Who will be strong for me? she wondered. And then she berated herself for harboring such a childish thought.
They reached a dense copse of sycamore trees. A little closet of shade in the midst of green parkland, grown up around an unused well. Eliza slowed, wanting to tarry there in the cool, intimate stillness.
"It's good of you to come pay your respects," she said.
He tipped her chin with a single finger, demanding her close attention. "Now, listen. I know Lessing was a decent fellow, and I'm sorry as hell that your sister must experience this sorrow. But understand this. I didn't travel all this way from London to pay my respects. I came for you. Only you. Because you've suffered a loss, as well."
"What loss?"
"Eliza, you don't have to pretend with me. You're missing your long-awaited season. That glittering debut."
She bristled and pulled away. "Mr. Wright, I know you've held a low opinion of me. But I thought we understood each other now. If you think for one moment that I could be so selfish as to mourn a few new gowns and dances while my sister is grieving for the love of her life--"
She broke off in tears. How could he think such a thing of her?
He knew her so well. Too well. And if he believed this of her, she was afraid he might be right. She was devastated for Georgie. But beneath it all, she couldn't stop feeling occasional pangs of stupid, selfish pity for herself.
Here she was--out in the garden, breathing in the fresh air and basking in the sunshine. Meanwhile, somewhere inside, her sister cried herself dry. What was wrong with her?
"It's all right, darling." He took her by the arms.
She fought him feebly, but he pulled her close anyway, drawing her into a tight, protective embrace.
"It's all right," he murmured, stroking her hair as she wept. "It's all right. It's all right."
"I'm a horrid person," she murmured into his lapel.
"No, love. No. If it were merely gowns and dances you were sobbing over, perhaps you might be a horrid person. But it's not that. You could go back to London and have your grand debut next year, but it wouldn't be the same. Not now that you've been so close to Georgie's sorrow. You've seen that all the joy and beauty of the world is fragile. Just bright daubs of paint on the surface of an eggshell. Now you'll reach for it more cautiously. No more wild grasps at glory. It's that innocence you're mourning."
He pulled back and looked down at her. "It's a loss. A grave one." He smoothed the hair from her face. "I'm here to grieve with you. I've been waiting years to watch Miss Eliza Cade take London by storm. Now I'll never have the pleasure."
"Were you going to come to my ball?"
He exhaled a shaky breath. "I don't think I could have stayed away."
"Would you have asked me to dance?"
"I don't know." His eyes searched her face as he held her tight. The corner of his mouth quirked. "I don't know that I could have abided queuing up for you. I probably would have gotten pissing drunk and acted out in some appalling manner ill-befitting a man of my age."
She peered up at him. "How old are you?"
"Thirty-two."
The simple exchange of this fact changed the atmosphere between them. He tensed palpably, and Eliza had the sense that she'd revealed too much in the asking. She'd let on that she was thinking about him in ways she never had before. Thinking quite seriously.
But perhaps he wasn't thinking the same.
He released her from his embrace and offered his arm. "Shall I see you back to the house?"
As they walked, she stole glances at him, admiring his handsome profile. Those green eyes and the faint lines at their corners--little creases from where he'd been squinting in the sun. While out driving that hellish phaeton, perhaps. Or boating, or riding, or simply admiring the splendor of a sunny late-spring day. Those lines spoke of a life lived with passion.
If nothing else, at least Eliza could say she'd been part of it.
"I'm glad you were my first dance," she whispered.
"There'll be others," he said. "Other men, other dances."
"You'll still always be my first. My first dance, my first kiss. My first . . ."
My first love.
She loved him.
Oh, Lord. She loved him. She knew it then, in her heart, and she accepted the truth with all the enthusiasm of a boatman accepting an anvil. This love would sink her, more than likely.
Harry, Harry.
"How long will you be staying in the neighborhood?" she asked.
"I'll be at the Wardlow Arms tonight, but I must leave at first light tomorrow."
She closed her eyes briefly. "So soon? At least stay here at the house. Take dinner with us."
"I don't want to disturb your family."
"The distraction would be welcome. We can't have little Alice's favorite uncle staying at the Wardlow Arms. Their beds have fleas."
He laughed softly.
They passed into shadow.
"What is it you're not telling me?" She gripped his arm tight. "You're never this quiet. There must be something you're trying, very hard, to not say."
"You're right. There is." They slowed to a stop, and he turned to her. "I'm not sure how you'll receive the news, but I've been to see the duke. I asked him to loan me money so I might purchase an officer's commission."
Eliza's heart twisted in her chest. He wanted to join the army?
"I hope the duke refused," she said, unpatriotic as it might sound.
"He did refuse. So I enlisted."
No.
"You're looking at Private J. Harrison Wright of the South Hampshire regiment. I'm to report to Ramsgate in just a few days' time. So I can't dally in the neighborhood."
"B-but why? Why now, after all this time?"
He looked into the distance and shrugged. "Even a scoundrel has to make good sometime." He gave her a sly wink. "Or else he becomes predictable. And we can't have that."
She shook her head with vehemence. "Don't. Don't dare make light of this."
"For once, I'm serious. I decided right after I heard about Lessing. I can't tell you it was anything less than impulsive, and I hope I'll live to regret it. But it felt like the only thing to do. This war's taken enough of England's best and brightest. It's time the rest of us pitched in our lots. Better late than never, don't they say?"
"Better alive than dead is my opinion. I . . ." Her voice broke. "I can't bear the thought of something happening to you."
He exhaled and regarded her thoughtfully. "I want to ask why that is. Why you should care so much. Is it because it would ruin some pretty story you've written for us in your imagination? Are you afraid that I'll die with an untidy cravat? Or is it simply that you've had enough of grieving and dressing in gray?"
"You horrid man." She buffeted his arm with her fist. "How could you--"
He pulled her close. His voice sank to a rough whisper. "Or could it be that you've come to care for me, carry me in your heart--unexpectedly, irrevocably. The way I've come to care for you." His hands ran up and down her arms. "I want to ask you this, Eliza. I want to ask if you could love me. But I'm not sure I'll like your answer, so I think I'll kiss you instead."
His lips fell on hers, and he took her mouth in a kiss that was strong and fierce and all consuming.
And welcome. So very welcome.
At last.
She embraced him, running her hands through his hair and gripping his shoulders tight--to show him that she wanted this. Wanted him. She'd wanted him for so long.
"Harry," she whispered as he pressed brief, bruising kisses to her lips, jaw, neck. "Harry, I . . . I've been--"
He swept his tongue into her mouth, delving deep and pushing her jaw wide. After a moment of surprise, Eliza warmed to the sensual invasion. He knew what he was doing, after all. She tried to mimic his motions, tilting her head to the side. His tongue stroked deep, and deeper still.
A wanton sigh eased from the back of her throat.
She relaxed and made herself
open, inviting. He might kiss her as deeply as he wished. It was what she wanted, too--a kiss so deep and dark she could fall into it like a well. Swim in it, submerse herself in it. Never climb out.
When he broke the kiss, she clung to him.
Stay with me, she willed. Be with me.
"Eliza." Breathing hard, he pressed his brow to hers. "Fleas or no fleas, I don't think it's wise for me to stay in your house tonight."
Her heart pounded as his implication drove home.
"You're right," she said. "It's not wise at all. But I insist on it anyway."
AN INVITATION TO PLEASURE
You know where I'll be.
Harry stood in the corridor for a long time. Thinking. Considering. Waiting for his vision to adjust to the night. Eventually the inky blackness became a thick gray, and the beveled edges of the door's panels stood out in his vision.
If only he could see other things so clearly.
He'd been trying, lately, to find the better parts of himself. They were in there, even if they'd been scattered. He'd told himself he'd piece them together into a decent man. A good man--one with honor, prospects, something to offer the world. A man who commanded a modicum of respect. A man who would one day be the fifth Duke of Shiffield.
But at his core, he couldn't help it. He still enjoyed being Harry Wright, a scandalous, dissolute, no-good scoundrel. Well, not just any scoundrel.
He enjoyed being hers.
With a mute, futile prayer for his soul, he entered the room.
"You came," she said. He couldn't tell if she sounded surprised or vindicated.
"Handy thing about morning rooms," he tried to joke. "They're vacant in the evenings. Usually."
"I've been waiting so long. I thought perhaps you'd forgotten."
Forgotten? Perhaps it had been a different morning room in a different house, and so long ago they'd almost been different people. But he certainly hadn't forgotten their first meeting.
And so long as he lived, he wouldn't forget this. He'd been waiting a long time, too.
A candle burned on a side table. For a single taper, it flared with implausible brightness. As if the wick weren't feeding off the wax of the candle, but the sensual energy in the room.
By the light of that single, bright flame, he could see that her hair was unbound and shimmering like spun honey. He could make out her womanly figure, wrapped in a deep blue dressing gown and beneath it, presumably, a simple white shift. Her feet were bare--white and small against the plush carpet as she walked toward him.
Harry stood very still, legs braced slightly wider than his shoulders--lest he find himself tossed about by her beauty like a leaf in a gale.
She moved past him, heading straight for the door to draw it closed. Then she turned the key in the lock, removed it, and tucked it in the pocket of her dressing gown.
He swallowed hard. "Eliza, there are many reasons why this is a very bad idea."
"I agree," she said.
He paused, caught off guard by her eager concurrence. "I mean, think about this. I'm leaving tomorrow. I may never come back." He paced toward the center of the room and turned to face her. "Then there's you. You're unmarried, not yet out. If anyone ever learned of this . . ."
"I know." She nodded. "And it's more than that. Consider the guilt. How will I look at Georgie tomorrow, knowing she spent another night crying over William while I spent the night in your arms?"
"Exactly," he said. "And your first time, Eliza--it likely wouldn't be much good."
"It wouldn't be good?" She playfully arched a brow. "Not even with a famed rake for a lover?"
"It pains my pride to admit it, but the chances of a virgin taking much pleasure the first time are slim. No matter how experienced her lover. And there are practical concerns. Even with my best efforts at prevention, there'd always be a risk of you getting--"
He broke off, because "risk" felt like the wrong word there. With other women, he took the "risk" of getting them with child. With Eliza, it would feel more like a "chance." A happy chance. Though he could not expressly wish for that outcome, he could not pretend he'd be displeased.
Ah, if only.
"We don't even have a proper bed." He dropped onto the chaise longue and bounced his weight on it a few times. "Your first time should be in a bed. A soft, downy one, with lots of pillows."
She came to sit beside him. "You're right. There are many reasons why this would be a bad idea. But I can think of one reason why we ought to go through with it anyway."
"What's that?"
"We might never have another chance." Her blue eyes met his. "I don't want to spend my whole life wondering what might have been."
She inched closer, her hair hanging loose and heavy about her shoulders.
He closed his eyes, but eyelids were feeble, ineffective shields against such beauty. He could feel her loveliness as a soft, tempting heat. He trailed his fingers down the slope of her arm, worrying the adorable knob of her elbow before skimming down to lace his fingers with hers. Weaving their hands into a tight, inseverable knot.
"Eliza." A lump formed in his throat. "We shouldn't. I can't make you any promises, and I won't allow you to make me any, either. This isn't what you want. Not your first time."
"My first time is bound to be awkward, no matter when it occurs. Didn't you just say so?" She pulled back and met his gaze. "Either you'll have an opportunity someday to make it right, or you won't. And in that event, it's just as well if I remember it being unpleasant. I won't mourn you so much." She swept her fingers through his hair. "It's all very logical, see."
He was sure it wasn't logical at all, but damned if he could think when she touched him that way. She still smelled of honeysuckle.
"Think of your sister," he said, moving closer on the chaise.
"I am thinking of Georgie. I'm thinking of what my sweet, patient, dutiful sister would do in a similar situation. If she'd been given one night with William before he left, I think . . . No, I'm certain she would have seduced him, too."
He smiled despite himself, finding it goddamn adorable how she reveled in the idea of seducing him. Eliza Cade, dragging him into sin.
Little could she know it, but she was the nearest thing in his life to redemption. The tension of desiring her all these years, and struggling against it . . . for Harry, it had meant more than a few evenings' amusement here and there. Whatever it was between them, it reminded him that he needn't live down to expectations. That he didn't need a quarterly allowance to purchase a few shreds of decency.
She made him better. And he knew he made her better, too.
If she could ever love him, it didn't matter what anyone said. Harry would know he'd lived truly and well.
"Eliza, I . . ." The nearness was too much. Her dressing gown gaped at the throat, exposing that pristine, virginal white shift with its miles of tiny buttons. He had to touch her. With a trembling hand, he reached inside her dressing gown and cupped her breast through the gauzy lawn.
She sucked in her breath, startled.
He cursed himself.
Brilliant, Harry. No kiss. No preamble. Just reach straight for the tit.
He'd bedded his share of women--not quite so many as gossip would indicate, but enough. But when it came to this business of actual love, he might as well be a fumbling virgin.
He skimmed his hand around and beneath her breast, to plump and knead her feminine flesh. He found the tightening bud of her nipple and worked it round and round. Her eyes fluttered closed, and he thrilled to the sweet rasp of her ragged breath.
She reached for the button at the top of her shift.
"Let me," he whispered.
One by one, he loosed the tiny buttons. For every one he slipped from its grasping buttonhole, he pressed his lips to the skin revealed. He worked his way down her neck and breastbone, teasing them both, until he was at last able to part the edges of her chemise, spreading the panels like curtains to reveal an inspiring view of her breasts.
/> His mouth dried as he stared at them, taking in every taut, plump, pink, creamy detail. So lovely.
"Harry?" she whispered.
"You're perfect," he said, skimming a hand over the tight bud of her nipple. "Absolutely perfect."
He dipped his head, lavishing kisses over her breasts and circling her nipples with his tongue. He worked faster, hungry for her. Her fingers twined in his hair, clutching tight. They both moaned.
He laid her back against the chaise, unknotting the sash of her dressing gown. Leaving the robe as a dark velvet blanket beneath them, he pulled the unbuttoned chemise down her arms, then worked it over her hips.
Once he had her bared, he took the candleholder in one hand and held it above her, bathing the lush curves of her reclined body in warm, flickering light.
"It's not enough time," he said, hoarse with lust. "One night? A few hours? It's not enough time to do everything."
She giggled. "Everything? I hope we needn't feel pressed to do everything tonight."
"We must try," he said solemnly. "We must try our utmost."
He replaced the candlestick on the side table and set about painting her with his touch, washing a pink blush over her skin with wide, evenhanded strokes. He touched her everywhere, leaving no angle or curve unexplored.
"I want to have you in every conceivable way, Eliza. I want to touch every part of you I can possibly reach with any part of me. My tongue, my fingers, my cock."
He stroked her between the legs, cupping and parting the secret folds of her sex. She was warm and already growing wet for him, arching into his caress.
"I will leave no inch of you unclaimed." With his other hand, he swept a touch down her leg. "I'll be damned if I'll lie dying on some battlefield, staring up at the cruel stars and thinking to myself, 'Devil take it, now some other cur will be the first to suckle Eliza Cade's toes.' "
"Suckle my toes?" She struggled up on one elbow, laughing. "Why ever would a man want to suckle a lady's--Oh. Oh, Harry."
She fell back against the chaise, wriggling and gasping as he pulled her tiny, delicious middle toe into his mouth, working his tongue around it and teasing the sensitive webs between her toes.
"That's why." He released her with a quick squeeze to the arch of her foot.
"You're so wicked." She threw him a flirtatious look. "And I'm so glad of it."
Grinning, he shucked off his trousers and pulled his shirt over his head, casting it aside.