Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4 (12 page)

“Your skin is a miracle,” he said, so low she could barely hear him, then he dropped down on one knee. That must hurt him, but he showed no sign of it. “I have to taste you,” he said, and followed suit. He sucked a nipple into his mouth and pulled on it, caressing it with his tongue.

Virginie gasped and put one hand on the surface of the washstand. The ridge where the cold china tiles met the polished wood frame dug into her palm. She pressed further, needing the contact to keep her balance.

While he sucked and played with her, his other hand tweaking her other nipple to a similar state to the one in his mouth, he brought up his free hand. He removed hers from the piece of furniture, guiding her to place it on his broad shoulder.

Hard, smooth muscle met her skin. Miles of it, as firm as she could ever want. His power seemed unending and excited her beyond reason. This man could take her any way she liked, and she couldn’t stop him. The fact that he was stopping himself thrilled her. He would have to restrain his instinctive reactions. Waves of desire emanated from him. She met them with her own, needy and powerful. Different to—

Different to anything she’d known before, that was all.

He switched to her other breast, the other cooling as the wet flesh met the air, but then he had his hand on her again.

He lifted her skirt. He caught hold of her calf and shaped the muscle with his big palm, running his thumb along it to the inside of her knee. There he stroked, and Virginie discovered a new area that was sensitive to a man’s touch. He tickled and caressed before moving to the top of her stockings and tracing the edge. Her garters were tied just above her knee.

“More,” she said.

He dotted little kisses around her nipple, his eyes half-closed, then ducked under her skirts.
“I love your smell.”

So straightforwardly said! Her feminine aroma must be wreathed around him in the enclosed space. Although far from a virgin, she let herself enter this new territory, completely unknown to her.

She felt his incredulity as his lips closed gently around her clitoris and he flicked his tongue over the tip, as he’d done to her nipple. His low purr vibrated through her flesh. Virginie shuddered as her reaction met his and their minds chased the same end. He wanted her to—could she come like this?

Goddess of love she might be. Experienced she was not. She and Marcus usually attacked each other in a frenzy, eager to get to the main course. They rarely had time for foreplay. Harry was about to expand her sphere of knowledge.

Now he pulled on her clitoris, sucked, and as he did so he touched her. When she gave a sharp cry, he chuckled, another sound that added to her desire, pushing her ever closer to the edge. He pushed a finger inside her. Such an intimate act, done in bright, broad daylight!

She sobbed his name as her channel closed around him in sharp spasms. She came, hard and fast, totally unable to control her reaction to his tasting. While she clutched his broad shoulders he sent her soaring, gasping in shocked delight.

He didn’t stop until the last tremor died away. Then he grabbed his cane, planted it on the floor and came to his feet. Curving his other hand around her waist, he led her to the bed, but instead of lying down, they sat on it. Her side hoops wouldn’t allow for her lying down comfortably and she certainly could not rest her head on his shoulder as she did now.

When she reached around to unfasten her petticoat, he stayed her hand. “No, that’s enough for now.”

“But don’t you want to…?”

“No. I want to have a proper wedding night.” He kissed her, soft and sweet, almost innocent. “We’ll leave something for then, and since it’s tomorrow night, we won’t have to wait for long.”

That was so romantic she melted. She was still soft and dreamy in the aftermath of her orgasm, content to have him hold her. But an impressive erection raised a ridge in the fine fabric of his breeches. He was completely dressed from the waist down. “Would you wait if it was next month?”

He chuckled. “I’m not a saint. Probably not. But I’m not a satyr either. I can wait for a day.” He stroked her hair, twining a curl around his finger. “You’ve made me very happy. It’s not something I can say yet outside this room, but I’m glad you chose me.”

“There was no choice.” She said it flatly, with a bitter edge. But best he knew the truth. “I could not choose Marcus. We are neither of us what we should be when we are with each other. We don’t work properly.”

“It’s the addiction.”

“Yes.”

“But you could have returned to France,” he added. “You chose me instead of that.”

“Yes, I did.” She hadn’t realised until he pointed it out. She
had
chosen him over France. She’d liked France and there she would not carry the scandal that had erupted there. The French wouldn’t care about a little public display. But Virginie didn’t want to run away. She’d have stayed and fought it on her own if she’d had to. She hadn’t fallen into Harry’s arms from a weak sense that she needed someone to look after her, because she didn’t. She had decided on Harry because she liked him. Heavens above, what was the world coming to? “I like your honesty and your sense of honour. I like that I don’t have to be constantly talking with you.”

He kissed her forehead in that way he had and this time she moved into his kiss, then lifted her head for more. He obliged, and they lost themselves in each other for precious moments. He was so much more than she’d expected, and she hadn’t sampled everything he had to offer yet. Recalling that, she let her hand drift over his crotch, and received a satisfying blast of heat and the sensation of sheer strength.

He took her hand and moved it aside, linking their fingers together before finishing the kiss. “If I have to wait, so do you.”

She loved that he was confident enough to say that. He was taking control, and she loved a man who could do that and take the woman with him. In this case, her. She wouldn’t let him have things entirely his own way, but letting someone else take the pressure from time to time appealed to her. For the last five years she’d had nobody to do that. Before that her husband had ailed, and she’d seen to the estates on her own.

“You’ll be a very rich man. I have extensive holdings in France,” she murmured.

“I’m a wealthy man already. My father didn’t have much land, but it’s built over rich mineral resources. We have coal, salt and even tin.”

“Appropriate for Vulcan.” She initiated the kiss this time, and he cupped her cheek. She loved the way he took his time. She had never had much time—before.

“Come, my lady. We’ll make ourselves decent and I’ll see you to your carriage. Then I’ll see you next tomorrow.”

He proved an adequate, if not skilled lady’s maid. The only garment she needed help with were her stays. He tightened the laces he’d previously unfastened with reasonable efficiency, considering his lack of experience in that area.

Restored once more, she paused at the door to his room. They would go downstairs as if leaving from the first floor public rooms. But she didn’t care. Her reputation was lost. Tomorrow she would start to get it back. Nobody would concern themselves with a widow visiting her future husband the night before the wedding. Not unless something went wrong. It would not. It must not.

“Do you have much experience?” Recalling his skill when he tongued her, she had begun to wonder. “Do you have a woman waiting for you in the north?”

His mouth creased in a smile. “A respectable woman should not even think of that.”

“This one is thinking of it. And I’m not entirely respectable.”

He claimed another kiss and she gave it gladly. “Then to put your mind at ease, I’ll answer. No. I have nobody waiting for me except my mother.” He turned serious. “She lives in the main house, but after she has introduced you to the estate, she may retire to the Dower House.”

“Won’t she resent my presence?”

“Lord, no, she’s constantly complaining about her duties! She asked me to find a bride when I came to London. I told her I was going to support my fellow immortals and conduct a little business, nothing more.” When she would have pulled away, he drew her back. “You were a surprise, I swear. I was planning to go home unencumbered, but now, I won’t go home without you.”

Relieved she wouldn’t be displacing a resentful woman, she was nevertheless put in mind of her own mother.

He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. “Will you tell me one day? All of it?”

“Possibly.” At the moment she didn’t care.

Chapter Twelve

Harry remained on tenterhooks until he actually saw her. Would she come? He had no idea, but if she didn’t, he’d find her. The licence was good for months yet.

Then there she was, standing in the doorway of her drawing room. The vicar was here, the necessary papers lay on a side table, and d’Argento and Ellesmere were standing as witnesses. Some of the other immortals were present too. Harry had written to his mother yesterday, to tell her he’d acceded to her wishes to find a bride. He was ready. More than ready.

What madness had persuaded him not to take her yesterday? He ached with longing for her. Tomorrow they’d travel north, and while he’d done his best to assure reasonable lodgings, one could never be completely certain of coaching inns. If they took detours to stay with friends or one of his other estates, then the journey would take even longer. He wanted her home, in his private kingdom, where he could protect her. He had a feeling he would need to do it in the turbulent times that lay ahead for all gods.

He would not tell her that his feelings ran far deeper than mere liking. Or that he wanted her more than was sane. Enough that she had agreed to marry him. Her reaction to his attentions yesterday had shocked him, as if she wasn’t used to such treatment, but she was Venus, the goddess of love. Surely she had far more experience than he did.

Not that he was without experience. Enough to know that the woman in blue standing in the doorway was the epitome of pure lust. No, more than that. The urges sweeping through him now encompassed more than lust. Caring, protectiveness, even trust. The things people often called love. As a matter of fact, he called it that too. Though he doubted she would. At least, not yet.

She was wearing her favourite pearls, wound tightly around her throat, and under, tucked into her bodice—his silver rose.

She hadn’t thrown it away after all. It gleamed, the drop of dew he’d crafted on to one petal catching the light as she walked past. Sunlight streamed in through the big bay windows, and the guests stood for her.

The vicar began the service.

Harry had promised himself that he’d remember every word, and make every promise heartfelt. As matters turned out, the minute he saw her every rational thought flew out of the window, and when she walked to him—to him!—he could do little but smile and repeat the words the vicar read to him, like a trained parrot.

She knew the words by heart. Did she remember from the last time, or had she sat up last night to memorise them? Either way, her voice fell on his ears, steady and assured. Quite unlike his.

When the vicar told him to place the ring on her finger, he placed the plain gold band there. Then he took her right hand and held it. He wanted the contact. Ignoring the cleric’s scandalised glare, Harry let the vicar finish the ceremony and then dragged her close and kissed her. Be damned to the conventions, he wouldn’t wait any longer. And it was a proper kiss too, not a weak peck. She flung her arm around his neck and hung on, so he took her a little further down the path of desire.

Finally, he released her mouth and let her draw away. Her eyes opened, widened and she blinked. “Goodness!” she said breathlessly.

His grin widened. “If you say so, my dear.”

Ensuring she had her hand firmly on his arm, he turned and they left the makeshift altar to sign the papers and receive their copy of the licence. He tucked it away carefully in his inside pocket. When she lifted her hand from his sleeve, he caught it, and held on to it, raising it to his lips before releasing it. His ring gleamed there, a sign of his possession that he took far too much pleasure in seeing.

She seemed lighter, somehow. Their nemesis wasn’t here. Either d’Argento had persuaded Lyndhurst to stay away or he’d made the decision for himself. The room was lighter in spirit because of that.

Mrs. Davenport sat quietly next to d’Argento, dressed finer than he’d seen her before, but still without ostentation. Her only jewellery was a small enamel brooch pinned to the corsage of her dark green moiré gown. Her stately stature and calm demeanour proclaimed her right to be there. A thought crossed his mind, a vision of the two redoubtable ladies, his mother and hers, meeting. Would they prefer to live together in the dower house? He couldn’t see that working, but anything was possible. In any case, he owned properties where they could live apart.

Today belonged to his wife. She was radiant, and to his biased eyes, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. But of course, her attributes took care of that.
His wife.
She would be so for a long time to come, if he had anything to do with it.

They went through to dinner. It took forever. He had to watch his wife at the opposite end of the table, not able to touch her, all through the unending meal. Left to his own devices, Harry would far rather eat a simple meal and then get on with his life. He wasn’t given to idle chatter or intellectual discussions, so long three-course dinners with innumerable removes tended to bore him.

This time, although a preponderance of immortals were at the table, together with the mortals who knew about them, like his new mother-in-law, they chose not to discuss their predicaments freely. Instead they concentrated on the affairs of the day, both literary and political. Harry listened, as he knew he should, but he couldn’t muster much interest. Not today. What concerned him was what he could see and touch and feel. Not what might be, or what could happen.

But Virginie enjoyed it, so he tolerated sitting at table for three hours. Three interminable hours that he could be spending doing far more enjoyable things. They agreed that they’d spend the night there, at her house, and then set out tomorrow, at whatever time they rose.

If
they rose. He didn’t care if they set out a day late. His servants would just have to handle the situation, that was all.

The footmen had laid out the dessert service and left them to their own devices. Virginie had a set of German porcelain dishes, each of which depicted a certain fruit or vegetable. The joke, such as it was, had the contents not matching the object. A bunch of asparagus might contain walnuts, which was the case when Harry lifted the lid of the dish nearest to him. He didn’t bother reaching for the nutcrackers. He could crack walnuts between his finger and thumb, which he proceeded to do. Then he set to peeling the meat, and laid the result carefully on his plate. He did the same to two more before he noticed the silence that had fallen over his side of the table. People were watching. A slow handclap drew his attention to d’Argento. His porcelain cauliflower contained apricots.

“Very impressive.”

“I never realised. I’m sorry.”

D’Argento regarded him steadily. “You probably didn’t, but you drew all of us effortlessly. I won’t ask you to do it again, perform like a horse in a circus, but I will remember the sight. What else can you do with your finger and thumb?”

Whether he meant it or not he would never know, but Virginie took the words personally. She choked on her wine.

Oh yes, d’Argento meant it. His knowing smile told Harry so. That sally had given him more information than he had a right to. That he, Harry, had been intimate with Virginie. Tonight they would complete that journey. Harry couldn’t wait.

He cracked more nuts. They passed him a dish of almonds, disguised in a porcelain melon. He cracked those too. “It’s the combination of strength and delicacy,” Ellesmere’s wife remarked as he passed her some of the results.

D’Argento took some to accompany his apricots, which he’d peeled and sectioned with unnerving accuracy. “We have to discuss it,” he said. “The topic we’re all carefully avoiding. But if you wish us to leave, Harry, we will.”

Yes, he wanted them to leave, but no, he couldn’t let them, and d’Argento knew that quite well. “Rhea Simpson was my tenant’s daughter. I’m involved, whether I want it or not.” He glanced at Virginie, who nodded slightly. She picked up a walnut and placed it carefully between her front teeth before biting down. The sight made him shudder with repressed desire. What a predicament! One he would enjoy under different circumstances, as long as it did not go on too long.

“Then let’s be as brief as we can,” he said.

The ten guests nodded or murmured their agreement. Immortals, their partners and mortal friends all knew the details. With the footmen gone, they didn’t need to conceal anything.

This time Harry took the lead. After all, they were in his home, by proxy. When he flicked another glance at Virginie, she gave her tacit consent with another tiny nod. He leaned forward, shoving his plate out of the way. “Rhea Simpson was seen at the theatre on cordial terms with Virginie and her mother. After the performance, Virginie took her home. Several people saw Miss Simpson alight from the carriage. She went up to her room and relieved the maid who was caring for her children. After that, nobody saw her. Is that right?”

“A perfect summation,” d’Argento said. “The babies’ cries disturbed a number of guests and Lightfoot took it upon himself to investigate, taking a maid with him. He found her dead. Between the time she went into her room to the time that she was discovered, nobody saw her. It’s extremely unlikely she stayed in the clothes she’d worn to the theatre. Who wears uncomfortable evening dress during the day, especially when caring for children?”

“Virginie didn’t do it.” Harry knew that, and in the whole affair that was his only interest. “Frankly, I don’t care who did it. Oh, I’m very sorry for the woman, even more for her children, but Virginie had nothing to do with it.”

“I can speak for myself.” She could have created ice by using that tone of voice to a glass of water.

He swore viciously, but kept his words buried deeply. “I’m sorry. Of course you can.”

Her tones warmed a fraction when she said, “But thank you for your support.”

“You’re welcome.”

Virginie took up the story. “Someone wanted to cast blame in my direction. Perhaps to take attention off themselves.” Resting her chin on her hand, she addressed d’Argento. “How sure are you of your staff?”

“I trust all the principal members of staff at the Pantheon club implicitly,” he answered without hesitation. He tossed an almond into the air and caught it in his mouth.

Virginie shrugged, an elegant movement of one shoulder. “Then Lightfoot is absolved. We have to do this if we are to move forward. For obvious reasons I want this matter cleared up. If I have to, I’ll leave.”

“No.” This time Harry would offer no excuse. She would not leave, not now he had her. “Not without me.”

Her head jerked towards him in anything but a graceful movement, displaying her shock. “Why should you want to share my disgrace?”

“Why do you think?” He’d let her think about that. He took the conversation once more. “She was probably murdered shortly after she arrived in her room. I take it that suicide is out of the question, even though you’ve told the authorities that was what she did?”

D’Argento nodded. “We found more than one wound. Two stab marks, close together, each equally deep. The magistrates do not have an impressive record in going beyond the obvious. If they discover what we did, then we will have to cope with the results, but so far they’ve accepted the explanation.”

“They won’t notice two wounds?” Susanna asked incredulously. She exchanged a glance with Virginie. Despite her not being Virginie’s ward anymore, the women must still be close. Susanna had spent several years as part of Virginie’s household, and they had first come to London with the excuse of launching Susanna on London society.

“Probably not,” d’Argento said. “The wound site was bloody and messy. They will not want to retain the body for long. The coroners will probably bury it before her parents reach London.” He paused and grimaced. “Besides, the stabs did not cause her death. She was poisoned.”

All movement in the room stilled and everyone stared at d’Argento. If anyone knew, as physician to the gods, he would. “I smelled it, the odour of almonds on her lips. Then I searched the room. There was no phial, nothing containing anything out of the ordinary, but I saw the other signs of poison. I have no idea why she would have been stabbed. It was not the cause of her death, although it happened shortly after, or even while she was dying.”

Low curses came from several people. Nobody asked d’Argento if he was sure, because if he said so, then it was true.

Harry cleared his throat. “Since the Simpsons are my tenants, I’ll visit them while I’m away from London. I’ll convey my deepest sympathies and offer to arrange anything they wish to do with their daughter’s body. I would imagine they’d prefer to bury her in the family plot. Rather than them taking the children, Lyndhurst is doing it. I will ask Rhea’s parents if they wish that state of affairs to continue. I saw the young lady when she first arrived in London, don’t forget. In the company of my esteemed mother-in-law.”

Mrs. Davenport took a sip of her wine. “She was deeply distressed. His lordship is right, she declared that her parents had cast her out. She came to London in desperation and begged Lord Valsgarth to help her state her case to his grace. He said he would do what he could.”

“She asked me too,” d’Argento said. Having finished his almonds and apricots, he reached for the nearest decanter and poured himself some wine. The candlelight flickered over his austere features, caressing him like a lover. “I believe she wanted as many of us as possible to know the father of her children. A reasonable course to take.”

“So what happens now?” Ellesmere asked. He lifted his wine, ruby in his case. “Do I ask for Stretton’s help?” Stretton, who held the attributes of Bacchus, was currently in the country with his wife. “I would rather avoid that. The man courts trouble. In any case, his wife is in a delicate condition and under the weather.”

D’Argento shook his head. “She has morning sickness and fatigue, normal effects of early pregnancy, if unpleasant.” As older gods, d’Argento and Stretton were particularly close. He twirled his glass, the light flashing as the surface swirled unevenly. “So Valsgarth will visit the Simpsons and discover what he can from that direction. Is there anyone at her home who could have committed the act, maybe a lover who wanted to conceal his involvement in the affair?”