Three Weddings and a Murder (28 page)

His mouth dried at the image that conjured up. Ginny, spread before him, begging for his touch…

“That would be clever of me,” he managed to get out.

“It would be sneaky and underhanded,” she said. “No, Simon, I’m sure of it now. You have only one chance to rob me of my plan to foil your dastardly revenge.” Her skin was pink and flushed, and her breath had grown quick.

“Quite right,” he said. “I’ll have to bring you unending pleasure. Alas.” He set his hand to his forehead for melodramatic emphasis. “It is the only way.”

“I suppose I must gird myself to suffer through an orgasm for the sake of revenge.”

“Faugh.” Simon traced a sinuous line down her belly. “Who said you’d have only the one?”

Their eyes met, and they smiled at each other in brilliant understanding. The moment stretched.

“Well,” she said, “aren’t you going to start...foiling my foiling of your revenge?”

“No,” he said. “I cannot foil your foiling until you have attempted to foil in the first place. First, you make me beg. Then, and only then, does it make sense for me to make you scream and forget your own name.”

Her eyes grew dark at those words.

“Here’s the thing.” Simon set his hand just below her breast, and leaned in to whisper into her ear. “I’m still wearing all my clothing.”

“Heavens. How remiss of me.”

She set her hands on his wrists and guided him until the back of his legs met the edge of the divan. Her fingers whispered along his cheeks, fluttering down his neck, to touch his lapels.

Simon made a low noise in his throat and reached for her, but she simply shook her head and slowly, slowly stripped his coat off him, pulling his hands far away. Her breasts danced inches away from him—full, tantalizing globes, begging for his touch. It was a Herculean task to keep his hands at his sides, to stay still as she reached down and undid his waistcoat. As she did, her fingers slid across his abdomen—lower, lower, in gentle little caresses. His stomach muscles tensed under her touch, and his member strained against his trousers.

“Lovely,” he said, shutting his eyes. “I feel my revenge foiling already.”

“Foiling is such a limp word.” Her fingers brushed the seam of his trousers. “It makes me think of soft things that collapse. You don’t feel foiled at all.”

“No?” She was undoing his trouser buttons, one by one. He didn’t dare open his eyes. He wasn’t sure he could take in the view. But the lack of sight only heightened his other senses—her light touch against his smallclothes, the brush of fabric as she pulled those down, and then cool air against the head of his cock. “I feel foiled. I feel as if I stand on the very brink of it.”

He kicked off his shoes as he spoke. Ever so slowly, she pushed on his shoulders until he lowered himself onto the divan directly behind him.

“Well.” She arranged herself to sit on the floor in front of him. “I’ll have to see if I can hurry it on.” He wasn’t sure what she had in mind. But he shivered at the brush of her hair against his thighs. He gasped when her breath warmed the head of his penis. Then her mouth closed around him, hot and perfect, and he could not think at all. Her tongue stroked the underside of his erection, and the lust that he’d been holding back could no longer be denied. He reached out to take hold of her shoulders.

“God,” he said. “Ginny, for the love of God.”

She looked up. “What?”

“Don’t stop.”

She didn’t. She was damned good with her mouth, her tongue. Every stroke sent pleasure spearing through him. He had no mind, no
nothing,
just the sensation of her—her mouth on him, the curves of her shoulders under his hands, the spill of her hair tickling his thighs, and most of all, the moist heat enveloping his cock.

She lifted her head for a moment. “You taste lovely.”

“Nnng,” he managed, before she dipped down and took him again.

“What was that?” came her indistinct murmur.

“Nnng,” he repeated, this time more loudly.

“Come now.” He could feel her lips form the words around the head of his member, whispering them like a kiss. “Surely you can say more than that. I can enunciate, and”—he could scarcely understand her, speaking around him—“my lips are otherwise occupied.”

He gave out a half laugh, half groan. “Talking with your mouth full,” he managed. “In this case, it’s excellent manners. Ah, damn, Ginny. So bloody good. Why did we never do this before?”

She raised her head. “Because I was too good to volunteer, and you were too dumb to ask.”

That about summed everything up. Her hair hung around her shoulders, utterly disheveled. Her mouth was wet and bruised. She was so beautiful, so completely wicked. She leaned down to take him in her mouth again. He stopped her, setting his hand on her chin.

“Ginny,” he said.

“Mmm?” Her eyes were wide, her pupils dark with lust.

“Enough of this talk of revenge and foiling. I just… Can I please make love to you?”

She shifted back an inch. “Simon.”

“I know what I said and I know what I did, but it’s always been you, Ginny.” He loosened his shirt, the only garment she’d left to him. “I want to make love to you. No more pretenses.”

Some part of him waited for her to walk away, to leave him again. He couldn’t bear it if she did. He’d beg, if he had to. But she leaned forward and slid her hands up the muscles of his abdomen, up his chest. Her hands brushed his nipples, and he let out a gasp.

“Oh, Simon,” she whispered. “You’ve never been a pretense.”

He wasn’t sure how they got his shirt off. He wasn’t sure if he pushed her down to the divan, or if she pulled him on top of her. He wasn’t even sure how he got inside her—if it was his impatient thrust or her guiding touch. He only knew that they both wanted it, that they needed it. Then she was clasped around him, and he—after all these years—was seated in her. There was no revenge to it. Just Ginny, giving herself to him freely.

Finally.

She pushed up on her elbows and nipped his shoulder, and he began to move. She was warm. Soft. The intensity of the moment threatened to overwhelm him in a haze of pleasure. She was everything he had ever hoped for. He could feel her clenching around him. Her hips ground against his. He leaned down and took her nipple in his mouth, just to feel her muscles tighten involuntarily about him. And he pushed into her again and again and again, until she cried out, her whole body shaking around him. After that, he took her harder still, thrusting into her until he found his own ecstasy. It burned him to pieces, and he didn’t care.

Afterward, he was almost afraid to break their silence. He played his hand along her face, caressing her cheek, fingering little wisps of her hair. His lips found her jaw, her temple. It seemed almost sacred, this moment—like the first rays of a spring sun hitting the top arch on some pagan monument.

“Look,” he finally said, “as it turns out, I have a special license in my coat pocket.”

She drew in a breath, buried her face in his shoulder and laughed. “Of course you do.”

He stroked her hair. “I have to go back to London in the morning. Will you marry me first?”

“And of course it has to be tomorrow. Not Thursday or Friday, nor a week from now. You never were good at waiting.”

“I’ve waited seven bloody years. I’m done waiting. Marry me.”

She didn’t say anything. He could feel her muscles go from relaxed to tense as she considered the matter.

“And what about revenge?” she finally asked. “I don’t think that was entirely a jest on your part. You’re still unhappy with me.”

“I can’t pretend there is no lingering bitterness.” He reached up and touched her lips gently. “I can’t pretend that I’m not furious about those years I lost. But I wouldn’t be so angry if I didn’t love you so well. I can’t let you walk away again. Not for one day more.”

He shut his eyes. It was true—all of it. He wanted her. He needed her. He wasn’t going to let her go. But his gut clenched with what he wasn’t saying. If he waited any longer, she would find out the truth of his finances. She wouldn’t marry him.

Oh, she’d be furious when she discovered his lies. But at least she’d be his. And just as he knew he’d let go of his own lingering animosity, he knew he could coax her out of hers.

“You came here with a special license,” she said.

He nodded.

“This is madness.”

He nodded.

“If this is madness,” she said, “let nobody ever accuse me of sanity.” And finally, finally, she broke into a grin. “I’ll do it. Oh, Simon,” she said, nestling against him. “I’ve missed you so much. You forgive me?”

“Do that again,” he said, “and I’ll forgive you anything.” But even though he smiled at her, his stomach turned. In a few days, he’d be the one begging her. But for now, she didn’t know.

She simply smiled up at him brilliantly. “Then let’s scandalize Alice,” she said. “Take me up to bed.”

G
INNY WOKE IN HIS ARMS
the next morning. He’d been caressing her as she slept—a gentle, sweet rhythm. When she opened her eyes, she was almost surprised at the look on his face: somewhere between stunned and solemn.

“Good morning,” she whispered. It wasn’t just a good morning: It was a great one, great and terrible. She’d agreed to marry him in a matter of some hours.

“See here,” he said. His mouth curled down with the look of a man who had been planning a speech for a while. “I have to say something. I know you don’t love me as much as I do you, but I’m going to change all that. I don’t care how long it takes.” He leaned in and rested his forehead against her shoulder. “You are going to love me.”

For the first time since they’d kissed yesterday, a cold chill ran through her. “You think I don’t love you?”

He snorted. “For Christ’s sake,” he muttered into her shoulder. “You married someone else. What was I supposed to conclude?”

She turned away from him. “That I didn’t want to be poor? That you were threatening to cart me off to Gretna Greene, no matter what I said? I didn’t know how else to stop you. I was in a panic.”

“I wasn’t threatening!” he said. And then, as if he remembered how hot his temper might have run, he threw out: “At least, not seriously. If you loved me enough, the money wouldn’t have mattered!”

He’d said that so many times, and every time, she’d felt a burden of lead collect in her belly. It was an old argument, this one. “I have a horror of being poor,” she said. “It wouldn’t have mattered how much I loved you. It wouldn’t have mattered how much you loved me. Only saints can love through hunger, and neither of us is a saint.”

He sat up, resting on his elbow. “You’re only saying that because you don’t know how I feel. If you loved me the way I loved you—”

She heard herself make an inarticulate cry, and she batted at his questing hand. “No.
You
wouldn’t say that if you’d ever really been hungry. You’ve never eaten bits of coal out of the refuse pile just to have something in your belly. You’ve never been so cold that you couldn’t sleep at night, and yet hadn’t the strength to shiver. It doesn’t matter how much you love someone. If you’ve not got enough, you resent every scrap that they have and you do not.”

He frowned at her. Her breathing had grown faster; her heart was racing. “We weren’t so poorly off when I was first born. But Papa lost everything, betting on the ’Change when I was eight. And after that… I remember ripping a crust of bread from my elder sister’s hands one time. I was practically an animal.” She shut her eyes. “When she died of diphtheria, I was sad. But part of me, some horrid part of me deep down, thought—‘Good. That means more for me.’”

He was staring at her in consternation now. “You were a child,” he said. “It wouldn’t be the same, now.”

She shook her head and drew her knees up, to curl into a ball. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t come to my aunt because my father died, you know. He kept trying to win his money back, and it kept going more and more wrong. At the end, just before I left, a man came one night. I heard him tell my father that he would settle it all if he could just borrow me for a week.” She could feel those old shivers taking her now. “I was ten, but I knew what he meant to do with me. So I left. I slipped out the window while they were arguing, before my father had time to consider how many debts he might put to rest with a ten-year-old’s virtue. It took me two weeks to walk the sixty miles to my aunt’s house. When I arrived, I begged her to take me in. That’s what it means to be poor. I shouldn’t have had to doubt whether my own father would sell me. But love is not stronger than fear.”

She drew a deep breath and looked at him. His eyes were round, fixed on her.

“It doesn’t matter. Just thinking about that—it still makes my stomach hurt. I told you I had a horror of poverty. I didn’t mean that I required silver-plated spoons and liveried footmen. I meant that I fear it, with every part of me. I have an absolute horror of it.”

“You’re shaking.” He put his arms around her. “God,” he said. “You’re cold. You’re so cold.”

His arms were warm. And perhaps he was not the only one who had stored up bitterness, because her next words spilled over from some wounded place, buried deep in her heart.