Defiant Angel (39 page)

"Come, Princess, love me, you know how." His voice was endearing, tempting. His words released her and she rose, holding his eyes with hers, and closed the distance between them. Her body ached with need and love she knew this man could give. She stopped a breath away from him and shrugged her shoulders, her chemise falling around her feet. Stepping over it, she came to him, reaching up with both hands, holding his face, which she drew down to hers, cupping his jaw with her fingers splayed over his cheek. Her thumb brushed his lips, which he parted, and moved seductively over them, occasionally touching the tip of his tongue. She moved closer, moaning when her sensitive breasts brushed against his hair-roughened chest. She pressed against him--flesh against flesh--man against woman. She stood on her toes and covered his mouth with hers, tasting herself on his tongue when she coaxed his to parry.

Clinton's groan gave her confidence and a certain power in her allure and she pressed herself against him, feeling his rising manhood against her belly. She ached. A burning fire spread between her thighs, urging her on. Clinton stood, arms at his sides, hands clenched. His body was like a bright flame which Tiffany stoked. He felt her trail kisses down his neck and twirl her tongue about his ear. He moaned and Tiffany became bolder with her newfound power, sliding her hands from his face, over his chest, feeling the heavy pounding of his heart. Her fingers lightly circled his nipples, which, to her surprise, rose proud, hard, like pebbles. Her tongue circled their hardened peaks and worked its own magic while her hands slid boldly down his taut belly, which quivered in spasms of anticipation. Lightly she teased the muscles, watching in fascination how they rippled. Her hand stopped at the waist of his open breeches. Clinton's sharp intake of breath caused a smile to cross her face. She slid her hands down the sides of his breeches, which fell. His manhood popped free, full and very potent. Clinton stepped back; Tiffany took in the virile form, missing no detail of his manly perfection. A sense of pride, of ownership, fleeted through her.

Weeks of abstinence, an evening of worry, a night of bewitching seduction, almost caused Clinton to lose control, but he waited.

Tiffany moved closer to him, rubbing her breasts against his hair-roughened chest, and then lower, until she felt his manhood slide between her breasts. He groaned. And when he felt her cup him and draw him into her mouth, he gasped. While she had not the expertise of a seasoned courtesan, her innocent ministration brought him to the point of where he threatened to spill himself.

He gasped out, "Don't, love . . . stop."

Tiffany wanted nothing more than to bring him the pleasure he so often brought her, and ignored his plea. She marveled at his size and the feel of him. When she felt him grasp her shoulders to still her, she fell back onto her knees and looked up at him wondering how she displeased him.

Seeking to reassure her, he drew her up against him, whispering, "No, love, you'd render me useless." His manhood throbbed painftilly with his carefully leashed control, but he held her close, noting her breathing matched his own short, ragged gasps.

Tiffany wanted nothing more than to quench the burning between her legs and moved closer to him, rubbing against him.

Knowing her need, he lifted her easily up against him. She wrapped her arms about his neck, and her legs about his waist. He moved to carry them to the bed. Tiffany whimpered against his throat in frustration, feeling his hardness against her wet core. She arched against him, causing Clinton to lose his balance and fall backward onto the bed.

Beyond the limit of endurance, Tiffany straddled his lean sides and lowered her arching warmth on his engorged member.

Both drew in sharp breaths as one descended and the other rose to become one. Grasping her hips, Clinton rose, trying to give more of himself to her. Whimpering aloud and pounding on his chest, she cried, "Please, you promised, please."

With a growl, he tossed her on her back, thrusting deeply into her, feeling her widen and arch to meet his driving thrust, bringing him deeper into her welcoming flesh.

Clinton reared back, pulling her legs over his shoulders, and thrust deeply into her.

Tiffany felt his penetration, felt him touch her as never before, as no other ever would. And at that moment she loved this man. Their eyes locked and she whispered to him, "You're so deep . . . you touch my womb."

He looked down at her, into her eyes, and saw tears, her love, and groaned aloud, "I shall fill it."

And then she felt him bring her to the edge of climax and she cried out, "I love you." His hand moved to hold her head as his body moved over her and she whispered, "I love you." What she saw in the smoky gray depths of his eyes surprised her, the glistening of tears. And when the rippling convulsions of her climax brought him to spill his seed and fill her womb, tears slipped from the corners of his eyes as the woman he loved gave him her heart and he gave her life.

M
orning came, and with it, bright sunlight, which streamed into the room, its fingers touching the faces in sleep. The chirping birds had long since risen, and the soft, insistent knocking disturbed the couple who lingered in that half-sleep state, comfortably and contently entwined about each other.

Clinton was the first to open his heavy-lidded eyes. He held his breath a moment to be sure the knocking was not his heart, but the door. He gazed down at Tiffany molded against his side, her leg straddling his thigh. His eyes roamed appreciatively over her naked buttocks and he would have continued, save for that incessant knocking. Clinton pulled the sheet up over them and called out, ' 'Enter."

An impeccably dressed Mortimer rushed in, unusual for him since the valet was always quite stolid and pompous. Mortimer approached the bed a bit hesitantly, still not used to serving both master and mistress. He averted his gaze from Tiffany's form. His eyes betrayed his discomfort when Tiffany, in her sleep, moaned and sighed, snuggling closer to Clinton.

Clinton shot him a grin and asked, "Yes, Mortimer, what brings you here?" Clinton reached for a cheroot, which Mortimer quickly intercepted. While Mortimer never approved of the filthy habit, he was most grateful for the diversion from this most embarrassing situation. After lighting Clinton's cigar and procuring an ashtray, again Mortimer averted his eyes from Tiffany and stared at Clinton.

Clinton puffed leisurely on the cigar, noticed a flush creeping up his valet's face, and raised an eyebrow in question. "Er . . . Your Grace, Monsieur Richilieu sent me to see if you or Her Grace are ill." Mortimer wrung his hands nervously as Clinton regarded him with a puzzled look. "The hunt, Your Grace . . . 'Twas scheduled for early morn. They are awaiting you and Her Grace." Mortimer raised his eyes to include Tiffany, then quickly looked away when she kicked out a slender leg.

Seeing his valet's discomfort and always delighting in upsetting him, Clinton took longer than necessary to reply. "Tell Richilieu we will be down within an hour."

"Very good, sir."

Tiffany slowly drifted up from her sleep, hearing the closing of the door. Slowly she opened her eyes, still heavy with sleep, and saw Clinton lying beside her, smoking his cigar.

He smiled softly thinking how soft and beautiful she looked when she first awakened. She returned his smile, laying her head against his shoulder, snuggling against his body.

Clinton shifted his leg, which rode strategically between hers, brushing against her woman's flesh. Tiffany felt the thickness of his thigh against her and the beginnings of a sweet ache. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, she allowed her body to move against the pressure of his thigh.

Clinton smiled, moving his knee closer, applying delightful pressure, feeling her grow warm and moist against his leg. Reaching over, he pulled her beneath him. He was stopped by a knock on the door and-called out angrily, "What!"

Mortimer's head peeked around the door; his eyes widened as his face turned crimson at the sight before him.

"What the hell is it
now!"
ground out Clinton.

"Ah, er . . . Monsieur Richilieu wishes to know which saddle to tack Her Grace's mount," stammered Mortimer.

"Hunter. Now, get the hell out of here!"

Realization slapped Tiffany awake. She sat up, the sheet falling to her waist, and covered her mouth. The hunt! She scrambled to get out of bed, but Clinton snaked an arm out, catching her about the waist and holding her to his supine form.

Looking down at him, love shining in her eyes, she said softly, "Clinton, the hunt. We're late. They are waiting."

With the cigar clenched between his teeth and a mischievous look in his eyes, he replied, "Let them wait, Princess, or let them hunt." Removing his cigar, but holding her, sure she would dash away as he reached over and put it out, a wicked grin lit his features as he said, "I've a need to improve my skills on a mount worthy to be ridden." Moving his hand down her belly, feeling the muscles jump under his fingers, he found her soft, moist essence.

"And you, my lady, need to improve your skills as a rider."

Tiffany smiled, then put her hands against his chest, pushing away, explaining, "Nay, Clinton. They will know. I will not be able to face them, nay." She shook her head.

"Princess, they already know. Why else would we be abed so late?" he reasoned.

Frowning at his words and shaking her head, she persisted, "Nay, they will only think we were tired and slept." She smiled brightly at her explanation.

"Like hell they will! I'll not let them believe I'm some tired old man in need of rest." He moved his fingers slowly over her moistness. "Nay, Princess, as you say, they will know, for there is nothing like the glow of a recently bedded woman, all rosy and radiant."

He lifted her, and just as the engorged tip of his member teased her opening, he said huskily, "Aye, Princess, they will see my mark on you this morn." Before she could utter a protest, he lowered her onto him, and a deep moan from her throat was her response.

Sure enough, as they descended the steps an hour later, Tiffany's cheeks bloomed like the petals of a red, red rose.

It was evident that everyone knew what had detained the duke and duchess this morn. The stares from the sea of faces awaiting them made Tiffany want to thrash Clinton. She colored fiercely, her cheeks becoming warmer when she caught Rory's smug smile, Chad's wide and knowing grin, Brent's infamous raised brow, and Richilieu's slow, secret smirk. And then there was Alan's look of disbelief.

The men, while awaiting the arrival of the women, stood outside drinking brandy served by numerous footmen. Clinton caught sight of the marquess who occasionally looked toward the front entrance. Clinton knew who the marquess was looking for. Brent watched Clinton watch Alan, and Rory watched Brent watch Clinton watch Alan. Exasperatedly, Rory threw down his cigar, shaking his head, thinking he didn't need any of this, and walked over to his mount.

Clinton knew the moment Tiffany exited by the look on Alan's face. Clinton moved toward her, coming to stand one step below, smiling softly, offering her a sip of his brandy. She took a sip as he held the glass to her lips.

Clinton reached up, brushing a lock of hair from her face, then lightly brushed her lips with his. Placing his arm across her shoulders, they descended the steps.

Most of the guests did witness the couple but thought nothing of their behavior other than it was apparent the duke and duchess had a
mariage de coeur,
definitely an unusual situation for the times. However, Alan felt their display was scandalous. What did he expect from the infamous duke of Chablisienne, whose reputation was notorious! Why, had he known the dukes of Wentworth and Chablisienne were one in the same man, he would never have given Tiffany over to him. Well, he thought, maybe not that, but I would have done something.

The call to mount brought all to their horses. The teams were chosen, and much to Clinton's dismay, Tiffany and he were separated. His displeasure stemmed from the knowledge of her fear of the kill and his need to protect her. To make matters worse, the guests had heavily wagered on the kill, so they would be riding for blood.

Clinton saw Rory was to ride with Tiffany. He nudged his mount forward, cutting Rory off.

"What goes, Clinton?"

Lighting a cheroot and offering one to Rory, he explained, "Keep an eye on Tiffany if we should get separated."

Rory puffed leisurely on his cigar, gazing over to his team, seeing the marquess. Turning to his brother, an eyebrow raised in disbelief, he cocked his head in the marquess's direction, "From that twit?"

Letting out an exasperated sigh, an expression of pained tolerance crossing his features, Clinton remarked, "Be serious."

"Then tell me the danger and I will keep her from it."

"The kill." At Rory's puzzled look, Clinton elaborated, "She cannot handle the kill."

It was hard to believe his volatile sister-in-law would be bothered by anything so trivial. He asked sarcastically, "What's she do? Go all aflutter and swoon?"

"Precisely." Clinton spurred his mount, leaving Rory muttering to himself as he made his way. ' 'First we have an old flame, nearly a duel, and now the vapors--hell, I don't need this."