In My Wildest Fantasies (13 page)

"Oh, Lord Hawthorne, you have no idea how many times I've dreamed of this."

"What else have you dreamed of?" he asked. "Tell me and I'll do it for you."

"I couldn't possibly say."

He pressed his mouth to hers again and tasted her lips and tongue, then brushed his open hand down the front of her neck and kissed the skin just above her low neckline, where the swell of her breasts was driving him mad with lust. He simply could not resist her. "I really wish you would. I want to hear you say wicked things."

She blinked up at him and tipped her head back against the wall, as if she did not possess the strength to keep it upright on her own. Her eyes were lazy with desire. "I've dreamed of what it would be like to feel you on top of me, and I like to imagine how heavy you would be. Every time I imagine it, I can almost feel you inside me. I've grown to crave the sensations."

They were hardly the words of a virgin. But she had said she'd never been kissed. Was she lying?

Whether she was or wasn't, it hardly mattered. In fact, he would almost prefer it if she were not a virgin, so he could take her to his bed this very night--with or without a wedding ring.

"What a coincidence," he replied with a smile, gently thrusting his hips toward hers. "Right now I'm craving all the sensations as well."

She whispered with breathless anticipation. "I'm still afraid someone will come."

He brushed his lips against her ear. "Don't be afraid. No one will see."

"How is it you always have everything under control?"

"But I don't," he openly replied, lowering himself onto one knee and looking up at her while she rested her hands lightly upon his shoulders.

"What are you doing?"

He gave no answer. He simply kept his gaze locked on hers as he slid his hands down her waist, feeling the shape of her hips beneath all the layers of her shiny, satin gown. He moved his hands over her thighs and knees and down her calves until he reached the lacy hem. He continued to look up at her, noting by the rise and fall of her luscious breasts how quickly she was breathing.

He reached under the gown and wrapped his hands around each tiny foot, his grip gently pulsing.

Another whimper escaped her, revealing a mixture of shock and fear and delight. "This is very wicked," she said.

"Yes." He slid his hands up to her slender ankles, feeling the fine texture of her stockings while he stroked the inner bones with his thumbs. Still, he did not pull his gaze from hers, for it gave him great pleasure to watch her eyes roll back slightly as she inhaled.

She was leaning forward now with more of her weight resting on his shoulders. He slid his hands up a little farther to the warmth at the backs of her knees, drew two figure eights there on each one, which made her quiver, then he ran his fingers like feathers down the length of her calves to her ankles. He lingered there a moment, then returned to her knees again, rubbing his thumbs in tiny circles over the soft flesh.

"Higher?" he asked in a husky voice.

"Yes."

He slid his hands up the front of her thighs until the tips of his thumbs slid into her split drawers and touched her soft, wispy curls. The heat and moisture there was intoxicating, and he paused a moment, considering his options. Dare he go farther? Was it even necessary? He'd already done more than enough to require that he propose and she accept.

But the fact was, at the moment, this had nothing to do with that, and everything to do with the fierce yearning taking over his body. He wanted to touch her and feel the creamy heat of her womanhood. Marriage proposal or no, he wanted her salty scent on his fingers long after they'd returned to the drawing room.

He slid the pad of one thumb into her heated folds, and shuddered with his own burst of pleasure from the inviting wetness.

"Step wider," he said, and she moved her feet apart.

He continued to look up at her beautiful face while he stroked her slick opening, searching, feeling. Then he found it. Her maidenhead. She was indeed a virgin. Not that it mattered at this point, because he wanted her regardless of anything.

And he would have her.

Her eyes had fallen closed, and her arms were locked straight, braced upon his shoulders while her soft, pulsating body swayed to and fro. "Oh, that is heavenly," she gasped, squeezing his shoulders tighter and tighter until she was clutching the fabric of his jacket in her fists. "I'm going to have an orgasm."

He felt his eyebrows pull together in a frown.

Virgin, yes. Innocent, most definitely not.

Struggling to hide his dismay, at least for the time being, he continued until she shuddered and quivered and gasped with delight--he was not sure he'd ever made a woman climax so quickly--then her upper body tipped forward, and she rested her head upon his shoulder. "Oh, that was magnificent," she said. "You know just what you're doing."

Evidently, so did she.

He checked again, left and right, to make sure there was no one about, then gave her a moment to recover in that position.

A minute or two later, he withdrew his hands from under her skirt, smoothed it out, and rose to his feet. She opened her eyes and smiled lazily at him.

"I thought you told me you'd never been kissed," he said.

She appeared somewhat surprised by the remark. "I haven't."

"Then may I ask...?" He paused, not quite sure how to articulate himself in a respectful way. "How do you know the things you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"Surely you've had some experience," he continued, prodding her. "You used the word orgasm without modesty. I'm not criticizing. I'm just a little...perplexed."

"Isn't that what all women say?" she frankly asked.

"Perhaps some," he replied with a chuckle of dismay, quite unable to believe his ears. "But only after they'd been to all four corners of a gentleman's bed, if you understand my meaning."

"Oh." Her face drained of color. "I understand," she said, "but I assure you that I have not been to any of those four corners."

He couldn't help but smile. She seemed very prim and proper all of a sudden. "I believe you." He rested his hands on her hips. "I think."

"But you must," she insisted. "There is a very simple explanation. You see, I...Oh, this is all very strange to be talking about. I found an old diary a few years ago, not long after we met that night in the woods, and every entry is about..." She hesitated.

"What we just did?"

"Yes, and other things."

He nodded his head. "Ah, the mystery is solved."

"Do you believe me?"

"I think so. But where in the world did you find such a diary?"

"Under a loose floorboard in my father's stable," she replied. "It was written in 1828 and was covered in dust, so it had obviously been there for quite some time."

"Do you know who it belonged to?"

"No, only that her first name was Lydie. She describes her love affair with a young man named Jess. I think he might have been a servant who worked for my grandfather."

He ran a finger lightly over her cheek. "I must say, that sounds like very compelling reading. Do you have it with you?"

"It's in my room."

In her room. Indeed.

"Might I borrow it?" he asked.

"Definitely not," she said. "It's dreadfully wicked. You would be shocked. Horrified."

He grinned again at her charming innocence. "I think I can manage the upset."

Her lips pursed with shameless chagrin. "We are behaving very badly, my lord."

"Without question. And please, call me Devon," he said, knowing that to encourage the use of their given names was yet another clear indication of his intentions.

"And I hope you will call me Rebecca," she replied, indicating her intentions as well. She slowly blinked up at him, and the effect was pure seduction. "But how should I give the diary to you?" she asked. "I don't want anyone else to see it."

"I'll come to your room tonight and pick it up."

She raised an eyebrow. "I may lack experience, but I do know that that would be highly improper."

"And this wasn't?" he reminded her with a chuckle. "Trust me, darling, it will be our little secret. No one will know."

She glanced around the gallery, as if to make sure they were not being watched. "All right," she whispered. "But wait at least an hour after I retire."

"Whatever you say." He pressed his lips to hers again and willed his tremendous erection to diminish--at least for the time being. "I am going to want more of you," he said.

"And I, you," she replied, resting her hands on his forearms. "But I do hope you believe that I've never done anything like this before. I don't want you to have the wrong impression of me."

"I have the exact impression I wish to have," he assured her, as he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it, realizing all at once that he was not only attracted to her sexually, but quite enamored with her as well, which was not what he'd had in mind when he imagined choosing a bride in such a rush, for he was not a romantic. He was a realist, and he had certainly never imagined desiring a woman who would remember a simple rescue years earlier, and view him in an idealistic fashion. As if he were some kind of hero.

He had experienced such a thing before with disastrous consequences, and it had shaped him into the man he was today--a man who was exceedingly cautious with women and their emotions. A man who did not seek romantic, all-consuming love.

No, he had never wanted to be the sun, the moon, and stars to a wife, yet for some reason he could not seem to kick free of the wave that was carrying him into his future. It was all happening so fast, and after what just occurred, after the liberties he had taken with her and the things he had said and implied--and what might very well happen later tonight when he visited her room--this would all have to be decided upon and arranged quickly. There could be no turning back. No escape.

He had, for better or worse, closed the window on his options.

Chapter 9

The instant Rebecca entered the drawing room with Devon at her side, Lady Letitia fixed her scalding eyes on them both and pursed her lips.

Devon escorted Rebecca back to her aunt, who asked about the artwork they had viewed, but when he turned to go and mingle with the other guests, he nearly stepped on Lady Letitia's toes, for she had approached him from behind.

"Lord Hawthorne, I would be pleased to entertain your guests now. I have already selected a piece of music I think you will enjoy, and my mother has offered to accompany me on the piano."

She looked past Devon's shoulder to glance smugly at Rebecca.

"That would be splendid," he replied. "Please, take your places whenever you are ready."

She strode to the piano, and her mother joined her. The guests found places to sit, while Devon moved to the fireplace and leaned an elbow upon the mantel. Lady Letitia looked to him for a signal, and he nodded to begin.

She sang the timeless classic, "Home, Sweet Home," showing off an insistent vibrato in her voice and furrowing her brow with a dramatic outpouring of emotion.

Letitia curtsied deeply when she finished, and the applause began. "Thank you so much. You are so kind." She cupped her hands together in front of her and gestured toward Devon at the mantel, suggesting he deserved applause as well, for arranging her performance.

He shook his head at the generous show of appreciation and directed everyone's attention back to Lady Letitia, who thanked them all again.

Not long afterward, the young woman found Rebecca alone on the sofa. She sat on the edge of the cushion with her spine as stiff and straight as a hot iron poker. "Do you not have any talents to display?" she asked, eyeing Rebecca with scrutiny over the rim of her wine glass.

"How could anyone possibly follow your brilliant performance this evening, Lady Letitia?"

They sat in silence, looking around at everyone else, not at each other, until Lady Letitia spoke in a low voice. "In case you are wondering, I saw you go off with Lord Hawthorne earlier, and I fear I would be a very bad friend if I did not inform you that you are making quite a spectacle of yourself."

Rebecca's heart began to pound a little faster. "How so?"

"By being too pushy. I don't know how young ladies are brought up where you come from, Lady Rebecca, but here in polite society--which you obviously know very little about--behavior like that can get a lady into trouble."

Rebecca frowned. "I was not pushy. He invited me to view his family portraits, but I hardly need to explain myself to you."

Letitia wet her lips, and finally met Rebecca's gaze. "I really wish you would leave."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said I wish you would leave. You were not invited to this party, and you are getting in the way."

"In the way of what?"

Letitia lifted her chin and spoke in a low voice again. "Of my future."

Rebecca openly scoffed. "And the whole world revolves around your wishes and desires, does it?"