Chapter Sixteen
She couldn’t believe that she’d said the words aloud.
Instinct had brought her here tonight; Andrew’s gruff admission that he’d been protecting her from afar confirmed that her decision had been the right one. The fact that he’d done all of that for her—she could scarcely fathom it. She owed him too much, and now she’d asked one more favor of him.
She trusted him to take care of her problem. And, given his worldly experience, he had to be the one man in London who wouldn’t be shocked by her request. Judging from his dumbfounded expression, however, her assumption might have been wrong.
“Pardon?” he said.
“Please don’t make me say it again.” Embarrassment scalded her cheeks. “You heard me.”
He stared at her, his dark brown eyes inscrutable. He stood abruptly. “I need a drink.”
As he went to the decanter, she said, “I’d like one too, please.”
“I’m afraid I don’t stock ratafia or sherry in here.”
“Whatever you’re having is fine.”
“I’m drinking whiskey.” He swigged it like water.
Although she’d never had whiskey, the occasion might call for it. “I don’t mind.”
Wordlessly, he refilled his own glass and brought one over for her. As he handed her the drink, their fingers touched. Awareness shot through her, tingling at her nerve endings.
His hand jerked back, and he prowled to the mantel like a restless lion. “Perhaps you’d care to explain your… request.”
She took a sip of the amber liquid; it went down like fire. “Daltry’s family wants proof that my marriage was consummated.”
“In Gretna, you told me that it had been.”
Discomfited by the intensity of his stare, she said, “What I said was that I’m the Countess of Daltry. Which I am. I have the marriage papers to prove it.” She blew out a breath. “And I did, um, share a bed with Daltry.”
“Did he tup you?”
“There’s no need to be crude—”
“You’re asking me to relieve you of your virginity. Given the topic, I think we’ll call a spade a spade,” he said flatly. “Did Daltry tup you?”
“Um… perhaps?”
“Bloody hell,” he growled, “stop playing games. There is no perhaps about it. Either Daltry put his cock in you or he didn’t.”
Shivering at the lethal expression on Andrew’s face—not to mention his carnal vocabulary—she said defensively, “I’m not playing games. I’m just not certain what happened. I’d had several glasses of wine, you see, and it was dark. Daltry came to bed, and he started to, um, touch me. You know… down there.”
“What else did he do?” Andrew set his glass on the mantel, his knuckles white.
She strove to maintain an impervious façade. To preserve the veneer of her composure.
“He got on top of me. He was heavy, suffocating,”—panic fissured, too close to the surface, and she fought to keep her voice from cracking—“and I couldn’t really tell what was happening. He fumbled about, and for an instant, I felt stretching… down there. But I don’t know if it was his fingers… or his, um, you-know-what. But then he started cursing, saying this had never happened to him before, and it was all my fault—”
To her horror, her voice broke, her vision fracturing into liquid fragments.
An instant later, the glass was removed from her grasp. Male strength engulfed her, and she buried her head into the comfort. Into the sanctuary that was Andrew.
“It’s all right. You don’t have to say any more.”
“I haven’t told this to anyone—I’m so ashamed,” she whispered into his waistcoat. “I don’t know why I thought I could talk about it with you.”
“Because you can, sunshine. You can tell me anything.”
“Do you… hate me?”
“No, love. Never.”
Soothed by the immediacy of his reply and his spicy, familiar scent, she sniffled. “I’ve made such a fool of myself. When you didn’t want me, I got so angry that I went after Daltry.”
“It was never a question of wanting. You know that now, don’t you?”
“So the times you refused me,” she said haltingly, “you truly did it to protect me?”
“Yes.” His eyes told her this was the truth. “You want respectability; I can’t give you that.”
His honesty gave her the courage to make her own confession.
“I don’t deserve respectability. The only reason men have shown any interest in me is because I’m pretty on the outside. But inside,” she said in a small voice, “I’m frivolous and scheming. Wicked through and through.”
A sound rumbled beneath her ear. He was… laughing at her? When she’d just confessed her greatest flaw?
Wounded, she struggled to get away. “It’s not amusing.”
He kept her caged against him with one arm. Tipped her chin up with his other hand. “It is, actually. Imagine a little thing like you calling yourself wicked.”
“I am wicked,” she insisted. “I’m a flirt, and I eloped with a man I didn’t even like.”
“Why did you? Elope with Daltry, I mean.”
“Because I’m shallow and flighty,” she said hollowly. “I wanted to be the Countess of Daltry.”
“Because it would make you rich?”
“No. I mean, money is nice, but I have everything I need from Mama and Papa. I didn’t marry Daltry for that reason. What I want is the title—the position. I want to be called my lady, to be welcomed in the upper echelons, to have the ton acknowledge that I belong,” she said with a touch of defiance. “See how awful I am?”
“No.” He rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip, making her shiver. “I don’t.”
“You must be blind then,” she said decisively.
Crinkles appeared around his eyes. “My vision is quite acute. In fact, I see you more clearly than you see yourself. And I know what you really want.”
An arrogant statement, no doubt. Yet she couldn’t help but ask, “What do you think I want?”
“To be free of fear.” His knuckles skimmed along her cheekbone, his touch as mesmerizing as his words. “You’ve been running for so long, haven’t you, sweetheart?”
His words resonated like music in a cathedral. Pure, soaring in their accuracy. Suddenly, she realized she was afraid—had been all her life. Images flashed: walking on shaky legs down that dark dock to where Sir Coyner waited, holding her mama at gunpoint; waiting by the window whenever Papa was late coming home from work, her small hands clenching the sill; hearing Mama’s moans of pain during Sophie’s birth…
A dark undertow sucked at her, threatening to pull her under.
Heart pounding, she fought to stay afloat. You can’t do anything about the past. Focus on what you can control. Your future—that is what matters.
“I hate caring what Society thinks,” she said in a suffocated voice, “but I do. If Daltry’s family manages to annul the marriage, then I’ll be ruined. I’ll be the unwed harlot who eloped and spent the night with a man. I’ll be a pariah.”
He studied her, his hooded gaze giving nothing away.
“There is only one solution,” she plunged on. “When the physician examines me, I can’t be a virgin. You’re the only one I trust to help me.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. Still, he said nothing.
“Andrew, would you please,”—she summoned all her courage—“take me to bed?”
He rose, a violent movement that rocked the cushion beneath her. Lines of tension slashed around his sensual mouth, his eyes no longer hooded but blazing with anger. His hands bracketed his lean hips.
“Why me?” he said.
She wetted her lips, her mind spinning with reasons. “Because you’re a man of experience. You understand my situation—that I’m only asking for one night… I mean, I hope that was clear,” she said in a rush, realizing she had not said this aloud and wondering if its omission was the cause of his sudden temper. “This would be done strictly as a favor to me. There would be no further obligation on your part afterward. I would hope, however, that we would part as friends.”
“I see. Because that is what friends do. They fuck and then they leave.”
His mockery cut like a razor through the last threads of her composure.
She shot to her feet. “It was a mistake to come. I don’t know why I did.”
“You said so yourself: you needed a man of experience.” He raised a brow. “Unless I seriously underestimated your boldness, I doubt you know any former prostitutes other than me.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she cried. “By experience, I was referring to the fact that you’re a man of the world, and nothing seems to rattle you. I sought you out because I believed you could understand my less than conventional request. Obviously, I was mistaken. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
She nearly made it to the door when an arm hooked her waist from behind. Her back met with a wall of rigid muscle.
“Don’t go.” His breath was harsh at her ear.
“I’m not going to stay and be ridiculed—”
“I’m sorry.” His chest heaved against her spine. “I thought you came to me because of what I used to do. And I didn’t like that.”
When she pushed against his arm, he let go. Whirling around, she studied him—saw the sincerity etched across his hard features… and the shadows in his eyes. Understanding dawned that he had a past to run from as much as she did.
“It takes one to know one, doesn’t it?” she said softly.
“Pardon?”
“What you said about me running from my fears. You’ve been running too, haven’t you?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “I’m not ashamed of my past. I did what I had to; it’s made me who I am. But I’m no longer that man—and I won’t be used in that fashion by you or anyone.”
“I understand.”
She really did. Due to her tarnished reputation, plenty of men thought they could get a kiss—or more—from her without consequence. Being seen as an object, a play thing, had made her feel dirty... like soiled goods.
Andrew had made the choice to use his assets as a means of survival, and he wasn’t apologetic about it. Nor should he be. Even so, it couldn’t be easy knowing that he’d once been bought and sold as a commodity of pleasure.
“The last thing I want is to use you, Andrew.” She exhaled. “In truth, I owe you far too much already. I can never repay you for what you’ve done on my behalf.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I do.” She touched his jaw gently. “I want us to part as friends.”
When she tried to withdraw her hand, he covered it with his own, trapping it there.
“Why?” he said intently.
“Because...” I care what you think. Your opinion of me matters… too much.
“There’s no need for us to be enemies,” she finished lamely.
“Not that. I meant why me. Why do you want me to be the man who beds you, Primrose?”
Her heart grew wings, beating frantically against its cage. The easy words surfaced, hovering on her lips. But he deserved more, and she fought to give him the truth.
“I feel safe with you,” she said. “When I’m in your arms, I know it’s where I’m meant to be.”
The throbbing in her ears was echoed by the ticking muscle beneath her palm.
Then the world spun, and, swept off her feet, she just managed to hold on, her arms wrapping around his neck as his lips claimed hers. His kiss roiled with hunger, and she kissed him back with equal ferocity. She didn’t have to hide her passion for him, this man who didn’t judge or condemn her—and the freedom was intoxicating.
When he set her down by the sofa, her legs wobbled. He held her securely as he suckled her earlobe, pleasure spreading through her like a fever. The tips of her breasts tightened into tingling points, a viscous warmth gathering in her belly. The sensations intensified as his lips glided along her jaw and down her neck, his skillful hands peeling off her layers.
When her chemise floated to the floor, leaving her in nothing but black garters and stockings, her wits suddenly returned. What must she look like sans her proper accoutrements? Was her coiffure mussed? Her panic flared as he sat on the sofa, pulling her onto his lap. She was acutely aware that she was in a disarray whilst he remained impeccably dressed.
Feeling exposed, she tried to cover herself.
He caught her chin, held her to his gaze. “Don’t hide your loveliness. You never have to hide anything from me.”
“But I’m not properly—”
“You’re perfect as you are. Beautiful beyond compare,” he said huskily. “No woman has ever affected me the way you do.”
He sounded earnest. Even if she doubted the words, there was no denying the physical evidence supporting his claim: beneath her bottom, his arousal was a hard and heavy bar.
Her anxiety subsiding, she whispered achingly, “Make love to me, Andrew.”
His eyes darkened, and he leaned in to kiss her. The gentle brushes of his mouth swept aside her worries, need spiraling through her. His hand closed over her breast, and this was nothing like Daltry’s groping in the dark. Andrew cupped and molded her achy mounds, pinching the throbbing tips, and she moaned against his lips.
“You’re so pretty here.” His voice matched the brushed velvet of his eyes. “Pink and ripe like a berry. Do you taste as good as you look, I wonder?”
“Taste?” She blinked at him.
The slow, sensual curving of his lips made her belly flutter. He took one of her hands, bringing it to his mouth. Separating the index finger from the rest, he licked the tip, the wet swirl setting off a wild pulse between her legs. He guided her moistened fingertip to her nipple.
“Imagine me kissing you here,” he murmured, using the damp point to simulate what he was describing. “Would you like that?”
Bold and brazen as she was, she couldn’t bring herself to answer him. Her body, however, had no such reservations. To her mortification, moisture trickled from her womanly place, and she could feel it dampening the fabric of his trousers.
Out of nowhere, Daltry’s voice assailed her: You’re a shameless doxy.
She tried to get away, but Andrew kept her caged against him.
“Your response is lovely,” he said, “just like you are.”
“But I made your trousers…” Cheeks aflame, she couldn’t finish.
“I want you wet for me. The wetter the better.” His words were shocking, his eyes warm and steady. “It’s your body’s way of telling me you want me.”
Once again, she felt a rush of gratitude for his experience and honesty. Relaxing, she allowed him to lay her back against the cushions while he knelt on the floor next to the sofa. Her respiration quickened as he kissed the slope of her breast. His lips explored, circling but not touching the straining peak.
She began to squirm, and, when she couldn’t stand it any longer, she slid her hands into his thick bronze hair, urging him to go where she wanted him. Needed him. He laughed softly, and then his lips captured her nipple, bathing it in heat and wetness. Bliss.
Her legs moved restlessly, the throbbing between them nigh unbearable as he lavished attention upon her breasts. Licking, flicking, driving her mad with wanting. She didn’t know how to ask for what she needed; she didn’t have to. His hand coasted over her rib cage, down the quivering valley of her belly, landing where her desire for him swelled, humid and pulsing.
“Your pussy is drenched, love.” His nostrils flared, his eyes smoldering. “Do you know how much that arouses me?”
Shyly, she said, “How much?”
“I feel as needful as a lad with his first wench.”
“Me too,” she whispered. “Like a wench with her first lad, that is.”
Amusement flashed across his chiseled features. “You are, you silly chit.”
“I don’t know that for certain—”
“I do.”
His kiss cut her off. She couldn’t have spoken anyway for he was rubbing that hidden bud just like that time at the plumassier’s, and it melted her mind. Her hips bucked as he stroked her, faster and faster, winding the coil in her belly ever tighter. It suddenly sprung free, and she gasped his name as pleasure ricocheted inside her.
When she regained her senses, heart still thumping wildly, she saw that Andrew was watching her with an intense, heated gaze.
“Are you going to… bed me now?” she said bashfully.
His head canted, almost thoughtfully.
He said, “No.”