She took the glass, her eyes twinkling as she compared it to his. “Kirk, please, I’m a Scot.”
She was more than a Scot. She was a bold and lovely woman with gray-blue eyes that mirrored every thought, and he wanted her so badly that his body ached.
Her gaze locked with his and slowly, she tipped the glass up and drank the mouthful of liquid. She smiled as she swallowed and handed him the empty glass. “At least a finger pour this time, please.”
He smiled and returned to the sideboard to pour her a finger’s width of whiskey, then brought it to her.
She cupped it in both hands. “Thank you.” She took an appreciative sip. “This is excellent.”
She tilted her head to one side and regarded him, a thoughtful smile on her lips. “The poem tonight was lovely. You’ve always had a talent for reading aloud.”
It was worth it, to see that smile. He placed his glass on the edge of the table and captured her hand. It was so small, fitting inside his own perfectly, the fingers long and tapered. He turned it over and pressed a kiss to the palm.
Her fingers trembled as she closed her hand over the kiss, as if to hold it there. “Kirk, do you . . . do you enjoy being here, at the castle?”
“I suppose so. Why?”
“I don’t know. I had such high hopes for coming here. I thought I’d find romance and excitement and—” She uncurled her fingers and looked at her palm as if she thought she’d find an answer there. “Sometimes it can be a bit lonely. Even with all of these people about, I feel alone in some way. But then I see you, and things seem better.”
“I suppose I remind you of home.” He hesitated and then said, “Life was simpler there, wasn’t it?”
“We were, at least.” Her gaze dropped to the amber liquid in her glass as she swirled it slowly.
He watched her face, noting the thoughts flitting over it. “You’re not happy.”
She shot him a surprised look and then shrugged. “I should be. Life here is everything I’d imagined it would be: sumptuous, lavish, beautiful, and—”
“Dull.”
She hesitated. “Not dull, but . . .” She frowned. “Do you ever feel out of place?”
“Every moment of every day. But I’ve never been comfortable around people.”
“Even before the accident?”
“Society was never my preferred way of life.” He cocked a brow at her. “But you enjoy it.”
“I do, and I’ve met some lovely people, but . . .” She smiled and shook her head. “I’d dreamed for so long of having a season, of attending balls and having lovely gowns. And now here I am, the guest of a duchess determined to provide us with the best of every amusement. I should be grateful—I am grateful—for it’s been a lovely experience. But . . . I miss home.” Her gray-blue gaze turned to him. “I didn’t expect that.”
“Perhaps you’ll get used to it. You haven’t traveled much.”
“That’s another difference. These people have all done so much more than I have—they’ve been more places, seen more things, know more—”
“Pah! They may have traveled more physically, but I doubt any of them know the value of where they’ve been. Lord Dunsteed had the temerity to complain that the ruins he visited in Greece were in such sad shape, the walls tumbling down and columns upon the ground, that it was hard to envision what they should look like, and that the government should come in and ‘redo them all.’ ”
She blinked. “But they’re ruins.”
“Exactly what I told him. That’s how we found them, and that’s how they should be preserved. But he maintained that we should rebuild them and even add to them, to bring them ‘up to level.’ ”
“What a fool!”
“Exactly what I thought. He even suggested that with the right seating and the leveling of the dirt, the Coliseum might make a fine cricket stadium—”
She burst out laughing.
Kirk had to grin. “I’d better not mention what he thought should be done with the Temple of Venus.”
“I can’t even imagine.”
“I should hope not. So don’t sell yourself short, thinking that just because these ninnies have traveled more, that they’re any better than you.”
“They’re not all ninnies.” But she had to admit, at least to herself, that he was right. She took a sip of the whiskey, listening to the fire crackle as she savored the warm liquid. The fire illuminated the amber liquid in Kirk’s glass and cast intriguing shadows over his face. Her gaze flickered lower, and she wondered how he’d look without the pressed cravat and fancy coat. Was he as muscular as he felt when she’d kissed him?
He looked down at his shirt. “Is something wrong with my waistcoat?”
Yes, you’re wearing one. Not giving herself time to think, she set down her glass, stepped forward, and placed her hand on his chest.
His dark gaze raked over her, brushing her like a touch and making her stomach quiver as he set his glass beside hers and then captured her hand, his warm fingers closing over hers.
Dahlia’s heart thudded harder. “Kirk, I—” Words fled. “I want—” She wanted him, but more than that, she wanted him to touch her, to tease her to life, to show her how—
He kissed her, and all thoughts disappeared under a thunderous wave of passion.
Kirk felt her soften instantly against him and he slipped his arm about her waist, holding her against him as he deepened the kiss. She instantly responded, her hips moving wantonly against his as she urged, invited, begged.
And he was all too willing to oblige. He traced her curves, sliding his hands from her waist to her hips and onto her rounded bottom. He held her to him, reveling in her full curves. She grasped his arms, his shoulders, and then slid her hands to his chest, fumbling with the buttons of his waistcoat.
Passion burned through him unchecked. God, he wanted this woman! His body demanded it, demanded her. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, harm the delicate accord they’d finally reached. With the greatest reluctance, he broke the kiss and, panting heavily, rested his forehead against hers.
She scowled up at him, almost causing him to laugh. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
“I must hear you say this is what you want.” He cupped her face, marveling at the silk of her skin. “We’ve made so many errors, and I don’t want this to be one of them.”
“I’m certain. What you said earlier tonight . . . Yes, Kirk. Yes, yes, yes!”
What I said earlier? What was that? “Dahlia, I—”
She raised up on her tiptoes and pulled his mouth to hers, pressing her soft body against him. All thoughts disappeared, burned away by a hot sear of passion. He slipped his hand up from her waist, and cupped her breast. She gasped, then pressed into his hand. Her gown was as thin as a wisp and he could feel the lace of her chemise beneath the material as he found her peaked nipple and teased it with a gentle brush.
She moaned and rubbed her hips to his, inviting and pleading without words.
He lifted her to the billiards table and pressed between her legs. She opened for him, her legs parting, her skirts lifting to her calves.
She clutched at his waistcoat, pulling him closer, rocking against him suggestively as her kisses grew more desperate.
He slid his hand from her ankle to her bared calf, where he cupped the glorious fullness. Her skin was so warm, so wonderfully silken. He followed the line of her calf to her knee, and then onto her thigh, sliding her skirts up as he went.
Dahlia gasped at his boldness. The warmth of his hand on her bare leg, combined with the cooler air in the room, made her shiver with delight. She felt free and unfettered as his hand roamed higher. When his fingers brushed her most intimate folds, she went rigid with shock. He stroked again, raining kisses over her face and neck, distracting her with his murmurs and caresses.
Each time he stroked her it stirred something deep inside, making her writhe in pleasure, awash in a desire for something she couldn’t name. “More,” she whispered agains
t his lips.
He obliged her, stroking her more firmly as she pressed into his hand, her thighs damp with passion. Then, as suddenly as a star streaking across the sky, sweet release slammed into her and she grasped his wrist and jerked forward, wave after wave of passion tumbling through her.
He held her tight, burying his face in her neck as she clutched him, his cock aching as he felt her wetness. “I want you,” he growled. He wanted her, needed her, had to have her. He kissed her with every bit of passion he felt and she returned it, her body still shaking with tiny tremors, easy to re-arouse.
Suddenly there were too many clothes between them and they were both tugging, pulling, trying to get closer. She fumbled with his waistcoat and he pulled back.
“No. We don’t need—” He undid his breeches and pushed them down, his cock springing forward.
Dahlia’s eyes widened but she didn’t hesitate, her warm hand encircling him firmly. Gritting his teeth against the onslaught of sensual waves, he gently grasped her wrist and freed himself, her arms going around his neck as he tugged her forward on the table. And then he was pressing against her, the tip of his manhood searching for her slick heat.
Dahlia had never felt anything so exquisite. She grasped his shoulders and arched against him, pressing into him, onto him as he slipped inside her. The size of him surprised her and she gasped and froze in place. He lifted her thighs and tugged them about his hips. Instinctively, she locked her legs about his waist and surged forward. There was a moment of resistance and then he was moving, sending waves of heat and delicious fullness through her, so overwhelming that she could only close her eyes and gasp with the wonder of it.
As Kirk thrust firmly, again and again, the heat began to rise inside her. She writhed in an attempt to pull him closer, to capture this moment, and all of him, shivers of wildness racing through her.
Through her lashes she caught a glimpse of his face, his eyes closed tight, his thick lashes upon his cheeks, an expression of pained pleasure on his face as he took and gave, all in the same stroke.
Had she known how blissful this was, she never would have hesitated. Wanting more, she tightened her legs and pulled him closer, opening for him.
He groaned, his brow damp as he rocked against her, pressing kisses to her shoulder, her neck, his warm breath making her moan in return. Her breasts felt heavy and full and she ran her hands over his arms, his powerful shoulders, the heat between her legs turning molten. The fire deep inside her began to rage, pushing her into mad desperation. She clutched him as wave after wave of passion raced through her, deeper and more fully, each stroke increasing her madness.
Her pleasure seemed to inflame his, for he was suddenly moving faster and faster. Then he arched against her, pulsing deep within her as he held her tight—and as he buried his face in her hair, he cried out her name.
Sixteen
From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
One moment they were there, and then they weren’t. I don’t think anyone noticed, either. Later on, someone was looking for Lord Kirk to congratulate him on his reading, but I told them he’d asked to be excused with a headache.
I told him she would respond to a poem. I do hope he remembers to thank me when he sees me tomorrow.
* * *
For long moments afterward neither said a word, their harsh breathing and the crackle of the fire the only sounds in the otherwise silent room. Dahlia slowly became aware of the hardness of the table under her hips, of the chill of her side turned away from the fire, of the awkward splay of her legs where Kirk leaned between them. Yet still she clung to him, her face pressed into his neck, refusing to let the moment go.
He laid his forehead against her temple as his breathing slowly returned to normal. The warmth of his breath made her snuggle closer.
Finally, he lifted his head and looked into her eyes.
She offered a tentative smile.
“That was—” He shook his head. “There are no words.”
Her face was already as heated as it could get, but she managed a nod.
He pushed away from the table and pulled her skirts back into place, his hands lingering in a way that made her smile. “Here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it into her hands. As he did so, he kissed her forehead.
His warm breath sent a delicious aftershock shiver racing through her. Smiling, he turned to the fire and made a show of banking the blaze.
She cleaned herself, pulled down her skirts, and then crossed to the fire to toss the handkerchief into the flames. As she did so, she caught sight of herself in the mirror that hung over the mantel. Her hair was falling down, her face was flushed a soft pink, and her lips were swollen and red. She looked . . . fulfilled.
She smiled, and began fixing her hair as best she could.
Kirk came behind her, slipped an arm around her waist, and kissed her ear. “Mmmm.”
Her lashes lowered and she leaned into him, turning her head to offer him better access to her neck. She met his gaze in the mirror and smiled. “I can’t seem to get enough of your touch.”
“A perfect match.” Kirk bent to gently nip her shoulder. He couldn’t seem to stop touching her, tasting her. Each touch makes me crave another. “We’re compatible in so many ways.”
“Oh no. You’re not going to reduce this down to something as mundane as compatibility.”
He chuckled and pulled her back so that she was tucked against him. “Compatibility is a good thing. It’s real, unlike that ridiculous poem.”
She stiffened in his arms. “Ridiculous?”
“Thoroughly.” He captured a strand of silken hair and twined it about his fingers. “I don’t know how anyone could like Byron, for his style could only be called exaggerated sappiness, but—” He shrugged. “I knew you like his work, so I read it for you.”
She pulled away and turned to look up at him, a question in her eyes. “So the poem . . . it wasn’t about me?”
He laughed. “You’ll have to ask Byron who it’s about, but I doubt it’s you since you have the wrong color eyes.”
“You changed the color to mine.”
“Oh, that. Lady Charlotte suggested it before the reading.”
“Then you . . . you never said those words from the poem to me.”
His smile faded. “I read it to you, of course, and everyone else in the room. Why—”
“Oh!” She pulled away and pressed her fingers to her temple, and he noted that her hands were shaking. “Good God. I thought—” She couldn’t seem to get the words out.
“You thought what?”
“I— Kirk, you didn’t choose that poem because it reminded you of me.”
He could see the answer she wanted, but honesty made him say, “I picked it because it was short, and I had very little time to memorize it.”
“But . . . you looked at me through the entire recitation.”
“I didn’t dare look at anyone else.” At her blank stare, he added, “I was nervous. I know you. I trust you. I thought . . . Yes, I looked at you.”
She said bleakly, “I thought you meant that poem was about me. About us.”
Her pale face alarmed him. “Dahlia, I am very serious about us, and about our future.”
“Our future?”
“Of course. Once we marry.”
“Marry? But you haven’t even— No, Kirk!” She threw up her hands and moved away from him. “You still don’t understand. Not even after—” She clamped her lips together. “I’m not marrying you.”
“Of course you will,” he said impatiently. “You must.”
“There’s no must in this.”
“Don’t be foolish. After what we just did, how could we not marry?”
“Easily.” She locked gazes with him. “People do what we just did all the time, and not all of them marry.”
He started to argue, but her paleness gave him pause. Something was wrong—very wrong. But what? “Dahlia, what’s wron
g? You were happy until just now.”
“The emotions in that poem—they weren’t yours. I thought they were.” The bleakness in her voice chilled his soul.
“I never claimed that. Besides, how could they be, when I didn’t write them?” He raked a hand through his hair, feeling as if he were standing upon very, very thin ice in the center of a huge, frozen pond. “Dahlia, if you want me to write you some damned poetry, I will, but I’m not good at that sort of thing. It would be wretched.”
“ ‘Damned poetry.’ Lovely. That’s exactly what I’d like—damned poetry. Pray do not put yourself through such torture on my behalf.”
“It would be unpleasant, I admit it, but I wouldn’t call it torture,” he said generously.
Her expression hardened and she turned away and picked up her shawl from the edge of the billiards table. “I am such a fool. I thought you wished to marry me because you cared for me.”
“Of course I care for you.”
“How much?”
Good God, how did one answer a question like that? “Plenty.”
“ ‘Plenty.’ ” Her flat tone told him what she thought of his answer. “You ‘care’ for me ‘plenty.’ ”
He hurried to add, “Marriage isn’t always based on some sort of soon-forgotten love. We’re fond of one another, and that’s worth so much. We’re compatible in so many—”
She threw up a hand. “I don’t ever want to hear that word again—‘compatible.’ I hate that word.”
“But we are. We both love to read and we enjoy quiet evenings and history, and— We just found out that we’re also compatible in bed.”
“And?”
He rubbed his cheek. “And what? Isn’t that enough?”
“No. I want love. Kirk, do you love me? Really, really love me?”
He sighed. “Dahlia, look. We both came here to find a mate, and we found the perfect candidate in each other. Why must you cloud the issue with talk of love and—”
“First of all, we didn’t both come here to find a mate. I came to find love, and then hopefully marriage. Marrying for love is not the same as marrying for convenience, and because you find the other person ‘compatible.’ ”