“Would you like me to tie you up?” he asked in his most coaxing tone. “You wouldn’t have to blame yourself for anything then. You could say you had no choice, and I forced you to my will.”
She didn’t appear to be listening, but he knew she could hear him. Her eyes were closed, her head was thrown back as his finger probed her depths. She’d pulled a cushion into her chest and hugged it with both her arms, as she would him when the time came.
As he slid his thumb up to seek out her nub, he said, “We have all the time in the world to try every position, everything you heard in your harem, everything I know, and everything we can make up.”
Her legs were clutching at him now, twining around him. She was trying to draw him in, and she didn’t even know what she was doing. She was drowning in instinct, and he loved it. Loved knowing that this woman, so soft and tender, could blaze to passion with a single touch. And he was going to give her…more than a touch.
Leaning his head down, he breathed in her fragrance. “My darling girl, tonight is the first of a thousand nights. Remember this—I’m going to possess you in every way a man can possess a woman, and you’re going to beg me for more.”
Her eyes opened as if she wanted to retort.
But before she could form the words, he placed his mouth between her legs and enticed her into heaven.
Chapter 19
At two in the afternoon, a crack of thunder shook the house.
Eleanor’s eyes snapped open. She stared at the ceiling of her dim bedroom. She listened to the rain pounding at the window. Blinked as the flash of lightning blinded her. And remembered…
Last night, she had been drunk. Some people, when they drank, remembered nothing. But she was not so lucky.
Covering her face with her hands, she cringed with embarrassment.
She remembered…everything.
Oh, God, she remembered every last embarrassing, wonderful moment.
Mr. Knight had done things to her she had never, ever, imagined. Just because she had refused to accompany Dickie Driscoll and had lost her last chance to escape Mr. Knight, just because she’d been sunk in guilt at her decision to let fate decide if she should marry Mr. Knight, she had taken refuge in drink. And as every woman she had ever met had warned her a man would do, he had taken advantage of her.
But just because she had taken refuge in drink didn’t mean Mr. Knight should have used her inebriation to seduce her.
If only she hadn’t told him about being in the harem…she groaned with mortification. What an idiot she was! Now Mr. Knight knew that she was familiar with acts most Englishwomen never imagined…and he’d given her her first lesson in passion.
She pulled the sheets over her head as if somehow she could shut out last night’s memories.
But putting her head under the covers showed her the dim outline of her bare body, and that reminded her of how she’d got to bed last night, and that reminded her…
The concubines had said that a man’s touch on one’s inner tissues was ecstasy. They hadn’t told her how a single finger, sliding inside her, would shock her. Mark her. Even now, lying among her crumpled sheets in her bedchamber, she could feel his touch inside her. She pressed her fingers to her temples, as if she could squeeze the memory from her brain.
At the same time, she slid her heels along the mattress to raise her knees, tenting the sheet and, as if he were here, now, making a place for him between her legs. Because no matter how mortified she was by the way she had acted the night before, no matter how often she told herself he had taken advantage of her inebriated state…she still wanted him. He was all she could think about.
Already, he had filled her with wickedness, for her fingers glided under the covers, across her belly, into the hair between her legs. Her hand halted, quivered, but her willpower proved no match for her memories. Her fingers slid down between her slit to carefully touch herself. Everything seemed the same, yet everything was different.
Nothing the concubines had said had prepared her for the rough sensation of his tongue against the tenderest tissues between her legs. She had thought she would faint from the pleasure of his warmth, his breath. The dim, close world of the window seat receded to a pinpoint of consciousness. All of her senses were concentrated between her thighs and deep inside her womb.
Even now, the memory of his attentions made her fingers grow damp and her folds swell.
The memory of his mouth, his lips, his tongue…the way he used them, skillfully creating passion where nothing but skepticism had existed before. Gradually, sensation built from lavish pleasure to unbearable sensation. Her skin, all of her skin, flushed with desire. Her nipples grew tight and rasped against her chemise. Deep inside her, she’d tensed, as if her whole body had been waiting for one defining moment.
When he’d tenderly sucked on that most sensitive nub, she’d moaned in anguish. In ecstasy. She’d lifted herself, spasming against his mouth. As if he had known what would happen, he continued to suck, pulling her from one peak of ecstasy to another. And when at last she would have stopped, overwhelmed, trembling with exhaustion, he’d slid his finger inside her again, and sent her into another spasm, greater than the first.
Finally, she’d finished. Not because she could no longer continue, but because he’d allowed her respite. She’d melted onto the cushions, almost numb with satiation, and with a chuckle that had sounded both diabolical and satisfied, he’d picked her up and carried her to her bedchamber.
There Beth had been waiting up to help her to bed.
But Mr. Knight was having none of that. He’d sent Beth away, laid Eleanor on the bed and undressed her himself.
If only she could forget his expression as he’d eased her gown off of her! If only she could stop being pleased that he had looked absolutely rampant with desire!
His eyes had grown hot as he’d stared at her, sprawled on the bed clad only in her light silk chemise and her stockings. His chest rose and fell like a great bellows, and she knew, with every feminine instinct, that he’d wanted her. The woman on the bed had relished his desire. Had wanted him at that moment.
The brandy had made everything crystal clear. The marriage would probably never happen. This was probably her only chance to know his possession.
So she had let him look his fill. When he’d made no move to join her on the bed, she had loosened the tie at her neckline. With a hand on each side, she’d slid the chemise off her shoulders and freed her breasts.
Only his harsh breathing had broken the silence in her bedchamber. He’d stared with intense concentration, and his attention had stoked her confidence. She’d slithered out of the chemise completely, wiggling on the bed in a prone and erotic dance.
His lips had parted. Color had ridden high in his cheeks.
Lifting her knee, she’d untied her garter.
His gaze had skittered down her body to look between her legs. He’d already seen everything, but that didn’t seem to make a difference. As she’d lifted her other knee, he’d caught and held her ankle. With definite motions, he’d untied the garter and tossed it aside. He’d pushed the stocking off her foot and tossed it, too, leaving her completely nude.
Bracing himself on either side of her head, he’d kissed her briefly and hard. Taking her cheeks between his hands, he’d looked into her eyes. “Not until after the wedding.”
It hadn’t been a rejection. It had been more like menace, for his gaze had seared her from head to toe and his hands beside her head had curled into fists. He hadn’t touched her because if he had, he wouldn’t stop, and he knew it, and she knew it.
It had been a triumph of sorts, and after he’d let himself out, she had gone to sleep hugging her victory to her heart.
Even now, mortified and unable to consider facing him ever, ever again, she wanted nothing more than to lie in his arms and mate with him.
She scarcely recognized herself. The old, prim Eleanor was almost vanquished, defeated by so many things: her exposure to Madel
ine and the confidence she’d learned from her, the experiences during the years abroad, and, most important, meeting Mr. Knight. By wanting Mr. Knight. Fool that she was, she loved him. Loved him…the new Eleanor thrived on that emotion.
Love. It changed everything, made the world a rainbow, sent fear scurrying away. Last night, Eleanor had even confronted Lady Shapster—and won. Her life was changing.
Eleanor was changing.
Eleanor was in love.
Rolling off the bed, Eleanor found her robe and donned it, then rang for Beth. The maid came at once, bustling in with a beaming smile.
Lady Gertrude was on her heels. “At last! Mr. Knight commanded that we let you sleep, but we have so much to do to get you ready for the wedding tomorrow I don’t know how we’re going to get everything accomplished. Just like a man! Never thinking of the logistics, just commanding that all be done.” She chuckled. “And we ladies do it for them, too. Aren’t we foolish?”
Firmly, Eleanor tied the tie on her robe. “What do we have to do?”
“Your wedding gown, my dear.” Lady Gertrude clasped her hands in glorious anticipation. “Mr. Knight has chosen a lovely dress for you, and the seamstress is here to fit it to you exactly.”
Eleanor lifted her chin. “It isn’t appropriate that Mr. Knight provide my wedding gown.” Abruptly, Eleanor realized how ludicrous she was being. If she married the man, she would marry him under false pretenses. To cavil about her wedding costume was ridiculous.
“It is appropriate that he provide everything for you from the moment you take your vows until death do you part,” Lady Gertrude said with severity.
A tight knot formed in Eleanor’s belly.
Lady Gertrude seemed not to recall anything about Eleanor not really being Madeline. Had Eleanor misunderstood her? Did she not know the truth? Eleanor’s tension translated to her rigid voice. “But is it appropriate for me to wed him?”
Lady Gertrude looked at her from rumpled head to bare toes, assessing her with sharp eyes. “You’re beautiful, you’re aristocratic, and you’re intelligent. Mr. Knight could search the world over, but he will never find a finer woman to take to wife.”
Eleanor stared back at Lady Gertrude in astonishment. “You do think I should wed him.”
“Indeed I do. All marriages suffer through a little difficulty at the beginning, and yours, I’m sure, will be no different.” Lady Gertrude picked at a piece of lint on her sleeve. “A little difficulty, a lot of difficulty, who can say? But the two of you make a beautiful couple, and—pardon my frank speaking—you want each other desperately. If he hadn’t announced the wedding for tomorrow, I fear your chastity would be at risk.”
If only Lady Gertrude knew.
“Besides, who do you think will rescue you?” Lady Gertrude looked pointedly at the storm lashing the windows. “If this keeps up, we’ll be lucky to make it to the church tomorrow. Roads are flooded all over London, and all over England, I’m sure. Beth says the wind has knocked over a church steeple in Cheapside.”
“Aye, mum, dreadful out there,” Beth agreed.
“So you see, dear niece, you have no choice in the matter. No choice at all.” Lady Gertrude shrugged philosophically. “And isn’t that always the case with weddings? The girl has no choice but to do as she’s forced to, and the male bitterly complains until she sweetens him in bed.”
Lady Gertrude did know Eleanor’s true identity, and still she thought Eleanor should marry Mr. Knight.
Well. Fine. Eleanor thought so, too.
“Mr. Knight has gone to the bank to attend to business,” Lady Gertrude said, “but he says he’ll see you at the church at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Won’t I see him today?”
“Absolutely not! It’s bad luck to see the groom before the wedding.” Lady Gertrude smiled ruefully. “And this wedding is courting bad luck enough.”
Eleanor battled disappointment and relief. Disappointment, because she had developed a need to see Mr. Knight every day. Relief because she didn’t have to face him yet…after last night.
As she stood on a stool in her bedchamber, allowing the seamstress to alter the beautiful gown Mr. Knight had chosen, she watched the rain sluice down the windows and wondered, could Madeline arrive in time to stop the wedding?
Chapter 20
The next morning, Remington stood on the steps of St. James’s and listened to the bells ring ten o’clock. They were late. His duchess was late.
“Just like a woman, eh?” Clark asked. “Late to her own wedding.”
Usually Remington enjoyed Clark’s cheerfulness, but right now the man’s jovial voice grated on his nerves. “She’ll be here soon.” He stared down the street, straining to hear the rumble of carriage wheels.
She couldn’t have discovered a way to escape him now. After the night of the betrothal ball, she wouldn’t even have tried. In a frenzy of passion, she had been willing to give herself to him—and he, fool that he was, hadn’t taken advantage of her. He had wanted her to know what she was doing when they made love. He had bound himself to his self-imposed schedule. He had told himself she would be glad for his restraint.
But the schedule didn’t matter when compared to his own desire. Furthermore, she might not have appreciated his honorable intentions and counted his refusal as rejection. And in the thirty hours since, his body had given him hell every minute for his honorable intentions. He’d spent the hours in semi-arousal—except for those minutes when he was fully aroused. Nothing had given him relief, not even discussing his shipping profits, and the day a woman distracted him from business was a black day indeed.
But this wasn’t just a woman. She was his duchess, and she had tasted like heaven and responded with an untutored ardor. When he finally got her under him, he wasn’t going to let her up for hours, days…
When he finally got her under him. They had the wedding to get through, then the wedding breakfast, then supper, then…my God, what had he been thinking? He couldn’t survive five minutes without wanting to swive her senseless. Now he had to wait hours?
Clark rocked back and forth on his heels, uneasy with Remington’s silence and Madeline’s tardiness. “The weather could have been worse. It could still be storming, and that, my friend, would be a disaster.”
“So it would.”
Puddles filled the streets. Clouds hid the sun. The wind was dashing down the streets and around corners with a moan—and Remington’s duchess still had not arrived.
“Rained half the night.” Clark looked up at the scuttling clouds. “I thought it would never stop. I thought we’d be here, holding a canopy over your fiancée to get her into the…what’s that?”
Remington heard it, too. The rumble of carriage wheels. Remington’s barouche took the corner at a dignified pace and pulled to a stop in front of the church steps.
“There they are,” Clark said heartily. “Your duchess is here. She’s going to wed you, after all. You lucky dog, you don’t deserve such a beauty.”
“Yes, I do.” Remington watched relentlessly as she gave her hand to the footman and descended the carriage—and deep inside him, a knot of disquiet loosened. “I most certainly do.”
She was wearing the clothes he had provided. At last, she dressed as he demanded.
The gown was white velvet, holding to her elegantly slender body with the care of a lover. Her spencer was Madonna blue silk, encasing her bosom so perfectly that his mouth grew dry with desire. She wore white leather boots and a hat that framed her sweet face in the same blue as the spencer. Of course, her bouquet was yellow roses. He had planned on white roses, for then she would have been, in his mind, the perfect bride. But his old ideal of perfection had wavered and changed, and he could see no one but his duchess. Nothing but his duchess. And whatever his duchess wanted, she should get.
She looked like an angel—and only he knew how very earthy she was. Only he knew how she tasted, warm and womanly. Only he knew the way she looked without her clothes.
Bare and smooth, with high, firm breasts and pale rose nipples. The indent of her waist, the flare of her hips, the notch between her thighs…he had wanted nothing more than to see her in her wedding gown.
Now he couldn’t wait to strip that gown off her and look on the lacy chemise she wore…she had worn it, hadn’t she? He had picked it out especially for their wedding day. She wouldn’t niggle at that, would she?
It wasn’t as if he would ask Lady Gertrude. Her aunt might object at discussing Madeline’s undergarments with him. Yet he needed to know, and a light perspiration sprung up on his forehead as he considered how long it would be before he could find out.
But while he could look nowhere but at his duchess, she looked everywhere except at him. A blush tinted her cheeks, and she looked uneasy, as if he would accuse her of something—immodesty, perhaps, or lasciviousness. He would speak to her. He would explain that a man like him did not think less of a woman for enjoying what he taught her.
But as he started toward her, his coachman heaved himself out of his seat and planted himself in Remington’s path. Reluctantly, Remington halted. “Yes, John?”
John pulled his forelock, and in a loud voice, said, “Sir, I beg yer pardon that we’re late. We ’ad a bit o’ a problem at Old Bond Street. Some fool fired a shot and spooked the ’orses.”
Remington halted in his tracks, his mind racing. “Fired a shot?”
Clark joined them, and echoed, “Fired a shot?”
In a quieter tone, John added, “I don’t know, sirs, but I would ’ave sworn the shot was fired right at the ’orses.”
Fury roared through Remington, an old fury, directed at the duke of Magnus, and all the more dangerous for being long thwarted. “Damn it!” Remington cut a glance toward Lady Gertrude and Madeline. Lady Gertrude was fussing with Madeline’s gown. Madeline was pulling her bonnet forward, as if she could hide behind its concealing brim.
“The ladies appear to be all right,” Clark observed.