Unbuttoning his falls with one hand, he pushed her onto the bed with the other, noting the surprise in her eyes. But there was passion in her eyes, too—utter, unbridled passion. Unable to wait a moment longer, he climbed up to cover her gloriously nude body with his.
A gasp escaped her lips before he crushed her mouth beneath his again. He wedged a hand between her legs to test her with a finger and then another. He knew he should take his time, treat her gently, but she felt slick, sleek, throbbing around his fingers, inciting desire so raw he was helpless to hold back. She gasped again as he widened her thighs and plunged home where he wanted to be.
Hot. Impossibly tight and hot as her legs locked around him, the unschooled sensuality of that driving him to distraction. He couldn't wait. He didn't want to wait. He wanted to lose himself in her, and she seemed to be losing herself as well. Her hands gripped his damp shoulders, and she cried out his name, shuddering, dragging him over the edge to join her in oblivion.
When he regained his senses, he kissed her hair, her cheek, her mouth. Part of him was mortified at his lack of control, but another part, a larger part, simply marveled at the emotions she was able to rouse in him.
No other woman had ever been capable of making him lose control. But all the anger, the raw passion, had somehow transformed into softer feelings when he'd felt her respond to him. When he'd felt her join him in the madness. And that had made all the difference.
He hadn't ever made love before Alexandra, he realized all of a sudden…he'd only found release.
"Sweet heaven," she whispered as he eased himself off of her, both of them still shaky, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "I cannot move."
Coming up on an elbow beside her, he ran a finger alongside her face and kissed the wide expanse of her forehead. "Give it time."
"I think I need until tomorrow."
Alarmed, he wondered whether she was serious or jesting. "I'm sorry I was so quick and…ah, rough."
"I liked it." Her eyes drifted shut. "It was exciting."
Jesting, then. Although she couldn't see him, he smiled. "And last night wasn't? And this morning?"
"Every time is exciting. Every time you kiss me, every time you touch me. Every way…" She lifted her lids and met his gaze. "I love you, Tris. Even though we don't always agree, I love you."
The only answer he could give her was a kiss. He poured his heart and soul into it and still knew it wasn't enough. Anything more, though, was beyond him.
He couldn't say words he didn't believe.
"I'll get the lights," he said finally and rolled out of bed.
He quickly finished undressing and then walked around the room, dousing the gaslights one by one, his gaze fastened on her as he went.
She still hadn't moved. Sprawled atop the sheets, ravishingly bare, she was every man's dream. He still didn't believe she was his.
He still didn't believe he wouldn't lose her.
If he woke in the night, he wanted to be able to see her. He left the last light burning.
THIRTY-SEVEN
TRISTAN WOKE in his study.
At first he just blinked, disoriented. Slowly he noticed the light coming in through the shutters, the ticking of the clock on the desk. The dog snoring in the corner, rattling the windows.
He swung himself upright on the leather sofa and rubbed his face. The sofa was too short, and his legs ached. He stretched them out before him, wondering how many hours he'd slept cramped in that position.
Hours. Hours. Holy Christ. He must have sleepwalked here during the night.
Thankfully, his sleeping self had drawn a dressing gown around his naked body. He wrapped it tighter and tied the sash. Yawning, he stood and left the study, intending to head upstairs.
No sooner had he stepped foot in the dining room, however, than Hastings popped in. "Good morning, my lord. Will you be wanting breakfast?"
"What time is it?"
"Half past eight."
Bloody hell. He needed to get back to the gasworks. He'd promised to arrive with the sun. "Yes, breakfast, please. Is Lady Hawkridge up and about?"
Hastings looked at him curiously. "No, my lord. She's yet to make an appearance."
"I'll let her sleep," he decided, amused. He must have worn her out. Rather than risk waking her, he'd have breakfast now and then quickly dress after she'd arisen.
When he'd downed his last bite of eggs and drained his second cup of coffee and she still hadn't appeared, he returned to his study to finish going through his mail. An hour later, he sent a footman to the gasworks with a note. An hour after that, he hurried upstairs, concerned.
No matter how wild the night, a woman who habitually rose at six didn't sleep until after eleven.
"Alexandra?" He knocked softly. "Alexandra?"
He opened the door. Curled up under the covers, she looked so peaceful he had to smile.
He walked closer and shook her shoulder. "Alexandra, it's time to wake up."
She slumbered on.
"Alexandra." He shook her harder. "Alexandra!" Still no response.
At his wit's end, he drew a deep breath. And suddenly felt lightheaded.
For a moment he just stood there, a vague prickling in his brain suggesting the woozy feeling should mean something significant. Shifting uneasily, he glanced around the room. And noticed the gas lamp he'd left lit.
Only it wasn't.
His pulse stuttering, he rushed over and twisted the key, hoping it wouldn't move.
It did move. The gas line had been open. It had been open with no flame, and Alexandra had been
