Page 85 of An Affair with a Notorious Heiress
“Do you come here often?”
“Once a month or so. I like spending time with the horses.”
“I’m considering having a horse farm when I return to New York. Perhaps I’ll ask you for some advice.”
He didn’t want to think about her leaving. Moving away from her, he removed his jacket, spread it over the ground, and assisted her in sitting on it. He dropped down beside her.
“This is the perfect spot for a picnic,” she said.
“Perhaps we’ll do that next time.” He didn’t know why he needed the words, why he needed to believe there would be a next time, why he was grateful she didn’t indicate that this would be the only time she’d grace his small estate with her presence. Cupping her face, he turned her toward him. “For now, there’s something else far more delicious than anything my cook can prepare that I’d like to nibble on.”
Tillie welcomed his mouth blanketing hers, his tongue sweeping possessively across hers. It frightened her a little—how easily she could see herself spending her days here with him, walking the grounds, riding, laughing. But that honor would go to some other woman, someone with a sterling reputation. She wondered if he would allow his wife to ride Fair Vixen or if his memories of her on the mare would be such that he wouldn’t want them replaced.
She selfishly wished for the latter. When their time came to an end, she wanted some aspects of what they’d shared to be unique to her so he could never forget her. She wanted him to watch Fair Vixen race and to remember this day.
Smoothly, his mouth never leaving hers, he lowered her to the cool ground. Grass tickled her cheek. The fragrance of the wildflowers grew stronger, but not strong enough to drown out his purely masculine scent. It had somehow woven itself into the fabric of her being. No matter what colognes other men in her life wore, they would never smell as good as he did.
He skimmed his hand down her side, over her hip, and clamped it around her thigh, positioning her leg so her knee was raised and bent. His hand slid further down to circle her ankle, over the leather of her shoe, and he gave a gentle squeeze, before gliding those lovely fingers up her calf. Over her knee, down her thigh, lifting her skirt back as he went. The cool breeze wafted over her skin, causing little chill bumps to erupt everywhere, even where the air didn’t touch her directly.
Breaking off the kiss, he raised his head, captured her gaze, held it in a manner so sensual that he made it impossible for her to look away as his hand advanced through the slit in her drawers to conquer her heated flesh with a caress that was at once gentle, but demanding. He wanted her surrendering to pleasure, here on the grassy knoll where nature looked on. She didn’t know if she could do it, but when his eyes darkened with determination, his lips parted slightly, and two of his fingers entered her while his thumb stroked, pressed, teased, passion roared through her, tearing away any sense of propriety, of civilization.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Scream for me. No one will hear.”
He would hear. She wanted him to. How was it that he could so easily turn her into a wanton? She curled her hand around his neck, scraped her fingers up into his hair, held him there.
The glorious sensations built and built until she couldn’t hold back, until she was screaming his name, her voice mingling with the flutter of wings as birds took flight from the boughs.
His hand stilled; leisurely he lowered his mouth to hers, taking only a small nibble before moving to her throat where he planted a series of kisses. “I love watching as pleasure overtakes you.” His voice was raspy and low as though he were the one who’d shattered the quiet surrounding them.
“I enjoy watching you watch me.” She couldn’t use the word love as easily as he did. She’d misjudged it before. To admit to herself that her feelings toward him might be that strong would make her vulnerable. Theirs was an arrangement based on need: hers to see her sister comfortably situated; his to see that his baser needs were met.
He rose up. His gaze roamed slowly over her face as though he were memorizing each facet, every dip, curve, and line. Finally, his eyes came back to hers, held there. “I want more, Tillie. I want to waltz with you.”
The joy that whipped through her with his simple declaration was terrifying. She shouldn’t be this happy when what he desired was the impossible. “We could waltz here.”
“I want to dance with you in a ballroom.”
“If you ever come to New York—”
“Attend the next ball with Gina.”
Shaking her head, she fought not to look away from him. “I’m not invited.”
“You could come as my guest.”
“No. You saw how it was at the theater, how men view me as loose and accessible—it will be far worse in a ballroom.”
“Not if I’m at your side.”
He underestimated the cruelty of Society. “It will serve Gina no good. I must see to her happiness.”
“Why? Why must you accept the responsibility for it?”
“Because I’m the elder, because my mother dragged her over here, forced her to leave all her friends behind—because of my ambitions.”
“You said your mother wanted the title.”
“She did.” She shoved herself up to a sitting position, flung her skirts back over her legs, and drew her knees in close, wrapping her arms around them, staring out at the fields that appeared untouched by man. “But so did I. There was a boy I fancied in New York.” She laughed darkly. “A boy. He was twenty-four; I seventeen. He wanted to marry me but his mother wouldn’t have it. He acquiesced to her demands to stop stepping out with me. His mother saw to it that we weren’t invited to dinners or balls or welcomed because we were newly-moneyed and as such we were beneath them because they were old money. So when my mother hatched her scheme to put them in their place by marrying me off to nobility—I was not nearly as against the notion as I claimed. But poor Gina was eleven when she was uprooted, brought here.”
