her buttons and ties. In a trice, he'd whisked the garment over her head.

“You're rather good at this,” she said as he started on her stays. “Perhaps you could find extra work as a lady's maid.”

“I have every intention of getting you out of your clothes every night for the foreseeable future.” His voice was a husky rumble that made her shiver. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades, then nibbled up her spine to the base of her neck. When he nuzzled his way over to her shoulder, Gillian had to lock her knees together to keep upright.

“That . . . that sounds nice,” she managed.

“Trust me, love, we're just getting to the nice part.”

Charles reached around to help her out of her stays, then turned her to face him. Gillian promptly lost her breath when she took in his hungry gaze. It contrasted with the tender smile that touched his mouth as he played with the pink silk ribbons that trimmed the top of her shift.

“Why, Gillian Dryden, I never took you for a lace and ribbons sort of girl.”

“Mamma insists that I have nice undergarments. She says that I would go around dressed like a boy if allowed to.” The truth was—and Gillian would die before she admitted it—that she liked frilly and feminine undergarments.

“You never look like a boy, Gillian, even when dressed like one.”

With a teasing smile, she began to slowly untie the bow on her shift. “So you like the way I look in this?”

“I'd like you even better without it.”

Before she could react, he'd fisted the material and swept the shift over her head. Flustered, she let out a little squeak when he tossed it over his shoulder to leave her brazenly clad in her stockings, garters, and slippers.

Heat swept up her neck and onto her face, but she resisted the instinct to cover herself. The look on Charles's face made up for any embarrassment she might be feeling. He was also flushed, and his gaze burned hot with desire.

And there was something else, too. Something that looked like reverence. He hadn't even touched her, and already she felt cherished.

“Bloody hell,” he rasped. “You're the most perfect thing I've ever seen.”

Oddly, his words made her feel shy. Gillian had always considered herself a bold person, but the present circumstances were a tad intimidating.

As was the bulge in Leverton's breeches.

“Now that's just silly,” she said with a sheepish laugh. “I must be the least perfect person you know.”

Leverton started to yank at the buttons on his waistcoat. “Never contradict a duke when he's about to make love to you, Miss Dryden.”

“Should I be taking notes? I didn't realize we were having another lesson.”

He finally got his vest off and flung it onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor. “I have every intention of schooling you, sweetheart. All night.”

She was trying to think of an appropriate riposte when he pulled his shirt over his head. Leverton clothed must always impress. Half-naked, he was magnificent. His shoulders were broad, and his arms were corded with muscle. Light brown hair dusted his brawny chest, then arrowed down to darken in a line over his taut stomach.

Gillian had to swallow a few times before she could speak. “Right now, you look more like a pirate than a teacher.” A pirate with a massive erection in his breeches. Just looking at it made her go soft and wet.

“And I'm about to do a little marauding right now,” he said with a mock growl.

She couldn't help laughing.

Her amusement died a moment later when he snatched her up into his arms and fastened his lips around her nipple. When he sucked on her, she had to bite back a cry. Desperately, she clung to his waist. His body was hot and rock hard under her fingertips.

Charles bent her back over his arm, devouring first one breast, then the other. He licked and sucked, drawing on her nipples until they ached with delicious fire. She squirmed and hooked a heel around his thigh, plastering herself flush against him. Gillian rubbed along his erection, trying to bring him against the peak of her sex. Delicious little contractions began deep inside, sending tingles racing through her body.

With his mouth on her breasts and his cock pressing against her, Gillian gave herself up to the building waves of sensation. She flexed against him, feeling the approach of her climax.

Suddenly, he pulled away, holding her at arm's length. Gillian had to work to get her vision to focus on his somewhat strained-looking features. “Why . . . why did you stop?” she stuttered.

“Because you're too close. It's too soon.”

She wrinkled her brow. “One can do it more than once in an evening, can't one?”

He seemed momentarily stunned before he unleashed a grin. “Yes, and I think that's an eminently desirable goal for both of us.”

“And how do we go about achieving such a laudable goal?”

“First, you sit on the chaise,” he said, urging her gently down. He loomed over her. Gillian swore his avid gaze felt like a touch, tracing over her sensitized skin. Then he lowered himself to kneel between her legs.

Slowly, gently, as if relishing every second, he pushed her thighs wide. “So beautiful,” he whispered.

Gillian blushed to be so utterly exposed. But she did feel beautiful. How could she not, when he gazed at her with so much desire?

He trailed a hand from her throat down over one breast—her nipple damp and flushed from his attentions. “Look at you, love,” he said in a raspy voice.

When he brushed his fingers over her stomach, Gillian could barely keep still. And when he finally delved between her thighs, she moaned and let her head fall back against the soft cushions.

Charles was setting her body alight with delicious, consuming fire. He toyed with her stiff little bud, rubbing it with a blunt fingertip. Gillian opened her legs even wider and wiggled her bottom, desperate for more sensation.

“Tell me what you want,” he said roughly. When he carefully pressed a finger inside her body, she arched up on a breathy cry.

“I want you,” she gasped. “Inside me.”

“And you shall have that. Just not quite yet.”

When he slipped his hands under her bottom and tilted her up, Gillian blinked. “What—”

She lost the ability to think coherently—much less talk—when he bent and fastened his mouth on her.

Good God.
Pietro had never done anything like
that
.

Gillian was still getting over the shock of Charles's head between her legs when he glanced up to meet her gaze. His eyes gleamed with a decidedly improper combination of lust and amusement.