The Marriage Wager (18 page)

She thought of Dominic behind her and wondered if he had in fact turned away or if he were watching her undress. The heat that blossomed in her loins at the thought of him watching her made her wonder which she would actually prefer. She slid the jacketlike bodice off, then stopped. Unable to resist, she peeked over her shoulder.

She should not have looked, she thought. It was quite wrong, for Dominic was behaving just as a gentleman should, his back resolutely toward her. He had pulled off his boots, then taken off his shirt. His back was bare, his wide shoulders tapering down to the long slender line of his waist. She watched the muscles ripple across his back as he hooked his hands in the sides of his breeches and pulled them down his legs. It was not an easy task—they were thoroughly wet, and he had to peel them from his skin.

Constance knew she had been wrong. Seeing him naked was worse, much worse, than seeing him in his soaked clothes. She could not take her eyes away from the smooth taut curve of his buttocks as they flowed down into the firm muscles of his thighs. His legs were long, and his muscles, though hard, were lean. She had never seen a man naked; she would have blushed even to have thought of what a man looked like without clothes. But she knew that she would not have expected him to look so compelling. She would not have thought his naked form could have drawn her eyes this way, could have made her loins melt or turned her mouth dry as dust.

She must have made some small noise, because just then he turned his head, glancing over his shoulder, and his eyes met hers.

Constance knew that she should whirl back around and face the fire. She should be humiliated at being caught watching him. She should wait until he looked away again, and then she should shrug off her bodice and wrap the blanket around herself.

Instead, she found herself turning to face him. Slowly, deliberately, her eyes on his face, she pulled her bodice the rest of the way off her arms and let it fall to the floor. She stood in front of him clad only in her chemise and petticoat.

He pivoted slowly to face her. His face was sharp and drawn, the skin stretched tautly across his bones. He watched her, his eyes dark, his hands curling into fists against his legs.

Her eyes took him in slowly. He was hard and powerful and masculine. She could see the lines of his ribs, the curve of muscle beneath the smooth skin of his arms and chest, the flat plain of his stomach. Blond, curling hairs lightly furred his legs and arms and formed a narrow V on his chest, running in a line down from his navel to explode in a glinting riot of curls around his burgeoning manhood. It was the sight of that smooth-skinned shaft, lengthening and swelling, that drew her eyes downward. She had had no idea what to expect, had never dreamed that the sight of his awakened desire would stir her own need so much.

Constance’s breath came shallow and fast. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She was scared and excited and a hundred other pounding emotions. Anyone would have told her, she knew, that she should not be doing this. She should stop. She should pull her clothes back on and run from this house.

But she had no intention of doing that. She was, perhaps, acting impulsively, but she was not thoughtless. This was what she wanted. Dominic was
whom
she wanted. She knew that he would not, could not, marry her. She knew that others would label what she was about to do a mistake. But she did not care.

She wanted Dominic. She wanted this moment. Whatever else happened in her life, she wanted to make love with him. She wanted to open herself to him, to let him take her in his arms and teach her everything that could be between a man and a woman. The rest of her life might stretch out in bleak emptiness, but she would, for this moment, know passion. She would, for this moment, lose herself in Dominic’s arms.

Constance pulled the end of the blue bow at the neckline of her chemise, and the bow fell apart. Slowly, one by one, she unfastened each tie until the two sides were separated all the way up and down, exposing a narrow ribbon of skin down the center of her chest. She reached up to grasp the sides.

“Constance…” Dominic grated out. “No. You should not.”

“I want to.”

He swallowed, gazing at her for a long moment, and when her name came again on his lips, there was no warning in it, only a low sigh of hunger. “Constance…”

He started toward her with the slow, smooth stride of an animal on the hunt. Watching him, she pulled her chemise off and dropped it to the floor. He drew nearer, and she untied the side of her white muslin petticoat and let it slide down to the floor. He stopped only inches from her. She moved to the tie of her pantalets, but Dominic reached out and touched her hands, stopping her.

A faint smile playing at his lips, he took the narrow bands in his fingers and undid them. He laid his hands flat against her sides, fingers splayed out over her skin, and slid them down, his hands moving under the cloth of her pantalets and shoving the cloth downward. His palms glided down her flesh, searing her with their heat and exposing her skin inch by inch.

Constance sucked in her breath at the feel of his skin upon hers. His fingertips and palms, roughened by years of riding, were light on her soft skin, awakening the sensitive flesh to a tingling awareness. Her skin tightened all over, and an ache bloomed between her legs, low and pulsing.

Dominic’s eyes fell to her breasts, where her nipples had hardened in response to his touch. His smile deepened with masculine satisfaction, and he pushed her undergarment the rest of the way down, letting it pool around her feet. He stood still for a moment, his hands resting on her hips, his eyes exploring her body.

Then his gaze came back up and caught hers. He continued to hold her attention, his eyes hot and intense, as his hands moved up her sides, slow and soft, coaxing every tiny bit of sensation from her flesh. He caressed her breasts, fingers and thumbs teasing at the tight buds of her nipples and sliding across the pillowy softness of her breasts. His hands roamed her back, sliding down and curving over her hips, squeezing and separating her buttocks before gliding onto the tops of her thighs.

His shaft prodded gently against her abdomen. Constance caught her lower lip in her teeth, amazed at each new pleasure his fingers brought. Then, startling her even more, he slipped one hand between her legs. She gasped even as she unconsciously widened her stance, opening herself to him. His fingers teased at her tender flesh, gently stroking and separating the sensitive folds.

Constance brought her hands up to his arms, her fingers digging into his skin at the new, intense pleasure that was coursing through her. She swallowed, surprise in her eyes as she gazed up at him. He continued to look into her eyes as his fingers worked their magic on her flesh, taking in the subtle changes in her as each new sensation blossomed within her.

She had never felt anything like the feeling that he was evoking in her, had never dreamed that such heat or such intense pleasure could consume her this way. He had not even kissed her yet, and she was trembling with an almost overwhelming need, a delight so intense that she thought she might shatter under its pressure.

And then she did shatter, a small cry escaping her lips as passion rocked her. It burst at the center of her being, washing out in waves. She moved against him, her body so taut she shook all over.

She melted. There was no other word for it, she thought. She simply melted inside and out, her body sagging, knees giving way, so that she was kept upright only by the arm Dominic looped around her waist. She leaned her head against his chest, her arms going around him. His heart hammered; his skin was hot and moist beneath hers; she could hear the harsh rasp of his breath.

“Dominic…” She lifted wondering eyes to him. “That was…more than I…It was wonderful. But what about—I mean, you…” She stumbled to a halt, blushing.

He grinned down at her, his eyes gleaming as he picked up the blanket from the chair and shook it out, settling it onto the floor. “Don’t worry, darling,” he said, picking her up and lowering her to the blanket, then lying down beside her. “We are only getting started.”

And, at last, he leaned in and kissed her.

H
E KISSED HER AS IF HE
had all the time in the world, his mouth soft and slow, seeking out every pleasure. There was no hint of haste, no hurry to satisfy his own need, only a quiet, lingering exploration. Constance, stunned and replete, returned his kisses with a languid pleasure, content, she felt, to lie here with him forever doing nothing more.

She slid her hands lazily up his arms, enjoying the feel of his skin beneath her palms, tracing the curve of muscle that lay beneath the skin. The tension that did not show in his kisses lay in his body, she realized. His forearms, supporting him, were as taut as stretched wire, and his skin, where she touched it, quivered. And she knew that desire raged in him, that his slow, tender lovemaking was the result of his iron control.

It pleased her to realize the intensity of his passion, to know that he wanted her so much. She stroked her hand down the center of his chest, and the shudder that shook him in response awakened a new heat in her.

She would not have thought that she could be aroused again so soon after the cataclysm she had already experienced, and the fire that licked down through her startled her. She must have made some movement in her surprise, for Dominic raised his head and looked down at her.

His eyes were heavy with desire, his lips dark and swollen from their kisses. He saw the surprise in her eyes, and he smiled in a way that made the warm ache between her legs grow.

“Did you think that was all you would have?” he murmured, and when Constance nodded, he bent and pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “There’s more.” He kissed the opposite corner. “Much more.” He trailed the tip of his tongue along the line between her lips. “I promise you.”

He kissed her cheeks, her chin, her brows, the petal-soft lids of her eyes, then settled at last on the lobe of her ear, kissing, then tonguing it, then taking it gently between his teeth and worrying it. Bright shivers of sensation darted through her, gathering hotly deep in her abdomen. Constance moved restlessly beneath him, unable to keep still under his teasing ministrations. The rough wool of the blanket was scratchy under her back, and its roughness seemed to accentuate even more the pleasure of the sensations his mouth aroused in her.

Constance let out a shuddering breath and skimmed her hands down his side and up his back. She found the textures of him exciting—the smoothness of skin and the firm muscle beneath, the hard lines of his rib cage, the bony points of his shoulders and collarbone, the wiry curl of the hairs upon his chest.

His tongue stole into her ear, and she jerked, desire slamming down into her loins and spreading out. Her breath rasped in her throat. He rolled on top of her, his legs between hers, spreading hers apart. He took much of his weight on his forearms, but his flesh was pressed against the length of her torso, and she could feel him against that most tender, intimate part of her, hard and heavy, pulsing.

He kissed his way down her neck, nibbling on the tight cord, pressing a kiss as soft as butterfly wings on the hollow of her throat. He curved his hand around her breast as his lips trailed over her chest and touched upon the gentle swell of the rounded orb. He kissed the soft flesh, moving with infinite patience over the arc of her breast, coming at last to the pebbled flesh of her nipple. His tongue traced the outer rim of the areola, slowly circling again and again, moving fractionally closer, until at last he touched the hardened tip at the center. He stroked it, teasing it so that it lengthened and hardened.

Constance wanted him to take the fleshy nub into his mouth; she remembered the pull of him, hot and wet, around it, each tug of his mouth tweaking a cord that ran straight down through her into her abdomen. With each little lick of his tongue, she wanted his mouth more. She yearned for it, ached for it, unconsciously digging in her heels and rising up.

She raked her nails lightly down his back and dug her fingers into the flesh of his buttocks. He let out a groan, giving in at last and taking her nipple into his mouth. He suckled as she kneaded his flesh. Her breath was almost sobbing in her throat, and the heat was building in her loins again, so pleasurable, so intense that it was almost a pain.

Constance whispered his name, turning her head to press her lips to his arm, propped beside her on the blanket. She kissed him, nipping at his skin as the pleasure turned ever more intense.

When she thought that she could bear it no more, that she would explode from the build-up of pleasure, he released her nipple. He hung his head for a moment, his breath harsh, his muscles clenched. After a moment he pressed a kiss between her breasts and then fastened his mouth around her other nipple.

Constance groaned, arching up against him. Desire throbbed between her legs, turning her wet and aching. His hand came down, slipping into the slick folds. She had thought that her yearning could grow no more intense, but now it did, burgeoning under the matched strokes of mouth and finger. She moved her hips against him and heard the ragged groan from his throat that signaled his last tenuous grasp on his control.

He moved, lowering himself, moving her legs farther apart. She felt the probing tip of him against her center, the pressure, the fullness. Constance moaned, parting her legs farther and lifting up to take him in. There was a startling flash of pain, and she let out a stifled cry. He paused, his body rigid and trembling with the effort. But she did not care about the pain, could not bear the waiting, and she stroked her hands down his sides and onto his hips, urging him on.

Dominic thrust inside her, and she gasped, amazed and delighted. He filled her, stretching her to her limits, and it was wonderful, as if some emptiness inside her had at last been filled. Yet at the same time, she wanted more. She wanted to take him deeper inside her, to possess him and be possessed by him.

He began to move within her, and this, she realized, was exactly what she wanted. He pulled back slowly, and she almost protested at his leaving her, but he did not; instead he thrust back into her, harder and deeper. She let out a little hiccup of sound, part moan, part laughter, at the sheer pleasure of his movements. He stroked within her, moving in a steady rhythm, growing harder, faster….

And she moved with him, matching her movements to his, feeling the pleasure build and build within her, a huge hot ball of pleasure, with each stroke turning tighter and more intense. She dug her fingers into the blanket beneath her, gripping the cloth as though to keep from flying away.

This time the feeling ratcheting up in her was familiar, and knowing how the passion would burst inside her only made her want it more. Except that now the building pleasure was even stronger, even wilder, filled as she was with him, joined to him in this long, driving dance of hunger.

Then, at last, it came…the pleasure ripping through her, white-hot at the center and exploding outward to every inch of her body. She cried out, arching against him as he thrust deeply into her, his own hoarse cry joining hers.

Constance wrapped her arms around him, their bodies clamped together, melded into one in the mindless storm of passion.

Dominic relaxed against her, his face against her neck. Constance could hear his breathing gradually slow, feel his body lose its former tension. She hadn’t the energy or the will to act or speak; indeed, she could scarcely bring enough thoughts together to form a coherent sentence, much less say it.

He pressed a kiss where her neck joined her shoulder, then rolled his weight from her, his arm going beneath her neck and around her shoulders, cuddling her to him. Constance found that her head fit quite perfectly in the curve of his shoulder. She stretched her arm across him, her fingers idly stroking his skin, threading through the hairs on his chest. She felt filled and used and slightly sore…and utterly content.

This, she thought, was what it was to love a man. She had never really known before—and how could she? She had never before felt the full extent of love—the way the heart and soul and body wrapped around another person, threaded through him, touched him in every way. It was raw, and it was beautiful. It was not nearly so sweet or ideal as everyone made it out to be. Yet it was a thousand times more wonderful—shocking, sweaty, intense and achingly real.

She knew that everything had become infinitely more complicated, but she would not think about that now. Right now, she wanted only to revel in this moment, to soak up every last bit of contentment and joy.

Dominic turned his head and kissed her forehead. He stroked his hand down her arm and twined his fingers through hers, lifting her hand to his mouth and kissing each finger.

“You are the most beautiful woman in the world.”

She giggled, knowing he was foolish to think so and extremely glad that he was. He went on to enumerate each detail of her loveliness, until she had to kiss him, laughing, to stop him. And then some minutes passed before either even thought about saying anything else.

“Constance,” he said at last, and she heard the hint of finality in his voice, the tone of thought and reason. She was quite certain that she did not want to hear what he was about to say.

“No,” she told him quickly, rising up on her elbow and putting a silencing finger across his lips. She bent and kissed his cheek, then laid her face against his and whispered, “Let’s not talk about it now. Later will be time enough.”

“We have to go back.”

“I know.”

It took enormous effort to pull away from him, but she did, careful not to look at him, knowing that to do so would weaken her. She stood and gathered her undergarments, which had wound up perilously close to the fire. At least they were close to dry now, and she quickly put them on. The riding habit, spread across the chair, was, unfortunately, still quite damp; for the thick material had absorbed a great deal of water. Still, there was nothing for it but to don the skirt and bodice again.

The fire had died, but after he dressed, Dominic stirred and poked through it to make sure no errant sparks were left. Constance watched him as she combed through her hair and did her best to twist it up into a simple knot and re-pin it. There was too much hair and too few pins left, and the lack of a mirror made it even more difficult. She finally managed to get all her hair pinned, though she could only hope it would stay that way.

She still looked a mess, she supposed—her clothes damp and wrinkled and streaked with mud where she had fallen, her hair loosely pinned and, for all she knew, askew. But she could not bring herself to care. She was too filled with the rosy afterglow of their lovemaking.

Dominic turned from the fire at last, and their eyes met. His mouth softened, his eyes darkening, and he took a step forward, saying huskily, “Constance.”

He reached for her, and she went to him without hesitation, raising her face to his. He kissed her, pulling her tightly against him, and her arms closed around his neck. He lifted his head from hers at last and drew a long breath, resting his forehead against her head.

“We must go,” he said without conviction.

“I know.”

“I can think of nothing I want to do less.”

Constance smiled, her heart filling with pleasure at his reluctance to leave. “But we must.” She stepped back from him, taking his hand. “They will be waiting.”

He sighed. “You are right.” He bent and kissed her, hard and brief, then walked with her out of the house.

Dominic got their horses from the shed, and they started down the hill, leading the horses by their reins. It was quiet and peaceful, the air smelling sweetly of rain. The clouds had lifted, and the sun was setting, casting a muted golden glow across the landscape.

They held hands as they walked, turning now and then to look at one another. It felt, Constance thought, as if they were the only people in the world. Everything would change when they rejoined the others, she knew, but she refused to think about it, holding on fast to this sweet moment.

When they reached the place where they had left Margaret, Calandra and the others, they found no one there. It was not surprising, given the downpour in which they had been caught. Doubtless they had ridden back to the summer house to take shelter.

Frankly, Constance was happy to find them gone. It would give her a few more minutes alone with Dominic, she thought as they mounted their horses for the rest of the return journey. When they rounded the curve a few minutes later and saw the white summer house in the distance, she was aware of a distinct sense of disappointment.

The brief interlude was over. She and Dominic would have to return to their normal lives. Unconsciously, she let out a sigh.

“I know,” he said, glancing over at her. “I don’t want to return.”

Constance smiled, pleased to hear him say it, but her spirits were sinking rapidly. She was remembering all the reasons why Dominic would never marry her. Could never marry her. Soon they would return to London and this would all be over. Even before that, when they rejoined the other guests, they would have to watch how they looked and acted. He could not take her hand or pull her into his arms. She could not look at him with her heart in her eyes. Even an engaged couple’s movements were restricted, and as to a man and woman who were not betrothed…well, they simply could not show a decided partiality for each other, let alone do something so scandalous as to touch in any but the most formal way.

As they drew nearer to the summer house, Constance saw that everyone else in their party was standing on the steps, watching them approach. Her stomach fell to her feet. She cast an anxious glance at Dominic. He was watching the group on the steps, and his face was stony.

Constance realized suddenly that they were in an even worse position than she had realized. She and Dominic were teetering on the edge of scandal. They could not help that it had rained, of course, nor that they had had to take shelter. But there was no getting around the fact that they had spent at least two hours alone together, half of that shut up in the privacy of a cottage.

It would not have been as bad, in all likelihood, if Calandra and Margaret and the others had remained at the place where they had left them. For one thing, they would not have been alone together quite as long. But more than that, they would have been able to ride with them back to the summer house, and if Calandra, Margaret and the two men had not revealed that Dominic and Constance had left the group, they could have kept that fact hidden altogether. That was, of course, a big if, but given that Margaret was her cousin and therefore had a vested interest in protecting their good name, and that Calandra was a nice person and a friend to Francesca and Dominic, Constance thought it would have been a likely possibility.