“The East Indies, then? Emily wishes to visit the East. I could accompany her on her tour. If I ceaselessly moved around they might grow weary of pursuing me.” Her brows quirked up. “Are spies truly that persistent?”
“Some.”
“Are you?”
“I was never a spy. But, yes, I was that persistent.”
“You won’t continue with it now, will you?” Her gaze seemed to retreat.
He nodded.
“I see.” She placed her palm softly on his chest and her lashes dipped once more. “Touch me, please, Leam. Touch me now.”
He stroked the swell of her breast and she sighed, her eyes closing. She was exquisite, asking him to give her pleasure and nothing else when he would give her everything if she requested it. His fingers sought the sleeves of her shimmering gown and drew the scraps of fabric over her shoulders.
“‘A creature sent from Heaven to stay on earth, and show a miracle made sure.’” He touched his lips to her satin skin, sensing the quiver in her body, his own hands not entirely steady. “That you might have worn this gown for anyone but me fills me with jealousy.”
“I wore it for myself.” She lifted her lashes, regarding him through curtains over the soft gray.
“But if you wish, I will wear it for you the next time. Now remove it, if you please. And—and everything else.”
As at the inn, in an instant the confident woman became a girl. He could not bear to hurt her. He could not bear to bring her more unhappiness. So he gave her pleasure while he could.
Doing as she bid, he unfastened the elegant gown and it lay where it fell as he undressed her, discarding the layers of her cloak of sophistication. Only hazy need lit her eyes as he carried her to the bed and there touched her as she desired. He kissed her body, beauty formed of woman made for pleasure, her shoulders and waist, her breasts and the sweet curve of her hip. Easily she rose to his caresses, eagerly her slender hands explored him, driving him mad as they grew more confident. Her lips on him, and tentative tongue, undid him wholly. He could wait no longer.
“Kitty, love, give me yourself.”
She did, her hair cascading across the counterpane, eyes half lidded in passion. He entered her and her back arched, her peaked breasts jutting up as her lips parted and she pressed her palms to the mattress. Embedded in her heat, he could not draw breath. His chest seemed compressed, his heart struggling for its every beat.
Her gaze came to his.
“Leam?” she whispered.
“Kitty, I—” He could not speak.
She laid her hand upon his chest, then trailed her fingers down to his waist, then around to the small of his back.
“Do you remember in Shropshire when you promised you would make it last?” The velvet caress of her voice stroked his senses like her hand on his skin. She slid her knee up, the satin of her thigh cradling him. “Make it last now. Please.”
She spoke with her body but there was something more in her eyes, something he barely dared hope. Trust.
He made it last. As long as he reasonably could. She was tight and wet, and despite her words, impatient, a woman of passion whose body had barely known pleasure. Leam gave her what she asked for, bringing her to the edge with his mouth and hands, then again, until she whimpered, begging for release. When her shudders caressed his cock, her lips breathing his name, he let himself have her fully, possessing her so that she convulsed again, gasping and clutching at him in surprise.
She clung, trembling, her eyes closed and breathing fast. Catching his own breath he stroked damp tresses from her brow and kissed her parted lips. She opened onto him her rainclouds, and there was no longer any place for Leam’s heart but in her.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
His chest constricted. He brushed his thumb across her lower lip reddened from his kisses.
“If you continually thank me for making love to you,” he managed to utter, “I shall at some point grow too embarrassed to do so effectively.”
Her lips curved up. “I do not entirely understand what you mean, but in any case I do not believe that is possible.”
“Let us not find out, shall we?” he said tenderly enough, but his brow seemed taut and he drew away, leaving Kitty suddenly lighter, and cold. He only went far enough to gather the blanket and pull it over her, once again stroking the hair from her face when she turned onto her side. But he did not hold her. Instead he rested on his back and passed his hand across his mouth and jaw.
Kitty drew in steadying breaths, willing her heartbeats to slow. This was what it was to be a man’s mistress. To give him her body. To make love to him in her bed—or on a kitchen countertop, apparently—until she knew only him. And to pretend in public that they barely knew each other. And to not really completely understand him. Still, to fear him a little. Mostly to fear the power he had over her.
“Kitty, my son is not my own.” His face illuminated in the flickering light from the hearth was drawn, his cheekbones and jaw hard. The blanket came only to his hips, the masculine strength of his arms and chest taut with tension.
“Who is his father?” she finally whispered.
He turned his head and met her gaze. “My brother. And I had him murdered for it.”
Kitty’s heart turned over, and her stomach. “The duel?”
“I arranged it.” He looked again at the canopy above. “I meant only to frighten him. And, I suppose, to threaten him. I was insane with jealousy.”
“Then you did not—did not want him to die?” She knew the answer already. She would not love him so if he were capable of that sort of hatred.
“No.” He shook his head. “But he deloped. And as his opponent’s tricks with a pistol were well known to him, he chose to step into the shot intended to pass him by.”
For a long moment the only sound in the chamber was the soft hiss of flames in the grate.
“My wife disappeared shortly after that,” he finally said. “I think she feared for my sanity. She told her family she was going on holiday with me. But she was not. She left the baby in Scotland and came here to hide, I think. They found her two months later in the Thames. She had apparently been there for some time.”
A soft bluster of warm air rose from the hearth, sending the light dancing along walls and bedding and the man beside her who had told her a horror story.
“Does your son know?”
“No one knows. None among the living.”
“Why did you tell me?”
He shifted onto his side and took her hand. “Because,” he said roughly, “I would have no secrets between us. And because I am by nature a jealous man.”
“How jealous?”
His brow creased. “I should think that is now obvious.”
“You did not mind it when you thought I was flirting with Mr. Yale at the inn.”
“I did.”
“You did not.”
“Then he is an exception.”
“What about Mr. Cox?”
His face went still. “I was. Very much so.”
She wanted to tell him he hadn’t anything to concern himself over, that her heart was thoroughly his and no other man would ever touch it. But she kept her counsel. She was at least wise enough to know she must not continue to set herself in comparison to his adored wife.
She drew her hand away and tucked it into the coverlet against her chest.
