with a totally unsuitable woman-an English-woman! a widow! the mother of children!-he’d stopped telling himself she was too old for him, but everything else still applied-he couldn’t quell the attraction he felt.
But in fact that wasn’t true.
Just yesterday he’d met two of Buckworthy’s beauties in the street outside the
“Aurora Ponsonby,” she told him, “an old friend of his lordship.”
It took a minute for Gabe to realize she was talking about Earl. Then he’d done his best to be polite and make small talk with them, though he’d have much preferred to be making mincemeat out of Percy because Percy had followed him out to deliver a long-winded spiel about something else that had never been done before.
He’d barely noticed the Ponsonby females. It hadn’t occurred to him until later that there was calculation in the introduction, that Aurora Ponsonby had been extolling her granddaughters’ virtues rather heavy-handedly. Did she consider him a catch, then?
Didn’t matter. He wasn’t interested in being caught.
But he
He wondered how smart this had actually been, getting them on the bed together, when absolutely nothing could happen.
Well, maybe not absolutely nothing…
He flexed his shoulders against the headboard of the bed and eased himself closer to her.
“They’re asleep. We can go,” Freddie whispered.
“Hmm?”
“You said-”
“We’d wake them up when we go. We’re not going yet.”
“We can’t stay here all night!”
“Why not?”
“Because,” she began. Then abruptly stopped. She looked at him quickly in the dimness, then just as quickly, she looked away. “We have to go,” she muttered, but she sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as him.
“Just a little longer.” He grinned faintly. “Who knows? The ghost might really show up.”
“You don’t believe that now any more than you did when you were ten.”
“Oh, I’m a lot different than I was when I was ten,” he told her, his voice rough with a desire his ten-year-old self had had no inkling of.
Freddie plucked at the sleeping bag that was tucked around her and Emma. Then she let out a soft sigh and settled back once more. He breathed a little easier.
“You’ve worked really hard on the abbey,” he said after a few minutes. Even though it still seemed like the dampest, coldest place on earth to him, the guided tour she had taken him on earlier in the evening taught him just how much upkeep was required and how well she’d done.
“I try,” she said. “I’m not sure I’m the best person for the job, but Lord Stanton insisted…”
“How long have you been doing it?”
“Since my husband died. Mark worked for the earl. He died in a storm bringing the yacht back from Calais, and for some reason his lordship felt responsible. He shouldn’t have,” she said earnestly. “It was Mark who was reckless. Mark who took the risk. No one asked him to!” She stopped abruptly, apparently aware that any further exclamations might wake the children.
“Do you…” He stopped, unsure how to ask, still, for reasons he didn’t want to examine too closely, needing to. “Do you still miss him?” Now there was a stupid question! She’d loved him, married him. Of course she missed him! “A lot, I mean?”
For a minute Gabe didn’t think she was going to answer, and he knew the question was as impertinent as it had been awkward. “I’m sorry. I had no right. I-”
“I miss him,” Freddie answered. “But it’s kind of a hollow feeling now. An emptiness. Not pain anymore. Sometimes, I just get angry. I think, ‘what a waste.’ He’s missing his children! He’s not going to see them grow up.” Her fingers knotted on the sleeping bag again.
And Gabe, before he could stop himself, reached out and wrapped his hand around hers. He thought she might pull away so he tightened his grip just a little.
But after a split second’s resistance, Freddie’s hand relaxed in his. Slowly Gabe let his breath out, rubbed his thumb against her knuckle. Curved his fingers around hers. Didn’t move. Just sat. Breathed.
Desired.
Wanted.
Freddie Crossman.
A lot.
A whole lot.
He ran his tongue over suddenly parched lips. He shifted, trying to get a little more room inside his jeans. His thumb moved to caress the side of her hand. Her skin was so soft. He knew she worked hard, but her fingers still seemed softer than any he’d ever touched. He brought them to his lips.
Freddie sucked in a sharp breath. Gabe felt a faint tremor in her hand. He sensed one running through her whole body. But she didn’t pull away as he pressed his mouth lightly against her fingers.
“G-Gabe?” There was only a hint of protest in her voice. It was breathless, and she sounded as hungry as he was.
“Mmm.” He didn’t move his mouth, just murmured against her hand, let his tongue slide out from between his lips and touched it to her fingers.
“Gabe!” Shock, but no less hunger.
“Fred.” Hell of a thing to be whispering! It almost made him laugh. His lips curved and he nibbled her fingers, then he eased himself around the sleeping Emma and took her mother into his arms.
She came willingly, all the time saying softly, “We can’t do this!”
“Sure we can.”
“The children-”
“Are out like lights, both of them.”
“We can’t- We’re not-” She stiffened.
“We won’t,” Gabe promised, soothing. “Just kissing, Fred. Just… touching.”
“P-promise?”
He promised-and meant it.
He didn’t need an audience for what he wanted to do with Freddie Crossman. He didn’t want their first time to be furtive and groping and quick. He wanted to take his time, to love her fully. And he was no callow boy. He might want her desperately, but he could wait.
In the meantime, though, he could heighten the pleasure for both of them. He could kiss and stroke and nibble and touch. So he did.
He moved slowly, taking his time, relishing the experience. And after a few moments of tension where Freddie barely seemed to breathe, finally, slowly, she began to relax in his embrace. Her lips touched his cheek, nuzzled his neck, sent a shiver of longing right down to his core.
Gabe bit his lip.
