Worth Winning (26 page)

A puzzled look came into her eyes, and he realized that he had, perhaps, said too much. At some point he knew he’d have to tell her the truth: that he was Dresford and that there was still a host of questions that had to be addressed. But not now. For now, he wanted to be Mr. Charles Alver, who was in bed with a woman he . . . had a strong preference for . . .

He lowered his head again and kissed her until the worried look had left her face, but he didn’t stop at her lips. His hands blazed a trail that his mouth soon followed, ensnaring them both with a passion that was as intense as it was unexpected.

As Charles’s hands traveled down her body, Julia tried to pull her wits together; a small corner of her mind insisted that she ought to say something to stop him, that she should feel ashamed, embarrassed, or at least a little angry.

But her command of the English language seemed to have evaporated. Though perhaps
sublimated
was a more apt description, for her sense seemed to be vaporizing with his every caress. She felt feverish yet couldn’t seem to stop shivering. She seemed to herself to be altogether present, cataloguing and feeling each and every sensation he was creating, but also, simultaneously, ethereal—not present at all. Everything seemed suddenly to be a mass of contradictions, which reflected how she felt about him, as well. Not that she was in any way capable of analyzing the anger, the hurt, the desire, and . . . the hope she felt when Charles was kissing and caressing her body like this. Thought, like speech, was beyond her. For once, she lent caution to the winds and allowed herself to be swept away, to focus on his body and hers. The here. The now. And nothing else.

His tongue licked not just her breasts, which were almost,
almost
starting to get used to such attentions, but her nipples. His teeth nipped and bit teasingly while his hands branded her, memorizing her shape as they moved up and down her body, mapping out her waist, her outer and inner thighs, playing with every small indentation that delineated hip from leg.

Her responses were unfettered. If she could have thought about it, she might have dwelled on the propriety—or rather, the impropriety—of it all; she might have felt embarrassed or even ashamed about her responses. But as it was, she was too overwhelmed by what she was feeling to curtail her responses. She panted and gasped, she moaned and arched in response to his kisses, until she was almost writhing beneath him.

As before, his fingers first cupped and then dipped into the center of her femininity. His strokes were bolder this time, as if he were more assured of his welcome. His index finger glided in and out of her sheath while his thumb unerringly found that other center of her being. Just as it had been in the woods, everything else seemed to fade beside the sensations that his skilled fingers elicited. She could feel her hips moving lightly, matching the intensifying rhythm he’d established.

And then, instead of giving her the release that she expected, that she craved, his fingers left her. With his hands, he opened her legs gently, applying a little additional pressure when she would have protested this new, bold intimacy.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, causing her to blush, and try to close her legs as she looked away from the intensity of his gaze. The focused expression on his face was at both flattering and somehow frightening; that she, with her untutored responses, that her body, could do this to him, seemed a shocking, wicked thing.

And then, before she even realized what he was about to do, he lowered his head and, with his hands still holding on to her thighs, he kissed her mound. That it was a light, almost tickling kiss did nothing to lessen the shock. She struggled to sit up, and her arms, which were already weak, flailed and pushed helplessly at his shoulders, which he had fitted against her, assisting in his efforts to keep her legs wide and open so that she was utterly exposed.

“I don’t think . . .” she moaned weakly, not at all sure she meant it. “I’m not sure . . .”

Charles’s head dipped again. This time his kiss was more lingering. He licked gently at her hidden folds, chuckling when she gasped incoherently. “What are you not sure about, my love?” He whispered the words against her, and she could feel his breath upon her even as her mind registered the deep timbre passion had lent his voice.

“Is it this you object to?” His hands moved from her thighs, and his fingers delicately parted her folds so that she was even more exposed to his ministrations. He kissed her again, as she continued to writhe, and a finger entered her, giving her a blessed moment of surcease.

“Or is it this?” With his finger still deeply embedded in her, his mouth bent and took the small center of her womanhood and sucked.

At that moment, all the fight went out of Julia. She lay back against the old quilt, and the hands that had been at his shoulders, trying perhaps to push him away, instead clung helplessly to him. Her fingers contracted in time to his movements, gripping at this shirt and then pushing as much of it aside as she could so that she could touch at least his neck, part of his shoulder. She knew that her fingers were digging into his flesh heedlessly, but she was, for the moment, past caring.

“Please,” she whispered, having no real inkling what she was pleading for.

But she didn’t need to. Charles knew exactly what her body needed. He made a small sound that was more growl than laugh, and his tongue and fingers tormented her, setting a new pace for their interlude, intensifying the tension within until she was certain she’d go mad with desire, and that at any moment her mind would leave her body once and for all.

He kissed and tasted, he suckled and nipped, never once pausing to ask for permission, to give her another opportunity to say whether she would have allowed such an intimacy. With his tongue and fingers, he spread and caressed her until finally, he slid that extra fraction of an inch; he pressed, suckled, and fondled in just the right combination; and she fractured, her scream so primitive and guttural a sound that she would never have believed it came from her. She was almost certain she scratched him in those final moments, which was a testament to how completely out of her senses she must have been.

She fell back against the pillows, feeling nearly faint with the aftermath of her pleasure, and wondering if the blush would ever leave her body. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she made no struggle as she felt him gather her slowly into his arms. Her body curved against his, and it was then that she was reminded of the fact that he was still clothed, and that this was the second time he’d done everything to ensure her pleasure while obtaining none for himself.

“Do you . . .” she trailed off, not knowing how she could possibly finish that sentence. “You didn’t get to . . .” she stopped herself again, for how did one offer to . . . help a man with something like that, without offering to . . .

“Shhh,” he whispered against the top of her head, dropping a quick kiss against the tousled mass of her hair. “Just rest for now. I’m fine.”

Charles was, most definitely,
not fine
.

If he had
ever
been harder or had a more uncomfortable erection . . . he did not remember it. His entire body screamed for release, and the more calculated part of his mind, the only part that really seemed still to be functioning, given his current impairment, whispered that Julia, despite the fact that she had dozed off, would not object.

He was certain that if he woke her now, he could seduce her into acquiescence. More than that, he was positive she would enjoy it: she’d certainly enjoyed everything up until now. He was confident that the final act would not scare her overmuch and that she would not . . . what? Feel regret afterward? That was, ultimately, what kept him from waking her. He didn’t have any experience with virgins, having lost his own virginity nearly two decades ago and in very different circumstances. He had no idea how Julia would react once they stepped over that very real, very tangible line.

He also knew that if he took her, there’d be no choice left: he’d have to marry her.

He laughed a little at that, the sound disturbing Julia so that he had to resettle her against him. He admitted, finally, that matrimony was the only path forward. He had wagered on her innocence, seduced her not once, but twice, and all he wanted to do was continue to see her, to continue their relationship to its natural conclusion. And that meant marriage. For one thing, he had to, he simply
had to
have her. And, perhaps more to the point, one did not bed nice young women, innocent vicar’s daughters at that, without marriage on the mind.

Odd that he felt neither fear nor even the smallest amount of apprehension about an institution he’d always caustically described as a logical fallacy designed for and by the lesser sex. He smiled again, careful not to do anything to disturb his sleeping intended. He very much doubted Julia would appreciate being called lesser, for any reason.

He smiled, thinking it’d be, if nothing else, an interesting debate, before frowning, a bit unsure about the path forward. He had decided that they ought to marry, but he knew Julia well enough by now to know that . . . in fact, he didn’t know how she felt about such a commitment.

Robeson had hurt her, that part was without doubt. He, too, had harmed her. Her responses just now might suggest that all was forgiven, but he felt, instinctively, that their path forward would not be quite so simple.

He could tell her who he was or even apply directly to the vicar: few men would not welcome a suit from the Earl of Dresford.

But . . .

He paused. Did he have to propose as Dresford? Might it not be . . . he grinned again, a bit boyishly. No, he did not have to propose as Dresford. The bet was forfeit, but there was no reason he couldn’t continue the masquerade for a little while longer, to make certain that for once he chose a woman who was more interested in him than his title. He could propose, get Julia used to the idea of marriage, ascertain her feelings, and bind her to him more assuredly. Then, and only then, did he need to reveal himself.

He smiled, well satisfied with this line of reasoning. Julia might be a bit miffed, perhaps even a little angry, at the idea of being kept in the dark, at his continued deception. He could even foresee her being a little anxious about marrying into the peerage, but he was certain she’d eventually grow to like the idea of being a lady. After all, think of all the good she could do for her various causes.

He grinned, savoring the idea of unleashing his own personal firebrand, in the form of Julia Morland, onto the unsuspecting prim and proper ladies of high society.

Thus he did not wake her, nor did he allow himself to fantasize about the ways in which he’d eventually slake his lust in her body. He also tried, very hard, not to think about her wild, nearly wanton responses to his lovemaking.

Instead, he thought of insects. Of dust. Of lemons and aphids. Anything to keep his mind off his blazing erection, which was even now being cradled by the buttocks of the naked woman he held in his arms.

His mouth twisted wryly. He would have laughed, heartily, if it had been anyone else. The great Dresford, who’d thought himself such a prize in the Marriage Mart, who barely condescended to notice the most delectable debutantes who had been paraded before him these past years . . . felled by a chit of a girl with more temper than beauty and more wit than any who had gone before her.

As he lay there, holding her tightly, wriggling awkwardly until he could cover her with a bit of the quilt so she wouldn’t get cold, he admitted finally that he was very . . . fond of Julia, and that he wanted her to—truly hoped that she would—accept him as he was, before learning about his title.

Funny, that. Never before had he so separated himself from his heritage. He’d always been Dresfold.It was so odd, and oddly invigorating, to be just Charles. And, he wondered, would it really be asking too much for Julia to love just the Charles portion of him?

Julia didn’t know how long she had slept, only that she woke up staring at an unfamiliar wall—with someone’s arms wrapped around her naked body.

No, she amended quickly. Not someone. Not anyone. Charles. Charles’s arms were wrapped around her, holding her protectively against his body, with the quilt arranged around her. His breathing was deep and even, telling her that he too had fallen asleep.

When she squirmed a little, trying to put a little distance between them, his arms tightened, though his breathing remained even. She wriggled more and this time found that if she was very careful, she could loosen his hold enough to turn and observe him.

In sleep he looked far handsomer. Though she wouldn’t have described him that way upon first meeting him, she found that now, while he was reposing, his features looked softer. His mouth seemed fuller and softer than when they’re first met, when it had tended a bit too often toward grimaces and smirks. And though she’d always known him to be an attractive man, especially when he allowed himself to laugh and to lower the superior mask he so often donned (especially around mixed company), she found that he was truly handsome now, in his sleep. His lashes long, his nose still patrician but somehow softened by his tousled hair, his mouth, his . . .

She blushed again, though there was, thankfully, no one to observe her this time. She’d often heard that women in love saw things through rose-colored lenses and couldn’t help wondering whether she now found Charles to be more handsome merely because she . . . well, it wasn’t that she was in love, but she certainly cared for him.

She was angry, certainly. And very, very confused.

But underneath all of that, she knew that her emotions were engaged, more so than she would have liked to admit. She wouldn’t be here, naked in his arms, if that hadn’t been the case.

Looking at him up close while he slept, she felt a curious sensation spreading through her body. She was close enough to see his chest rise and fall with his breathing, close enough to feel his breath on her face even as she watched him.