My Favorite Countess (12 page)

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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

BOOK: My Favorite Countess
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“Did you have enough to eat?” His husky voice broke into her thoughts.
“You gave me enough to feed a small army. Apparently, Doctor, you think I have the appetite of a farm laborer.” She lifted an eyebrow. “I'm not quite sure what to think of that. Perhaps I should be offended.”
“Someone has to take care of you,” he said reasonably. “No one else is doing it.”
Her feeling of contentment withered away, replaced by a dull ache somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.
“I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you. I don't need anyone to do it for me.”
“But I think you do,” he replied in that same reasonable, aggravating tone.
She tried to pull her hand out from his arm, but he kept a steady grip on it.
“Come,” he said. “There's a little ruin just on the other side of the Hewick Bridge where you'll be able to sit and rest. You're obviously feeling agitated and out of sorts.”
“If I'm out of sorts, it's because of you,” she snapped.
He gave her that superior doctor's smile, but held his tongue. Silence fell between them. She was too annoyed to break it. Unfortunately, he didn't seem the least uncomfortable, while she could have sworn that ants had crawled underneath her stays.
After several minutes of deafening silence, her nerves shredded into pieces. If she hadn't been agitated before, she certainly was now. And blast him for being so cool and collected. What the devil did he intend by her, anyway?
“Why did you stay in Ripon?” she finally blurted out.
He gave her a hooded glance, his eyes watchful as he led her onto the stone bridge crossing the River Ure.
“Not here,” he said. “Wait till we get to the ruins. Then I'll tell you.”
She grumbled under her breath, his only response a smile that barely lifted the edges of his lips. Strangely, he now seemed as tense as her, the muscles of his arm as hard as iron under her fingers.
“Well, where are these famous ruins?” she demanded.
“There.” He pointed to a tumble of walls barely visible through a stand of oak trees, half hidden by creepers and a riot of tangled rosebushes.
Taking her hand, he towed her down an overgrown path to the back of an old chapel that had crumbled into picturesque decay. The roof had fallen in ages ago, and massive granite stones lay scattered on the ground. The sounds from the festival and the town had faded away, and she could hear only the flow of water from the river and the trilling of a songbird.
Blackmore led her to one particularly impressive stone in the shadow of the tumble-down church walls. He let go her hand, grabbed her waist, and plopped her gently down on the stone, which was covered in a dense and springy moss. She squeaked in surprise, reaching for his shoulders to keep her balance. He moved closer, slowly pushing her knees apart to stand between them. She sat high on her rustic seat, their faces on the same level.
“I . . . I don't want to sit,” she protested. She hated feeling this vulnerable.
“You need to rest,” he said, stroking his long fingers down the side of her neck. She fought back a tremor, furious with her lack of self-control. An hour ago, she had wanted this . . . wanted him. She still wanted him, but not all the complications that would come with it.
Scowling, she crossed her arms across her breasts.
“Well, we're alone now. Nobody can overhear us, so answer my question. Why did you decide to stay?”
The smoldering fire in his eyes sucked the air right out of her lungs. His fingers slid up her throat to capture her face in a tender but unbreakable grip. Moving in, he took her mouth in a hard kiss—raw, punishing, and glorious. She whimpered under the onslaught and he pulled back, still holding her face between his big hands.
“This, Bathsheba,” he growled. “I stayed for this.”
Chapter 8
Bathsheba stared at him—flushed, beautiful, and seemingly as stunned by his kisses as any untried maiden. Her eyes were round and dazed, and the moist fullness of her parted lips made the heat burn through John's veins and race down to his groin. His body grew hard and hungry, and the need to taste her again drove him back to her mouth.
He pulled her into his arms and her lush breasts strained against his torso. She gasped, a sweet inhalation of air that opened her mouth to his plundering kiss. He devoured it, exploring her damp softness, stroking in and out before gently sucking her tongue between his lips. She surrendered, wrapping her arms around his neck with a voluptuous sigh.
John slid one hand between their bodies to capture her breast. Beneath the fabric of her muslin gown and her stays, her nipple peaked into a hard bud. He rubbed, tempted beyond reason by the pearled tip of flesh obscured beneath the layers of her clothing. She whimpered and pushed against his fingers, and her eagerness seared his self-restraint. He had to slow down before he ripped the clothes from her body and fell on her like a primitive brute.
With a last nuzzle of her lips, John eased her firmly back on her seat. Her eyes had been closed but now they sprang open, looking as soft and green as the moss that dappled the rock underneath her bottom. She blinked several times, as if trying to bring her gaze into focus.
“What's wrong?” she whispered. Her voice held a wrenching note of uncertainty.
He stroked the smooth velvet of her cheek. “I want you too much, my sweet. If I don't restrain myself, you'll be flat on your back in thirty seconds with my rod deep inside you. I think we both want more than that.”
“Oh,” she said, her big eyes growing even bigger.
Bathsheba looked shocked—even nervous. In fact, if he didn't already know who and what she was, John could have sworn his arrogant little aristocrat had just been released from the schoolroom to begin her first Season. That's how young and innocent she seemed, perched on that rock with her kiss-stained mouth and huge eyes conveying an unexpected vulnerability.
Time slowed, and John could do nothing but drink in the glorious sight of her. She had surprised him again. Instead of a sophisticated and sexually experienced widow, his sensual onslaught had revealed a lovely girl not quite sure of her own feminine powers. Part of him wanted to laugh with the delight of that discovery, but his chest—no, his heart—ached to see her so defenseless, so in need of his protection. He had meant what he said back on the bridge. She needed someone to take care of her.
That someone was going to be him.
The unexpected realization clawed him in the gut.
Take care of her?
What the hell was he thinking? They might travel in the same circles, but their worlds could not be more different.
“Dr. Blackmore?”
Now she sounded more annoyed than anxious. He kissed her again, slow and deep, to keep her from asking any questions, and to give him time to think.
He played with her mouth for a few minutes, their kisses moist and hot. Her mouth was silky . . . sweet as hell and as addictive as opium.
Their tongues danced in a tangle of heat. Her small fingers clutched the lapels of his coat, and she wriggled to the edge of the stone to nestle against him. Without a thought, he lashed his arms around her, holding her close. As if she already belonged to him.
God, what a fool I am.
He had allowed his heart to become involved—he could feel it. As surely as he could name every organ in her lush body, his emotions were entangled, despite all his vows to keep them firmly detached. The only entanglement he sought was that of arms and legs as they enjoyed each other. Anything else was unacceptable, would surely lead to disaster. His heart was for pumping blood, and nothing more. He couldn't afford to fall in love, especially with a woman like Bathsheba Compton.
She yanked hard on his ear.
“Ouch!” He jerked back and stared at her. “What was that for?”
She looked decidedly put-out and totally adorable. “You weren't paying attention, Doctor. If I'm boring you, perhaps you would be so kind as to help me off this rock and escort me back to town.”
He smiled. “I think not, my lady. We're just getting started.” He dropped his voice to a husky note. “And I think it's time you called me by my given name—John.”
She swallowed hard, looking shy again. But then something shifted in her gaze. That bruised, vulnerable look faded away, and his wicked countess—sultry and knowing—stared back at him.
He laughed softly. “There you are.”
She tilted her head and everything changed again. Her eyes grew soft as something elusive and shadowed chased the wickedness away. He looked deep into her secret gaze and knew he was lost. There was no going back, and no possibility that his heart could remain untouched. Desire swamped him, driven by a need to possess—a need he could no longer deny.
“John.” Her voice, soft as swan's down, drifted over his senses. She reached up and knocked his hat from his head, sending it toppling to the ground. Her fingers busied themselves in his cravat. He allowed it, using those few seconds to throttle his hunger back under a precarious control.
The cravat followed the hat to the ground, but when she started on the buttons of his waistcoat, he stopped her.
“Enough—for now,” he said, taking one of her small gloved hands in his. She lifted an eyebrow, but didn't object.
He unbuttoned the glove and slowly removed it. Bringing her hand to his lips, he slowly licked the tip of each finger before tasting the plump swell of her palm and the fragile turn of her wrist.
She shuddered. With great care, he repeated the action on her other hand. Her breathing grew unsteady, the fullness of her breasts rising and falling in a luscious, quivering rhythm. Lust dug in its spurs, urging him to spread her thighs and taste the hidden cove of her body. But he held back. This was the first, precious time he would have her. He would not rush it—for both their sakes.
After tossing her gloves on the rock, he untied the ribbons of her ridiculously high-crowned bonnet. She sighed in relief as he removed it. A sheen of perspiration misted along her hairline and down the edge of her cheek. He leaned over and licked her temple, savoring the salty taste of her perfect skin. She reached for him, but he stepped away before she could touch him.
“Now what?” she moaned. “Why must you take so long?”
“You're a mystery to me, Bathsheba,” he replied, dropping to one knee to remove her kid half-boots. “I'm a man of science, and scientists like to peel away the mystery. One layer at a time.”
She crossed her arms under her breasts, pushing them up to swell over the lace trim of her bodice.
Soon
, he promised the prowling beast within. Soon he would lick and suck those luscious mounds to his heart's content.
“You make me sound like an onion,” she grumbled.
He chuckled hoarsely. “A sweet onion, with a bite to it.”
He slid his hand under her skirt, letting it drift up a slender calf to the firm swell of her thigh. His fingers brushed against the curls between her legs, barely touching the plump flesh hidden by the soft thatch. She bit her lip, showing her little white teeth. A shaft of heat bolted through him, and his cock grew harder against his buckskins.
He stood and reached behind her. His fingers shook for a moment, then steadied as he went to work on the buttons at the back of her gown. He tried to ease the full, heavily trimmed sleeves of the dress from her arms, but they were buttoned tightly at the wrist.
“Christ,” he muttered, as he struggled with the tiny buttons. “No wonder you always feel faint. Why must you wear something this heavy on a warm day like today?”
She tried to help him but he brushed her hands away.
“I don't always feel faint. And you can't expect me to go around dressed like a peasant girl,” she said, letting him have his way.
He moved to the other sleeve. “I think you'd make a damn fetching peasant girl. And at least you'd be dressed more appropriately for the heat. Of course, your neckline is certainly cut low enough to give you some relief.”
It was, too, and he leaned over to kiss the tender white flesh that strained over the top of her bodice. The skin there tasted a bit salty, too, and of warm, sultry woman. He pushed his tongue under the lace to find the fragile edge of rosycolored flesh surrounding her nipple. She moaned, and her hands fluttered up to rest on his shoulders.
He straightened and gave her a lascivious grin, one that brought a little pant to her lips. She looked like a pagan goddess, flushed and half wild, with her dress sagging to reveal the creamy glow of her shoulders and breasts.
“I'm feeling rather hot myself,” he said. He stripped off his coat, but didn't drop it to the ground.
“Here.” He slid one arm under her bottom and lifted, then slipped the coat underneath her. “I don't want you to get dirty.”
“Of course not,” she said in a breathy voice. “That would never do.”
He nodded, satisfied that his coat and the thick layer of moss would shield her body from the hard stone. With impatient fingers, he unbuttoned his waistcoat and dropped it on the ground beside his hat. He unlaced the strings of his shirt, but didn't bother to remove it.
She watched him all the while, her eyes glittering with unfettered desire under half-closed lids.
“Let's get rid of that dress,” he murmured.
He eased down the sleeves, and helped her as she wriggled it down past her waist and hips. Next, he quickly unlaced and removed her stays. She perched demurely on the stone seat, clad only in her linen chemise and stockings, somehow managing to look every inch the countess and yet also appear on the verge of sexual abandon.
He stood back to enjoy the picture. A few rays of sunlight penetrated the thick cover of the oaks, catching the red fire in her hair and heating her ivory complexion to a golden sheen. She looked like an outrageously expensive and polished confection in this rustic setting, and he couldn't wait to devour every bit of her.
“Let's get that off you,” he said, reaching for the chemise.
“Let me.” She took the hem and with a teasing slowness pulled it up, revealing one creamy inch of flesh at a time. Over her soft rounded thighs, past the silky nest of dusky red curls—already glistening with moisture—over the curve of her belly, and finally to her breasts.
He clenched his teeth as the linen drifted over the round globes, catching on her nipples. Then the chemise was off, tossed to the side, and he could see her breasts. They were perfect—full and white, with rosy areolas surrounding the erect pink nipples. He salivated just at the sight of them—at all of her—and couldn't wait a second longer.
She smiled at him, wanton and wicked, and shifted on his coat, parting her legs just a bit. It was pink down there, too. He could see the soft, feminine flesh peeking out from behind the pretty tangle of curls.
“What's next, my dear doctor?” she purred.
He dropped to his knees in front of her and pushed her legs wide.
“This,” he said, and buried his mouth in her liquid heat.
Bathsheba let out a strangled cry as John parted her thighs, his mouth fastening with a luscious suck on the cleft between her legs. Sensation bolted through her—electric and hot—and her bottom jerked up of its own accord as she strained against him.
It was too much. Too fast. She was too exposed. His broad shoulders pushed her legs wide, opening every part of her to his ministrations. For God's sake. He could see
everything.
She tried to wriggle back, torn between the thrill of his tongue and the embarrassment of her undignified position. Since she began to take lovers after Reggie's death, she had always made sure to control the circumstances of her lovemaking—the time and place and, most particularly, how she looked. And she always made sure she looked perfect. Her lovers expected nothing less.
Now, she was splayed on a rock like some bizarre pagan sacrifice. She was hot and sweaty, and her thighs looked enormous mashed up against John's shoulders.
The flat of his tongue dragged across the already quivering peak of her sex, and she felt a mortifying amount of slick moisture dampen her curls. He licked her, thrusting his tongue into her cleft, murmuring with evident satisfaction as he tasted her body's release.
“John, stop,” she gasped, trying to wriggle away.
His big hands wrapped even tighter around her thighs, holding her in place. He lifted his head, stared at her with a hot, smoky gaze, then slowly licked his lips.
She almost fainted.
“Don't you like it?” His voice was a deep rumble.
“I . . . I . . .” She did, but that hardly seemed the point. And she couldn't really explain that she wanted him to stop because she was sweaty and her thighs looked fat.

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