A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (27 page)

“A want.” He paused. “Not a need.” The smile spread.

Double damn.

“My lack of suitors did not make you feel duty
-bound?”

Alexander pulled at his neckcloth. If they were to begin anew, honesty must prevail. “It seems I was mistaken in regard to the presence of suitors.”

“What?” Of course that piqued her interest. She peered at him as though he’d just sprouted horns. Or a second head. “I had a suitor?”

Alexander’s jaw clenched. She needn’t act so damn excited about it. All of her suitors were peacocks—with the exception of Sebastian Trent, but Francie needn’t know about him. He cleared this throat,
then mumbled, “Seventeen.”

Francie stepped closer. Leaned toward him. “Excuse me?”

He cleared his throat. “Seventeen,” he repeated.

“Seventeen calling cards?” Her mouth opened again but it took several seconds for her to produce sound. “Seventeen?”

“And none of them were acceptable.”

“According to whom?”

He glared at her. “Me.”

She didn’t like that answer. Not one bit.

“If they were
my
suitors, should it not have been
my
choice?”

He shrugged.

Her gaze narrowed. “Should I not have been privileged to the knowledge that suitors existed? Even a single one?”

She had a point. “Perhaps. But it would have made no difference. You weren’t marrying any of them.”

“As I recall, you made it quite clear, the only one I wasn’t marrying was you!”

“Enough!”

They glared at one another. The entire night had been a tumult of emotions. He had not expected Francie to claw him with questions and accusations. Alexander took a deep breath and forced out the next words. “There were seventeen calling cards. And a proposal from young Grosepeak. If you would like to consider any of them, I’ll make the cards available.”

She studied him as though looking for the fault in his words. “You would let me choose?”

He nodded. And then, because he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t divulge the whole truth, he said, “Sebastian Trent paid a personal visit to your uncle.”

“Sebastian did?”

She didn’t have to sound so giddy, like a schoolgirl gawking over her first crush. Francie’s excitement put Alexander in a foul mood. She’d certainly never gawked over him that way. Good God, that sounded an awful lot like jealousy.

“Alexander?”

“What?” She was going to make him deliver the blasted details. “Apparently, Mr. Trent was quite taken with you.”

“He said so?”

Alexander scowled. Damned if he’d provide the details so she could swoon and sigh. Honor could only push a man so far. “In so many words, yes.” There. Duty fulfilled.

A tiny smile creased her lips. “He is a most handsome man.”

Stabs of jealousy pricked at him. Only a fool would miss the wistfulness in her voice. “I couldn’t say.”

The smile deepened. “And intelligent.”
Handsome
and
intelligent. What was next? A tribute to the broadness of his shoulders? The elegant fit of his waistcoat? The line of his perfectly straight nose?

“And have you ever noticed the way his eyes twinkle when he laughs? Like stars on a dark night.”

“No, I can’t say that I have.” Alexander’s heart deflated. He was about to lose the only woman he ever truly wanted to a man with a perfectly straight nose and twinkling eyes.

“I daresay any girl would be delirious to catch Mr. Trent’s eye.”

Alexander settled his gaze on the shadowy interior of the cottage. He refused to watch Francie’s face light with excitement and wonder as she expounded on the apparently limitless qualities of Sebastian Trent. When she finished, which he prayed would be soon, he’d force himself to look at her.

“Alexander?”

“Hmm?” He tried to ignore the sudden breathiness in her voice. It reminded him too much of the night in the garden, when he—

Francie touched his cheek. “Look at me.”

She shouldn’t touch him that way when she planned to marry another. They must forget everything that ever passed between them. Immediately. Especially anything involving bare flesh and tongues. Who was he kidding? He’d go to his grave with the feel of her skin burned into his memory. But she need never know that. He would give her what she wanted, even if it crushed his heart and scarred his soul.

He met her gaze. He longed to lift her into his arms and kiss her until she moaned his name. What he wouldn’t give for one last kiss, one final touch,
one—

“I don’t want to marry Sebastian Trent.”

“What did you say?”

“He’s a very nice man. Handsome, intelligent, articulate, well mannered.” She stroked his cheek. “But he’s not you.”

Hope pounded through Alexander. “No, I daresay he’s not.”

“For some inexplicable reason, I prefer a more complicated man.
Serious to the point of sullen. Unsmiling. Unreadable. It makes for a greater challenge.” She leaned up on tiptoe and whispered, “And he must absolutely possess a gaze that sends shivers through me. Mr. Trent does not possess such a gaze.”

Alexander’s lips twitched. “Of what importance are such shivers?”

Francie planted the softest kiss on his lips. “Of the greatest importance. Empires have been built upon them.”

She was killing him, one breath at a time. The little witch had taken him from despair, to hope, to elation in the span of a light supper. “Do you know such a man?”

“I do,” she murmured, her breath trailing along his neck.

“Do I?” he half
-choked.

“Oh yes.” She buried her head against his chest. “You most certainly do.”

He waited.
Say it. Please
. “His name?”

She sighed. “Alexander Bishop.”

Thank God
. He scooped her in his arms and crushed her against his chest. “Then marry me, Francie.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes, Alexander.”

He kissed her long and hard, his tongue filling her mouth, devouring her sweetness. Then he scooped her up and carried her into the cottage, kicking the door shut behind him.

“I want you, Francie.” His words were thick with need and longing. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”

She smiled, a hesitant slow smile that shot through him in a wave of desire. The candle she held flickered over her face, and he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes.

“Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” she said, swiping at her eyes.

Alexander leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose. “Of course not,” he whispered. He shifted her weight in his arms and headed for the narrow stairwell in the back of the house. He climbed the steps to the second floor and stopped at the top of the landing. “Which room is yours?”

“The second one,” she said. There was a catch in her voice that could mean only one of two things—anticipation or hesitation over what was to come. He prayed it was the first.

He strode down the hall and into a room so small he had to lower his head to avoid hitting the doorframe. His gaze took in the sparse furnishings. A single bed with a pink and green counterpane in some stitched design stood to his immediate right. In the far corner sat an old wicker rocker with a large basket filled with books. More books were stacked in a haphazard pile on the other side of the rocker. In another corner lay a rug and two oversized pillows, no doubt George and Mr. Pib’s lair. The last three pieces of furniture were a simple chest of drawers in dark wood, a matching nightstand, and a white table with a wash basin. The only decorations in the room were bunches of dried flowers stuck in old jugs and lined against one another on the floor. Certainly not what one would expect for an earl’s daughter, even an illegitimate one.

Alexander turned to Francie. Was she having second thoughts? Regrets? He released her and she slid to her feet. He took the candle from her and set it on the nightstand. The sliver of moon peeking through the solitary window cast its own small ray on them, warring with the candle for illumination.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken in such a bold manner,” he said. He was mere inches from her, the scent of lavender floating around him. But he didn’t touch her. Coming to bed with him needed to be her decision.

When she remained silent, he cleared his throat and tried again. “Perhaps it would be best to wait until after the wedding.” Three more weeks. He’d survive one way or another.

“Did you mean what you said?”

Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours.

“Alexander?”

“What?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. You spoke?”

She gave a little huff. Obviously, she had spoken. And he’d missed it.

“I said,” she repeated, “did you mean what you said?”

“I always mean what I say,” he shot back.

“You do?”

“Or at least I did.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Until I met you, that is. Before, I only said what I meant. And meant what I said. But sometimes, you confuse me and I confuse myself so I have no idea what I’m thinking
or
saying.”

“Really?” One of those tiny smiles that enchanted him so much crept over her lips.

“Really.”

“Oh.”

One little word, spoken with just the right emphasis, told him she was more than a little pleased with his answer. Thrilled actually. He scowled and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“You haven’t answered my question,” she said, a teasing little note in her voice.

“What?” he bit out, wondering if he were getting a glimpse of the next twenty-five years of married life with this woman.

She sighed and dropped her voice to a whisper, as though she thought someone else might hear. “When you said you wanted me more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your life
, did you mean it?”

So that’s what the smile was about. Damn him and his big mouth. He should never have let his damnable emotions run away with his senses. Now she’d want to analyze the devil out of those words, question the meaning behind them, and beat them to an early death.

“Make love to me, Alexander.”

“Excuse me?” That response he had not expected.

“Make love to me,” she repeated in a breathy whisper. “When you’re near me, I can’t think. My heart gets all fluttery like there’s a giant butterfly inside.” She placed her hand over her heart and drew in a shaky breath. “When you’re away from me, I can’t sleep for dreaming of you. Missing you. There’s a gaping hole inside me only you can fill.”

He stared at her, not daring to believe what she’d just said. For the second time in his life, he’d found something he wanted desperately to believe in. Philip was the only other person he’d trusted enough to bestow the same honor. His chest tightened. Could he believe in Francie and risk his heart?

He pushed the questions aside, refusing to think about them at the moment. He had time, at least a little, before he’d be forced to make a decision. And then, he prayed to God, he’d have the strength to make the right one.

“Alexander?”

He brushed his fingertips over her cheeks, tracing her lips, her chin, trailing them along her neck. “You are so beautiful.” He worked his fingers through her hair, loving the touch and feel of it, like silk draped over his skin.

Standing on tiptoe
, she planted a kiss on his mouth. So soft. So sweet. She gave him another and this time her tongue darted out to run along the seam of his lips. Alexander’s groan of pleasure filled the room as he captured her tongue, sucking on it in a long, slow, even rhythm. Francie moaned and pressed her body into his.

He stroked her feminine curves through the thin batiste nightgown. How he wanted her. Now. He lifted her hips and pressed her into him, moving her against his erection. She moaned again and tightened her grip around his neck, rifling her fingers through his hair, mating her mouth with his. It was heaven and hell in a touch that lasted too long and ended too soon.

He ground his hips into hers. If he didn’t have her soon, he would burst. “I need you, Francie,” he said on a ragged breath. “I need you now.” She answered with the slow, rhythmic movement of her hips against him. He grabbed a handful of her gown and with as much patience as he could muster, lifted the fabric over her head.

She stood before him, naked and beautiful, the candle flickering along her body in a silky, incandescent shimmer. If he touched her now, it wouldn’t be with comforting hands to gentle her passage into womanhood. No, certainly not. If he touched her now, it would be with the passion of a man long deprived, one wanting nothing more than to bury himself between her silky thighs and slake his desire on her.

He inched backward and settled his gaze on a point just past her left ear. He couldn’t look at her right now—not until he regained his composure— not that he hadn’t memorized the exact shade of pink to her nipples, or the flare of her hips, or the pale red thatch of hair between her legs. They were burned in his brain, a torment that could not be erased.