Kathryn Smith (40 page)

There were titters among the crowd. Moira was flushed, her mother was as well. “You insolent cur!” Mrs. Banning cried. “I might have expected such coarse talk from a Ryland!”

It was meant to be an insult, but Wynthrope merely
grinned. For so many years he had resented what Brahm had done to their family’s reputation, now he found some pleasure in the notoriety. “Consider yourself lucky I stopped at just talk.”

The woman gasped. Moira’s fingers bit harder.

His grin faded as he stared her mother down. “After all you have done to her, you should get down on your knees and beg her forgiveness.”

“Wynthrope,” Moira whispered, her tone urgent. “Please.”

He turned to her and saw the pleading in her eyes. He had embarrassed her by speaking so loudly and brashly to her mother, but she didn’t seem angry with him at all. In fact, she looked as though she would dearly love to kiss him.

Was this what she had wanted from him? A public declaration of his regard? And then the answer came to him, as though planted in his mind by one of Moira’s angels. Forgiveness. It was all about forgiveness. It was what he wanted from her, and he knew in that instant that all he had to do was ask. She wanted to forgive him. She wanted him to prove his love and give her reason to trust him again. It was so simple. All he had to do was swallow what was left of his pride.

He turned to her. “
I
should beg her forgiveness,” he stated clearly, not caring that everyone could hear.

Moira’s face went pale, and he knew his instincts had not let him down this time. She glanced at the crowd around them. It was increasing. “Wynthrope, no.”

Apparently she had not completely lost her ability to see inside his soul, because she seemed to know what he was about to do.

He dropped to his knees before her, her mother now forgotten. The room was abuzz with eager whispers. He couldn’t hear any of it, didn’t care what they were saying. He kept his gaze focused solely on Moira, his hands loose at
his sides. He had lowered himself so that he had to look up at her, had put himself at a vulnerable position in front of her. All that was left was to take the final step.

“Please stand up,” she whispered, wringing her hands.

He met her gaze. “I want you to forgive me. I
need
you to forgive me. For everything I have done, for taking advantage of your goodness, for not trusting in your intelligence and your strength. For not having faith in you or your feelings, I ask your forgiveness. For not considering your emotions, for not daring to hope you might have developed feelings for me. For not trusting you with my secrets, for not being willing to sacrifice my pride just to hold you in my arms, I beg you to forgive me.”

There were tears in her eyes. “Please, just get up.”

He shook his head. “I will even apologize for insulting your mother, if you want. But I cannot stand up, not until I have your forgiveness. You are everything to me, Moira Tyndale, and I do not care who knows it. If I have to, I will beg your forgiveness every night for the rest of my life, but you could save my knees a lot of injury right here and now by telling this undeserving man that he may put the rest of his life to better use by showing you how much he adores and loves you.”

Moira stared at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. Was that a sniffle he heard from the corner of the room? There was another. Obviously his speech had affected more than just the woman before him.

He had just made a proper fool of himself. Everyone would be talking about it tomorrow. He should probably care more than he did. Maybe he would tomorrow, when his pride had a chance to review the situation. He was going to be a laughingstock, that was for sure.

Then Moira did the most extraordinary thing. She could have simply told him she forgave him, or she could have turned her back and walked away. Either way he would still
be the one they talked about on the morrow. But she did not do either. Instead she lowered herself to her knees so that they were face to face on the cold marble floor. He could scarcely believe his eyes.

Her slender hands cupped his face, her thumbs stroking his cheeks. “I will forgive you,” she whispered, “but only if you forgive me for driving you to this.”

His hands covered hers. “There is nothing to forgive. I would walk down Bond Street on my knees if it meant you would have me back.”

She nodded. “I will have you back.”

Wynthrope practically leaped to his feet, taking Moira with him. His heart was dancing a jig in his chest, threatening to burst with joy. Holding her by the hands, he pulled her along behind him, through the crowd of staring, chattering guests, through the parlor and out into the corridor and then to the stairs.

“Where are we going?” Moira demanded as she tripped along behind him, but she knew where he was taking her. She was too happy to be scandalized by his behavior, too touched by his display to chastise him now.

He had asked her to forgive him in a way she never imagined he would do. He was such a proud man, and to humble himself like that for her…He told her he adored her. Told everyone present that he loved her. Her heart clenched at the mere memory of it. He loved her. Nothing else seemed to matter now.

As soon as they were in her room, the door shut behind them, he turned to her and began removing her gown, his lips devouring hers.

Oh Lord, it felt so good to hold him, to feel his body against hers. But she had guests downstairs, guests who at this very moment were speculating as to where they had gone and what they were doing.

She shoved against his shoulders. “Wyn, we cannot do this. Everyone will know.”

“I don’t care.” He shoved a hand down her bodice, his fingers instantly bringing her nipple to a hard, tingling peak. “Do you care?”

“Not a whit.” Not when he touched her like that.

Within seconds he had her on the bed, her skirts pushed up around her hips. His trousers were rough against the inside of her legs, and the hard flesh beneath his trousers pressed deep into the softness between her thighs.

Liquid heat seemed to pool deep and low within her. How she wanted him. She wanted him with a ferocity that went beyond physical need. She had to have him, had to take him within herself and hold him there for as long as possible, just so she would know this wasn’t a dream.

His coat flew across the room, followed by his waistcoat, shirt, and cravat. Beautifully bare-chested, he raised himself above her and gazed down at her with those remarkable blue eyes.

“I will never lie or keep secrets from you ever again,” he told her, his voice husky. “I wish I could promise I will never hurt you, but I’m not certain anyone could keep such a promise. I give you my word that I will try my damnedest to never hurt you again.”

Smiling, she ran her hands up the smooth flesh of his back. “I do not want to hurt you either, and there will be no more secrets between us, I promise.”

Vulnerability softened his features as a lock of hair fell over his forehead. He looked so young, so sweet and unburdened. There were no secrets between them now, of that she was certain. “Do you love me?”

How hopeful he sounded! Did the dolt not know? How could he not know?

“From the moment I first saw you,” she admitted. “Although I thought at the time that it was just infatuation.”

Shifting his weight to one arm, he slid a hand up to cup her breast through the fabric of her gown. “I saw you in the street one day several months ago, do you remember?”

She nodded. “I do.”

His gaze locked with hers even as his fingers worked her body into a delicious state of arousal. “You looked at me as though you could see into my soul. I knew at that moment that if you could do that and not turn away in disgust, you were a woman I wanted to know better.”

Sliding her hands down low to caress the firm swell of his buttocks, Moira lifted her hips against his. “Nothing about you could ever disgust me. I do not care what you have done in the past. I only know that you make me feel like the most beautiful, intelligent woman on the earth.”

He smiled. “You are.”

Her throat tightened at his words. And then any further conversation was delayed by his lips claiming hers again. Talk could wait. They had their entire lives to talk. What did talk matter now? She already knew that they would sort things out between them. As long as they were honest with each other, there wasn’t any obstacle they couldn’t defeat.

She would never forget the look on her mother’s face when he put her in her place. As embarrassing as it was, it had been delightful as well. He had come to her rescue. No one had ever rescued her before. He had done it at least twice—when he caught her when she fell from the ladder at Octavia’s, and now.

Oh, and he had saved her from spending the rest of her life afraid of trusting anyone with her secret. He had saved her from being afraid to trust at all.

He removed her gown with determined fingers, cursing each tiny button as he worked. Finally he was able to peel the shimmering silk off her. He didn’t toss it on the floor as he did his own clothes, but draped it over a chair, a consideration that she found strangely touching.

But removing the gown seemed to have taken all his patience, because he didn’t bother with her chemise or stockings, or even her shoes. He nipped at her nipples through the thin lawn, dampening the material with his tongue until the pink crests stood tall and tight in the cool air. Every lick of his tongue, every insistent suckle sent a shock of pure lust straight between her legs.

Her hips writhed against his. His erection was rock solid against her hip as his fingers caressed the inside of her splayed thighs. She wanted those fingers inside her, stroking that part of her that ached for his touch and the shattering release only he could bring.

Finally he gave her what she wanted. He pulled the neck of her chemise low, baring a breast to his greedy mouth. As he tasted her naked flesh, his thumb slipped between the damp curls at the apex of her thighs, into the soaked cleft, to find that one spot that came so wonderfully alive at his touch. Moira gasped, lifting her hips as he stroked her.

As she pushed against his hand, he slid a finger inside her, bringing a moan to her lips. His tongue ruthlessly flicked her nipple as his hand lifted her to the heights of sensual pleasure.

Desperate to touch him, Moira slid her own hand down to the falls of his trousers. She fumbled for a few seconds and then succeeded in freeing the hot, silky length of him. He was thick and heavy in her hand, the round head slick to her touch. He groaned against her breast, thrusting himself into the tight vise she made with her fist. Awkwardly at first, she stroked him, until instinct took over and she found a rhythm
that had him pistoning his finger in and out of her until she thought she might go mad with pleasure.

Then he was gone. For a moment Moira was confused. Where was he? A second ago his weight had been upon her, his sex hot in her hand, and now he was gone.

Something brushed the inside of her thigh, and Moira realized it was hair—Wynthrope’s hair. Her mind had only a second to register what he was about to do before the wet, hard thrust of his tongue brought her hips off the bed, her back arching in a deep bow. His mouth was on her, his tongue inside her, thrusting as though they were making love. And then it slid upward, to bring a shaky moan to her lips as it stroked the center of her pleasure with determined pressure.

Her fingers caught in his hair as her hips undulated under his assault. The way he made her feel was indescribable. He did things that she never thought possible—or even remotely proper. She should be embarrassed, or conscious of how her body must look in such postures, but all she could think about was how beautiful he made her feel. She was beautiful in his eyes, no matter what position her body was in. To him, she had no flaws, only things that made him love her more. She understood that now, because that was how she thought of him.

And then she wasn’t able to think at all because he brought her to the brink with his tongue, and the most incredible pleasure seized her, locking her muscles tight and enveloping her in a sparkling, unseeing climax.

He didn’t wait for her to recover before thrusting himself inside her. Moira gasped at the intrusion, pulling her knees up to allow him deeper access to her body. The feel of him against her internal walls was like tiny shocks rippling throughout her body. Every time he withdrew only to plow into her again brought her that much closer to another orgasm.

And then it happened. Just as yet another tempest of pleasure claimed her, she felt Wynthrope stiffen atop her, the frantic pumping of his hips stilled. He shuddered, his back arched, head tossed back. Marveling in the tremors wracking him, knowing that she was the cause, Moira wrapped her legs tight around his hips, holding him deep within her as he came.

Sometime later, after their bodies had cooled, they lay in each other’s arms on the crumpled counterpane, the same quilt draped over them that had covered them the first time they made love in her bed. Only this time he wasn’t at her wall safe when she woke up.

Wynthrope toyed with a loose tendril of her hair as she snuggled against him. There would be no returning to the party, not like this. That was just as well; he wasn’t about to share her with anyone, not now.

“That was a big risk you took, not allowing me to withdraw,” he told her. A child might be the result of tonight. Oddly enough, the idea didn’t fill him with the terror that he thought it ought.

Moira shrugged. “Such risks are worth taking.” Lifting her head, she met his gaze with sleepy hazel eyes. “The risk you took this evening in dropping to your knees in front of the entire party,
that
was a big risk.”

Smiling, he caressed the side of her face with his index finger. How soft she was. “Such risks are worth taking.”

She grinned at that.

Catching sight of the painting on the far side of the room, Wynthrope’s smile faded. Her safe was behind that painting.

“You should probably change the combination to your safe,” he remarked. “If you haven’t already.”