What You Desire (Anything for Love, Book 1) (21 page)

He offered her a salacious grin, his own impatience to lower her down onto the grass and drive himself home was evident in his voice. “No,” he growled, “I do not.”

Grabbing her by the sleeve of her coat, for he could hardly take her hand, he turned abruptly and strode out of the gate and down the road towards Cranbourn Street, heading left into Bear Street and towards the waiting hackney whose driver had been paid handsomely for his service.

Oblivious to every other person on the street, he kept a firm hold, forcing her into a trot just to keep up with him. He ignored the disgruntled looks of those he’d barged into in his eagerness to be alone with the woman who roused his passion to the point of insanity. It had been mere hours since their last coupling, yet he felt famished, deprived, ravenous to the brink of starvation.

“Red Lion Square,” he barked to the driver, opening the cab door and almost pushing Sophie inside. “If you’re quick,” he continued, his impatience clearly evident, “then I’ll double your fare.”

He needed her now. He needed her like he needed air to breathe. Yet as desperate as he was, he refused to pleasure her in a hackney.

Climbing in, he slammed the door and lowered the blind in the hope a passionate kiss would suffice, would be enough to keep the fire stoked during their short journey. Yet in such a simple plan, he had failed to account for the fiery nature of the other occupant. He barely had time to catch his breath before she shoved him back in the seat and straddled him in such a delightfully wicked fashion; he could not help but groan in satisfaction.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered placing kisses along his jaw, behind his ear, as her hand fluttered across the fall of his breeches. “I do not know what has come over me.”

He did not know either and frankly he didn’t care. After a mild tussle with his conscience, all thoughts of decency and decorum flew out of the window. Her warm hand brushing against his bulging manhood played a pivotal role in his decision.

“Good God,” he panted. It was madness, like sweet torture. The need to be inside her was unbearable. He swallowed hard, trying to hold onto the last thread of restraint that lingered somewhere in a lonely, cobwebbed recess of his mind. “Sophie, we cannot … we do not have time …”

He could not take his future wife in a hackney!

“But I thought … you said …” she began between breathless kisses, “that a lot … can be achieved in just a few minutes.”

He was not fully aware of what happened next. Drunk with desire, they tugged at each other’s clothes, their lips still locked as they moaned with pleasure. He could hear his heart beating loudly in his ears, could feel the blood pumping around his body as they jostled against each other with the motion of the carriage. He wasn’t entirely sure how he had managed to push her breeches to her knees or free himself from his own restrictions but the sight of her beautiful, round derriere as she lowered herself onto him with a slow, seductive wiggle, would be ingrained in his memory for the rest of his life.

Lost in a whirlwind of reckless passion they rode each other to completion. The blissful wave of pleasure had slackened his craving, but only momentarily. On their return home they had rushed upstairs to indulge in a slower, more languorous form of amusement that had lasted well into the evening.

Still, it was not enough for him.

Raising himself up on his elbow, he gazed down in awe at her luscious form sprawled naked in his bed. With a white sheet draped over her body and tangled around her legs, she was the image of a Greek goddess.

Absorbed in the deep rhythmical rise and fall of her chest, he took pleasure in the sound that suggested pure contentment. He could live the rest of his life like this, he thought, touching her, tasting her, to the point he could well and truly lose his mind. She murmured softly as she drifted in and out of sleep and the sound stirred something deep inside him, something he struggled to define.

It seemed hard to believe she was the same girl who had taunted and tormented him to distraction. Now, she was tormenting him in an entirely different way. He reached out and let his fingers trace the line of her outer thigh, trailing up over her hip before laying the palm of his hand on her stomach. The thought of her swollen with his child caused another deep stirring and he was somewhat shocked to find that the idea pleased him. He was going to have to broach the subject of marriage, and soon, as they could not continue in the same reckless manner. Perhaps now, when she was relaxed and sated, would be a good time to discuss the matter.

“Wake up, sleepy,” he whispered, leaning down to place a kiss on her parted lips. “You have not eaten since breakfast and by the rumbles emanating from your stomach, it is not happy about it.”

Roused by his voice, she pushed her arms above her head and stretched. The low humming sound that escaped from her lips caused a familiar tightening in his abdomen, which proceeded to travel to his groin.

“What time is it?” she yawned, fluttering her eyelashes as she became accustomed to her surroundings.

He glanced over towards the mantel, but in the subdued candlelight could not quite read the hands of the clock. “I have no idea. At a guess, I would say it’s nearly nine.”

It was a calculated guess for he had heard the church bell chime eight, had heard Mrs. Cox’s hesitant tread as she hovered outside the door. No doubt, she was wondering why no one had gone down for dinner. She had paced back and forth and then returned with a tray, which she’d left outside the door.

Sophie shot up, but then remembered she was naked. Grasping the sheet, she wrapped it around her chest. “But Haines … Mrs. Cox … they’ll know …” She took a deep breath but did not finish the sentence. “Why didn’t you wake me,” she snapped.

“You looked exhausted. I thought you needed the rest.” He winked and flashed her one of his devilish grins as he swung his legs off the edge of the bed and bent down to pick up the breeches lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. “You know, you do say the most wicked things when you’re sleeping,” he continued enjoying the way her face had taken on the resemblance of a beetroot. “I didn’t know you held me in such high regard.”

Sophie looked horrified. “What … what did I say?”

Opening the door to retrieve the silver tray, Sebastian glanced over his shoulder. “It’s not something I feel I could repeat in the presence of a lady,” he teased closing the door with his foot. “But I believe you’re more than satisfied with my performance.”

“I am?” She narrowed her gaze as she studied him, before reaching for a pillow and hurling it at his head. “Oh, you fibber. I never said anything of the sort.”

“Well, no, not exactly,” he replied, steadying the tray as he avoided the flying object with a timely twist of the hip. “But you did do an awful lot of mumbling. You cannot blame a man for concocting his own interpretation.”

He placed the tray on the bed in front of her and noticed her frown as she glanced at the two plates positioned side by side.

“Two plates!” she groaned. “They’re obviously aware I’m in here.” Her distress was evident in her tone. “No doubt they are accustomed to your dissipated habits, but that does not —”

“Mrs. Cox is aware I do not always follow custom, yes,” he interjected before she became overly dramatic. He lifted the cover from the plate, picked up a slice of cold ham and took a bite.

Sophie stared at him, slightly aghast and then pulled the sheet tightly across her body as she said with an element of hauteur. “Do not think for a moment I have anything in common with the other women you have entertained here.”

He tilted his head and considered her, slightly baffled by her train of thought. “Why would you think I’ve had other women in here?” He had intended discussing marriage, not his business ventures. Besides, the women he had sheltered had never been in his private chambers. They had kept to their own quarters and been spirited away as soon as a convenient moment arose.

“Amy said you never let your mistresses stay overnight. She said you always escort them home in the early hours.”

Sebastian tried not to laugh, for he was truly flattered by such a display of jealousy.

“Sophie, I do not have a mistress. Trust me, you are the only woman who has had the pleasure of being in that bed,” he waved his hand casually in the direction of the bed, which was a ridiculous gesture when he came to think of it, for there was nothing casual, nothing temporary about the way he felt about her. Indeed, she was the only woman he would lay with from here on in. “I thought you knew better than to listen to servant’s gossip.”

“Are you saying you’ve never had one of your mistresses at this house, that Amy is mistaken in her belief you’ve escorted women home in the middle of the night?”

He was going to say she’d misunderstood and a jealous ear hears only what it chooses, but thought better of it. He glanced around the room for his shirt and located it on the chair.

“I am saying, you are not informed of all the facts,” he replied, shrugging into the crumpled linen. If they were going to have a serious conversation he would not be distracted by pretty blue eyes roaming over his bare chest. “Perhaps it is time I told you how I have been occupying myself these last few years.”

He dropped into the chair, stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles with languid grace.

“You do not have to explain yourself to me, my lord,” she huffed.

“My lord?” he sneered jerking his head back. “What happened to
oh, Dane,
please, Dane
.” He smiled to himself as her face flushed a pretty shade of pink. “Surely, after all that has passed between us, you must feel a little curious. Surely, you must be eager to learn more about the character of the man you have taken to your bed.” He had said the words purely to shock, but there was a glimpse of some unnamed emotion in her eyes. Was it pain or resentment? He certainly did not mean to cheapen their union or imply she was only concerned with the more base of needs.

“Perhaps it is best I don’t know,” she replied turning her head away from him to stare at some invisible object on the wall.

He sat up straight and narrowed his gaze as he contemplated her reply. “Ah, I see, Miss Beaufort,” he began, mimicking her use of formal address. Although he took no pleasure in it, for it placed an element of distance between them that he found unnerving. “You believe I’m guilty of the type of licentious pursuits the villagers of Marchampton love to gossip about. What is it that disturbs you? That I squandered my inheritance or that I spent it on women with loose morals?” he mocked. “I had credited you with more sense than to take notice of such tittle-tattle but, obviously, I was mistaken.”

She turned sharply and her eyes locked with his. “I know what I have seen,” she challenged. “John Hodges’ daughter nearly died from the cold, damp conditions they were forced to live in. Where were you when the rain came pouring in through their roof? When their daughter needed medicine and they could not afford to pay for it.”

He swallowed deeply in the hope it would ease the pain of regret. Why did she have to mention Mary Hodges? He had been forced to make a choice. If he had stayed at Westlands, the lives of all his tenants would have been at risk. Not a day had gone by when he had not thanked the lord for Mary’s recovery.

“It is not what you think,” he replied solemnly.

“Well, please feel free to enlighten me,” she said in the tone of a stern governess but did not wait for an answer. “If you were not carousing around the Continent with a courtesan, what were you doing?”

He stood, walked over to the bed and leaned against the wooden post. “I was working,” he answered humbly.

There was a moment of silence where she simply stared at him, a frown marring her brow, and he could almost hear her repeating his words for fear she had misheard.

“Working? What do you mean?”

“May I sit,” he said gesturing to the end of the bed.

She snorted. “It is your bed. You may do as you please.”

He ignored the sharp edge to her tone. Perhaps it was her way of preparing herself for whatever unpleasant revelation she believed he was about to make.

He perched himself on the end of the bed. “You should eat something,” he said in response to the deep growl rumbling from her stomach. He nodded towards the plate. “Eat and I will tell you.”

With a sigh, she removed the plate cover and studied the selection of cold meats. Casting a wary glance at the sheet tucked under her arms, she asked, “Would you mind buttering my bread roll?”

“Of course not,” he replied.

Picking up a knife, he cut and buttered her roll then gave it to her and watched her take a bite. There was something comfortable, something intimate in so informal a gesture and he longed to hold on to it, to nurture it into something deeper, something more profound.

“You must understand, I would never have left Westlands if there had been any other alternative. It is something I deeply regret.”

That was not entirely true. He was sorry his tenants were forced to endure the effects of his father’s cavalier attitude towards money. But the experience of working alongside Dudley, of righting some of society’s wrongs, well, it had been life changing.

“Tell me, honestly,” he continued, “what was your opinion of my father?”

She narrowed her gaze as though intrigued by the question. “I believed him to be a good man, a family man, a man who was diligent in the running of his estate.” She paused, bit down on her lip and then took a deep breath. “He looked after his tenants and they respected him for it.”