Starlight (33 page)

Rifling through her carpetbags, she found her best nightgown. It was the closest thing to a luxury she owned, having sewn the garment using cotton and thread purchased with her tiny savings. After completing the finishing touches, she’d fought the notion that it was too showy for a girl in a tenement. Only when in need of a special moment of luxury had she worn it to bed, just for herself. That it was three years old barely showed.

She had carefully washed and ironed it when Ma and the boys were out of the flat. Da had been sleeping. No matter her lingering resentment of Alex’s methods, she wanted to appear beautiful for him. She touched the snow-white lace she’d knitted herself. Little had she known then that she would wear it on her wedding night—or maybe she
had
known, harboring secret hopes.

After unwinding the plaits from her hair, she brushed until its auburn color shone, even in the modest candlelight. Almost reverently, she unfastened the ties of her mother’s wedding gown—now Polly’s wedding gown, too—and laid it across the
bed. She smoothed the fabric just so, knowing even as she did that nervousness was the root of her fussing. With her resolve in place, she took one last look at the gown that held such meaning, then removed her undergarments. The nightgown was a cool breath from heaven against her skin. She shivered, imagining Alex’s hands running along the smooth fabric before diving beneath.

But first he would see her in it. In his bedroom.

If Alex wanted a wife, he would get one. He would get the only one she knew how to be. That meant being strong enough to set her own terms. No docility when better, happier, more satisfying days glowed on the horizon—or, in this case, in the intimate darkness of passion’s greatest night.

Satisfied with the result of ministrations that only added more fire to her belly, she nodded to herself in the mirror. He wanted her. She wanted him. Nothing simpler.

She pulled her laundered tartan around her shoulders and crept out of the guest room on bare feet. She knew the location of his study, there at the end of the corridor. A faint sliver of light stretched out from beneath the closed door.

Having reached his bedroom, she assessed it with a keener eye than on their first foray into that intimate place. The space was nearly as stark as the rest of his home. A washstand occupied one corner, and a plain wooden chair sat in another. The dressing screen and wardrobe were as austere as possible. For such a wealthy man, he lived with incredible simplicity.

Yet, it was Alex. The scent of him. The resonance
of the air. She breathed deeply, and clasped her hands against her breastbone. This was where she needed to be. She would stake her claim as thoroughly as he had forced his demands on her.

The bed seemed his only concession toward high living. Bed curtains the color of summer leaves at twilight created a refuge for the large, plush mattress. A matching duvet and pillows sent a little dance up her spine. She would lie with him again, wrapped in that place of softness and warmth. That they were married only added to the excitement pooling low in her belly. They would awaken there, together as husband and wife, with no fear of consequences.

If only he would give her a sign. Something. Anything to nurture this unexpected new faith. Then she could imagine waking in his arms for the rest of their lives.

She sat on the bed, with her lips still curled into a smile.

Alex finished his whiskey. Not that it cleared his mind. The enormity of what he’d wrought would not let him be. He had never given thought to walking down the aisle again. He had mused, on occasion, that Edmund would benefit from the tenderness of a woman. But for himself? Not once.

Not before Polly.

Even the idea of taking her as his mistress hadn’t been enough to assuage the hunger to possess her.
All
of her. She would never know the touch of another man.

Only his—his hands, his mouth, his body joined with hers.

The excitement of those images was undeniable. He shoved up from the chair behind his desk and paced. He could’ve used his influence to negotiate or even threaten the police. Diminishing the rumors about her arrest would’ve meant the application of a few bribes. He had little money to spare, but he would’ve been able to do that much for her. His sense of duty was an unshakable thing.

He fought his arousal and his misgivings with the science he loved: star charts, his telescope, thoughts of the aurora that had faded with the coming of spring.

No, Polly had invaded even those calming places. He shoved the telescope and watched it swivel away.

Her freedom had not required marriage. His
need
for her had.

How else would he have claimed such a fiery, stubborn, incredible woman? She could not be bought. She could not be coerced. Even earnest seduction would’ve bounced off a shell honed of determined sacrifice, coupled with her insistence that their stations were unequal.

Fear and want had determined his actions, while he remained dizzy and weighed down at the same time. The man he’d become in Glasgow was as unfamiliar as life under the sea.

But he
was
that man, whatever that might come to mean.

Now, his wife awaited him.

He was stripping his ascot even as he strode down the corridor toward the guest bedroom . . . which was empty.

For an instant, his heart seized. She’d gone. She’d
resented his heavy-handed behavior so much as to simply flee. The shock nearly doubled him over.

As his vision cleared, he saw her wedding dress. It had been laid out with care, not flung aside in disgust. He stepped forth and touched the lace along the bodice. His eyes caught on Polly’s bags, which had been ransacked. A hairbrush rested on the tiny vanity.

Confused but resolute, he stalked with greater anticipation toward his bedroom. Of course she would be there. He should’ve expected no less from his indomitable girl.

His heart seized for a very different reason when he opened the door.

Polly slowly arose from his bed, bathed in the light of two tapers. Silken red hair draped in heavy curls around her shoulders. In his entire life, he had never encountered its color, its texture, its equal. That glorious, shimmering beauty had first caught his eye, but the graceful sweep of her features had entranced him ever since—the wide arch of her cheekbones, the laughter that shaped her guileless smile, and the dancing fire in eyes like enchanted pools.

And her body. Good God, he could barely look on its perfection. Pert nipples stood out in relief against a fine cotton nightdress. Her breasts were unbound, full, luscious. The barest hint of hair between her legs waited, dark and tempting, beneath the pale fabric.

Her smile turned teasing. “Took you long enough.”

His swallow was more like a gulp. “I was thinking.”

“About?”

“How to keep up with you tonight.”

“You tell pretty tales, Mr. Christie, but I can hear right through them.”

“Fair enough. Would you believe me if I said I regret having installed you in the guest room?”

She held out a hand. “Yes, and I expect an apology.”

He walked toward her as if his body had been forged of iron and drawn by a powerful magnet. The doubts he’d tussled with for hours fell away in a rush. Lust took its place. Lust—and a caring he could not deny.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Christie.”

Her eyes widened. The delicious softness of her lips parted. Their hands touched.

Entwined.

Flame shot through Alex’s body. She was in his arms before thought, with her warm curves pressing against his chest. She kissed him with as much passion as he’d come to expect from this amazing woman. He licked the seam of her lips, and she opened to welcome his tongue. Hers was hot and textured in that fine, exciting way, as if their plunging need could create a friction strong enough to sizzle and light.

He did not take. She did not acquiesce. Instead they matched one another, kiss for kiss, touch with ravenous touch.

Polly tugged at his clothing, which had become almost painfully constricting. He needed air. He needed room to move. Most of all, he needed her hands on his bare skin. Their fingers tangled as they stripped his coat, collar, shirt. She yanked open his
trousers, which made him laugh a giddy release of pent-up energy. He kicked off his shoes, shucked his trousers. Her gasp was more fuel for his raging fire.

“Oh, I remember that,” she said, taking his phallus in hand.

Alex groaned. He clasped his hands around hers. The pulse of his hips was involuntary but unbelievably
right.
An eternity had passed since they’d last touched—if a week could be an eternity. His mind bent the laws of physics, insisting that it was indeed possible.

He needed more, and more still. After releasing her maddening fingers, which continued to steadily stroke his hard prick, he grabbed at her delicate nightgown. Flesh and curves. Breast and stomach and waist. Those secret curls. His hands felt clumsy and rough against the finely spun cotton.

“It’s the best garment I own.” Her breath feathered over his collarbone just before she pecked tiny kisses across his pectorals. “Don’t rip it,” she said with a voice full of teasing.

Alex stilled, inhaled deeply. He removed her hands from his aching body and deliberately raised them overhead. “Hold still.”

After a rush of pure emotion at seeing her happy trust, he knelt. He still felt clumsy, but at least his hands had purpose. Undress her. But don’t hurt her beautiful cotton creation. He hadn’t expected her to wear something so lovely. It was simple and pure, whereas his Polly was cunning and devilish. That contrast was everything he’d come to need from her.

As Polly stood trembling, he traced his fingers up
her calves. The cotton pooled around his forearms and gathered as he caressed up, past her knees, past the sleek strength of her thighs. When he reached her backside, he kneaded and squeezed. Every touch became rougher, more demanding. He slid around to her stomach, which bared the apex of her legs. With two thumbs he parted her folds and licked inside. Her gasp sank low into a moan as he tasted, teased, drove her higher.

But even there, he didn’t linger. Her moan returned—this time with disappointment. “Patience,” he whispered against her damp flesh. “Wouldn’t want to be too hasty.”

“You’re going to get yours.”

He gave the silken skin below her belly button a single kiss. “Oh, yes.”

Up and up he trailed. The nightgown was almost entirely caught along his forearms. Still she waited with her hands overhead. Bared breasts offered another temptation he could not resist. He swirled each nipple with untamed aggression. Her body was a feast. A treasure. He could spend the rest of his days and nights learning every beautiful inch.

God, they were
wed
. They had a lifetime.

Blood beat in his ears and his erection was furious with want. A little shimmy and one last delicate tug freed her from the delicate cotton. Polly scampered onto the bed. For a brief, breathless moment, she was on all fours with her rounded arse his to admire. Admire? Hell,
drool
over.

She turned to sit against the pillows, then crooked a finger. “Come and get me.”

“That seems to be the theme of the evening.”

He stalked onto the bed. She backed a little tighter against the pillows. Perhaps she felt the animal hunger building inside him, threatening to burst free.

“You want me,” she whispered with a sly smile.

“I do.” She pointed her toes and gave a little wiggle, as if she, too, could not contain the pulses of want. He grabbed her calf and pulled her to the middle of the bed, completely flat. “Yet I had a misguided notion of taking this slowly,” he said. “I wanted a proper seduction on your wedding night, Mrs. Christie.”

“Removing my nightdress was slow enough. Give me your strength now, Alex. You want to.”

“Yes,” he growled.

“And
I
want you to.”

The animal claimed him just as he claimed his prize. Arms around her, legs entwined, he pressed his throbbing shaft against her belly.

She smiled. “Mm, that’s mine.”

“Yours.” He took a rosy nipple into his mouth again, and grazed his teeth against her sensitive flesh. Small, elegant hands tunneled deep in his hair and scraped down to his scalp. Her restlessness moved with his. Whether she opened her knees or he did was no concern.

“Prove it, Alex. Prove what’s mine.”

He positioned his swollen head against her opening, which was slick and hot. His mind was gone. He thrust home. Deeply. She took every inch, even grasping for more with taut fingers digging into his flanks. Alex levered over her and supported his
weight on his elbows. He bowed his head against her neck. Every thrust proved how much his muscles could give to her and take from her. Polly crossed her ankles at the base of his spine. The position drew them even closer, but she still managed to slip a hand between their bodies.

“Touch yourself,” he gasped. “Between your legs.”

“Oh,
yes
.”