Never Too Late (15 page)

“Ah, well, there’s a rather explicit deflowering scene that covers this sort of . . .” He trailed off before deflecting with “So you’ve never seen a copy?” He had to physically poke her side to get her to respond, which she did in a sly whisper.

“Well, I did encounter a small section of it once when I purchased some books from an estate. The deceased must have had unusual tastes because, when I arrived to sort through the library, several tomes were piled in the library fireplace, fully ablaze. At first, it seemed like such an awful desecration, to burn books so haphazardly, but then I spied a few pages on the floor that must have escaped. Turned out they were from that
Fanny Hill
. Outrageous stuff. A few random pages from other smut rags too. If that’s what all those books were like, well, perhaps they weren’t meant for many eyes.”

“Do tell.”

“The section I found only had to do with two women . . .” She trailed off, clearly embarrassed, but he would not let her go so easily.

“And?”

“One was, uh, seducing the other.”

“And did that shock you?”

“Well, maybe a bit. I found myself more . . . confused.”

“Why confused? That women could do such things to each other? That they would want to do such things together?”

“No, no, that seemed, in its own way, natural. I’ve read Sappho, after all. What I don’t understand is why a man would care to write about such an experience that in no way involves him. Sappho wrote in revelry, in celebration, in love. What joy could the writer or his readers possibly get from it, except tawdry titillation?”

He laughed and kissed her shoulder. She stiffened in response, and he rested his head lightly at the crook of her neck. No pressure. No presumption.

“Titillation is mysterious. It can be rather satisfying. There are some commonalities, but there are also widely ranging idiosyncrasies.”

“Then, assuming you’ve read
Fanny Hill
, which category do you think it would fall in among most readers? Common or idiosyncratic titillation?”

“It would depend on the reader, now, wouldn’t it? So I suppose that means idiosyncratic.” His voice turned firm. He got off the bed long enough to envelop her in the counterpane. “Rest now. You’ve had quite a day.”

She must be completely exhausted
, he thought, as she quickly fell into a deep sleep, one so heavy she snored lightly. He laughed softly at the sound of it, as he continued to stroke her hair.

He had never before deflowered a maiden, as people so quaintly put it. In fact, as he recalled some of his wild oats, he belatedly realized how scrupulous he’d been about this one condition. His sexual partners were always experienced, usually rather obviously so as they invited him to their inner chambers and displayed their skills. He’d counted on such worldliness; generally, it meant no expectations, no attachments, no responsibilities. But now, lying here at his side, was an indisputable bundle of responsibilities, soft and vulnerable responsibilities. Her livelihood was in ruins, and, unbeknownst to her, it was ultimately his fault and therefore his responsibility. He couldn’t figure, though, how Mr. Withersby had known he’d taken her to the Exhibition. And then, there was her virtue, which he’d so crudely ripped from her. The evidence of her pain withered his desire. He was very much responsible for her traumatic loss of innocence, and he was responsible for rectification.

When he felt low but unmistakable stirrings of desire, he decided touching her, even just stroking her hair, was no longer wise. He rolled away from her and tried very, very hard not to be aware of her supple, voluptuous body next to his. It took him a long time indeed to find sleep.

Chapter Eleven

Evans Principle 11: Intuition and impulse are two very different things. Trust your intuition, but never act on impulse.

S
ometime in the night, still dark, Honoria woke, intensely aware of her surroundings. Aware of the fine linen that chafed gently against her bare skin, so much bare skin. Oh. Right. Intensely aware of young Lord Devin’s likewise naked and finely muscled body next to her. Oh. Right. Of what had transpired earlier in the darkness. Oh, God. It was almost too much to bear, the absurdity of this moment.

She should be worried for her reputation, she surmised, except that there couldn’t possibly be anyone in the world anymore who cared a whit for her respectability. Even in youth, she’d been far from desirable marriage material once she transformed from the daughter of a baronet to the daughter of a merchant. As for her current reputation, one needed fundamentally to be seen in order to be viewed in a negative light. No one saw her. Not really. No one would notice if she became someone’s mistress. No one, she realized, would notice if she disappeared or died. There might be the idle “I wonder what ever happened to . . .” And Erich would miss his earnings and need to find work; he might even spare her a moment’s recollection as a kind employer. Minnie felt like family, but she and Erich had never been close. A few regular customers might cluck at the misfortune of the store’s abrupt and mysterious closure. Her suppliers would note the interruption in transactions. But she doubted anyone would spend time speculating about what happened. And no one would put any effort into looking for her. If she dropped off the face of the earth this night, her absence wouldn’t be noticed for weeks, if at all. No one would miss her. No one saw her.

The realization made her deeply, unbearably lonely. Despite herself, she wept into the plush, white pillow beneath her head, trying to be as quiet as dust.

Perhaps he heard a stray sob, or felt the bed shake ever so lightly as she wept, or maybe, just maybe, he subconsciously registered her deep well of sadness. Whatever the cause, she felt his arm tighten around her, which only made her sob harder. Soon she felt him shift and loom over her, propped on one arm.

“Nora, what’s wrong?”

She’d embarrassed herself so much in his presence already that she couldn’t stand to paint herself as the pitiable lonely old crone. She couldn’t trust herself to speak at all.

“Are you still in pain?” he asked as he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “From . . . earlier?”

She rolled to her back, careful to hold the blanket tight to her chin, and shook her head. “No. The pain is gone.”

“Is it the shop? I know the burglary is quite a shock. It’s understandable, but those objects can be replaced. The shop can be renovated. You are safe, and that is the most important thing.”

You are safe, and that is the most important thing.

His words shot so directly to the target of her sorrow that fresh tears sprang to her eyes. His hand stroked tears away from the corners of her eyes.

“It’s just,” she finally said, “been quite a day, as you said. Apparently, I am overwrought, and my mind runs away with me.”

“What is it?”

She answered his question with one of her own.

“What do you see when you look at me? Truly?”

“I see a woman. An enchanting, forthright, beautiful woman.”

“Such pretty words.” She would have scoffed if she had the energy.

“You don’t believe me?”

“It’s too easy. That’s the kind of thing you could say to any girl to make her moon-eyed. What do you see when you look
at me
?”

He left the bed and lit a fresh candle. A warm glow surrounded them, and when he sat on the edge of the bed, he appraised her slowly before speaking again.

“I see lustrous brown hair that you do not have the time or inclination to coiffure. I see deep brown eyes that dance when you laugh, which you do not do nearly often enough. I see that your shoulders are too frequently knotted from stress and work.” Somewhere in his catalog, the tone of his voice shifted, as if he’d lost track of his original intent and gotten caught up in his own thoughts, deciphering some code or puzzle. He stroked her hair away from her face. “I see that you are fiercely independent and capable. But I also see that you keep your true self tucked away. You can converse competently with anyone on most subjects, but it takes an exorbitant amount of energy from you. I see that, as much as you want the life of a hermit, you are fundamentally heartsick, lonely for human companionship, even as you prevent others from trying to connect with you in meaningful ways.”

She wanted to object, wanted to deny his claims. But the fact that he saw her so clearly took her breath away. He understood her. Whether he would care if she dropped off the face of the earth, she would deal with some other time. For this moment, he saw her. And she wanted to see herself through his eyes.

She reached for him and was confused when he resisted, statue-like.

“Regardless of what happened earlier, my promise to you still stands, Nora. If you say no, I will not touch you. You asked for companionship and comfort tonight, and all apparent evidence to the contrary”—he looked pointedly down at his body and hers—“I will not do anything that you don’t expressly wish.”

“Kiss me,” she whispered, fierce and sure.

He leaned his face toward hers and kissed her lightly, like a butterfly alight. Her hands wrapped around his shoulders as she tried to pull him close.

“Don’t tease,” she said. “I said kiss me.”

“Teasing can be just as enjoyable,” he said as his lips trailed lightly down to the hollow in her neck. Still only his lips. His hands were braced on either side of her head, his body hovering above her.

“Damn it, man. I said kiss me.” She tried to pull his head toward hers, but he wouldn’t budge.

“Oh, but can’t you see . . . that’s exactly what I’m doing.” He suddenly dipped his head to nip gently at her breasts, first one, then the other, back and forth, light as air. She moaned, and possibly squealed, as her body twisted and shook under his mouth.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Her patience at an end, she sat up to meet his mouth, her chest against his, not caring that she might as well try to move a mountain. And he did not disappoint her. With their mouths and bodies pressed hard together, she felt consumed in flames. Their tongues touched and slid and explored. Her fingers wove through his hair as she opened to him.

He pulled away from her slightly.

“You wished me to kiss you, and now I have. What else do you wish?”

“Touch me.”

“Why?”

She huffed and said, “Because with you I feel alive, I feel real. Please . . . touch me.”

“Tell me where.”

She shook her head, shy and self-conscious.

“Shall I give you some options?” He placed his hand on her collarbone. “Here?”

“Lower.” Her voice was tentative.

He slid his fingertips down the slope of her breast to the tip and hovered there, barely making contact. “Here?”

She arched toward him, but his hand followed the motion, keeping its distance. She shook her head.

“Are you sure?” His fingers brushed across her nipples again, and she shivered. But that was no longer enough.

“Lower.” Her voice grew husky as her body vibrated with tension.

He smiled. His hand traced the underside of her breast and came to rest on her stomach. Her muscles contracted and undulated beneath his palm.

“Here?”

She shook her head vehemently.

“You know where! Please!”

Slowly, he slipped his hand lower, fingers questing, dipping into her dark, downy curls. She gasped. Gently, his fingers stroked her sensitive folds. She sighed and jerked.
Alive
, she said. Yes, every inch of her seemed alive, seemed to quiver at his touch. He found her sweet nub and increased the pressure of his massaging fingers. She writhed and moaned. Then one of his fingers found her, slipped into her hot, wet core to find a spot that made her cry out at the sudden intensity. He immobilized her with his body as his hand worked her. Her body bucked and twisted, yet he leaned into her and would not back down. His mouth covered hers to swallow her cries as he pushed her over the brink.

His hand gentled, and his mouth moved lower to lavish attention on a nipple, while her shudders subsided.

“Have I touched you to your satisfaction?” he asked eventually.

She pulled his mouth to hers again, whispering a quick “Yes” before she entangled her tongue with his. He lay his head down next to hers.

“Do you think perhaps you can sleep now, darling?”

“But—” She still clung to him, and then she used actions to replace words. Her hand slid down his arm to his hip. He sucked in his breath involuntarily. When her questing hand finally made its way to wrap around his throbbing member, it was his turn to tremble.

“Are there any other services I can provide for you, my darling?” His attempt at an offhand tone proved wobbly and unstable, at best. She laughed low in her throat.

“Yes,” she said emphatically. “Love me.”

She didn’t care anymore that her voice broke, that it dripped with desperation, that she begged. “Love me,” she said. Right then, it was all she wanted.

Despite the repeated waves of pleasure, her body still craved more, knew there had to be more, even if it involved pain. It wanted with a greed she didn’t recognize and couldn’t control. He paused above her, and she looked in his eyes, those soft green eyes, glittering at her like cut emeralds.

“I promise—I promise you,” he said, “this will not hurt like last time. There is so much pleasure to be had beyond the pain.”

She nodded solemnly, not trusting herself to speak.

“Do you trust me?” he asked

Tell him! He already knows the marriage wasn’t complete.
She shut her eyes to silence the voices in her head. Of course she trusted him. It was she who shouldn’t be trusted.
Be honest with him!

“Nora?”

She opened her eyes at the pleading tone in his voice and stared at his mouth.
I want this so much. More than I’ve ever wanted anything. Just this once. I’ll let him go, but let me have this moment.

“Nora, please say you believe me.”

Without speaking, she lifted her lips to his and wrapped her arms around his shoulders to pull him down to her.