She placed the cloth on the basin, then slipped onto the mattress.
The sight of her, smooth, bare, blushing, kneeling between his hairy legs, was male and female in its essence. Power coursed through his veins, yet as she reached for him he was helpless. She rested her hands on his knees, then slid them up the inside of his thighs. Her fingers caressed his balls as if fascinated by the textures, then wrapped around his erection. Holding the length against her palm, she used her thumb to circle the head.
A thick, white drop oozed from the opening, and his testicles tightened in anticipation. He wanted inside her again.
“You’re very large, my master. No wonder my body struggled to accommodate you.” Her soft, wondering tone encouraged him to grow yet more.
Yet her words made him remember…she was right. Damn it, she was right. She could barely take him the first time. She could not do it again. Someone in this little twosome had to show some responsibility, and apparently, it was him. Harsh with disappointment, he said, “You can’t accommodate me again tonight.”
She smiled slightly, her gaze on her hands as she smoothed the drop over and around, using it as an emollient. “There are other ways to satisfy a man.”
This woman, this inexperienced woman, gave him more pleasure than ever he had imagined—and he had imagined a lot. Now she was offering a delight of which most women had never heard. For a marvelous second, he was tempted…but no.
Responsibility. He had to show responsibility. “Not tonight. If you torment me tonight, I’ll have you on your back and your legs in the air.”
She rose onto her knees. Taking his hand, she guided it between her legs.
He wanted to think, to be sensible, but how could he when this woman guided his own fingers into her? She was damp and slick, and his fingers slipped right in. Red lust obscured his vision.
When it cleared, he saw her smiling at him. “As the concubines taught us, I cleansed myself, then applied an oil to ease your way, should you again wish to…have me on my back with my legs in the air.”
She had prepared herself to receive him. At the mere idea, he had trouble getting a breath.
“Or perhaps,” she said, “I could mount you. In this manner, I could control the motion. Then it would be impossible for you to make me uncomfortable.”
Mount him? Control the motion?
Gently, she drew his fingers away, eased herself down on his chest, and smiled into his face. “In the meantime, you must rest and recover from your previous efforts, while I try to revive your flagging interest.”
She thought she was so damned amusing.
Actually, he might think she was amusing, too, if she wasn’t resting on him, her breasts pressed to him as she searched out his nipples and tasted them. Bit them. Sliding down, she kissed his belly, his thighs. Everywhere she stopped, her smooth lips caressed his skin and heightened his desire, making his loins beat with the rhythm of his heart. He recalled what Eleanor had said just two nights ago. A woman can bathe a man’s genitals in her mouth. Was that what she had planned? And would he survive the ecstasy if it was?
He had never wanted anything so much in his life.
But he knew that was a lie, because more than that, he wanted Eleanor. He was as struck down with bliss as ever he’d hoped to make his bride. It was as if he were a lad, a virgin again, overwhelmed with the novelty of occupying a woman.
And what a woman! Eleanor had made a royal fool of him all across England and soon, when the story was carried on his ships, all across the world. If she had happened to anyone but him, he would have admired her.
Clasping his hips in her hands, she leaned down and licked the length of his cock, from the base to the head. The rasp of her tongue brought him right off of the bed.
In a demure tone he didn’t believe at all, she asked, “Did I hurt you, my master?”
“No,” he said hoarsely. “Please. Go on.”
Delicately, she slipped her lips around the head and sucked it into her mouth. She seemed amazed, for she used her lips to apply different pressures, then circled him with her tongue, over and over, roughly, then more gently.
“Deeper,” he whispered. “Harder.”
Lifting her head, she said, “Master, I did not give you advice when you rendered a like service for me.”
He wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t move the right muscles in his face. “I humbly beg your pardon.”
“Another day, I’ll ask what you like best. For now, if it pleases you, I wish to experiment.”
“Yes. That pleases me. Experiment.” He watched as her head dipped again, and he felt the sweet, wet warmth close on him. “The worst you could possibly do is wonderful.”
Sliding her mouth all the way down, her tongue moved around the length of him.
The pressure built inside him. His discipline roared away. The vision of her as she had looked when he was inside her arose in his mind: mindless with ecstasy, desperate for climax. He loved having her bathe him in her mouth, but more than that, he loved giving her pleasure.
And abruptly, he had to have her.
Taking her under the armpits, he lifted her away. She cried, “Wait!” but he had no more patience.
He placed her atop him, opened her, positioned himself to enter her—then, using the last of his waning restraint, he waited.
She lost her show of confidence. No longer the handmaiden but an almost completely inexperienced female, she trembled. Her face flushed, with embarrassment or excitement, he didn’t know. Taking a fortifying breath, she held herself above him, her spine straight, her chin lifted as if she faced some unfamiliar ordeal. Tucking her tongue in the corner of her lips, she held his cock and slowly pressed downward.
He entered her, and she was still so tight. So tight. But the oil smoothed the way, and again, in slow increments, he was enveloped by her. Her heat. Her body.
She was nervous, he could tell. Her hands clenched his arms, her legs flinched, and inside she tensed, as if fearing the repeat of the pain.
But he let her set the pace. She rose and she fell, never quite taking all of him. Her thighs worked beside his hips. Her breasts bobbed gently above him. Her shorn hair floated around her pinkening cheeks.
He wanted so badly to take over, to show her how to move, to pump his hips and bury himself inside her. But the torment was somehow even better, knowing he could conquer her at any minute and didn’t.
Little by little, her trepidation slipped away and fascination filled her face. The best stroke, for him, was when she finally pushed herself all the way on him, and he was bathed in her essence. Catching her, he held her still, for just a moment, to savor the intimacy, to taste the knowledge that soon another magnificent orgasm would shake him.
Then he let her go.
She smiled. She actually smiled at him, now, as if everything about him delighted her.
And he, who wanted to smile back, could not. He was too stricken by the lightning of divine delight.
She experimented: she swirled her hips, she slid up until he was barely inside her, then down so he was lodged in her all the way. Her hands caressed his chest and belly, and even reached between them and grasped his organ, and worked her fingers on him as she rose and fell.
He responded. He couldn’t help it. He groaned aloud. He shook with the effort of holding back his climax. And finally, he took his turn. He ran his fingertips over her skin from her shoulder blades to her waist, giving special attention to the sensitive underside of her breasts. He rocked his hips, scarcely moving them at first, concentrating on putting pressure against that feminine nub, which was so sensitive.
The absorption she showed in this new activity changed. She no longer tried out new movements; she concentrated on the simpler rhythm, rising over him like a Venus rising from the waves. Every time he reached her deepest point, he watched as her eyes opened and closed, lashes fluttering as she absorbed the sensation of having him inside her.
Small moans broke from her with each o
f his thrusts. Inside, she was molten heat and rough silk, drawing from him a response that built too quickly. The thought flitted through his mind that a few short minutes ago, he’d been convinced he couldn’t again rise to the occasion. Now he was having trouble holding back. This wife of his had bewitched him—and he rejoiced in the spell.
She begged, “Please. Remington. Please.”
Did she even realize what she begged for?
“Now,” she whispered. “Please. Remington. Now.”
Oh, yes. He wrapped her in his arms and rolled her over. Holding her close, he moved powerfully on her. With each stroke, he moved more strongly, more quickly, letting the gusts of passion lift them both, and when she cried out in his ear, when she shuddered with completion, he released his fever—and came again, as intensely as if he had never taken her at all.
She panted in his ear. She trembled in his arms. She was as weak and helpless as he could have ever desired, and he found his anger had slipped away—but his infatuation had not. Even though she had betrayed him, he still thought about her, wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted another woman.
Would he forgive her? When he thought about the death of his hopes, he knew he would not. Yet in her arms, he didn’t think of hopes, only of pleasure, pleasure so great as to overwhelm his senses.
Maybe pleasure would be enough.
Chapter 26
The next morning, Eleanor opened her eyes to find Remington, fully dressed, leaning over her, his fists braced on either side of her head.
His expression was not in the least loverlike. “Why didn’t you tell me the duke of Magnus was here last night?”
She blinked, trying to focus on his furious face, but he was very close, and she was still wrapped in the pleasurable cocoon of last night. “I…never thought about it.” She pushed a wisp of hair off her cheeks. “Why?”
“I don’t want that man in my house when I’m not here.”
“He’s my uncle. I can’t deny him entrance!” Remington’s manner confused her.
He wore a traveling suit of dark blue, perfectly fitted on his perfectly formed body. His blond hair had been perfectly brushed back from his perfectly shaved face. He smelled perfectly wonderful, like soap and fresh, clean man, but his distinctive, pale blue eyes were perfectly distant.
While she was naked, disheveled, and disconcerted. There was nothing perfect about her, and she found herself resenting him and the fact he could rise from their marriage bed without a care to the tender passion they’d exchanged, while she…she was still in love with him.
In a sharper tone than she’d yet used on him—indeed, than she’d ever used on any other human—she said, “I’d like to point out, I hardly had time to tell you a list of our guests. Furthermore, if you’d married Madeline, Magnus would be here quite often. He’s her father, you know.”
“I do know. I know exactly who he is, and I know exactly what he is.”
Most men liked Magnus. He was bluff, hearty, a gambler, a drinker, and generous to a fault—a man’s man in every way. But despite Remington’s win over him at the card table, Remington obviously despised Magnus—and more important, he acted as if he didn’t trust him.
Remington had said something last night, too, something that had puzzled her, but which had gotten shunted aside in the rush of desire. From the depths of her memory, she called up the phrase he had used. “What did you mean, you’ve escaped death at the hands of my family before?”
“Ah.” The corner of Remington’s lips curled in a sneer that mocked and hurt. “That finally got through to you, did it?”
In her mind, she put together incongruities, bits and pieces that hinted Remington had a greater plan than he’d yet admitted. Lifting her head from the pillow, she gazed at him. “Did you cheat at cards when you won Madeline’s hand in marriage?”
“No,” he said flatly. “I don’t cheat.”
She eased into a sitting position, keeping the blankets around her. “You must have wagered a great deal on the hand yourself.”
Remington straightened up and watched her, arms folded across his chest. “I wagered my shipping company.”
“The whole thing?” Yet he wasn’t a compulsive gambler. Lady Gertrude had expressed that belief, and at the Picards’ ball, he’d been not at all interested in the card room. In measured tones, she asked, “Why did you want the duchess?”
He watched her, cynicism in the depths of his eyes. “You know why.”
“Money. What other reason could there be? Money and power.” Eleanor didn’t believe it.
“Power. Yes. Power over the most important de Lacy in the land. The power of life and death. The power to make the duke of Magnus dance to my tune.”
She blinked at Remington’s intensity. Her mind raced, and she said shrewdly, “So few people care one way or the other about controlling the duke of Magnus. He’s like a faulty pistol. There’s never any certainty he’ll do as he’s supposed to do. For instance—he gambled his daughter away to a chance-met stranger. Is that the act of a loving father? Yet I think he loves Madeline.”
“I was not a chance-met stranger,” Remington said. “I very carefully arranged the meeting.”
He had confirmed her suspicions, and she repeated, “For the money and the power.”
He looked forbidding, not at all like the enthusiastic lover of last night. “Why do you care?”
She ached at his casual dismissal of her, but she was proud. If he could be indifferent, so could she—or at least, she could pretend to be. “I think it very odd that an American man, a man of wealth and distinction in his own country, should come to England specifically to enter society and wed a duchess.”
His lids lowered, shielding his expression from her. “You’re very inquisitive this morning.”
And why would he want to shield his thoughts?
Because he had something to hide.
Disillusionment filled her. She had thought, hoped, imagined, that last night, they’d formed a bond between them. Not of love, at least not on his part, but of pleasure. Now Remington effectively rebuffed her, and hostility took the place of her regret. “As you said, we are well and truly wed, with no way of escaping the confines of the matrimony. Should I not understand what my husband thinks?”
“You want to know what I sought with marriage with the future duchess of Magnus?” He smiled, a smile with all the chill of a northern winter. “I was seeking revenge.”
What had he done?
Worse, what had she done? Into what scheme had her foolish love for him propelled her? “You lied to me.”
“What?” There was a scratch at the door. He flung a puzzled glance at her, then went to open it.
Lizzie bounced in, tail wagging, ears up, thrilled to see them and impervious to the hostile atmosphere.
“What do you mean, I lied to you?” Remington demanded.
Eleanor patted the bed, and the dog made a flying leap onto the mattress. “You lied to me. I asked you why you wanted to marry Madeline, and you said money and power. If you’d told me the truth, if you had said vengeance, I would have never wed you.”
“Are you saying I should have blithely confessed I wanted vengeance on the de Lacys? Woman, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
She fended off a doggie morning kiss and scratched Lizzie’s head. “I’m saying you must take at least partial responsibility for our marriage.”
“I do, my dear. Believe me, I fully recognize the depths of my—” He hesitated.
Stupidity. He was going to say stupidity.
“Culpability.” Striding to the windows, he flung back the drapes. “Do you know the tale of Lady Pricilla and her lover?”
Outside, the sun was shining, the clouds had disappeared. But here, in Remington’s bedchamber, dark emotions obscured the obvious, and Eleanor felt as if she were groping through old passions and old hates. “I know…some of the tale. And how odd you should bring it up. Nothing has been said in my hearing for so
many years, and now twice within a week, I’m reminded of the tragedy.”
Remington swung on her, and the light showed a harshness to his face she had never seen before. Even the dog subsided with a whine. “Who else spoke of it? The duke of Magnus, I’ll wager.”
“Not at all. ’Twas Lord Fanthorpe. He was betrothed to her.”
Remington’s eyes narrowed. “So he was.”
“He speaks of her in heartbreaking tribute.” The poor man.
“He was one of the suspects in the murder. Did you know that?”
With a shiver, she pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “That wobbly old fellow? Absurd.”
Her dismissal of Lord Fanthorpe’s guilt obviously irritated Remington. He paced toward her, then, as if he feared to come too close, he paced away. “He wasn’t then wobbly or old—and she was going to run off with someone else.”
This situation got more peculiar and more disturbing with every word Remington spoke. Carefully, she observed her husband as he stood, large, intimidating, back to the light. “How do you know that? And why do you care?”
“I’m the son of the someone else she was going to run off with.”
“Ohh.” Enlightenment dawned. Eleanor stared at him, assimilating the information, and she believed him. For if his father had looked like him, every woman in the world would abandon good sense to have him. After all, wasn’t that what Eleanor herself had done?
“You don’t seem surprised,” he said.
“I am. I just…I begin to understand. Not everything, but the pieces are falling into place.” No longer did Remington’s obsession seem so unusual.
“I must confess, that’s not the story Lord Fanthorpe told. He said a commoner fell in love with Lady Pricilla, and when she would not return his affection, he murdered her.”
Remington smiled unpleasantly. “Fanthorpe didn’t like knowing his betrothed preferred another.”
“I suppose no man likes that.” And Lord Fanthorpe, with his disdain for commoners, probably more than most. “So you think he murdered Lady Pricilla in a jealous frenzy?”