Scandal (27 page)

He leaned forward, and she faced him. Need vibrated between them. He spread the halves of her nightrobe. He was completely hers. Utterly in her power. He hooked his fingers into the top of her shift and tugged a little.

“Mm,” he said. He no longer cared what he ought to do. He knew what he needed. But he was going to do what Sophie wanted, and since that coincided so conveniently with what he wanted, he was happy to oblige them both.

A strand of her hair dangled behind her ear, and he took it between his fingers. Upon a sudden urge, he swept her braid off her neck and pressed his mouth there. He curled an arm around her waist, pulling her against him, and then, keeping her tight to his torso, he leaned forward until her back was against the sofa and his chest hovered over hers.

She smiled—a man could live on her smile, that secret, sensual smile that took him in and captured his heart. He knelt between her legs and slid both hands beneath her chemise, curved his fingers around her lower thighs, cupping, cradling. He was hard for her already. He breathed in the orange water in her hair and on her skin. He skimmed her thighs with his palm and then slid a finger inside her, then two, stroking gently. She shifted to accommodate his hand.

“Banallt,” she said, and Jesus, her voice broke saying his name. “I want you inside me now.” He shifted the position of his hand. Enough. They needed this. Both of them needed this. Her eyes were on him, desolate, as if all that stood between her and utter ruin was this. The two of them. “I need you now,” she said.

“Soon. In a moment,” he whispered. “I promise you.”

Silence gathered for a beat. She moaned softly because he had a third finger in her, caressing her, sliding in her. He could not get enough of her face; the way her imperfect features formed themselves into a face that owned his heart. He worked his fingers in her, into heat and wet. He wanted to lose himself in her, and have her lose herself in him. Her breath came ragged, and the effect on him was nothing short of electrifying. She came hard, and when it was over, he covered her body with his.

Her spectacular eyes never left his face as he slid inside her. “Oh Sophie. You are exquisite. Perfect. Better than I dreamed.”

He held his breath and watched her. Her eyes slowly opened and their gazes met. He moved again. She felt slick and snug around him. Pleasure shot through him. He slipped an arm underneath her neck and the other between their bodies, around her thigh to open her for him. He rolled his hips, closing the space between their bellies. Her breath trembled with a suppressed sob. Passion? Grief? He didn't know. She tensed, but a moment later, she arched her back as he entered her. His arousal sharpened.

He palmed her breast, nipping the peak between his middle and fourth fingers. She made a sound, low, and from deep in her throat. Again, she arched into him, pressing into his belly and into his palm. Sparks settled in him. He put his mouth by her ear and whispered, “Is this what you need?”

“Yes,” she said. And then her body clenched around him, and he nearly lost himself right then and there. He gave her what the moment required, which was his entire length, and not a bit of restraint. That spark leaped between them, flared hot and then hotter yet. He came fully into her, hard and fast, quick thrusts into heat and damp, and him sliding deeper into her. Harder than he thought he should. Heat and wetness surrounded him. Their bodies merged; no, he thought, he submerged himself into her.

“You are exquisite, Sophie,” he said. “You must believe that.” His heart pounded in his chest, slowly, unbearably hard. “Perfect. I am beyond pleasure.” He levered himself up and kissed her, taking her mouth the way he took all of her, thoroughly and slowly and as deep as he could get. All the while her body moved with his, arching, straining, meeting him, taking him beyond thought or reason.

“I need you,” she said. “Banallt, I need you.”

He sank himself deep inside her and groaned because she was warm and wet, and he was close to his crisis. He got one hand beneath her shoulder blades and then brought her up while, in nearly the same motion, he grabbed the top of the sofa with his other hand. All pretense to detachment or restraint evaporated in the heat of her body, with the feel of her breasts against his chest. Her hair fell past her shoulders, framing her face. He pushed her nightrobe off her shoulders and stripped off her chemise.

Drawing back his head so that their eyes met, he spread his fingers downward toward where her spine curved to her backside. She put her arms around his neck, and on his upthrust, her pelvis tipped. He dipped his head and kissed the underside of her jaw. With one hand propped against the sofa back, he continued to press the small of her back with the other because it brought their bodies closer. He fit a hand to the curve of her waist. She met him, her hips tipped again. Again. And again. “Jesus,” he said, whipping his head back because he could feel his approaching orgasm. “You'll break me apart.”

He started to pull out, but she held his hips. “No,” she said. “Don't.” He stilled in her, waiting for his arousal to ramp down enough to continue without danger. He shifted onto his back. He put his hands on either side of her hips, angling his fingers around the small of her back. “Over me, like this.”

She complied. Paradise again. The curve of her body from her ribs to her waist nearly sent him over the brink. With his help, she lowered herself on him. He slid in, snug as a finger in a glove. Her head drooped, and he waited, letting her adjust to the position. “Like this,” he said. He grasped her hips and drew her forward. Her breasts swayed. Beautiful and lush. “Yes, like that. Sophie, you are heaven.” He lifted his hands and set his palms precisely over her. She bowed toward him. He expected reluctance or even distaste, but instead, her eyes met his, glazed over with desire. He lifted his hips and pressed deep into her belly, and she didn't shrink from him or close her eyes. Instead, she rocked her hips, and he gasped at what that did to him.

She rocked on him, and he felt the exposed head of his sex caressed by her, surrounded by heat and wet. He grasped her hips and pushed down. He wasn't anything like his usual self, he recognized that much. He sat up, clutching her shoulder blades, keeping himself inside her. Her palms spread flat on his back, legs around him to accommodate this intersection of their bodies. She met him, breasts against his chest, matched his urgency. His concentration narrowed to his sex. The liquid shiver of climax approached. He stopped because it was a close thing.

She let out a groan of frustration. “Banallt, no. Don't.”

“A moment,” he said through his bellowing breath. “We have to be careful. I'm too close.”

“Don't leave me so alone,” she said. “Please?”

He never took his eyes off her when he lay her on her back and settled between her thighs to get his length in her again. He took his time because if he didn't, he would come in her. Already he was at the edge of his control. He sucked in a breath because the increasing slickness drew him deeper yet. Her breath caught, too; her eyes widened and glazed with passion. He was not entirely in control. He was not the least in control. His hand on her lower back pressed down, urging, guiding, insisting, until she had the rhythm, and he ceased to be Banallt, just as she ceased to be Sophie Mercer Evans. They were sex. They were hot and sweaty. Man and woman.

He levered up his torso, rocking into her, long and slow and then, when her knees bent on either side of him, long, deep, and fast, her with him every moment, and him chasing after his command of the encounter. He bent his head and fit his mouth over hers. She matched him beautifully. He was close. Very close to a spectacular climax. She held him tight.

“Sophie, I can't. Let go. I'm going to come inside you,” he said. “Let go.”

“Don't leave me, Banallt. Please don't leave me.”

He was astonished he had any discipline left to him at all. His sex was eager to continue, driving him. And he was well aware that if he came inside her he'd be well within his rights to demand a marriage of her. In fact, he'd be honor bound to do so. He quivered with the effort of remaining still. He drew himself partially out and felt the spiraling drive toward orgasm. His body wound tight. He was balanced on a chasm of pleasure, tilting toward what would undoubtedly be the biggest mistake of his life. And yet, it would get him what he wanted.

“I can't do this,” he said. “I won't have a bastard on you. Oh God, Sophie, don't.” He threw back his head and she thrust her hips toward him. The tickle in his belly expanded, commanded his body. His balls went tight.

“Like that,” she whispered. “Please, yes. Just like this. Banallt, don't stop. Like this.”

He slipped over the edge into a chasm where all that mattered was rocking and thrusting. His last coherent thought was more reflex than anything else. This had to be perfect for her. Tonight of all the nights of his life, this had to be perfect. “I love you, Sophie,” he said. “Oh, Sophie, I am a ruined man. I love you, and I've gone and spoiled everything by telling you so.”

Her hips lifted. Her hands slid down his back to his hips and brought him forward, accepting his fever and heat. And still the pleasure wound tighter. He should have fallen by now. God, why couldn't he? And then, he crested. For an instant, he resisted the pressure and began to withdraw, but Sophie clung to him, sobbing quietly. “Stay,” she said. “Stay, Banallt. Don't leave me.”

“I won't,” he whispered harshly. “I'm not leaving you.” His climax crashed over him like a wave. Pleasure surged through him, consuming him. “I love you,” he said. “I love you.”

Sophie's arms tightened around him. He knew he should withdraw, but he'd gone too far. He came so hard he couldn't breathe. He shattered. Broke apart. When the world returned to him, he was still inside her. He knelt, hands on his knees.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “What have I done?”

Sophie lay amid the tangle of her nightrobe and chemise. She looked at him and said in a low, emotionless voice, “If I burn in hell for this, it was worth it.”

Twenty-three

Havenwood,
APRIL 7, 1815

 

 

 

THE DUKE OF VEDAELIN GAVE A TOUCHING EULOGY at John's funeral. Banallt, Mrs. Llewellyn, and Fidelia attended as well. The service was originally to be held at St. Crispin's Church in Duke's Head, but Reverend Carson moved the gathering outdoors when it was clear there would be well over a hundred in attendance. Fifty or more people came down from London, a living copy of the peerage, Sophie thought at one point. A good many of John's fellow members of Parliament attended. At least as many came from Duke's Head and beyond. Mourners filled the inns around Duke's Head and the neighboring towns and villages. In the days just before and after John's funeral, Sophie did little but accept condolences. John had been beloved.

Banallt stayed beside her at every turn, dealing with matters as they came up, meeting with Reverend Carson or the vicar, with the casket maker and the stonemason, too. He intercepted the post and handed over to her letters of condolence, reserving for himself anything to do with arranging the burial or the reception afterward. He consulted with her on a headstone, and with Charles, the butler, about the decorations to be laid by and the hanging of mourning wreaths. A selection of her clothes were dyed black; slippers and gloves, too. Banallt had known loss. He understood her grief. But he hadn't forgiven her for what she'd done the night John was killed. He must feel she'd trapped him as so many other women had tried before her.

After the guests had gone home or returned to their lodgings for the night, Sophie walked to the conservatory and sat staring out the glass-paned walls as the sky darkened to dusk. Someone, she didn't even recall who, probably Banallt, come to think of it, had given her a black shawl. She clutched it around her shoulders trying her best not to feel anything and succeeding admirably. The damask roses were blooming again, and their scent hung heavy in the air. There had been a bowl of them in the parlor where she'd shaken so many hands. Thank goodness she'd learned when Tommy died the usefulness—no, the absolute necessity—of phrases that seemed trite until you had nothing left but the words everyone expected. Everyone said she held together wonderfully. With so much to do, so many people to entertain, and Banallt close by to prevent her from having to do anything but politely react, she was blessedly occupied, and when she wasn't, she had only to clasp a proffered hand and murmur her thanks.
Thank you for your kind words. Yes, I shall miss him, too. I'm so grateful you came.

“Sophie?”

She moved her head in the direction of the door. She felt nothing, not even a hint of the spark she used to feel around him. She hadn't felt anything after the night John died. “My lord.”

Banallt walked in. “I've been looking for you. To speak with you.”

She extended her hand to him and he pressed her hand between his. “Have I thanked you for all you've done?”

“You needn't.” He inclined his head in acknowledgment and released her hand. “You know that.” He'd been constantly at Havenwood, but when she saw him or they were for one reason or another near enough to speak, he was solicitous and nothing more. Distant. As if they'd never been lovers at all. Sophie didn't know whether to be grateful or heartbroken. Staying numb seemed the safest choice. She didn't need to think. She didn't want to.

“Thank you for your kind words, my lord.”

“Sophie.” He pressed his mouth tight. “I've business to attend to in London.”

She leaned against the bench. “Yes, of course.” The world had not stopped merely because of her tragedy, and Banallt would not always be here to manage for her. When she first walked into his arms, she'd known there would be an end to that beginning. Now that it was here, she was grateful she felt nothing.