Kasey Michaels (39 page)

A man’s body was quite an interesting construction of nature. Hard where hers was soft. Flat where hers was rounded. There were ropes of muscle across the shoulders, running down the arms, repeated in the long, straight legs. A soft, tickling brush of hair on the firm but yet still welcoming expanse of chest Sophie had claimed as her own personal pillow.

Bramwell’s heart beat so slowly, almost leisurely in his sleep. But she had heard it race, gallop along at a furious pace. She had pressed kisses against his pulse points, smiling against his skin as she’d known that she had a lot to do with his rapid heartbeat, his shallow breathing, the sheen of perspiration that had made his skin slick, almost feverish beneath her boldly investigating hands.

Sophie snuggled more closely against this man she loved, her body deliciously aware even as she could not ignore the slight soreness between her thighs. Even that
petite
pain was pleasurable.

She shouldn’t disturb him, although the rising sun had replaced the moon, and the house around them was coming awake. Desiree would keep the household at bay—the maid who would want to clear the grate, the footman who daily brought her hot water for her bath....

Her bath? Sophie Smiled. She’d like to bathe with Bramwell. Yes, that would be lovely. But not here, not in some small tub. In the countryside. A small, rippling stream, with the sun filtering down on them through a canopy of trees. Birdsong all around them. The scent of wildflowers coming to them on the breeze as, with their bodies cooled by the water, heated with desire, he could place her on the grassy bank and...

“Bram?” she whispered, threading her fingers into the curls on his chest.

He sighed in his sleep, pulling her more closely against him, his eyes still closed.

“Oh... Bram-
ammm
...” she repeated, turning slightly so that she could run her tongue over his nipple, feel it harden, come to attention. She slid her hand down over his flat stomach, then lower, to run her fingertips teasingly across the top, of his thighs. She felt the ripple as his muscles tensed in response.

“You want to kill me, don’t you?” he asked, still not opening his eyes.

Sophie giggled, then levered herself upward so that she could all but fling herself on top of him, sliding her hands around his upper back as she showered his face with a dozen light kisses. “I love you, I love you, I love you!” she exclaimed happily—then blew into his ear, nipped his earlobe, slid her tongue down the side of his throat, to the pulse point that now pounded there with all the fury of a galloping stallion.

“You were right last night, Sophie. You’re shameless!” he told her, levering her over onto her back, tickling her mercilessly, until she dissolved in helpless giggles.

“I am, I am. I admit it. I’m utterly shameless,” she told him, wriggling to get away from his hands. “I’ll admit to anything, if you just stop that. I
hate
being tickled!”

His hands stilled at either side of her waist, still touching her sensitive skin, as if to warn that he could begin tickling her again at any moment. “Ah,” he said, grinning down at her, his eyes burning with mischief. “So now we have it. Sophie Winstead is shameless. She’s also a flirt and a tease, yes?”

Sophie hesitated for only a moment, but it was long enough for Bramwell to flick a single finger against her skin, starting off another ripple of sensitivity. “Yes, I confess. I’m a shameless flirt and a most dreadful tease.”

“And not necessarily always honest,” he pressed on, looking entirely adorable as his hair tumbled onto his forehead. She reached up to run her fingers over the darkened stubble on his chin. Part man, part boy, completely adorable.

“I was honest enough to warn you not to believe yourself to be in love with me,” she pointed out, then frowned. “Thank heavens you had the good sense not to listen to me.”

“I couldn’t listen to you, Sophie. I was much too occupied with falling in love with you, and hating you because I couldn’t help making a fool of myself.”

“Poor darling,” Sophie said commiseratingly, stroking his beard-roughened cheek. “And do you still feel so foolish?”

His smile was positively evil. “I suppose I’ll become accustomed to the feeling, eventually,” he said, then kissed her. “And you’ll become accustomed to the notion that I’ll still love you most foolishly fifty years after I’m dead? You’ll believe that?”

Sophie’s bottom lip began to tremble. Not because she knew a beautiful woman’s tears had the power to dazzle, but because she loved this man so much that her heart ached with that love. “What a pair of fools we are, Bram,” she said, then took a deep breath, steadying herself. “No. That’s not true! The only fools are those who refuse to believe in love, yes? I feel so sorry for them, knowing they must be so unhappy. I do so hate to see anyone sad.”

Bramwell rolled his eyes comically, then twisted himself over onto his back, so that Sophie was lying on him from chest to knee. “You’re going to try to make everyone else happy, aren’t you? Everyone in the whole, sad world. Don’t bother to deny it Sophie, because I think I can see through your inventive twists and diversions now. In this short time, you’ve made Aunt Gwen happy, Wally, Sad Samuel, Isadora, me. Who else? Come on, Sophie, tell me the truth.”

“The truth? About what?” Sophie was enjoying this game. “But, darling, I’m nearly always truthful. I’ve certainly always been truthful with you. And—and honest. Truly!”

“Really,” he said, his lips twitching as he did his best to look stern—which was probably quite a difficult feat, seeing as how she had begun to move her lower body against his, and could feel how quickly his attention was turning from thoughts of confession to those of seduction. “And I suppose you consider forging my late father’s name to some official-looking document meant to have me take you under my roof and help you to have a Season to be
honest
?”

She sat up abruptly, still spanning his body, and he winced in his unexpected discomfort. “You
know
about that?” she asked, truly shocked. “You
know
, and yet you still love me?”

“Yes, I know. I knew. And I still love you. I’ve told you so, haven’t I? I love you even more because you’re not quite as perfect as I’d believed—although I’ll admit you’re as close to perfect as I could have dreamed. But, Sophie? I’d love you even more, if you’d move your left leg just slightly to the left—ah, that’s better. I mean, you do want us to have children someday, don’t you?”

Sophie shifted her weight on him, feeling herself begin to blush as he raised up his hands and cupped her perfect breasts in his palms. She slapped his hands away. “Don’t distract me!” she ordered, looking down at him intently. “When did you know that Desiree had made that silly letter up out of whole cloth?”

“When were you going to tell me that she did?” he asked in return.

Her smile began slowly, grew wide. “When we were both very, very old? When you were positively ancient, and perhaps as deaf as Mrs. Farraday, and I could whisper it so that you couldn’t hear? Never? After all, I’m going to be a duchess now, and very proper and circumspect. The past, at least bits of it, should rest in the past. A woman, even a duchess, should have
some
secrets, yes?”

“Then you really weren’t ever going to tell me?”

Sophie took in a long breath, let it out slowly. “To be honest, Bram? No, I wasn’t going to tell you. At first, because I was afraid, and now because it simply doesn’t matter, does it? There was no reason to make you unhappy.”

He pushed himself up on his elbows and motioned for her to move away from him. “Find a dressing gown, Sophie—one I can’t see through, please—and put it on,” he said as he sat up. “We need to talk, and I think we’d better both have clothes on while we’re about it. All right?”

She did as he asked, locating a more modest dressing gown in the cupboard, and slipped her arms into the sleeves. She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing the riot of curls out of her face, and looked at Bramwell as he stepped into his trousers, buttoned them.

“Would you like a glass of water?” she asked, starting toward the pitcher on the dressing table. “It’s warm, from last night, but—”

“Sophie—
sit
!” Bramwell commanded, coming around the bed, taking hold of her shoulders. He steered her backward until the backs of her knees came into contact with the chaise longue, at which point he pushed her down, then sat beside her, taking her hands in his. “Sophie, listen to me. I don’t want a drink of water. I don’t want a glass of wine, or for you to fetch me a footstool, or try to anticipate my every need. I don’t want you to light my cheroot—unless you really want to. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t truly, honestly, sincerely want to do. Not to please me. Do you understand that?”

“But,
Maman
always said—”

“I
know
what
Maman
always said,” he interrupted. “God knows I’ve already
read
enough of what your
maman
thought was the way to interest, please, and hold a man—that was what she was writing about, Sophie. You do know that, don’t you? How to flirt, how to tease, how to ingratiate yourself, how to
dazzle
?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“No interruptions right now, Sophie, please. I love you. We’ve established that, I think.”

She nodded, beginning to understand what he was trying to say, and loving him all the more for how difficult he was finding his explanation.

“All right. Trying to make me happy, make the world happy, falls into the same harebrained category. You are
not
responsible for the world’s happiness. Yes, you might like to see those around you happy. That’s commendable, truly. But it’s not your
responsibility
. And if you think that telling me about the letter Desiree concocted, or that you bought a dozen bonnets when one would have done as well, or that you think my new jacket is a truly putrid shade of green or anything at all unpleasant is something to be avoided, then you’d be wrong. I want to marry you, Sophie, have you with me always and forever. Not to
cushion
my life, but to fill it, complete it. I won’t go away if you don’t please me every moment of every day. Your mother might have thought that, about the uncles, but it isn’t true. They left because they’d never intended to stay.”

“But you’re staying?”

“Try to get rid of me, Sophie,” he said, drawing her against his shoulder. “I promise you, you won’t succeed.”

She pushed back her head, looking up into his face. “Even if I still get angry sometimes, and shrewish, and
throw
things? You still wouldn’t leave me?”

“Only if your aim improves, darling.”

“Oh. My aim is terrible when I’m angry, I know,” she said, grimacing. “I can barely hit a wall with a book. It’s a failing, yes?”

“Idiot that I am, Sophie, I find it to be a fairly adorable failing,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose.

She snuggled against his shoulder. “All right, Bram,” she said, yawning into her hand. “I think I understand now. In fact, I know I do. I will please you when I want to, and won’t when I don’t, yes? I will be honest, even when being honest couldn’t possibly make you happy, and I will not be—
am
not—responsible for making the whole world happy. Now, if that’s all settled—are you hungry, darling?”

“Well, yes, thank you. As a matter of fact I am,” he answered, kissing the top of her head before she slid out of his arms and stood up, looking down at him.

He’d begun to believe he knew everything about her. But it seemed that he’d missed the flash of mischief in her eyes just now, just before she turned away from him.

“Well, then, Your Grace,” she said, skipping over to bounce herself up and onto the bed, “why don’t you just pick yourself up, take yourself over to the bell pull, and summon someone to bring your breakfast? Lord knows you must remember how.”

“Minx!” he charged, his voice full of laughter as he leapt to his feet and followed her to the bed. “Never listen to me again, Sophie—promise me,” he said, turning her onto her back as his hand found its way inside the opening of her dressing gown. “Now, come here, woman, and
dazzle
me.”

Upon hearing her beloved Sophie’s delighted giggles, Desiree, who had been standing guard just outside the bedchamber for the past hour, shook her head and gently shooed away a young maid heading down the hallway toward the room. “You’re too young for this,
petite
,” she warned kindly, then closed her eyes and smiled.

My dear, my dear, you never know when

any beautiful young lady may not

blossom into a Duchess!

– Maria, Marchioness of Ailesbury

Chapter Fifteen

B
ramwell walked into the drawing room and planted a kiss on his aunt’s cheek on his way to the drinks table, offering to pour her a glass of wine.

“I don’t really imbibe this early in the day—is that the correct word, dear? Imbibe? But I will say that you look rather happy. No, more than happy. You’re positively glowing.”

Bram frowned. “Well, that’s not good, is it?” he asked, winking at Lady Gwendolyn. “I think I should be looking guilty, and quite sad.”