As an Earl Desires (16 page)

“Undoubtedly. But there is another truth of
greater importance.”

“What would that be?”

“That you are beautiful beyond
measure.”

He slid his hand along her shoulder until his long
slender fingers came to rest against the nape of her neck, and his
thumb was stroking the underside of her jaw…slowly,
provocatively, and she had the strangest desire to dip her head
slightly and run her tongue along his thumb, perhaps draw it into
her mouth.

Where in the world did that notion come from?

She'd certainly never felt that way about any
gentleman, certainly not Lucien, who'd come the closest to
touching her in this manner—only his hand around her throat
had usually meant that he wished to choke her.

“Please,” she pleaded, “I
can't be what you want.”

She dipped her gaze to discover that his robe had
parted, no longer hiding him from her view
or
keeping his longing out of sight. She lifted her gaze back to his.
“I shouldn't have come here this late at night,”
she rasped.

“It wouldn't matter when you came here,
my reaction would be the same.”

“Not if you knew the truth.”

Her words gave him pause, she could tell because
surprise flitted across his face like a flame trying to remain
alight, only to die out. He released a wearisome sigh. “What
other secret are you hoarding?”

She'd thought he'd turn away from her
when he discovered she couldn't read. But he hadn't.
Oh, there had been anger in his eyes, but only because she'd
kept the truth from him. Afterward, he'd done all in his
power to give her the gift of reading. He'd proven she
wasn't stupid or ignorant. She was smart, she could
learn.

She could hide her final secret in the dark from
her duke, but she didn't think Archie was a man who'd
be content with the darkness. He liked too much to look at
everything in the light so he could completely understand it.

She could walk out now, and they would never have
more than this. There would never be complete trust between them.
And after all he'd given her, she thought it cruel to judge
for him rather than to allow him to judge for himself.

Very deliberately, she closed the book and set it
aside. Slowly, ever so slowly, without looking
at him, she released all the buttons on her nightgown, from her
throat to her navel. She'd quite literally had it beaten into
her that she was worthless. She'd never wanted anyone to
know.

But he had a right to know. The knowledge would
tamp his desire…forever.

Shifting on the sofa, she faced him, still not
looking at him. She couldn't stop her fingers from shaking as
she took hold of the parted cloth and peeled it back farther.
“He took a riding crop to me when I disappointed or
displeased him.”

He didn't move. He made no sound.

She finally dared to lift her gaze to his and saw
burning within his eyes what she'd never expected to witness
from Archie…

Pure, unadulterated hatred.

A
rch
stood like a man possessed. Rage burned through him, nearly
blinding him, and he didn't know what to do with it, where to
unleash it. He crossed over to the fireplace and with one long
mighty swipe, he knocked everything off the marble mantel: the
golden candle-sticks, the crystal vases, the statuettes.

Then he spread his arms wide, gripped the cold
mantel, and held firm because, if he didn't, he thought
he'd destroy everything else in this room, everything in his
house. Bowing his head, he took in great draughts of air, trying to
still the fury that caused his body to tremble.

Little wonder she didn't trust, little wonder
she hoarded secrets. He'd seen in her eyes what it had
cost her to reveal her scars to him, tiny slashes
that marred her skin. He'd seen the shame, the mortification,
and been unable to offer comfort because in that instant he'd
wanted to commit murder…and he could have done it without
feeling a bit of guilt.

“I'm terribly sorry,” she said
softly.

“No,” he growled. “Never
apologize for anything that he did.”

His arms aching from the tension in his shoulders,
he released his hold on the mantel and faced her. She was on her
feet, the movement apparently closing her gown, although
she'd yet to rebutton it, so he was left to view the tiniest
gap of shadowy skin.

“The wonder of it is that you have any desire
to marry at all,” he said.

“I know that not all men are as he was. But
neither are all men as you are, wanting the whole truth or none of
it, wanting to see and understand every thread that has been woven
together to make me who I am.

“Most men are content with the surface, with
the superficial. Few want to burrow as deeply into a woman's
heart as you do. I am the sum of my secrets.”

“No.” He shook his head. “The
secrets are only a part of you and now they are…gone. And
what remains before my eyes is a woman who en
dured, but didn't lose her humanity. A woman
who rushes to a fire in her bare feet and her nightclothes, a woman
who gives to the needy and takes no credit, who pours imaginary tea
for little girls.” He took a step toward her.

“You have amazed me from the moment I met
you. You accomplished more without the ability to read than most
people do with it. And when the opportunity to learn was presented
to you, you snatched it up…again amazing me with how quickly
you mastered the skill.”

He took her face between his hands, watched as the
tears in her eyes flowed onto her cheeks. “I told you once
that I
thought
I could love a woman
such as you. Now I
know
. I do. I do
love you.”

Still holding her head, he lowered his mouth to
hers with all the tenderness that he could bring forth. He wanted
this to be the last time that he ever tasted her tears when he
kissed her. She wrapped her hands around his forearms, holding
tightly, but he didn't have the impression that she wished to
shove him away but rather that she simply wanted to touch him. He
couldn't imagine the burden of never sharing one's true
self with anyone, of having no one to trust completely. He'd
grown up in a house of honesty, where imperfections were accepted.
In truth, he found perfection rather dull.

Yet he would have done anything to have spared her
the suffering she'd experienced at the
hands of one of his relations. God, the thought
sickened him. He and the man who'd done this to her shared
the same blood. It was disgusting, sickening, revolting.

He heard a quiet moan, one of rising passion, and
he realized that whatever had happened between her and the old
Sachse had no place in his bedchamber, in their lives. It was over
with. Done.

It wasn't his place to make amends. It was
his place to love her as she deserved to be loved.

He slid his mouth to her throat, slid his hands to
her shoulders. He wanted the gown gone, but he needed her to
understand that nothing about her person revolted him. None of her
secrets revealed mattered. All that was of importance was that he
loved her, adored her.

Holding her gaze, he slipped his hand beneath the
silk, nudging the cloth aside until the first tiny scar—a
small white mark above her breast—became visible. Dipping his
head, he kissed it.

Camilla felt the rush of heat from his mouth, the
stroke of his tongue over one scar and then another as he slowly
traveled over her skin, seeking out the imperfections, and making
them seem not quite so shameful.

He lowered himself to his knees as his lips
followed the path of her scars to her stomach. She looked down on
his dark hair as he gave his tender ministrations to each of the
unsightly marks.
How did he manage with a look,
with a touch to wipe away her shame?

He'd built her confidence one letter at a
time, one word after another, until she'd dared to share this
final secret with him, and he was erasing its significance one
loving kiss at a time.

Bending over slightly, she pressed her cheek to the
top of his head. How was it possible that this man could be as
giving as he was when he demanded so much?

Complete surrender. Total surrender. Secrets bared.
Imperfections accepted. Nothing held back. Everything revealed, so
it could be measured and understood, so its significance could be
weighed, its importance determined, and in the end, it seemed all
that truly mattered to him was her. All the things she'd
feared him discovering allowed him to care for her more. Gave him
reasons to love her, gave her the freedom to accept that love.

Love. He loved her. She who had always thought
herself unworthy of such a tender emotion was now the recipient of
it, and she was left to wonder why she'd ever felt the need
to hide. Just as when she'd been a girl and had pretended to
know how to read and the pretending had prevented her from learning
to read…so again had she almost repeated her mistake. By
pretending not to care, she'd almost lost the chance to be
loved.

She tried to hold him close, but he was not yet
done. As her gown and robe slipped along her
skin and pooled on the floor, he found a scar on her thigh, one on
her hip. So many, too many to count, and yet he ignored not a
one.

When each one had received the brush of his lips,
he stood, lifted her into his arms, and carried her to the bed. The
notion of protesting his actions slipped into her mind and slipped
out, and she realized that in his arms, in his bed was where she
truly wanted to be. Those desires were what had prompted her to
unbutton her nightgown to begin with. Perhaps they were what had
truly sent her to his room, book in hand.

He laid her down gently as though he feared she
might break, but after all the humiliations she'd experienced
in her life, she wasn't going to break now. Not when
gentleness and love surrounded her.

With uncharacteristic boldness—because
she'd never been the aggressor when it came to what passed
between a man and a woman—she tugged on the sash of his robe.
He removed the covering, and she experienced a moment of panic as
he stood fully revealed. Without joining her on the bed, he reached
over and cradled her cheek. She lifted her gaze to his eyes, eyes
which she'd long ago come to cherish.

“I won't hurt you,” he said.

Honesty. He'd always claimed to want honesty
between them, and this moment called for it as
no other did.

“I don't think you'll have a
choice. He wasn't nearly as…” How to explain?
Obviously not all aspects of the family had been passed down from
generation to generation. She finally decided on, “as
magnificent. I'm fairly certain that it is quite likely that
you won't…fit.”

A corner of his mouth hitched up into a warm, yet
cocky grin, filled with masculinity and pride. “Oh,
I'll fit. Have no fear of that.”

Have no fear
? No she
didn't fear this man. He'd uncovered all her secrets,
accepted them all. How could one fear acceptance? And if she
disappointed him in bed…she didn't think it possible.
He was a man who expected no more of her than he did of himself. He
did what no one else had ever done. He accepted her for herself.
She lifted her arms, spreading them wide, opening herself and her
heart to him.

He came to her like the gentleness of night.
Slowly. One moment it was but a promise, the next it had
arrived.

And so did he, laying himself over her.

As he took her mouth, he nestled himself between
her thighs. Not inside her. Just near her. The warmth of his body
radiating between her, over her.

Oh, he was so lean, so fit, it seemed he was
per
fection, like the many sculptures that
adorned this house. Muscles knotted, tense. But unlike the cold
marble, his were hot and quivering.

His tongue waltzed with hers, his mouth greedily
devoured. She did with him what she'd done with no other. She
touched him. His hair, his face, his neck, his shoulders, his back.
She wanted to know the varying textures of all of him. She wanted
to touch every glorious inch, down to his toes. But she
couldn't reach his feet and didn't want his mouth to
leave hers so that she could.

She'd never known that a kiss could last so
long, could shift and change, and bring forth a rising tide of
passion. No, no, not only the kiss, because he was doing more than
kissing her. His hands stroked and caressed. He filled a palm with
her breast and teased her nipple with his thumb.

Then his hand was gliding along her skin, lower,
lower, along her thigh, then up, across her hip, between her
thighs. Breaking off the kiss, he lifted himself, his eyes burning
with yearning such as she'd never seen.

She'd never felt this wanted, this desired.
He threaded the fingers of one hand through her hair while the
other cupped her intimately. She felt the first stroke of his
finger, watched as he closed his eyes and moaned low as though the
pleasure that speared her had also shot through him.

Was that the essence of love? That pleasure given
was pleasure received?

It was a concept she'd never considered, and
with his next caress everything faded away except for the
sensations. His harsh breaths echoed around her. The pleasure
pitched and roiled. She grabbed his shoulders, anything to keep her
anchored.

“I'll fit,” he growled, as though
challenging them both to call him a liar.

He pushed. She tensed.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.

The desperation voiced in his question momentarily
brought her back from the brink of pleasure along with the
startling realization that the pain she'd always felt
wasn't there. Oh, she certainly was aware of the pressure,
but it was a pleasant sensation, not a prelude to conquering, but
an overture for sharing.

“No,” she whispered, answering him at
last. “There's no pain.”

The glorious pressure increased as he pushed
deeper, stretching her, stretching her until he accomplished
exactly what he'd promised. The fullness of him as he buried
himself to the hilt filled her with satisfaction such as
she'd never known. To have him fully, completely nestled
inside her was as satisfying to her as she thought it might be to
him.

She wrapped her legs around him, pressed her thighs
against him. He opened his eyes, and she saw his look of
triumph…and rejoiced in it. His power was hers. His strength
hers. They were equal, yet different. Partners. Sharing. Giving.
Receiving.

He dipped his head to kiss her as he began to rock
against her, sliding his body over hers, in hers. Passion took hold
with a fury. She thought she might come off the bed. Wanted to.
Wanted to stay.

She matched his rhythm. Giving and taking.

Pleasure coiled deep within her belly, radiated
outward to the farthest tips of her limbs. She pushed on him,
pulled on him, tightened her thighs around him. He growled. Pumped
harder, faster.

The pleasure unfurled, arching her back. She cried
out, heard his guttural cry, felt his final thrust, then the
quivering of his body as he buried his face in the curve of her
shoulder.

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to weep. She wanted
to shout, to whisper.

In the end, she simply smiled and drifted off to
sleep.

 

He'd known, of course, that she'd never
experienced full sexual satisfaction. Allowing one's body to
give in to all the wondrous sensations re
quired
a good bit of trust, and trust like pleasure was something she was
only just beginning to experience.

But like reading, now that she'd had a
sampling of it, she wanted to experience it fully. And he was more
than happy to oblige.

Every night, when it was exceedingly late and the
majority of the servants were already abed, she would make an
appearance in his room, dressed in her nightclothes, holding a book
pressed to her chest.

“I thought we would read together.”

He'd grin with knowledge of the truth and
anticipation of the journey. “If you like.”

“In bed.”

Humoring her with the pretense, he'd pull
back the covers, plump up the pillows. They seldom got beyond a
sentence or two before he was nibbling on her bare shoulder, her
collarbone, her breasts. He took great pains never to cause her any
discomfort, was never rough, was always gentle.

He strove not to allow their
secret
to detract from their enjoyment, but he
couldn't help but resent a little that she gave no indication
in front of others that she favored him…and she had made it
perfectly clear to him that he wasn't to give any indication
that he favored her. He still needed a
wife who
could give him an heir, and she still had her goal of acquiring a
duke.