How to Wed a Baron (18 page)

“Don't do what, Justin? Don't wonder what it would be like to lie in your arms? Don't yearn to have you touch me again? Don't long to kiss you, and hold you, and find out if you can fill this aching void inside of me I didn't know existed until you came into my life? Maybe you don't feel what I feel, or maybe you're lying to me, and to yourself. Maybe you're afraid that if you touch me, really touch me, you won't be able to leave me.

“Are we both to spend the rest of our lives not
knowing if those lives could have been different, better? You say you have no life, Justin. Or is it that you're afraid of life? Is it the chance of feeling again that's so frightening to you? If I'm not afraid, then how can you—”

Smothering a curse, he pulled her forward onto his lap and crushed his mouth to hers, a move meant to silence her, she supposed. She believed she could taste the desperation in his kiss as his hands moved over her roughly, pushing the blouse from her shoulder, digging his fingertips into her soft flesh.

She clung to him as he ravaged her mouth, kissing her half in demand, half in supplication. She grabbed at his jaw, holding him still, and returned his passion with some of her own, biting his lower lip until she could taste blood and then plunging her tongue inside his mouth to join with his, duel with his.

His hand found her bare breast beneath the thin lawn of her blouse, and she cried out when he pinched her taut nipple, sending sharp spikes of desire down her body and to the heated ache between her legs.

She couldn't be still, couldn't have enough of him. In desperation she grabbed at her skirts and struggled to hike up the fullness of heavy fabric and the cotton slips beneath, taking his hand and pressing it to her bare thigh.

She whimpered against his mouth as he reached up and roughly tore her last undergarment from her.
She grabbed onto his shirtfront and raised her hips instinctively, the tightening between her thighs so pleasurable, simply in the anticipation of his touch. She knew what he wanted, because she wanted it, as well.

She couldn't know all that he knew; the unknown was still ahead of her, but she wasn't frightened. She welcomed it, all but begged for it. She spread her legs as wide as she could, her heels digging into the soft grass as she raised herself to him again.
Touch, touch, touch. Take what's there for you, take it all, give back what you can. I'm here for you. Touch me. Love me….

Still with his mouth on hers, Justin ground his hand against her in an intimacy she encouraged, gasping with unexpected pleasure as he then stroked her, learning her even as she learned from him. She felt herself rising to some precipice, the same one she had fallen off the other night, only to be left wanting.

More.
The word repeated itself inside her head.
There has to be more.

She put her hand flat against his chest and pushed with all of her might, freeing herself from his grasp and quickly rising to her feet.

“Alina. Dear God, I've hurt you. I must be out of my mind.”

She couldn't speak, had no words to say what she needed to say. Her hands went to the long scarf
tied about her waist, her fingers fumbling to undo the clever knot. The scarf had barely fallen to the ground before she was pulling the loose blouse up and over her head, tossing it aside as she reached for the buttons at her waistband.

There was no shame, no thought of maidenly reserve as the skirt and petticoats puddled at her feet and she was entirely naked, standing there in the moonlight, offering herself to this man.

Still unable to speak, she took his hands and pulled him to his knees along with her. Her breath coming fast and hard, she tugged his shirt free from his waistband, pushing back the material so that the buttons strained in their moorings. She felt a frustration so great she nearly screamed with it.

“Please,” she managed at last, her mouth close to his. “I want this for you, too. I'm not afraid, Justin. And I want no half measures. If we're to be together only this once, then let it be completely. Don't you need me? I need you, Justin. I need you in ways I still don't even understand. Help me. Let me help you…”

His clothing melted away somehow and she was now free to touch him, learn him as he was learning her. The ripple of his muscles told her when she was pleasing him, and that pleasure came back to her twofold.

“Two people,” he whispered as he took hold of her
shoulders, easing her back onto her petticoats and following her down. “We're just two people…”

His kisses were deep, and drugging. His hands touched her in ways not possible before, with an intimacy that bordered on worship. He was becoming lost in her, and that's what she wanted for him.

He took her hand and guided it down between her legs as he whispered into her ear. “Feel what I feel, Alina…touch what I touch. That's your heat, that's your agony, there lies your white-hot center. All the pleasure, all the longing. And just when you think you can't bear the pleasure anymore, that's when your body longs for mine. Inside you. Deep inside you. There. Right there. That's it, sweetheart. Touch yourself. Feel the silk of you.”

“Justin…”

“I'm going to hurt you, kitten. I don't want to, but I am. But what you want lies beyond the now, what you're feeling now. What lies beyond is why we were created. God's joke is that you should feel pain this first time, and that I'd rather die ten deaths than hurt you.”

Alina's breath caught on a sob. She tugged her hand free of his and attempted to pull him up and over her body. “I'm not frightened. Don't be frightened for me. Please.”

He kissed her, held that perfect kiss as he moved between her legs. When the pain came she barely felt it, and it was swiftly gone, to be replaced by a new
fullness that, of all things, had her smiling against his mouth.

And then he began to move, his rhythm slow, careful, even as his short hard breaths matched her own, so that she bit at his shoulder in a new and different frustration, urging him on, her fingernails digging into his back. What she didn't know, her body did, and her body knew there was even more. Without conscious thought, she raised her legs and clamped them around his back, taking him deeper, wanting him even deeper inside her. “We're not two people anymore, Justin, we're one. Don't hurt for me…I'm not afraid…”

He kissed her again and then pushed himself up on his palms, looking down into her face, searching for some lie in her words, so that she reached up and cupped his cheeks in her hands.

He began to move more purposefully, his thrusts deeper, growing faster, with more of his strength behind them. His gaze locked with hers, he ground against her, until her eyes widened and her breath caught and what he had called her “white-hot center” pulsed in a glorious ecstasy that only increased as she felt his own body do the same. On and on and on, until he collapsed against her and there was nothing but the night and the moon and their mingled breathing.

And the tears that mingled on their cheeks.
Because it had been so right. Because it had been so good.

Because they might neither of them ever feel this way again.

 

J
USTIN STAYED THE NIGHT
in Sandhurst after he'd retrieved the
Inhaber
's answering letter from his friend at their arranged meeting place, for no good reason other than he knew he should stay away from the Romany camp…and Alina.

Briefly, he debated with himself the wisdom of traveling on to London, finding some way to confront the Prince Regent, but he knew that for what it was: a dangerous as well as fruitless enterprise. Even if he could convince the royal buffoon of what he knew, there would be no forgiveness. He'd threatened the man's life, and then publicly announced that he'd pocketed fifty thousand pounds in return for a worthless pardon. By now everyone in Mayfair knew about it, and those in the countryside, at their estates, were reading letters from their friends, recounting Prinny's latest scandal.

No. There was no possible way he could remain in England. As he'd told Alina as he'd left her outside her caravan, after they'd shared one last kiss, he had burned too many bridges.

And now he had committed the worst crime of all. He'd stolen Alina's virginity. He could spend hours over the bottles he'd taken with him to his
small room at the run-down inn where he'd met with Richard, telling himself that he'd been temporarily out of his head. That the events of the day and the encounter with Phineas Battle had affected him more than he would ever allow anyone to know. That he'd needed a pair of warm arms around him, had desperately needed to be reminded that a part of him at least was still alive, was still capable of feeling. That he wasn't a cold-blooded murderer, but only a man doing what he had to do, and that maybe, just maybe, he deserved some happiness.

But in the morning, when the sun rose and his head throbbed and his mouth tasted as if something foul had died there, when the nightmare that woke him to feel his heart pounding so fast he thought he might die banished the memory of Erich's face, he saw the truth. He deserved nothing but the hell he had made of his life.

He washed and dressed with some care, knowing Wigglesworth would not approve of even his best efforts, but at least he was once again clean-shaven and in his own clothes. He paid his bill and ventured out into the streets, a London gentleman on the stroll, swinging his cane idly as he sought out his breakfast and took in his surroundings, pausing to admire the facade of one of the many churches, lingering over a glass of wine at a quaint outdoor café. And all the time watching, assuring himself he wasn't being followed.

He was back to playing the game he'd played for eight long years. And he hated it. Had he ever walked a street without having a care for his back? Had he ever smiled without first calculating the effect of that smile? Had he ever in the last long eight years been free to simply
be?

Two people, just two people…

Enough! He'd detected nobody following him, and if someone did, well, he'd take care of that annoyance somewhere along the road. He returned to the inn and ordered his bay saddled for the ride to Basingstoke. There he would meet Alina and Luka, Wigglesworth and Brutus. There he would answer Lucas Paine's questions with careful lies and flatter the Lady Nicole into sharing something of her wardrobe with Alina before sending her on to Malvern Hall, another two full days' travel away.

He'd promise to join her there, once his business with the
Inhaber
was completed.

That would be another lie, the last he would tell her. Or was it to be the last he would tell himself? Because from the first moment she'd looked into his eyes, she'd found a part of him he'd thought long ago gone, and now she'd given him not only her body, but her trust, her belief that he was somehow better than he knew himself to be.

Was it his past that kept him away from all she offered to him? Or was it his fear that he could never be what she believed him to be?

How many shadows did it take to submerge a soul into eternal darkness, with no hope of redemption?

“N
ICOLE, DARLING, PRECISELY
what is it you think you're doing?”

Alina bit back a giggle as she watched Lucas Paine, Marquess of Basingstoke, attempt to extricate his wife from the caravan sitting in the circular drive in front of a most spectacularly enormous estate home. “Delicious as the view is from where I'm standing, I don't think backing out is the proper way to exit one of these things.”

“I was only taking one last look,” his wife explained reasonably once he'd taken hold of her at the waist and lifted her to the ground. “It's amazing, Lucas. There's an entire
world
inside there, and it all fits together in a space half the size of my dressing room. Alina, explain to me how three of you slept in there.”

“I'm afraid the answer is, not very comfortably. My dresser snores with a dedication that could probably mow down an entire forest. But the drivers have to leave now, Nicole, to return to their camp. Stefan?”

The young Romany, who'd been pretending not to look at the marchioness even as he devoured her with his eyes, stepped forward and bowed to Alina.

“Oh, for goodness' sake,” she said, feeling annoyed rather than flattered. “We've been on the road for days. It's ridiculous for you to begin bowing now.”

“Yes, my lady,” Stefan responded, bowing yet again. “And we visited the moonlight. I will forever treasure that moment.”

“You'd be better forgetting it,” Alina said, feeling hot color run into her cheeks.

“But how can I, my lady? We were there, you and I, and—”

“I will count to three, Stefan, and you will be up on the box, singing to your oxen. Understood?”

Stefan shot one more look at the marchioness, touched his fingers to the gold hoop in his ear and then did as Alina said.

“You and that near-god, in the moonlight?” Nicole slipped her arm through Alina's. “You do realize that I won't rest until I hear the remainder of that story.”

“It wasn't what you think,” Alina said quickly. “It was…it was more in the nature of an experiment.”

Nicole's eyes positively twinkled in her beautiful face. “Wait, don't say anything else until we're inside and I've fetched Lydia from wherever she is. Then you can tell us both about this…experiment. And be
prepared for questions, as I will insist on hearing all of the details.”

The caravan moved off, Stefan singing to his oxen in a clear baritone. His lordship, clearly having intercepted and understood a look from his wife, said something about a pressing meeting with his estate manager and took himself off as Nicole dragged Alina back inside the house.

Nicole told her to wait in the main salon, instructed one of the footmen to have tea and cakes served in the next ten minutes, and then took off up the stairs more in the way of a carefree young girl than a lofty marchioness.

This left Alina free to wander into the lovely blue-and-white room and sit herself down rather primly on one of the soft couches arranged in a grouping in front of one of the three massive fireplaces.

Ever since their arrival at Basingstoke the previous evening, Alina had felt as if she'd been dropped headfirst into a whirlwind. Her aunt Mimi had told her that the English were a cold and haughty people, and that she must be on her best behavior at all times or else she would reflect badly on everyone from King Francis himself down to the lowliest scullery maid in his palace.

And yet, within an hour of her arrival, Alina had found herself luxuriating in a hot bath attended to by not only the marchioness but also her sister, the Duchess of Malvern. A duchess! Alina had never
been naked in front of anyone save Tatiana…and Justin, of course…and suddenly she was submerged to her shoulders in lovely scented bubbles while Lady Nicole twirled about the room wearing her Romany clothes and the duchess reclined on a chaise, daintily eating grapes.

Alina learned that the women were not only sisters, but twins, and that they were both newly married. Yet, if she hadn't been told, she would never have believed the two were even distantly related.

Nicole was the most gloriously different and exciting creature, both alive and lively. Her hair was black, as was Alina's, but her eyes were not the drab golden-brown of Alina's, but nearly violet in color, and fringed with long dark lashes that made the violet all the more startlingly beautiful. Her skin was softly kissed by the sun, and she possessed the most delightful dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She looked like mischief, and the Romany clothing suited her perfectly.

By contrast, the duchess was a blonde, with huge, innocent-looking blue eyes and a smile that was warm, welcoming, yet slightly reserved. She moved with the sort of easy grace that cannot be learned; you had to be born with it, Alina was sure. And when she looked at her husband, the duke, she became probably the most stunningly lovely woman Alina had ever seen.

Ah, yes, the duke. Tanner Blake, Duke of Malvern,
and the man to whom Justin was entrusting her: her life, her newly acquired estate and fortune, even her town house in London. Justin had seemed to have it all perfectly worked out, except that the duke was not at Malvern. He was here, at Basingstoke.

Justin would probably be unhappy about that, when he learned of it.

It might be perverse of her, but as she'd been having her life controlled by the man from the moment she'd first set foot in England, she believed she'd rather enjoy his reaction once he deigned to arrive from wherever it was he'd disappeared to this time.

Once Tatiana had wrapped her in a wondrously thick white robe and she had been settled in front of the fire, Alina had dismissed her maid-cum-companion with the information that she would manage brushing her own hair and that the woman should retire for some much-needed rest in a real bed.

She'd taken the silver-backed brushes from the woman only to have them snatched away by Nicole, who'd gone down on her knees behind her and begun drawing the brushes through her damp hair, exclaiming at the hints of red and gold picked out in the firelight.

“Tell us more about your adventure,” Nicole had suggested as Alina closed her eyes, luxuriating in the warmth of the fire and the gentle strokes of the brush, so unlike the rough tugging that was
all Tatiana seemed able to manage. “Lucas only told me Justin's letter to him said we're to watch over you until you can leave for Malvern, which of course you can't, not with Lydia and Tanner here. And Charlotte's letter, which arrived by post this morning, only told me that I was to treat you kindly because you will have had a difficult journey. Dearest Charlotte—she was once in charge of us, you know. It's so difficult for her to remember that I'm a grown woman now. She keeps expecting me to do something outrageous, heaven only knows why.”

Lydia had nearly choked on a grape, but then recovered quickly.

“We'll ignore her as well, won't we? I really don't know Justin Wilde, except for what my sister has told me, and all she has told me is that he dresses well and can be very witty when he thinks anyone might see more in him than he would like, whatever that means. Is he really such a rogue?”

For the next hour, Alina had answered the twins' questions, knowing she was being gently interrogated, but not really minding, as she was talking about Justin. If he couldn't be here with her, talking about him seemed the next best thing and kept her from worrying about him overmuch. After all, he said he'd meet her here, and Wigglesworth had assured her that the baron always kept his promises.

Besides, he wouldn't leave her now. He simply couldn't. So she'd regaled them with her adventures,
making Nicole laugh as she recounted her ignominious encounter with a mud puddle, and delighting in Lydia's sympathetic noises and smothered giggles as she described Wigglesworth in all of his womanly garb.

An adventure. That's how she described all that had happened to her. A grand adventure. She did not mention Justin other than to inform them that he was her betrothed, and that he was off doing something somewhere, but would surely explain everything when he arrived. She most certainly didn't tell them about the night beside the stream, or his revelation that he had been killing people.

Except that Lucas and Tanner seemed somehow to know that, and at breakfast this morning, whenever the ladies' conversation drifted toward the absent baron, the two men had gently steered it back to safer territory.

So they knew. Perhaps not what was occurring at that moment, but they knew Justin. They knew a man whose history was still much of a mystery to her, and they seemed to sense that whatever Justin was about now, it wasn't the stuff of friendly mealtime conversation.

I killed a man this afternoon. He was alive, and now he's dead.

“Lydia, don't dawdle, you know you want to hear this as much as I.”

Alina shook herself back to the present, watching
as the sisters entered the main salon, Nicole's violet eyes alive with mischief, Lydia looking more sedate, almost indulgent of her twin's enthusiasm. Alina felt a momentary pang that she had been denied siblings, most especially a sister. How wonderful it must be to have someone always there to confide in when the need arose, someone who understood you better than anyone else and who had only love for you, as you did for her.

“You didn't see him, Lydia,” Nicole was saying, “so I'll describe him for you. He was tall, enormously tall, or perhaps he just seemed that way because of how he held himself so erect. Oh, I don't know how to describe it.”

“Stefan poses like a man looking in a mirror, and liking very much what he sees,” Alina supplied helpfully.

“Yes! That's it exactly. You know, now that I think about it, he's probably fairly insufferable. Was he insufferable, Alina?”

“I think I prefer the word
oblivious
—to anyone and anything other than himself. But I used him badly, I'm afraid.”

By the time she was done recounting what had happened at the stream, and even admitting why she had approached Stefan in the first place, Nicole was wiping her streaming eyes and Lydia was rubbing her palms together as if they itched.

But then Lydia said quietly, “You're in love with
him, aren't you? The baron. Does he know?” And even Nicole's smile faded.

The room became very quiet.

Alina had been alone for so long. And even when her mother had been alive, she had been sickly and often kept to herself, as if to shield her daughter from any unpleasantness. With her father off to war, they had remained in the country, fairly isolated. Alina had learned to amuse herself, in daydreams mostly, probably remaining young longer than other girls her age, many of whom had been married at sixteen and seventeen and had gone on to have babies of their own while Alina had been left to those daydreams…and been taught to shoot and to throw a knife so that the hilt didn't hit the target first, because her father didn't know anything else to teach her. But if, as she'd felt herself changing, the world around her looking different to her, if she'd had any questions for her mother they still hadn't been the sort of questions she would have had for her now.

She hadn't anyone to consult when Justin barged into her daydream and made the world so very real so very suddenly. But that wasn't his fault.

She'd bungled everything with him, she knew that. She'd been young and gauche and most likely much too honest. Instead of helping him, she'd probably only compounded his problems.

She needed to stop lying to everyone—and to herself. Alina looked down at her hands, unsurprised
to see that she'd entwined her fingers together and that her knuckles had turned quite white. “It doesn't matter. He's leaving England in a few days, for America. Because, you understand, he has burned too many bridges and his life is over and there's no place for me in what's left of it.”

And then she cried…and told these two warm and wonderful women who could have been her sisters everything that was in her heart.

 

T
HERE WAS NOTHING IN
the world to compare with the English countryside. Justin had traveled through Europe, its towns, its cities. He'd seen grape vineyards and snow-topped mountains and lush plains planted with wheat and fed by wide blue rivers. He'd sipped tsipouro at a small café in Athens while looking out over the Aegean Sea, walked the same streets once trod by Julius Caesar and his legions, ridden in a dogsled toward the colorful spires of St. Basil's in Moscow, and visited the royal mounds of Gamla Uppsala in Sweden.

But nothing he had seen or experienced could take the place of the sight of his most neat and orderly England. The carefully manicured fields, the hedgerows and stone walls that divided them and yet at the same time bound them all together. The church spires always visible in the distance. The ruins, the manor houses, the quaint villages, the thatch-roofed farmhouses, the fat cows in the meadows, the rosy-
cheeked children laughing on the village green. Even the rain; the rain was different in England.

It was time he was truthful, if only to himself.

This was his country. His home. It wasn't always right, its leaders not always wise, its fights not always fair or justified. There was poverty, there was greed. But there was also good. So very much
good.
England. Always to endure.

Justin reined in his mount at the crest of a hill overlooking Basingstoke, where Alina waited for him. He wondered what she'd thought when she'd caught her first glimpse of this, one of the premier estates in Hampshire, larger even than Ashurst Hall. She'd probably been impressed; God knows he'd been when he'd caught his first sight of it through the trees.

His own Hampshire estate was only half the size, but Justin believed its setting was equally fine, and that if anyone thought they required more than twenty bedrooms, then that person lived a life much different from his own.