When someone loves you Page 11

  His smile was benevolent. “No matter what.”

  Nothing intimidated him. And whether she was seduced by his benevolence or by her own desires, impulse trumped reason. “Then I’ll stay and play,” she purred, like a well-trained sultana, or an actress of note.

  He disliked that lush provocation in her tone. “I’m not looking to play,” he said, cool and precise, his words surprising him even as he uttered them.

  “Oh?”

  Another conscious act of drama—that wide-eyed look. “Don’t do that,” he muttered, as though he had the right.

  “What do you want from me?” Pushing him away, she stared at him. “Tell me, because I’m not sure. All I’ve seen so far is the Darley of popular repute—seductive, assured, conspicuously nonchalant. And even then,” she said with a grimace, “I stayed.”

  “I owe you another apology—a record, I’m sure,” he murmured ruefully. “The thing is”—he hesitated, and then with a sigh went on—”I want more than dalliance. I don’t know why.” He smiled finally. “I don’t care why—I just do.”

  She’d either been offered the most silken mendacity or she was the recipient of the most satisfying indulgence. “You’ve been away from the world too long.” She had to at least attempt to put his comments into some reasonable perspective.

  “Haven’t you?”

  “You’re not helping. I would prefer being sensible.”

  He snorted. “I’m the last person to help you there, I’m afraid. Just say you’ll think about it. I’m not asking you to sign a contract today.”

  “Very well. I’ll think about it. Whatever more than dalliance entails,” she said with a smile.

  He shrugged. “We are both novices outside of amour, are we not?”

  She could have said something flirtatious, but somehow the truth seemed more appropriate—as though this entire situation required some exaggerated authenticity. “I confess—and I’m the least likely person to do so—I am enamored of you when I never am enamored of anyone. There, I’ve said it. You may run.”

  “I don’t wish to.”

  “There may be no tomorrow for us,” she warned softly, her life having taught her that lesson.

  He smiled wryly. “I’ve learned not to plan of late.”

  “Then we will gather rosebuds while we may.” Giving herself up to a rare, unhampered delight—as though she’d suddenly been given license to live an unexamined life—she impetuously threw herself at Duff, wrapped her arms around his waist and flushed with happiness and joy, clung to him with all her strength.

  He went rigid.

  She instantly loosened her hold. “I’m sorry,” she breathed, stepping back, her cheeks bright red with embarrassment. Having lived so long in the world of brittle insincerity, she should have known better.

  “It’s nothing to do with you.”

  The words were so softly uttered, she had to strain to hear.

  “I had a friend die in my arms—like that. He wouldn’t let go.”

  “Oh, dear.” She didn’t know what to say. Crossing her arms over her breasts, as though her half-undressed state was suddenly inappropriate, she watched Duff struggle for control.

  A heavy silence fell.

  He was unapproachable, his gaze remote.

  Having only seen Duff’s malady once before, she stood helpless and inarticulate as he took himself away from her and went to some afflicted place. The hush was oppressive, taut, punitive. Even the glowing sunshine abruptly dimmed in the room as a cloud passed over. “I should go,” she said finally.

  As though some survival mechanism came into play with her mention of leaving, he seemed to come out of his stupor. “No,” he said flatly. “Don’t go. I couldn’t bear it.” Jerking himself to attention, he blew out a breath, ran his fingers through his overlong hair, and after dropping his hands to his sides, smiled the most practiced and dazzling of smiles. “I’m fine. My apologies. Did I frighten you?”

  She shook her head, afraid to speak for fear of setting him off again.

  “Good,” he said, as though he’d not been stricken dumb short moments ago. “Where were we?” Raising his hands, he ran his palms over her breasts in a brief, impersonal gesture, before moving to untie the bow at the neckline of her chemise. He bent to his task as though no disruption had intervened, as though he was back on some track of his own design.

  The intensity of his focus was frightening or wildly arousing; Annabelle wasn’t certain which. But a tiny frisson shivered up her spine as he manipulated the blue silk ribbon and she suddenly felt like he appeared—wildly impatient.

  The bow fell open and he quickly set about opening the buttons on her chemise, his fingers nimble, his motions economical from top to bottom and within seconds all the pearl buttons were undone. Swiftly slipping off the garment, he let it fall to the floor.

  He was incredibly intent.

  Perhaps not entirely in a reasonable frame of mind.

  Nor was she, if truth be told. She wouldn’t have come here today if she was even mildly reasonable.

  Nor would she have stayed.

  He undressed her without speaking, quickly, efficiently, as though he was under some time constraint. Her half-boots were swiftly removed as he kneeled at her feet, her silk stockings and garters followed. Still on his knees, he unbuttoned her breeches, jerked them down over her hips and legs, nudged her to lift first one foot then the other and in brief moments she was stripped of her clothing.

  It was not a scene meant for the stage.

  There was no dialogue.

  But maybe they’d talked enough or too much and it was time instead for the main act to begin. Standing nude in Duff’s bedroom—sunny once again with the cloud having passed, she watched him rip off his clothes while she trembled like a leaf in a gale. When she never trembled. When sex had never been about hysteria or even sentiment.

  If she wasn’t caught up in some fantastic, intemperate madness of her own, she might have recognized that her life was coming undone. That she was succumbing to a dangerous, unprecedented craving.

  Duff, on the other hand, was immune to all but the driving need for consummation pounding in his brain and in his aching cock and in every functioning nerve in his body. Sex would be his remedy for brutal memory, fornication the relief for his tortured mind and hotspur and volatile, he charged head long toward that compelling goal. He was vaguely aware of Annabelle’s large, lush breasts and slender form, her flushed cheeks and fevered gaze as he wrenched buttons open and tore his clothing from his body. But that she was his oblivion and salvation, his carnal focus and ultimate release was as real as the frantic beat of his heart. What was even more real was the certainty that he would soon lose himself in her sweet, welcoming body.

  Seconds later, scooping her up in his arms, he silently carried her to the bed and deposited her on the rumpled sheets. Gazing down at her, he suddenly went motionless again, his eyes unfocused, his hard, austere body immobile save for the twitching of his huge, upthrust erection.

  As he hesitated, his attention centered on some strange internal scene, unaware of his surroundings or her, Annabelle chided herself for so tamely waiting for him to mount her. He was clearly oblivious to her. She could have been anyone lying in his bed.

  If only she wasn’t fascinated and enticed by Duff’s compelling beauty and sexual allure—the full extent of that allure expanding before her eyes, his engorged penis rising higher, the turgid veins inflated and pulsing—she might have been able to deal with this logically. And if she didn’t so desperately want what he was about to give her, she could have taken issue with his indifference. Or offered him sympathy in his delirium. Or tender accommodation. Or done the sensible thing and left his bed, his house and him.

  Instead, as bereft of reason as he, she ignominiously yielded to her cravings. Jettisoning every shred of dignity and autonomy, becoming someone she didn’t recognize, Annabelle reached out and touched Duff’s arm. “Please, Duff, don’t make me wait,” she whis
pered. “I can’t—please, I beg of you… make love to me.”

  He glanced over, saw and heard a woman begging for sex— a common, even habitual scene from his past—as was the scent of female arousal fragrant in his nostrils. The familiar sight, the riveting aroma, the pleading tone, triggered associations and reflexes as automatic as breathing itself.

  With a businesslike nod, as though casually acknowledging her need and his function, he moved the two steps to the bed and settled over her with a lithe grace. Gently spreading her thighs to better accommodate his size, he rose slightly on his knees, swiftly guided the head of his penis between the soft folds of her labia, said with a mechanical courtesy, “Forgive my brusqueness,” and precipitously plunged forward.

  Annabelle’s high-pitched, breathy scream echoed through the room as the full measure of Duff’s erection plumbed her sleek passage in a single rough, punching downstroke.

  He seemed unaware of her cry, nor did he hear her frenzied whimpers commence a short time later when he’d settled into a powerful rhythm of thrust and withdrawal, a considered, highly competent oscillation, perfectly gauged to deliver maximum sensation. He was operating on instinct, his much-vaunted career as a libertine coming to the fore, neither comprehension nor judgment required when he was following a well-beaten path, as it were.

  As Annabelle’s delirium heightened, he remained oblivious to her breathless pants as well, his ears attuned to the more familiar, haunting cries he’d been hearing day and night since Waterloo.

  His eyes shut, braced on his palms, his biceps bulging with the strain, Duff plunged in and out, insensible, yet hypersensitive, his lower body pumping, ramming, driving hard. He was sheened with sweat as he restlessly hammered, withdrew, thrust in again, groaned and growled, straining to reach that place of forgetfulness where the keening cries would be silenced, the bloody images purged, where he might find peace at last.

  In search of her own oblivion, albeit frenzy of another kind—Annabelle gave herself up to Duff’s explosive rhythm, gasping as inexplicable pleasure jolted her to the quick with each downstroke, absorbing the full, heart-stirring ecstasy with a kind of breathless gratitude. She’d never felt so heated and greedy, so ripe for sensation, so alive.

  It was all because of Duff; there was no question. She didn’t know what was happening or why, although all the women before her would no doubt testify to his expertise. But it was more than sex. She understood the refinements of physical sensation; this was a whole new world—splendid, sublime, spangled, and festooned with luxurious pleasure.

  A virtual paradise in which one could willingly lose oneself.

  Perhaps she might even do so.

  A thoroughly audacious thought, but at the moment compelling.

  Cushioned by her warm, scented cloud bank of bliss, her heart filled with tenderness, awash in a rare magnanimity of passion, she looked afield from her own selfish desires. Duff had been right, she concluded—about sorcery being at play, for she found herself in charity with the word, the concept, the actual existence of love.

  A heretic thought she didn’t long allow to persist.

  But her benevolence toward the man who had opened her eyes to paradise remained. Raising her hands, she softly touched Duff’s brow slick with perspiration, smoothed away his distress, consoled him in his anguish, murmured words of comfort as he lavishly ministered to her passions.

  Caressing his eyelids and temples, his hard-set jaw and taut throat, she gentled his pain. Pushing away the sweep of dark hair falling over his forehead, she whispered his name—as much for herself as for him—taking inexpressible delight in the sound on her lips. “Duff, Duff, Duff,” she breathed softly, feeling both wistful and impatient, inexplicably possessive as well, as though she owned him for those few brief seconds of each plunging downstroke when he paused, submerged within her body. An aberrant sensation quite unlike any she’d ever experienced. But unspeakably fine. Stroking his face, she whispered his name, as though in this blissful paradise, however fleeting, he was hers.

  Sluggishly, his senses began to stir, come to life. Slowly, he left his nightmares behind, became aware of her touch on his face, heard the sweetness of her voice. Heard as well as he returned to the surrounding scene, a minute impatience underlying her words.

  “Here—Duff, look at me,” Annabelle whispered as his eyelids fluttered up and down and the rhythm of his lower body began to slow. “Can you hear me? Please, please.” A fevered intonation animated her words now, a moody, demanding inflection. She was hovering on the brink or perhaps she had been for a very long time and had abruptly reached her point of no return. “Did you hear me, Duff?” A sharper note in her voice, the most celebrated prima donna of the English stage wanting what she wanted. “Open your eyes.”

  He opened them and actually saw her.

  “I’m very near orgasm, if you don’t mind,” Annabelle said ever so sweetly, as though in compensation for her recent sharp tone.

  “So you’d like a little help.” Duff’s voice was normal—and amused.

  “Yes, something less fevered, if you don’t mind.” A honeyed, frictionless intonation.

  He almost said, Is there some diagram you’d like me to follow? but she’d been obliging to him in his delirium, so he smiled instead and said, “How can I refuse such a sweet-tempered lady?”

  “Don’t tease, Duff. I don’t have much time.”

  “Your servant, ma’am,” he murmured suavely, immediately shifting into a rhythm of exquisite delicacy and finesse. “And if I hurt you, I profoundly apologize…”

  “I’m much too wet to be hurt.”

  “Good.” He smiled. “You like me, then.”

  “Rather a lot, as you can tell.”

  “Perhaps I can make you like me even better.” He grasped her hips, his fingers splayed wide. “Tell me what you think of this?” Driving forward, he held the crest of his erection against her womb with the quintessential degree of pressure—that knowledge acquired from his French governess who had not only taught him French but a great number of ways to please a woman.

  In this case, another woman profited by Mademoiselle Belloc’s teachings. Awash in glorious sensation, Annabelle was momentarily speechless, unless one considered a long, low moan a creditable utterance.

  Not that Duff was necessarily expecting a reply, although her feverish little moans signaled a degree of success. And when he withdrew marginally before plunging in again, her squeal of dismay caused him to smile. A very brief time later, when the lady had been whimpering as though she were being deprived of something she desperately wanted, Duff casually said, “I’m going to come in you now.”

  “Thank you,” she breathed, as though she had been transformed into some covetous wanton without constraint and her body was fueled by lust—not to mention a lurid partiality for a disreputable marquis she should know better than to fancy. “Thank you so very, very much,” she purred, ignoring niceties of judgment for more gratifying pleasures. “How splendid of you…”

  He should have taken alarm. Particularly for his own shocking assertion; he never climaxed in women. Not that Annabelle’s blanket submission shouldn’t have been equally unnerving.

  But neither were fully cognizant of the rules today.

  “Ready?” he facilely inquired, shifting slightly against the warm resiliency of her soft flesh.

  “Hmmm…”

  It was the most seductive murmur he’d ever had the good fortune to hear. Dipping his head, he dropped a kiss on her luscious pink mouth. “You set the pace, sweet puss.”

  Had he not been completely enamored for reasons unknown, he might have taken issue with her virtuoso technical accomplishments. He was accorded the full indulgence of her nimble vaginal muscles, the captivating witchery so intense he could feel the rapturous sensations jolt his brain when she flexed around his cock in a particularly subtle way. And she knew an ingenious method of moving her hips that was stunning. He literally stopped breathing each time she artfully st
irred her pelvis in that piquant fashion.

  As for the marquis, he apparently had the ability to stay rock-hard indefinitely. If she wasn’t currently the recipient of that tantalizing aptitude, Annabelle might have allowed her jealousy to surface. As it was, she was not so foolish.

  But they were both so thoroughly enthralled and irrepressibly in heat that what would have been annoyances became instead the merest bagatelles.

  They were both operating—or fucking, as it were—outside the normal perimeters of their lives.

  They both understood it.

  They were functioning beyond the pale.

  When they finally came in a glorious, sublime flush of rapture, Duff found the nirvana that had always eluded him.

  Annabelle might have said something thoroughly unacceptable in terms of love before she lost consciousness.

  Actually, she did.

  Chapter 16

  When she came awake she was in Duff’s arms. He was seated, holding her in his lap, and as her eyes fluttered open, he smiled. “You said it’s been a while. Welcome back.”

  He was lounging against the headboard, looking cool and insouciant, and for a small, heated moment, she resented his imperturbability. Unable to curb her pique, she said pettishly, “Apparently you suffered no ill effects from your year’s celibacy.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve never felt better. And by the way,” he said with a grin, “I love you, too.”

  “I never said that!”

  “Au contraire,” he said, looking amused.

  “Well, if I did,” she caviled,” I meant sex-love, not love-love.”

  “It didn’t sound like it to me,” he murmured in a cheerful singsong.

  She was blushing cherry-red at her gaucherie. “Then I certainly apologize. I must have been much enamored with your sexual expertise—and him.” She touched his barely diminished erection that lay between her hip and his stomach.

  “Then we both thank you,” Duff replied with a dip of his head. “But I’m not averse to love-love, either.”