The Delicate Matter of Lady Blayne (26 page)

His heart rate accelerated. His attention riveted on the way her hair shone against the dark blue of his trousers, the tresses more shimmering gold than brown. Her breasts swelled generously above the low neckline of the gossamer chemise.

She put her hand to the inside of his thigh and caressed the superfine wool. Her expression grew intent. Sensual pleasure showed in every aspect of her features.

Nothing coy from Catriona.

Yet her actions were completely artless. Natural. Utterly lacking in anything coarse.

With her fingers inches from his erection, the beat of his heart centered in his loins, his cock jerked mightily, straining painfully against his fall. Fluid gushed from the tip, wetting his linen. He grasped her wrist and pressed her hand to his leg, stopping her further progress.

She jerked her head up and he found himself gazing into wide pools of verdant green, sparkling with desire.

“We can’t.” He could barely utter the words, everything in his being was so opposed to the admission.

Her mouth fell slightly open. He tightened his hold on her hand, fighting an urge to lean forward and put his mouth over hers.

“Do you regret last night?” she asked, her voice small like a girl’s.

What could he say? He couldn’t say he felt no regrets. Nor could he say he would take it all back.

With Sunny, he could never have expressed the full measure of his sexual tastes. When he had thought of marrying her, all those years ago, he had expected to hold back, to treat her like a lady at all times, even in the bedchamber in the begetting of his sons. He had expected that his respect and love for her would have enabled his desires to mature into a more pure sort of carnal expression.

Now, he knew better. He wasn’t likely to mature out of his sexual tastes. They were too central a part of him. That had made the idea of sexual relations with Sunny problematic, whether she was his wife or not.

But Catriona was an entire other matter.

He let go of her hand and put his hand under her chin, holding her like that. “We can’t for at least a day. You’ll be too sore. And riding in the carriage would only make it all the more intolerable.”

She released a lengthy sigh. “Things ended last night just when it had become most enjoyable.”

Images and impressions flooded his memory. The smell of her sweat and her arousal, her soft breasts pressing his chest, the pebbled nipples against his tongue, the velvet slick heat of her clenching him so tight.

Her lips, so pliant, so warm, crushed beneath his. He hadn’t even realized that he’d bent forward or that he had plunged his hand into her hair, tilting her head to suit him.

Her gasp muffled against his mouth, at the slight parting of her lips, he thrust his tongue between them. Honeyed wine. Sweetness like he’d never known. He plunged deeper. God, he’d never get enough. His other hand had found her breast, slowly, gently crushing the softness, his thumb finding the hardening nipple.

Her body trembled. A moan vibrated deep in her throat, a tremor of the most exquisite pleasure.

He wanted—needed—to put his hands to her shoulders. To gently press her down to the floor and thrust his cock into her slick, hot depths. She would squeeze him so fervently.

His erection jerked. A gush of fluid erupted from the tip.

No.

He would not fall on her like an animal. He would not lose control. Calling on every ounce of self-discipline he possessed, he tore his mouth from hers and let go of that glorious breast.

“James?” She touched the sides of his face, trying to pull him back.

He resisted. “No, I will not do this. Not yet. You need time to heal.”

She sighed, the sound exaggerated but full of longing. “You have a way of ending, of pulling back just exactly at the moment things are at their best.”

At her candor, his heart seemed to contract. A most peculiar sensation. Tenderness filled him, a disconcerting thing for a man who preferred to keep sentiment and sexuality separate. He released her chin and caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Well, we’ve only just begun.”

But begun what?

There was only one position in his life open to Catriona now.

Was he really going to make his cousin’s widow his mistress?

“It’s my fault,” she said.

“This? No, this is my fault. My lapse.”

“No, last night.

He couldn’t stop caressing her cheek, enjoying the velvet texture of her skin. “What about last night?”

“I would have enjoyed it far better, sooner, if I hadn’t acted like a complete ninny.”

The beguiling blend of tenderness and lust held him transfixed. “You weren’t a ninny.”

He heard the softness in his tone and his voice sounded so alien. Like another man’s.

“I was a ninny.” She pressed into his touch. “All that nonsense about Freddy.”

“But it was all real to you at the time, was it not?”

She nodded, slowly, barely. Her eyes were so trusting, vulnerable. He had a sense of what it cost her to talk about this. His heart warmed in a peculiar way. A way he’d never felt before. “I am glad you were open with me.”

“You are?” She sounded surprised.

“I understand you better.” To his own surprise, he did actually understand her a bit better. And he did feel the gladness inside, that peculiar warmth. Yet it made no sense. Her openness and confessions of the night before had broken his heart. Destroyed the last dreams of his youth. Stripped away the last vision of a woman he could love.

He would never love again.

Never.

And when he did wed, it would be a union of convenience to gain heirs. He could no longer be called a young man. He must marry soon. The prospect left him cold.

She shifted. Placed her hand to the inside of his leg again. Suddenly, he was aware again of the ache in his groin, his cock hard as steel, throbbing, hurting with desire, his linens soaked. At her touch, he groaned. Even the chill of disillusionment couldn’t extinguish the fire of his lust for Catriona. He grasped her wrist and pressed her hand more firmly over his aching, swelling cock. “You’ll be too sore,” he said, quite harshly, more for his own ears than hers.

“I don’t care.” She ran her pink tongue over her lips and he felt the convulsive shudder wrack her lush frame. She flashed him a look so full of fiery desire, it seared him right down to his bones. “I want you, madly.”

Sunny’s frankness. Catriona’s blatant sensuality. It was a breathtaking combination.

Lust slammed into him with painful intensity, again demanding that he take her by the shoulders, press her down and fall on her, right there on the floor.

“Christ, Catriona.” He pressed her hand harder to his rearing erection.

Are you such an animal as to take your cousin’s widow on the floor like a common harlot? Could you really do that?

Yes, he absolutely could. She made an animal of him. Blinded him to anything but his own lust.

Think, man, think.

He took a deep breath. “It won’t do. Not today.”

He took her hand from his groin and gave her a gentle push away. She remained there, on her knees between his legs, her gaze still burning him with its passionate ardor.

He’d never seen such stunning lust in any woman’s expression.

“You’re thinking of severing our liaison again, aren’t you?” Sadness echoed in her voice.

No, he wasn’t. Not completely. But last night, and almost again this morning, he had given into that overpowering jealousy. Overpowering carnal hunger. A primal need to claim her. A need that pounded in his cock with an intensity that made him lightheaded. It demanded release. God, it pounded so hard in his blood that he felt he might expire.

But everything had changed between them.

He could not tolerate indecision in himself. About anything.

Calling on every ounce of self-discipline that had been trained into him, every additional ounce that he had cultivated in himself, he forced himself to think rationally. Since birth, the purpose of his life had been spelled out. Duty. Family honor. Reclaim everything that the English had taken from the Blaynes. Before, he had been merely a cog, a pawn, a secondary male. Now he was the baron, soon to be an English peer. An earl.

He must become a political force in the House of Lords. He’d been gifted by providence with an unbelievable opportunity. To do any less would be disrespectful to every Blayne male who had come before him and who had fought and struggled to build the family.

With lust knifing through his loins, he reminded himself of all that was at stake. As a newly-minted earl, he would be watched. Judged. Weighed. Catriona was not suited to be the wife of an earl. His wife must be an excellent hostess and, above all, a paragon of virtue.

There was only one position open to her in his life.

But damn him, he didn’t want to let her go and see her enter any other man’s life, ever.

My cousin’s widow. Do I really intend to make her my mistress?

“I am frightened of myself, sometimes.” Her voice was soft, repeating words she’d said before. “I want so much from life, things I fear I have no right to ask for.”

Yes, he knew exactly what she meant. Sexually, he wanted her with everything inside himself. He wanted to do everything with her. He had no right to disrespect her by offering her a lesser position than another man could offer.

“But I can ‘no hold back the wanting.” Her voice had become even softer, taking on a heavier accent. A silken seduction to his ears. Her words stoked the fire in his blood.

His flesh throbbed and he had to shift to relieve the unbearable pressure of his erection straining against the restraints of his trousers. “What exactly do you want from me, Catriona?”

She bit her lip.

“You can tell me anything, Catriona.”

Fine words. But was he being open with her? No. Guilt consumed him. Yet, how could he possibly be completely open about his doubts and second thoughts without hurting her? Without shaming her?

“I want your guidance…oh, I told you all this before! And I still don’t know how to say it without sounding like a ninny.”

Tenderness swept through him, rendering him incapable of clear thinking. He caressed her hair, pausing to savor its silken texture. “I understand.” His voice sounded strangled with the inner torment of his mixed emotions, with the continuing press of his lust. And the strange, sweet pain of that overwhelming tenderness. “I know what you want.”

“You do?” Hope shone in her eyes, filling him with a sense of shame that he was thinking, even now, of denying her.

“It’s not so unheard of.”

“Then I am not such a ninny?”

“No.” Fondness warmed his tone. “You’re not a ninny.”

She laughed ruefully, the sound catching in her throat. “I wish I could be good.”

Sharp and sudden as lightning, anger flashed through him. They had all done this to her. Her parents. Aunt Frances. That damned blackguard Meeker. He gave a silent harsh laugh. Even he was doing it to her—had done it to her—first by taking the last vestiges of what could have given her some respectability, then by closing the door to the possibly of making her his wife.

She was a sensualist. A hedonist. That was her nature.

That did not make her a wicked person...but it did make her unsuitable.

“I so dearly wish I could be good,” she repeated, the words tearing into him.

“Hush.” He’d said the word softly but there was a steel edge underneath that he couldn’t help.

“Sometimes I think I could be good, if I were doing it for you.”

God, the hope, the need in her voice, cut him like a knife. He’d spent a career in the Navy being needed in an impersonal way. Being needed sexually by women. But never had he been needed so passionately, so personally, so emotionally.

So seductively.

He was only flesh and blood. There was only so much temptation he could bear.

“You want that. To be my good girl.”

“Yes, yes, I do.” Her voice was almost strident with her earnestness. “But part of me fears that no matter what, I just
can’t
be good.”

He knew what she wanted.

What she needed.

What he suddenly wanted very much to give her, despite his unresolved conflicts. He’d have had to be made of stone to resist her plea. He knew himself as a cold man where women were concerned, but he wasn’t made of stone. “I’ll be the judge of when you are good and when you are bad.”

She opened her mouth.

He put his fingers to her open lips. “Hush, I will be the judge of your goodness or naughtiness. No one else. You will look to me for guidance and obey me. But you are answerable to no one else. Not even your Papa.”

Later, they would discuss the details of her upkeep. The promises he would make for protection and provision.

He would burn in hell for making his cousin’s widow—a woman whose honor he was responsible for defending—his mistress.

He was every bit as selfish as Freddy had ever been.