Truly Yours (24 page)

He imagined her in the diamonds and nothing else and was almost ready to hold the blankets up, offering her a place in his bed. Joy? He’d show her heaven, with rainbows and angels dancing. Except the diamonds were a gift from her mother. “Your family would be horrified.”

“More so than knowing I was in prison? More than having my name on everyone’s lips as a murderess and a soiled dove? I think, I pray, my mother would like knowing I found a bit of pleasure.”

A bit? He was not going to be satisfied with a kiss and a cuddle, oh no. His body was warning him that once he took Amanda into his arms, he was never going to let her go. And that was the trouble. “You are asking me to forego my honor.”

“You have asked me not to run away, so I could be forfeiting my very life to your honor. Which is more important?” She had set her candle down and now she came closer to his bedside. She stroked the dog, who licked Amanda’s hand and closed her eyes.

Rex tried to swallow but his throat was as dry as Verity’s bowl after dinner. “Someone might come.”

“Who? Your valet?”

“He is very protective. My father sent him to look after me.”

“It is the middle of the night. Surely Murchison knows you are old enough to sleep alone. You have a watchdog.”

Who was starting to snore again. “My, my cousin might come.”

“I heard him snoring. Louder than Nanny, much louder than Verity.”

And Rex knew that Daniel was not likely to wake up for two days, not after tonight.

She touched the sheet, as if to raise it.

He hung on to the top. “I have nothing on under the covers.”

“I have nothing on under my nightgown.”

“I noticed.” Hell, he could barely take his eyes off her, now that she was close enough for him to see the peaks of her breasts, the shadow between her legs. The diamonds glittered in the firelight, sending silver sparks to her brown eyes. The sparks reached his very soul and set it on fire. Only she could douse those flames. He knew that now.

She was his. He’d rescued her; he’d kept her alive. She was not going to become the docile wife of some nameless blighter who married her for the price of her jewels, who’d fill her belly with a dozen sniveling brats.

Children. He pulled the sheets higher, as far as they would reach with Verity’s weight on them. “I cannot. I will not father a child.”

“You do not like children?” Disappointment resounded in her words. “I always wished for a boy and a girl.”

“I like children well enough, I suppose. But not mine.”

“Why?”

It was the middle of the night, a nearly naked woman was tempting him nearly past endurance, and she wanted to dissect his life principles? “It is a private matter.”

She huffed. “You asked me not to run away, to trust you with my very life. Yet you cannot explain something so important as not wishing children?”

She was right, and she was sitting on the edge of his bed now, stroking his sleeping dog. Long, strong strokes, back and forth, back and forth. Heaven help him.

Thinking that his silence had to do with some dark secret, she asked, “Who would I tell?”

Verity rolled over to have her stomach rubbed. His tongue went numb. “It’s hard”—and it wasn’t the only thing that was—“to explain. Just accept that there is an . . . unpleasant trait running through the males of my family.”

“Insanity?” She stood up, as if to leap for safety if he turned dangerous. Verity whimpered at the loss of her attention. “I have heard of that occurring in certain bloodlines. Your father is not locked up somewhere, is he? That’s not why he and your mother live separately, is it, and he never comes to Town?”

“Lud, no. My father has bad lungs, but his mental facilities are as sharp as ever, thank goodness, although some might consider him eccentric.”

“Ah, it is more like weak chins, then? But I see no similarities between you and your cousin, other than your coloring.”

“Daniel was not supposed to be affected, coming through the female line, my father’s sister, but he is, although not as severely.”

Her brows were puckered and her tongue flicked across her lips as she thought. He could tell she was running an inventory list through her mind. Gads, what was she imagining, some hideous deformity? He already had scars and wounds. “It is not exactly visible, like a birth-mark or baldness.”

“Ah, then it is a disease that strikes the men in your family at some stage in their lives?”

“Yes . . . that is, no. Please, just believe that I do not wish to bring forth a child who would be so afflicted.”

“What of the earldom? I thought that was drummed into a little lordling’s head, that his sole job in life was to beget the next peer.”

“I cannot do that.”

Her eyes narrowed in speculation. “Cannot, or will not?”

Thunderation, now she was imagining him impotent! “I
will
not father a child and that is that!”

She accepted his adamance, for now. “Very well. There are ways, I have heard . . .”

Rex could see the blush start at her chest and rise to her cheeks. She was willing to initiate an affair, the little peagoose, but she could not discuss the earthier aspects. And she thought she was no longer a lady? “I do not have such protection handy. I could withdraw, but that is no guarantee.”

She pounded her fist on the mattress, to Verity’s displeasure. “Life has no guarantee! Can you not understand? I might not live long enough to bear a child! And to conceive in one night? My mother had one child in all her years of marriage. But now I see what it is. You are making excuses, one after the other. You do not want me. Tell me, is it another woman, so I shall merely be mortified, not shattered?”

He thought of Lydia Burton. He thought about lying, claiming a prior affection, a previous commitment, even a wife tucked away in the country. He could not lie, though. Zeus, no. “I doubt I have ever wanted a woman as badly as I want you.”

She snapped her fingers. “Good dog, Verity. Now get down.”

S
he won. And what a prize! He was gleaming like a god in the firelight, all that she could see of him. Broad shoulders, well-muscled arms, the faintest line of hair beginning in the middle of his chest. The blankets covered the rest of him, but not for long, not with him wearing a grin half of resignation, half of expectation.

She was not quite sure what to do with the spoils of victory, but she claimed her ground, climbing up to the high bed. She started to pull the bedcovers aside but he held onto his sheet. He blew out her candle and turned down his lamp. “Not yet.”

If she was unsure how to proceed, Rex had strong notions about it. And strong arms, to pull her against him, her head next to his on the pillow, blond hair beside black. A sheet and a spider web of lace was between them, but she did not care, not in his embrace. There it was, that feeling of rightness, of safety and protection. More, of being cherished. His strength was hers, her softness was his. This was why she had been ready to toss her bonnet over the windmill, and toss herself at Rex. This and the kindling kisses he was raining on her eyelids, her ears, her neck. Now she did not have to think of anything but him, and how he made her feel.

Like a princess, like a fairy sprite, like clay for him to form in his knowing hands. Like a lady with her beloved. No fears and doubts loomed ahead, no secrets between them or distrust, only sensation and heat and a craving for more. Closer, warmer, faster. More.

Her gown disappeared. Maybe it burned up, her skin felt so on fire. Somehow she was hotter without it, with his hands on her bare flesh, up and down her back, on her waist, her backside. Now he was touching her breasts, then lowering his head to nip and nuzzle at the tips. The nipples were so taut they were as hard as the part of him pressed against her belly, through the sheet. She reached down, but he stilled her hand.

“Not yet.”

“You said that before.”

He kissed her to stop the conversation. He used his tongue this time, tickling and tantalizing hers, and she felt they were sharing the dance they had never had, and likely never would. The music of desire raced through her body, leaving her thrumming with the unspoken tempo, the in and out of the universal dance of love. She felt she would burst with the need for something, to reach some unknown plateau, to understand everything, to waltz among the clouds. She met his tongue with hers, and learned how to make him sigh and moan and pull her closer, as if they could become one. Soon, but not yet. Unless she expired first.

His hand stopped its tender exploration. His tongue withdrew and he pulled away, putting distance between them, besides the sheet. “I cannot do it.”

“I thought you said you could.”

“I can; I won’t.” His conscience was already raging at him about visiting a brothel; he could not live with himself for deflowering a virgin. On the same night? How could he touch this sweetly giving woman, after being, no matter how briefly or inconclusively, with a practiced whore who sold her favors for money? He could not.

No matter what Amanda said, she was not thinking rationally. Lud knew he wasn’t, with her beside him, not even the sheer nightgown covering her exquisite body. And where had the gown gone? he wondered. The dog must have eaten it.

She pressed closer, almost on top of him, her leg over his thigh. He recited the first page of the
Aeneid
. In Latin.
Arma virumque.
Arms and the man. His were reaching for her, despite his good intentions.

“It is my fault. You do not find me attractive. I am too forward. Too thin. I realize you only feel pity for me. I am sorry to have bothered you, yet again.”

So he had to kiss her, before the little widgeon fretted herself into another bout of weeping. “I told you, you are beautiful,” he whispered between kisses. “I want you. You are just right. See how well you fit in my arms?” He pulled her on top of him.

Which was a mistake. He should not have let any part of her touch any part of him, again. Now they were both on fire. “The Devil knows how much I want you, but this is wrong. Tell me to stop.” She did not. Instead she kissed his neck, and touched his sensitive ear with the tip of her tongue. He groaned at his stupidity for teaching her that trick not a moment before. He said it: “Stop,” in a voice lacking conviction, possibly lacking sound, for his every breath was gone.

“What if I said I am not a maiden? Would that ease your mind?”

Lud knew nothing but two days in bed with her, maybe three, were going to ease his body. “Say it.”

So she did, and she was lying, as red as the virgin’s blood that would flow for him and all the world to see, branding him a dastard. “Good try, angel, but I do not believe you. But I am too weak willed to let you go. We can still enjoy each other’s company.” He would not take her innocence, but he could still give her a woman’s pleasure.

She wept anyway, at the revelation of what her body could do, what he could do to her, for her. “I never understood how, how extraordinary the feelings are. But there is more. I know there is more.”

“You are not strong enough yet. I am not strong enough.”

“But you have not had your pleasure.”

“Yes, I have.” Listening to her cries of excitement, of ecstasy, of surprise, learning what she liked, were more sensuous than anything he could imagine, and more satisfying. To be entirely truthful, the experience was not quite as satisfying as being inside her would have been, but this way he could worship every inch of her tender skin, adore each curve and crevice, without the weight of guilt on his shoulders. “I am well pleased. Now you must go.”

If he had any second thoughts about her leaving, he was too late. She was already asleep. He could have woken her, but he was too busy studying her by the dying firelight, how her eyelashes had one tiny teardrop, how her sweet lips were partly open. Had he ever truly worshiped a woman’s body this way? He doubted it.

Rex was content, despite being unfulfilled. That no longer mattered. He fell asleep himself, smiling.

He woke up to the noise of the household awakening, dawn’s light edging through the drawn curtains. He kissed Amanda awake, and she immediately responded, her hand trailing down his chest where the sheet had become disarranged, on a mission of hesitant exploration. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed each finger. “No, angel. I am not enough of a saint to withstand that. You have to go to bed.”

“Hmm,” she murmured drowsily, rolling over against him.

“In your own bed,” he told her, groaning. “Murchison must not find you here in the morning, or Nanny find you missing. Can you imagine the uproar if you are not where you belong? Come, sweetings, it grows light, the servants will be up.”

“I am too weary. You have stolen away the stiffness of my bones.”

He knew where it had gone, too.

Rex climbed out of bed, glad she was turned away to hide his injured leg and his all-too-healthy manhood from her sight, and picked up his robe and her gown. He put his on, draped hers over his shoulder, and lifted her into his arms. “I seem to be making a habit of this, don’t I?”

She laughed softly, sleepily, sexily. Heaven help him, he wanted to carry her to the rooftop where no one could find them, no one could interrupt. He headed for her door. “I must be a saint, after all.”

She patted his cheek and kissed him, feeling the new growth of beard. “You are perfect. I think I love you, Lord Rexford.”

Luckily they were at her chamber, because he almost dropped her. “No, little goose, you are just in the afterglow of passion. Like Verity adoring Daniel because he feeds her. Not that you are anything like the dog. You smell much better.” He kissed behind her ear, where the scent of perfume still lingered.

She shook her head, the blond curls whispering against his shoulder. “No, I would not feel the passion if I did not love you.”