The Scoundrel’s Daughter by Anne Gracie
Chapter Fifteen
Oh, the glory of James’s kisses. Kissing. Why had it taken her so long to learn? Thaddeus had never kissed her, not like this. She was glad that James was her first.
With lips and tongue, he gently pressed her lips apart. His tongue stroked the inside of her mouth in a leisurely, sensual exploration. Every tiny motion thrummed through her body and gathered momentum. Warm shivers rippled through her, building with each stroke, pooling in the deepest recesses of her body.
She pressed her hands against his chest and slid them higher, stroking his jaw, feeling the faint underlying masculine roughness of bristles in a friction that delighted her, breathing in the scent of him even as the dark, masculine taste of him filled her senses.
She tried to copy the things he was doing with his tongue, only they dazzled her so that she couldn’t concentrate, only feel. And respond without thought or purpose.
Pleasure.
She slid her fingers through his hair and pressed herself against him—thigh against thigh, belly to belly, breast against chest. Her knees felt suddenly weak. A long shudder rippled down her spine, some deep hollow within her aching for . . . for what, she had no idea. Only a need for which she had no name . . . She clutched his shoulders, leaning against him.
He shifted his grip and swung her up off her feet. She squeaked in surprise, and he smiled. “Time to move into the bedroom.”
Oh. The heat drained out of her. The kissing was over. It was time for the . . . the other.
He set her on her feet beside the bed, then sat on the other side of the bed and pulled off his boots and stockings. He stood to remove his coat, then swiftly unbuttoned his waistcoat. He draped his coat over the rail at the end of the bed and folded the waistcoat over it. She watched as he dragged his fine white-linen shirt over his head, shook it out, then draped it over the rail.
He wore no undershirt—his chest was bare and hard with a dusting of dark hair and two small, hard nipples. She tried not to stare, but she couldn’t help herself. She hadn’t known that men had nipples. His arms were powerful, strong and sinewy, his forearms sunburned.
She stood unmoving, gazing across the bed at him. Her mouth dried.
His mouth curved in an understanding smile. “Do you need help with that dress?”
Flushing at being caught staring, she nodded. She’d anticipated this part, and knew she’d be disrobing without her maid to help, but she hadn’t expected to be undressing in front of him. Even less that he would undress in front of her. She turned her back. “Just untie the bow at the top and loosen the laces, please.” She could manage from there.
Deftly he untied her laces, and swiftly pulled them not just loose but free. Cool air whispered down her spine, warm fingers brushed against her skin. She shivered, not quite understanding why. She wasn’t cold.
Her dress started to slide. She grabbed at it, but, “I have it,” he said, and eased it down over her hips and all the way to the floor. He knelt and looked up at her, waiting, and she had no option but to step out of it, leaving her in just her underclothes. He gathered up the folds and draped the dress over the bed rail.
She began to unhook her stays—she’d chosen front-fastening ones deliberately—but, “Allow me.” His voice was slightly husky.
She could barely breathe as one by one he undid the hooks down the front of her stays. She wore a chemise underneath, but even so, she felt the brush of his knuckles through the fine lawn fabric. Her nipples were hard and tight and extraordinarily sensitive.
On the fifth hook he looked up from his task. “You can breathe, you know.”
She huffed in a nervous half laugh, and he leaned forward and kissed her, lavish, leisurely kisses that sent shivers coursing through her again. Straightening, he slipped her stays down her arms and tossed them aside. He’d undone the rest of the hooks while kissing her; she hadn’t even noticed.
He was breathing more heavily now. So was she. He reached for the buttons on the fall of his buckskin breeches.
“I’ll get my stockings.” She turned away hastily and sat on the bed. She stripped off her stockings and then her drawers. All she wore now was her chemise.
“Oh,” she exclaimed. “My nightgown—it’s in the valise.”
“You won’t need a nightgown.” His voice was deep and a little hoarse. She turned to say something—but every word evaporated from her brain. He was naked. Completely, totally naked.
Alice didn’t know where to look. She’d never seen a naked man before. Thaddeus had always come to her either fully dressed or, in the early part of their marriage, in a dressing gown with a nightshirt underneath. And she’d always worn a nightgown.
She glanced at him, then away, and then back again, until she was unable to look away. She was fascinated by the hard-packed masculine shape of him, so different from her.
And his male parts—was that what they looked like? She’d only felt them—it—pounding into her. She swallowed. He looked bigger in that area than Thaddeus.
Would bigger mean more painful?
She closed her eyes briefly. Stop thinking about Thaddeus, she told herself. This was James, and it was going to be different—quite different. It had to be.
James stood and let her look, seemingly quite comfortable in his bare skin.
Did he expect the same of her? She couldn’t. She’d never been wholly naked in front of anyone before—only her maid when she was in her bath. She dragged her gaze off him and dived under the covers. The sheets were smooth and cold.
He slid into the bed as well, and she immediately felt the effect of his big, warm body so close to hers. He rolled onto his side, facing her, and pulled her close.
Rain spattered against the windows. Wind tossed the branches around and moaned around the chimney. The heat of his body soaked into hers.
This was it.
She opened her legs and braced herself.
He paused. “Relax,” he said softly. “Let’s just kiss for a while,” and before she could say anything, his mouth was on hers again, and she gave herself wholly up to the delights of kissing.
As they kissed, his hands roved over her body, caressing, soothing away some nerves while at the same time arousing others. He feathered kisses everywhere: across her eyelids, in the delicate whorls of her ears, along her jawline; finding a pulse here, a sensitive spot there; causing exquisite shivers of pleasure wherever he went. He nibbled his way down her neck and she found herself arching sensuously like a cat beneath his ministrations.
He brushed a hand across her breast and the tight, aching nipple thrust hard against him. Cupping her breast in one big hand, he scratched the nipple lightly through the fabric of her chemise. She gasped as tiny sparks of sensation stabbed through her.
“You like that, don’t you?”
A kind of humming noise came from her. She wanted to say something to him, but her mind was blank of words: there was only sensation. And James. She ran her hands over him, enjoying the contrast of his hard, masculine body with the softness of hers, his smooth, firm chest. She pressed her face against the skin of his chest and inhaled deeply, as she’d wanted to do in the carriage earlier. Essence of James.
His big, warm hands caressed her thighs and hips and belly. How had she never known the delight of skin against skin? She caressed him feverishly, her heart pounding, her whole focus narrowed to whichever part of her body he was touching.
He cupped her face and kissed her again—deep, drugging kisses. Then he bent and placed his mouth over her breast and through her chemise, teased her nipple with his tongue. Waves of pleasure rippled through her, and then he sucked hard, and she arched and almost came off the bed as a fierce spear of pleasure-pain spiked through her.
She lay back, gasping, and before she realized it, he was raising her chemise. Her scrambled brain focused and she braced herself for his entry. But he kept pushing the chemise up. “Lift your bottom.” She lifted, and he pulled her chemise up over her head and tossed it aside. And she was naked.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, and she warmed at the appreciation in his voice.
He lowered his head to her breasts again, her full and aching breasts, unbearably sensitive, and she shuddered beneath him in waves of pleasure. And slowly her body built to an aching need for . . . she did not know what.
His hand slipped between her thighs and cupped her there. Warmth spread from where they touched, and her insides rippled and clenched.
One large finger moved, stroking the delicate folds, and a spear of hot sensation stabbed through her. Then another and another. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she trembled and writhed beneath his knowing caresses.
Her legs quivered, then fell apart, loose and trembling—her body was wholly out of her control. She thrust against his hand, frantically, feverishly, grasping for something, she knew not what.
Pressure built and built inside her, she thrashed against him, and just as she was sure she was going to burst, she heard a high, wavering sound as something happened and she . . . shattered.
Slowly her wits returned. She lay against him, her breath slowing, enveloped by a feeling of lazy euphoria. And amazement. Then as she was slowly drifting back to earth, he caressed her intimately again, rose up and entered her with one slow, sure movement.
Alice’s eyes flew open in surprise. There was no discomfort at all. It felt right, amazingly, wonderfully right.
He was watching her, his gray eyes intense, smoky with desire. He stroked her again in that place between her thighs, and she felt the excitement start to build again. He began to move within her, slow and deliberate, and she gasped with each thrust. Without conscious volition, she found herself lifting her body, pushing herself against him in time with each thrust.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he gasped, and she did, and oh, that was better. Closer. Tighter. Harder.
The pressure built inside her as before. She clung to him, rocking in rhythm, her body clenching around his powerful male body, feeling gloriously powerful, demanding faster, harder, more, more, more. He gave one last thrust and groaned loudly. She felt a hot gush of liquid inside her and heard herself give a high, thin scream as she shattered again, this time around him.
* * *
She might have slept for a little while—she wasn’t sure—all she knew was that she slowly floated back to awareness, like a feather languidly drifting to the ground. Feeling so wonderfully good. Sleepily euphoric.
She opened her eyes and found him lying on his side, watching her. “All right?” he murmured. He’d pulled the covers up over them, and she felt warm and safe and so comfortable.
She opened her mouth to tell him she felt wonderful, but instead, her mouth crumpled and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, sweetheart.” He gathered her against him and held her, rubbing her back in a gentle, soothing rhythm.
Sobs jerked through her. “I-I’m s-sorry. It’s n-n-not—”
“Hush.”
“I’m n-not—”
“Don’t try to explain. It’s all right.”
“They’re g-goo-good tears,” she managed to choke out between sobs.
He gave a soft laugh. “I see. Just let them come. I don’t mind.” And he didn’t. He just held her, lending her his warmth, his strength. His acceptance.
After an embarrassingly long time, the hateful sobs stopped. There was no handkerchief, so Alice found her chemise at the foot of the bed and wiped her face with it. “I’m sorry,” she said on a gulp. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I—”
“Has that happened to you before? The climax, I mean.”
Climax, was that what it was called? She shook her head. “I didn’t even know it was possible.”
He brushed damp hair off her face. “Then perhaps your emotions were a little overwhelmed.”
She nodded. “But it was wonderful. I feel wonderful. I don’t know why I had to go and spoil it all by weeping all over you. Men hate tears, I know.”
He pulled her closer. “Usually when women cry, I want to rush out and kill a dragon for them or something, but good tears I can cope with. Just.”
They lay entwined in silence for a few moments, listening to the rain and the wind outside. “Do most women experience that in the marriage bed?” she asked, thinking about what Lady Peplowe had told her.
“If the man pays attention.”
Yes, that was it. Thaddeus had never paid attention. Suddenly she was angry. Eighteen years of marriage and she’d had no idea there could even be pleasure in the act, let alone . . . that.
She reached up and kissed him. “Thank you for showing me.”
He smiled, that slow smile that always made her insides curl—and she knew now why. “Thank you for trusting me. Now—”
At that point her stomach suddenly gave a loud, long rumble.
She glanced at him, mortified, and then suddenly they were both laughing. “I think before we go any further in this conversation, I should feed you,” he said. “Wait here.”
He slipped out of bed, and she watched shamelessly, admiring his bare, muscular body as he pulled on his breeches and left the room. He was a magnificent specimen of a man.
Her lover.
She snuggled back down in the covers and thought about all she had learned in the last hour. It was, for her, the revelation of a lifetime. All those wasted years feeling like a failure as a woman—unattractive, undesirable, barren.
She wasn’t ever going to let anyone make her feel like that again. She would not allow bitterness and regret to poison her life any longer. She wasn’t even going to think of Thaddeus. She had a future. And she was the mistress of a wonderful man. Her lover.
She lay curled in her nest of blankets and relived the lovemaking in her mind. There was so much to learn, she realized. He’d brought her to climax simply by touching her with his mouth and hands. Did it work the other way around? With her touching him?
“Here you are.” He entered with a tray. With one hand, he caught up his shirt from the rail at the foot of the bed and tossed it to her. “You might feel more comfortable in this.”
She slipped his shirt over her head—it was far too big and swamped her, but she enjoyed its faint masculine smell of James. Rolling back the sleeves, she sat up and arranged the pillows to lean back on.
He passed her the tray and slipped in beside her. Her eyes widened. It was a veritable feast. “Where did all this food come from?” She hadn’t noticed it before.
His eyes glinted with humor. “I knew we’d be hungry, so I had my cook pack a hamper.”
Her stomach rumbled again at the sight and smell of the food. There was a pot of tea and a little jug of milk, crusty fresh bread, curls of golden butter, tender slices of ham, a pot of honey, cold egg-and-bacon pie, little lemon curd cakes and a dish of—“Strawberries?” she asked in amazement. “At this time of year?”
“Last season’s, preserved in syrup. The cook at Towers, my country estate, makes them according to a secret recipe, and she sent some up to London when she heard the girls and I were living there for the moment. It’s a ploy to get us to return to what she considers our proper place, which is, of course, Towers. Try one—they’re delicious.” He scooped one up with a spoon and popped it into her mouth. It was utterly delectable, sweet and succulent.
To Alice’s surprise and secret pleasure, he fed her by hand, all sorts of delicious morsels, a little of everything, all washed down with fresh hot tea, until she was utterly sated. He took the depleted tray away and returned a few minutes later.
“I had thought we might go for a walk, but it’s still pouring. Any thoughts as to what you’d like to do now? We could talk or read or even sleep if you’d like.”
Alice felt herself blushing. “Could we do, um, that again?”
He threw back his head and laughed, uninhibited, masculine and joyous. “A woman after my own heart. Indeed we can.” And he slid into bed again.
* * *
Gerald was regretting his choice of riding to his grandmother’s. The fine mist of rain had stopped, but he wouldn’t have minded being in the carriage. There were things he wanted to say—and do—to Miss Lucy Bamber, but her blasted maid was in the way. Which he supposed was the purpose of chaperones.
They stopped at the coaching inn at Watford for a meal and to change horses. As luck would have it, the maid, Mary, got talking to the landlady. The woman had six daughters, three of whom worked at the inn, two of whom were yet too young and one who apparently had a passion to become a lady’s maid. The landlady had a host of questions to ask Mary about the life and prospects for a lady’s maid, as well as the general wickedness of life in London.
“I’m sick of being stuck in the carriage,” Lucy told him. “I want to stretch my legs.” So he offered her his arm and they strolled to the edge of the village and turned down a shady, tree-lined lane.
“I’m calling it off,” Lucy said abruptly the minute they were alone. “I can’t stay with your grandmother, lying to her and getting her all excited about a wedding that will never take place. I want to go home. And the moment we get back to London, I want you to put a notice in the newspapers canceling this wretched betrothal.”
Gerald was silent, trying to think of what to say. Eventually he simply told the truth. “I don’t think it’s wretched, and I don’t want to cancel it.”
“What?” She jerked her arm from the crook of his elbow and stepped back, staring at him, her eyes wide. “What does that mean? You can’t possibly—”
“Want to marry you? I’m afraid I can. In fact, marrying you has become my heart’s desire.” There, it was out.
She gave him a troubled look. “But . . . but it was just a stratagem to get Papa to show himself.”
“It was also a stratagem to get you betrothed to me,” he admitted. “I could think of no other way to achieve it, with your determination to hold me at arms’ length and your ridiculous prejudice against lords.”
She shook her head, looking distressed. “But you can’t. I . . . I’m Lucy Bamber, the daughter of a scoundrel—you said it yourself. Papa was a swindler, a liar, a blackmailer, a—”
“And his daughter is nothing like that. The Lucy Bamber I know is honest, honorable, loyal, spirited and beautiful.”
“ ‘Beautiful’?”
“Very.” He drew her into his arms and kissed her as he’d been longing to kiss her almost from the moment they’d met. She resisted for an instant, then softened against him, sliding her arms up around his neck, twining her fingers in his hair and kissing him back with all the passion he’d hoped for.
After a few minutes she drew back. “I’m sorry—I should never have let that happen.”
“Why not? Didn’t you enjoy it? I did.” He reached for her again.
She pushed his hands away. “I’m serious, Gerald. I’m deeply sensible of the honor you do me, but I can’t marry you.”
“Why not?”
She just shook her head and walked a little way along the lane. Gerald followed. “You’re trying to think up reasons why you can’t marry me, aren’t you?” he said. “You have this ridiculous notion that you don’t belong in my world.”
She turned. “Well, I don’t. I wasn’t raised in your world, and I don’t fit in it.”
He snorted. “What you don’t realize is that lots of people feel that way, including me.”
“You? You’re a viscount, the son of an earl.”
“Yes, and I’ve been that for precisely eighteen months. Before that I was a cash-strapped captain in the army, the unregarded son of a second son, and nobody gave me a second glance.”
“Maybe, but—”
“What do you think it was like to come from a life involving years of hardship and turmoil and boredom and danger and responsibility, and battlefields that stank of blood and mud and worse, with the screams and groans of the injured and dying—some of them your men and your friends—ringing in your ears? And then the war is over and you come back and try to fit into a society where people are dressed in satin, silk and lace, smelling of perfumes and their most serious problem is deciding who to dance with. Or what to order for dinner. Or how to dress their hair. Or what juicy snippets of gossip they can pass on.”
Her eyes were huge. She swallowed. “I never thought of it like that.”
“Nobody ever does.”
She bent and picked a long stem of grass and twirled it pensively. “Why do you want to marry me, then?” She glanced at him, a faint blush on her cheeks. He didn’t think it was the heat. “I was so rude to you from the beginning.”
He laughed. “That’s what I found so interesting. For most of my adult life I’ve been of little interest to anyone—certainly not a desirable marriage prospect. Then my uncle died unexpectedly, and suddenly I was a viscount and the heir to an earldom, and then everything I said or did was sooooo interesting, and the matchmaking mamas were all over me, and every unmarried young lady was flirting and flattering me and doing their best to hook me.”
She snorted. “Not me.”
“I know, and that’s what first attracted my attention.”
She frowned. “But it wasn’t some ploy to be different.”
“Oh, I know that.” He let his gaze drift so somewhere over her left shoulder and murmured, “ ‘That woman over there is wearing the largest turban I’ve ever seen in my life. I wonder how she makes it stay on.’ ”
She half turned to look, and then remembered. She blushed. “Yes, well, I was very badly behaved that night. I’m sorry.”
He laughed. Her dimple gave her away every time. “I’m not. You were clever and cheeky and gorgeous and so determined to drive me away, it made me want to get to know you better.”
She grimaced. “And then you found out who I really was, the daughter of a blackmailing scoundrel.”
“Will you stop saying that,” he snapped. “You are not your father, and I don’t want to hear that nonsense ever again.”
Their eyes met for a long, intense moment. Then a cow mooed and broke the silence.
“I might not be like my father, but that doesn’t mean I’ll fit into your society. Your mother hates me.”
“She hates everyone. My grandmother will adore you.”
She shook her head. “Not if she knows the truth. I’m sorry Gerald. I know you think it would work, but I know that if I married you, I would end up getting things wrong and embarrassing you—and myself. And I refuse to be looked down on!”
“How do you know you will?”
“Because I always have been. My education is scrappy—I attended five different schools and never finished the year at any of them. I never did learn all the ladylike skills, and when people look down on me and try to make me feel small and inferior, well, I have a temper. I push back. And not always in a ladylike way.”
He raised an ironic brow. “And yet, from what I heard, you handled my mother brilliantly. And in a superbly ladylike manner.”
“Oh.” A blush rose to her cheek. “You heard about that?”
“I did. And in the diplomatic service, brains, charm and the ability to think on your feet are just as important as society connections—maybe even more important.”
She pulled a skeptical face. “Which is why most diplomats are titled.”
“If you married me, you’d be titled, too. Now, let us continue this discussion after we reach Grandmama’s. She’s expecting us, and if we don’t arrive before dark, she’ll worry.”
Frowning, she twisted the grass stalk into a knot, then tossed it away. “All right, I’ll go to your grandmother’s. But I warn you, I’m going to tell her everything.”