When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (21 page)

He paced in front of the fireplace. His arms were folded across his chest, one hand covering his lower jaw. He wore only a pair of brown breeches and one of his white linen shirts. She could see a bit of hair peeking out of the opening at his collarbone.

My goodness, he is magnificent,
she thought. And he was. Massive shoulders. Thick hair that felt like silk between her fingers. Firm lips that could tease and caress hers until she wanted to absorb him into her skin. Eyes that glowed with heat like a forest burning beneath summer’s weight.

He turned. And there were those eyes, devouring her from heated cheeks to bare, chilled toes. The forest was a furnace, a blaze of powerful need. “Viola. Ah, God, lass.”

She swallowed, her eyes falling reflexively to his thighs. He was aroused. Very, very aroused. Her tongue darted out to moisten suddenly dry lips. Her belly ached. Her breasts tingled as though he’d stroked them with his long, thick, capable fingers.

Her arms fell away. Distantly, she felt the shawl puddle like a cloud around her feet.

He stalked toward her, his eyes aflame. Then he was lifting her. Kissing her. Taking her lips and giving her his tongue. She clawed at his head, moaning into his open mouth. Heat. There was so much heat. And she needed every bit of it, absorbing his beloved scent into her heart through her skin. Pine and man.

She felt the bed, smooth and plush, rise beneath her back, his hand cradling her head as he laid her upon its surface. Then cool air breathed on her bare legs. He was raising her hem. She could feel his fingers forcing the fabric up her thighs and over her hips. His hands clasped her waist and slid her suddenly downward as he moved to kneel on the floor, putting his shoulders level with her hips. Without a moment for her modesty, he slung her legs over his shoulders and lowered his head between her thighs, holding her hips up like a flask to his lips.

Her hands were still clawed into his hair, so the instant his tongue touched flesh, she formed fists and arched with the bolt of pleasure he wrought with flickering strokes and firm laps. His hands slid down so that his thumbs could spread her folds wide, exposing her more fully to his devilish mouth.

Then, one thumb joined in the play, circling the open bud at her center as his tongue played greedily with her vulnerable opening, dipping inside and torturing her with heat and pleasure and a spiraling, sweet maelstrom that wound so tight, she was certain it could only end in a fiery explosion.

And she was right. She screamed and writhed against him as it burned through her. She yanked his hair and gripped his head with her thighs. But he would not relent. His tongue worked itself inside her, his thumb teasing and stroking until she sobbed and thrashed. Then, the coiling pressure seized in a sharp burst so intense it was nearly pain. It threw her into the heart of the flames, where paroxysms of blasting heat and rippling pleasure buffeted her with breathtaking force. Even then, he did not stop, groaning against her, stroking her gently to expand the cascade, laying open kisses against her inner thighs, her belly.

Strong arms lifted her again, slid her head up so her hips now rested more fully on the bed. Then, with slow deliberation, he clasped her legs behind her knees and tucked her heels on the edge of the mattress. Reaching up, he rid himself of his shirt in a single motion, tossing it to the floor. He unbuttoned his fall, wincing as his fully engorged manhood sprang forward, demanding what it had been promised.

“Viola,” he panted, the black at the center of his eyes swallowing the beauty of the forest. “Try tae take me, lass. Please.”

She could scarcely think, but she nodded, her hands now fisting in the green coverlet, her legs spread wide for his hips. He towered above her, bending his knees to tuck the head of his shaft against the mouth of her core. She remembered this, the alarming sting of him stretching her flesh. But he needed her. And she needed him. So she concentrated on persuading her muscles to relax.

He pushed. As before, the invasion was uncomfortable. A small, pinching pain formed at her opening, growing as the thicker part of him sank deeper. But it did not compare to the pain of the first time. And, as he slid and stretched and filled her, she blinked at the new sensations.

Of pressure.

Of pleasure.

Of completion.

He filled her so full, she had no room for breath, only him. So, instead, she gasped and gripped him hard, her internal muscles clenching and grasping. He fell forward over her, catching himself on his elbows, protecting her from his weight as he gathered first one leg then the other and wrapped them around his waist. The new angle pressed hard on some mysterious place inside her, sending shockwaves of fiery pleasure through her core.

“Oh, God, James,” she groaned, her hands leaving the mangled coverlet to bracket his jaw. She pulled him down into her kiss, grinding her hips upward to take him deeper.

That was when he started moving. Thrusting with slow, heavy motions. Withdrawing one inch and returning two. He was so deep now, she didn’t know how he could possibly go any deeper. Except that he did. And his hand was upon her breasts, squeezing her nipples through the silk of her gown. And his manhood was burning her, stretching her, pleasing her in the most astounding of ways.

This was even better than what he’d done with his mouth. This was her husband inside of her, a part of her. She adored him with her hands, trailing her fingers and lips over his mouth and jaw, caressing the muscle that flickered there, relishing how his arms and shoulders shook with the tension of his careful rhythm.

“I must … I must gae faster now, lass. Bear with me.”

Even then, in the moments of greatest tension, he showed restraint. It was why she loved him. One of the reasons, at any rate. There were many.

She kissed that muscle in his jaw again and then squeezed where they were joined and rubbed her hard, sensitized nipples against his chest. His head dropped to her shoulder, and he growled, deep and rumbly the way she liked. She smiled.

He thrust hard, jolting her into a gasp. Pulled nearly all the way out and slid back inside in a long, hard shove. Did it again. And again. She threw her arms around his neck and dragged her mouth along his throat, holding on while he pounded and pounded and pounded. Soon, the friction gathered heat and the pleasure gathered steam and the pressure pressed in just. The right. Way. And she exploded in a showering starburst, the light shimmering behind her eyes to the concussing cadence of James’s wondrous thrusts.

His pace quickened, extending the shattering pulses for longer seconds. She sobbed into his neck, stroked his bare shoulders, wanting to give him the same pleasure.

And, in the end, she did.

He roared with it, his muscles going rigid beneath her palms, his hands gripping her hips and pulling free of her, yet pulling her into him as she was filled with his shouts of release, her belly bathed in his seed.

In the storm’s wake, her eyes listed, a warm, rich fog of contentment blanketing her as surely as he did. She held him, stroking his neck and back, as the light grew darker, the sounds of his breath in her ear dimming, the sleep she had missed the night before claiming her. Light and sound returned for a brief moment. Just long enough to feel him gather her close beneath the blankets, tucking her into his side and kissing her forehead.

At last, sleep drew its cloak over her, and she dreamed the sweetest dream, one that only a hopeless ninny could conjure—there, in the darkness, she felt his lips brush her cheek, heard him whisper with heartrending tenderness, “Ye are a bluidy miracle, lass.”

*~*~*

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Winning a woman’s favor is the product of abundant charm, appropriate gifts, and avoiding catastrophe. I recommend beginning with the latter, Charles.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, upon witnessing a most calamitous exchange involving an umbrella, two dogs, a defiled bonnet, and a certain widow.

“You know something about wooing a lady, do you not?”

Holding his cue with studied nonchalance, Lucien raised a single brow at the question.

James took his final shot, potting both the red and Lucien’s ball for a victory.

“Bloody hell, Tannenbrook. Can you not let me win for once? Leave a man a remnant of dignity.”

James straightened and plopped the base of his cue on the floor of Lucien’s billiard room with a thud. “Answer my question.”

Now, both brows went up, accompanied by a half smile. “I was under the impression you’d already married.” He held a hand level with his cravat pin. “Tiny thing about this high. Resembles one of those nymphs from the Greek myths, only lovelier.”

James glared at his daft friend before setting his cue lengthwise on the table and folding his arms across his chest.

“Very well,” said Luc, tossing is own cue stick in the air, catching it at the base and placing it neatly beside James’s. “Wooing. Yes, I know a bit. Why do you ask?”

“I have no facility for it.”

“Well, I cannot disagree with you on that point. However, you are spectacular at billiards. Perhaps she will swoon upon seeing you wield your cue.”

“I knew I should not have asked ye. Daft sod.”

Lucien laughed, shaking his head and waving away James’s bristle. “Merely a jest. I am at your disposal. As it happens, wooing is rather a specialty of mine.”

The claim was too modest. Lucien Wyatt could seduce a woman with a single arch of his brow. His wife, Victoria, had been his last conquest, and now the man was so mad for her, he scarcely acknowledged other females existed. But that did not mean his skills were for naught.

“I planned to never marry,” James began, wondering how much to reveal. “I’ve not had occasion to court a woman. The marriage to Viola was … unexpected.”

“Ah, yes. Unexpected. I seem to recall only a few months ago, you referred to her as ‘nobody.’”

James sighed his frustration, leaning forward to brace his hands on the billiard table. He kept his eyes on the fine brown surface. “I cannot … She is …” He swallowed, unable to articulate it in words.

“Everything.”

James’s head came up, meeting Lucien’s dark gray gaze. “Aye,” he rasped. And then he could not stop himself. He needed to tell somebody, and Viola refused to permit a conversation more substantive than what to serve for breakfast. “She claims she took one look at me and lost her heart. Pursued me at every bloody gathering during the season. Relentless. God. I thought at first it was some sort of madness.”

“Her wanting you?”

“Aye. Then, I felt it, too. But I didna want tae.” He shook his head. “I didna want a wife.”

Lucien moved to the sideboard, pouring a brandy for himself and one for James. He handed James the glass and leaned a hip against the table. “What changed your plans? Or should I hazard a guess?” This time, he held his glass at the level of his cravat pin. “About this high.”

James tossed back a swallow of his own brandy before answering. “Beautiful enough to break your heart. Yes.”

“So, now you have her. Wedded bliss, and all that. Why the need for wooing advice?”

“Because I have broken her.”

“Peculiar. She appeared in fine fettle upon your arrival.”

“She saw another woman kiss me.”

Lucien frowned. “What woman?”

“Alison.”

Dark brows arched.

“It wasn’t as it appeared. I pushed her away. I feel nothing for Alison any longer. It was clear to me that day. Before then, really. But Viola only saw the kiss. She hasn’t looked upon me with the same eyes since.”

“Have you explained? Apologized?”

James sighed and took another drink, appreciating the smooth, rich heat. It was good brandy. “I’ve tried. She won’t hear it. She even offered to annul the marriage. Or, worse, arrange a
divorce.”
He wanted to spit the foul taste of the word out of his mouth. “Like bloody hell. She can have her divorce when I’m cold in the grave, and not a minute before.”

“Mmm. For a man who felt no previous inclination toward matrimony, you are rather adamant in your opposition to severing this unexpected union.”

James set his glass carefully on the edge of the billiard table. He wouldn’t wish to crush it. “She made her choice. If she now suffers regret, that is unfortunate, but I shan’t change my mind.”

“Still, I wonder if the notion you find most bothersome is that, should a divorce occur, she would then be free to marry another.”

James’s fist slammed the edge of the table a moment before he could control the impulse. The heavy thud caused Lucien to smirk. James struggled against the fury that had been ignited inside him. A man of his size could not afford to lose command of himself. “She will not marry another. She belongs to me.”

“I stand corrected.”

“She may smile prettily at every footman and tradesman and bloody lordling within sight of her, but in the end, she is mine.”

“Naturally. And it doesn’t bother you in the slightest, her smiling at other men.”

He began pacing. He’d never been a pacer until he’d met Viola. Running a hand through his hair, James growled the words he wanted to shout. “Aye, it bloody well bothers me.”

“There, now, that wasn’t too difficult, was it? Admitting one’s unreasoning jealousy, I mean.”

“I canna abide it, Luc. The way she smiles for others as she should fer me. Ye must help me woo her. Tell me what tae dae.”

Lucien sipped his brandy and pretended to ponder. Then, he held up a finger. “First, you must understand what is happening. You are in love with her.”

“Nae.”

“Yes. Trust me on this point, James. It is better to simply concede that you have taken the fall than to thrash yourself to bits denying the truth. Consider it a glad surrender which will end happily for all concerned.”

“It isna true.” What he felt for Viola was not the same sort of obsessive preoccupation and wholehearted devotion that Lucien felt for Victoria. James desired his wee bonnie lass, of course. Immensely. And he enjoyed her company, even when she was chattering too much or asking him endless questions. She was a fascinating creature, like a butterfly composed of ever-changing colors. He wanted to take care of her. And he wanted her affection and her laughter and that starlight in her eyes to return. That was all.

“Rubbish,” Lucien scoffed. “Do you know how I know? I have plotted the demise of Sir Barnabus Malby approximately four hundred and eighty-seven times. I have dreamed of every conceivable method of that smelly toad’s torture and dismemberment. Now, perhaps you would like to understand why this is so.”

James frowned at his daft sod of a friend. “Aye.”

Lucien’s eyes flashed, his jaw tightening in a strangely familiar fashion. “Because Sir Barnabus Malby cannot keep his bulging toad eyes off of my wife’s bosom. And if I see him do it again, I shall—” He flexed his fist and appeared to regain control of himself. “Let us say that I understand how
unreasonable
a man feels when he is in love with a woman.”

“What does Victoria say about this?”

“She does not know.”

Now, it was James’s turn to raise a brow.

“Very well, she knows. We do not discuss it. I control my violent impulses, and she rewards me handsomely.” Lucien crossed to James and clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, then, we have established that you are in love with Viola.”

“She vexes me greatly. And I despise seeing her smile at other men. That does not mean I am in love with her.”

“Yes, it does.”

“I do not write her bloody poetry the way other gentlemen do. Explain that.”

“Describe her to me. Pretend I’ve never met her.”

“But you have.”

“Humor an old friend, won’t you?”

James pondered for a moment, frowning as he struggled to find the best words for Viola. “She is bonnie and wee.”

Lucien chuckled. “Try to reach beyond the Scot side of your vocabulary. What is she like?”

“A butterfly,” he muttered. “Bright and fine. The most exquisite of creatures. She is like a butterfly in full color landing on fresh-fallen snow. She blinds you to everything but her.” It grew easier, he found, the more he spoke about her. “She has these eyes. They look like the sky, but not an ordinary sky. They’re lighter in the center, and at the edges lie rings of darker blue, nearly violet. In between, if the light casts just so, you can see the stars there. Twinkling the way they do around dusk.”

Several seconds of silence ticked by before Lucien said, “But you are not in love with her.”

James shook his head, more because he needed to clear it than because he disagreed with Luc’s sarcasm. “What business have I tae be in love with such a creature, Luc? She is a butterfly and I am Scottish mud.”

“And if that were of no import whatever?”

“Ye’re sayin’ I love the lass.”

“That is what I am saying, yes, you bloody obstinate Scot.”

James stared into Lucien’s eyes and wondered how long he’d known. “When did you—”

“Rotten Row. It was the way you looked at her. Or tried not to, rather. You failed spectacularly, by the by.”

James huffed out a burst of laughter, shaking his head in wonder and running a hand over his lower jaw. “In love. Me. Aye, now that ye mention it, I have had a bit of trouble keeping my eyes off of her. Every time she laughs, I have to look at her. Every time I look at her, I want her until the soles of my feet ache. And then, I canna think of anything except—”

“Yes, yes. I know. Not to worry, James. That’s what the wooing is for.”

James folded his arms over his chest. “When do these wooing lessons begin?”

With a pat of his shoulder and a wide grin, Lucien replied, “They already have, my good man.”

*~*~*

Victoria Wyatt, Viscountess Atherbourne, was not as beautiful as Viola had anticipated, given her husband’s dark perfection. While her hair was a lovely shade of golden blond, her features were more pleasant than striking, with the possible exception of her eyes, which were overlarge for her face but a rather unusual color, a balance of cerulean and Saxon green.

However, Lady Atherbourne was extraordinary in every other way. Upon greeting Viola and James, she had glowed with warm welcome, her every word a kindness. Viola had taken to her straight away, enthusing about the elegance of Thornbridge Park and admiring the handsomeness of Atherbourne’s heir, Gregory Wyatt, who appeared fond of gnawing his own hand, speaking nonsense, and toddling about the hearth in the opulent blue drawing room. The black-haired infant was shortly to be joined by a sibling if the swelling beneath Lady Atherbourne’s azure gown was any indication.

Presently, Viola sipped strong tea and leaned forward to admire the color of Lord Atherbourne’s waistcoat. “Your talent is most astounding, my lady,” she enthused, shaking her head. “This is one of the finest portraits I have seen. How did you manage to create such a wondrous shade of blue?”

“Ultramarine,” Lady Atherbourne replied, smiling with transparent pleasure. “Layers and layers of ultramarine.”

Viola returned her smile with an appreciative one of her own. “A labor of love, clearly.”

“Indeed, though that is putting it a trifle mildly.”

Chuckling, Viola returned to the chair she’d vacated, sipped her tea, and watched as the nursemaid carried a fussy Gregory from the room, pausing to allow his mother a fond kiss. The ensuing silence felt as comfortable as if she and Lady Atherbourne had spent years rather than hours in each other’s company.

However, silence gave one entirely too much time to think. And she did not wish to think. Much better to lose oneself in distractions. For example, Viola had awakened earlier that morning plastered atop her mountain of a husband, her nose tickled by chest hair, her thigh brushing a surprisingly robust hardness. He had sighed awake, his hand sliding down her back to her buttocks. “Lass?” he’d inquired after a minute of silence. She’d heard the question—the ominous, looming, difficult problem she’d avoided confronting—in that single syllable. He’d wished to talk. But she had not. So she’d kissed him. Fortunately, lying naked upon one’s husband and then kissing his delicious mouth generated a distraction of mighty proportions.

At breakfast, she’d had Papa and Georgina and Penelope and Aunt Marian to see off with tearful hugs and fond farewells. Afterward, James had once again attempted to speak with her, but she had interrupted to suggest they journey to Lord Atherbourne’s neighboring estate. He had reluctantly agreed. Then, on the short ride, he had tried again, and she had asked him instead to tell her about how his friendship with Atherbourne had begun. It had been a fascinating tale, even told in James’s customary grunting, abbreviated fashion.