Page 43 of His Forgotten Bride
“No.” Her lashes shaded her eyes, but not before he saw a flicker of grief flit across them. With a raw sound of discontent, she leaned in again, her fingers sliding through his hair to hold him where she wanted him, fitting her mouth to his.
And when his fingers snarled in the laces of her gown, she shifted in his embrace, loosing one arm from about his neck to pluck at the laces herself in the service of aiding him.
As the fabric parted and the laces of her stays challenged him anew—it had beensolong since he had last undressed a woman—he murmured against her lips, “You will lay with me, but you won’t wed me?” It occurred to him that it was a rather strange state of affairs, that she would decline his proposal—clumsily made as it had been—and yet deign to grace his bed. Perhaps marriage had been unkind to her, perhaps herhusbandhad been unkind. The thought sent a skitter of alarm down his spine, forced him to draw back once more. “I will be good to you, Claire. I swear to you—”
“No. Just—justno.” She seized his lapels in her fists, her eyes dark with mingled desire and frustration. “I am not going to marry you.” Her stays parted as his fingers managed to loosen the strings at last, and she drew a full breath and shivered as his hand slid across her back, hindered only by the thin fabric of her chemise. “But Iwilllay with you.”
“Why?” It seemed imperative to understand her, to know why she would risk her reputation in this way.
“Because it is what I want.” Her chin firmed into that decisive, no-nonsense set he had always admired, and he knew he would not receive another more elucidating answer.
Still, because she had refused him, because she was perhaps the most difficult woman he’d ever encountered, he was moved to challenge her. “Do you always get what you want, then?”
And she laughed with uncustomary bitterness, as she replied, “Not remotely. Notever.”
∞∞∞
Not here, he had said, and he had set her away from him, lifting her to her feet from the library floor.Not here.There could be servants lurking about.
Shewas a servant. She shouldn’t have given in to this moment of weakness, this fierce and futile desire to throw herself into his arms and let the chips fall as they might. If anyone discovered what she had done—what she wasgoingto do—she would never find another position.
He had led the way through the corridors, scouting out the route ahead of them, motioning her forward once he had determined the path to be clear. It had occurred to her that, had he been less honorable,lettingthem be discovered might have been a neat and tidy way of gaining her acceptance of his proposal. Her gown and stays were still unlaced; it would have been obvious enough to any observer as to what had happened. But either the thought had not occurred to him or he had elected not to manipulate the situation to his advantage—and they had made it to the upper floor down the long corridor to his bedroom undetected.
As he ushered her into his room, she noted, absurdly, that the maids had been about their evening tasks with all due industriousness this evening. The bed had been made up, the lamp on his bedside table lit and turned down to an inviting dimness, and the fire that crackled in the grate had chased the winter chill from the room.
“I’m going to change your mind.” The silky purr cut across her thoughts, and she started at the sound.
She shook her head, grateful for the loosened stays that let her draw the full, resolute breath. It would be unfair to let him think such a thing were possible, unfair to let him build hopes when the weight of her sins would always be between them. Unfair to trap him into a marriage he might have cause to regret. “You won’t,” she said.
“Claire,” he chided, and the grin that slashed across his face was an echo of the one he’d worn years ago, confident and self-assured. “Of course I will.”
Her breath stuttered in her throat as he turned the full weight of that smile on her, charming and very nearly jovial. She’d seen little evidence of that charm in recent months, as if it had deserted him along with his memories. But it was there all the same, lurking beneath the surface, awaiting the opportunity to rise to the fore.Shehad been that opportunity.
She opened her mouth—to refuse again, to tell him she had reconsidered the wisdom of sleeping with him, to apologize—but not a sound emerged. And her feet remained rooted to the floor, her toes curling within her shoes as he stalked toward her with all the grace and purpose of a sleek jungle cat.
“I’m going to wear you down eventually.” His fingers curled beneath her chin, lifting her face to the light. “When called to it, I can be quite persuasive.”
Sheknewthat. He’d managed to convince her to wed him once, after all—she, a common country girl who had known that she would never find her footing in his world, that she would never be accepted within it, and he’d convinced her to take that leap anyway, to risk everything on him.
His right hand cradled her face, angling her head as he wanted it, and his left arm slid around her waist, drawing her up against his chest. The denial that had clogged in her throat died a swift and ignominious death, burnt to cinders by the heat of his mouth on hers. He kissed her as if he sought to drive all thoughts of protest from her mind, as if he could coax ayesfrom her with just the pressure of his lips on hers.
Arrogant. But her knees weakened nonetheless.
Her gown gaped, the back parting where his fingers had eased it away, and he peeled the right sleeve from her shoulder, inching it down her arm. She fought the left herself, shaking herself free of the confining fabric, and then his hands were pressing it down over her hips and plucking at the remaining laces of her stays, loosening them enough that they, too, could be dispensed with at last. And then there was only her chemise, and a stray bit of shyness struck her unexpectedly.
“Wait,” she gasped as his fingers tugged the ties of her chemise, flirting with the hollow of her throat. It had been years before she had been so unclothed before a man, even if that manhadbeen him. Stepping out of her gown felt uncomfortably like shedding armor, leaving herself open and vulnerable. “I’m not—I mean, I have—” She drew in a great gulp of air, striving for some manner of coherency, which was difficult to achieve as he was nibbling on her earlobe. “I would prefer darkness.”
“Darkness?” He lifted his head, his brows knitted in confusion. “Whatever for?”
“I’ve had a child, my lord. There are marks. I’m not—” What? What heremembered? He didn’t remember her; he wouldn’t recall what she had looked like before.
“I’ve got my own share of imperfections,” he said, and his hand squeezed her hip through her chemise, his fingers warm and strong and reassuring. “It would be hypocritical in the extreme to expect perfection in someone else.” But he clasped her hand in his and pulled her along with him toward the bed and doused the lamp. The room fell into a comforting dimness, with only the flattering light of the fire to see by.
“Sit.” He backed her up against the side of the bed until her legs touched the edge, pressing on her shoulders to urge her down. For the second time that night, he knelt before her, unlacing her shoes and casting them aside, then sliding his hands along her calves in search of her garters. Probably he could still see well enough to note the unpleasant red marks they left upon her legs, for he rubbed them with his fingers as if he could ease them away.
As he rolled down her wool stockings—which had been darned and darned again to prolong their life—he remarked casually, “When you are my marchioness, you’ll have nothing but silk stockings.”
“I won’t be your marchioness.” Her throat burned with the lie. And then, to divert him, to divert herself, she said, “Silk stockings are impractical in winter.”
