A Scandalous Proposal (5 page)

After all, if her story could be believed, and he had no reason to doubt it, she'd been a virgin bride and a faithful wife. Despite what must have been severe pressure to do otherwise, she seemed to have remained chaste even after her husband's death. Certainly her rejection of the lures cast out by St. Clair and his set confirmed that assessment.

How she must have loved her soldier-husband, to leave what had obviously been a privileged home and follow him to the privations and dangers of war. Evan felt a swift, irrational flare of jealousy.

Well, she'd not rebuffed him. He'd given her every opportunity, reiterated his insistence that she owed him no additional thanks, but when he'd boldly admitted his desire, she'd avowed her own. What could be plainer than that?

He remembered the darting thrill yesterday when he'd touched her lip. He'd felt it in every nerve, and she'd felt it, too—he'd seen the shocked recognition in her eyes im
mediately after. Perhaps attraction didn't burn in her as fiercely as in him, but she was hardly indifferent.

Mayhap, having been years without a husband and lover, she was as ready as he.

Well, she was unlikely to be that ready, he conceded. But she was drawn to him, he was certain of it, and he could build on that.

He
would
build upon it, court her until she welcomed him with anticipation as fervent as his own. Never, he vowed, had any woman been wooed as persistently, passionately and persuasively as he intended to woo Emily Spenser.

But to do so, he must finish his port and depart before her intoxicating closeness destroyed what little was left of his control. Before he did something rash.

He didn't want this to be rash or hurried. He wanted their time together to be like her—perfection.

The door across the hall opened and Emily emerged. His mouth went dry and the glass slipped from his fingers. Smiling, she walked toward him clad only in a night rail.

'Twas not the flannel garment of a prim, virtuous middle-class matron. Oh no, the most skilled of courtesans would have delighted in how this gown of slithering, shining emerald silk swept from her shoulders over her full breasts to her narrow waist and past rounded hips to whisper about her thighs and calves as she walked. It clung to the taunting outline of pebbled nipples, the round of belly, the tempting fistful of curls at the junction of her thighs.

Beyond speech, he merely stared as she halted before him. Her violet eyes, enormous, caught his dazzled gaze as a drift of delicate scent, lavender and heat and woman, dizzied him.

“My lord?” she said softly.

Any reservations he may have retained crumbled. With trembling hands he drew her down beside him on the settee. His blood pounding in his ears, every sense knife sharp, he
gently touched the faint bruise on her lip with one finger, then lowered his mouth over hers.

She tasted sweet, ah so sweet, of coffee and wine and Emily. Mindful of her hurt, he licked her lips gently, gently sought entry. She opened her mouth, and when her tongue met his, every iota of control dissolved.

With a cry he crushed her to him. Leaning her back against the cushions, he plundered the depths of her mouth, nibbling, sucking, voracious. With fevered impatience, he moved lower, tracing the satin length of collarbone, tasting the pulse at the hollow of her throat, then lower still, forcing the satin bodice beneath her breasts so it thrust them up and out to him, like trophies.

He cupped the warm, heavy rounds, licked their fullness, drew a nipple into his mouth. He thought she gasped when he squeezed the breast to take in yet more of its fullness, then withdrew to lave the sides and nibble the nipple's rigid top.

He couldn't seem to get close enough, kiss deeply enough. She tried to help, truly she did, struggling to pull off his neckcloth and unbutton his shirt as he carried her across the hallway and shouldered open her chamber door. She was fumbling with the buttons at his straining breeches when he laid her on the narrow bed, but impatient, he wrenched the cloth free. When his manhood sprang forth and she touched him, an explosion of heat and need shut down his brain entirely.

How he got her gown off without ripping it to shreds he couldn't remember, but somehow she was lying under him, all warm, glorious naked skin. He managed to restrain himself long enough to tangle his fingers in the thatch of dark curls and part her, to briefly taste her fragrant womanhood. Then he was plunging into her, burying himself as she tilted her hips to take him deeper, and the whole world erupted in a searing fireball of sensation.

He must have passed out, or dozed, for when he came back to himself Evan lay sprawled against the pillows—alone. Sitting up with a start, he saw Emily at the doorway to a small balcony that overlooked the back garden.

Strong emotion washed over him, followed by guilt. So much for courting, for flowers, gifts, sweet words. He'd said nothing at all, then taken her too fast, like a callow youth with his first woman. He recalled the ladies who had sighed with satisfaction after his bedding, swearing him to be the most skillful of lovers, and almost laughed. There'd been no trace tonight of that vaunted technique.

'Twill be better next time,
he promised her silently. Next time he would go slowly, slowly. Everything, each touch and taste and stroke, would be for her. Not until she writhed under him, clutching his shoulders and begging for release, would he sheath himself in her, and even then he would hold back until her cries of pleasure freed him to find nirvana again. He recalled the brain-melting, heart-stopping intensity of his response, and had to grin. Well, at least he would
try
to hold back.

Naked, he slipped out of bed and approached her. She must not have heard him, for she stood silent, still facing out to the garden. He halted a step away, savoring her incredible beauty and marveling at its powerful effect.

She'd put the night rail back on. Light from the streetlamp beyond shone in lozenged patterns on its shiny surface. Her lush hair, only a shadowy outline in the gloom, hung forward over her breasts. He bent to kiss her bared nape and suddenly realized what he'd taken to be patterns on the silken gown were, in fact, fold lines.

Peering more closely, he examined the evenly spaced repetition of the rectangular shapes. So sharply creased were the lines, so spicy and deep the clinging odor of lavender, that he was forced to conclude the night rail must have lain folded in tissue wrap for a very long time.

Had she welcomed her soldier back from battle wearing this? When he returned to her wounded, had she tenderly set it away, waiting for the day when he had recovered enough that she might wear it for him once more?

An unexpected and shockingly intense feeling of outrage engulfed Evan at the thought of her with another man. As if laying claim, he placed his hands on her shoulders.

She'd been trembling, even before his touch startled her. She turned her head toward him, and he saw star-spangled droplets clinging to the ends of her long lashes. She was, he realized with horror, weeping.

Remorse swamped him. He pulled her into his arms, grateful that instead of resisting, she rested her head against his chest.

After a moment, she moved away, swiping at her eyes. He stayed her hand and kissed the moist lashes. “Ah, sweetheart, you truly are a virtuous matron.”

She managed a glimmer of a smile. “I used to be.”

“You
are.
”

Some fleeting emotion crossed her face. Gently she pushed him back and walked to the bedside table, took a sip of wine from a glass left there.

Keeping her gaze averted from his unclothed body, she turned toward him. “I'm sorry, that wasn't very good. It's been a long time.”

“You've had the gown since…” He couldn't complete the thought.

“Yes. Be assured, I've never worn it. After A—After he was wounded, I kept it as a sort of talisman for the time when he would be well. But you cannot wish to hear of it.”

She was right; he didn't want to hear about it. At the same time, he was morbidly curious, and absolutely sick with jealousy.

She poured another glass of wine, spilling a little, and
handed it to him. Then she lit a lamp, retrieved his shirt and breeches, and brought them over.

After he'd drained the wine, she held out the shirt. “Shall I help?” Her glance grazed his naked form, and she flushed. “I mean, are you…ready?” She smiled slightly. “I'm sorry, I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do.”

No, no, don't let it end like this,
his mind screamed. “Nothing,” he choked out. “You don't have to do anything.”

Nonetheless, with another determined smile she assisted him into his shirt. Had she tenderly dressed her husband after loving, when he'd left her to go on duty? As she attempted to do up the buttons, Evan brushed her hand away blindly, stupidly furious.

Idiot,
he castigated himself.
Of course she isn't a trollop, though you just treated her like one. Of course she bought this sumptuous, sinful, will-melting gown for her
husband,
the man she all-too-clearly adored—and adores still. He was her husband, dammit! 'Tis only right she loved him.

He gave the last button a savage twist. “Just don't regret this,” he said gruffly. “I couldn't bear that.”

Her violet eyes looked up in surprise, their puzzled depths trapping him. Helpless, he could not look away.

“I don't regret it,” she said slowly after a moment. Squaring her shoulders, she straightened. “Truly, I don't regret it.”

“I wish I could believe that. But you needn't worry, I'm leaving. I don't, as a rule, rape grieving widows.”

He reached for his breeches. Her hand caught his, and with the other, she turned his chin so that she could look once more into his eyes.

He tried to jerk away, sure his face mirrored all his roiling emotion and stupid, little-boy hurt. But she held on and gazed up searchingly.

After a long moment, she whispered, “I don't regret it.” And kissed him.

She was right—this
was
better, so very much better than before that any thought of leaving expired on the spot.

This time her tongue sought out his, circling and stroking it, teasing him deeper. As she alternately sucked and nibbled at his lips, he groaned and yanked up her gown to knead the soft roundness of her buttocks and mold her torso against his. She pressed herself higher and, still teasing his tongue, rubbed her springy curls against his rapidly hardening shaft.

He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs about his waist and thrust down, taking him inside. One arm about his neck, she brought his mouth to one taut, silk-encased nipple. She moaned as he tongued her, tensing the muscles inside her hot, slick canal about his burgeoning manhood.

Gasping, he wrapped his arms around her and carried her back to the bed. With each step, she rocked her hips to take him deeper. By the time he eased her against the pillows and settled himself over her, he was already throbbing for release.

He managed to hold himself back this time. Driving in as deeply as he could, he stilled and bent to bare her breasts. Slowly he sucked and nipped each nipple in turn while she quivered under him, straining to rock her hips. He rested his weight against her, pinning her motionless while he savored her skin. When her breathing turned to shallow gasps, when a fine sheen dewed her chest, only then did he shift his weight and slowly draw himself out to the very tip, then slowly ease himself back in. She moved her hips urgently, her hands clutching his shoulders. “Please,” she whispered, “please!”

Digging his thumbnails into his hands to slow himself, gradually he increased the rhythm. She lay back, her hair streaming over the pillows, her eyes closed, and arched into
him. He bent to suckle again her full, taut nipples, and she cried out, nearly destroying his disintegrating control.

“Evan,” he gasped as he drove harder, “call me Evan.”

“Evan,” she whispered, and then “Oh, Evan!”, until finally she sobbed out his name and he let her exquisite, sweet convulsions set off his own.

Afterward, he cradled her close, loving the feel of her sweat-drenched skin against his own. “Emily, sweetheart, don't ever regret this,” he murmured as he slid his hands over the slick satin of her hips, her breasts. She cuddled into him and he massaged her shoulders and back, reveling in the sheer sweet pleasure of touching her.

She stretched out, languorous as a cat, one soft leg draped over his. After a few moments, her relaxed, even breathing told him she slept.

Though there was no need, he continued to gently stroke her. He felt a deep satisfaction that, this time, he had undeniably given her pleasure, and a sense of awe at the intensity of the pleasure she gave him.

He ought to wake her, let her dress him, take his leave. He never spent the night with his mistresses; once the loving was finished, he was usually eager to be off.

It seemed in this, too, being with her was different, for he had not the slightest desire to stir from her bed. There was utter contentment in holding her silken body close, watching moonlight play across her face.