The Wedding Trap (32 page)

Obviously wanting more, he reached up to unfasten the buttons of his falls.

Just then, the coach came to a halt.

For a second, the vehicle’s sudden cessation of movement made no sense to either of them. She and Kit stared at each other, frozen as they both tried to comprehend.

She heard sounds—the whickering of the horses, the jangling of their bridles as they waited in eagerness to unload their passengers and make the last short trip around the house to the mews and the comfort of their stalls. She heard too the muted, easy conversation of the coachman and footman, as the second man sprang down to open the coach door.

Quicker than she’d ever seen him move, Kit tugged her bodice into place, flung her skirts down over her legs, then lifted her bodily and placed her onto the seat at his side. Sliding as far away as the coach seat would allow, he raked a hand through his disheveled hair and plucked at the front of his breeches as if hoping to somehow ease the stiffened flesh beneath.

He curved an arm across his lap and leaned farther back into the darkened corner.

The door opened, light from the nearby streetlamps and Raeburn House’s own lanterns spilling inside in a pool that tonight seemed unnecessarily bright. The footman waited for them to descend.

“We’ll just be a minute, Robert,” Kit told the servant in clipped tones. “Miss Hammond and I were having a…conversation.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“And shut the door, would you?”

Robert sent them a curious glance. “Yes, my lord.”

Moments later, the door closed.

Kit heaved a sigh and leaned his head against the velvet squab. “Good God, if we’d been even a second slower…” He left the rest of the statement unsaid.

Half-dazed, her body continuing to tingle and throb in any number of unmentionable places, Eliza could only agree.

“What must they think?” she whispered, shooting a sideways glance out at the servants waiting for them to emerge. Even March stood at the entrance, the front door open in readiness for their ascent.

“They may think we’ve having a quarrel,” Kit said. “At least let’s hope that’s what they think. On the other hand, if I make an attempt to climb down from this coach in my current state, none of them will have to guess at anything.”

Her gaze shot to the substantial bulge between his legs, a bulge that seemed to grow larger beneath the force of her stare.

Kit raised a brow. “I would advise you stop doing that unless you wish to stay here and finish what we started.”

Her eyes flew upward, heat scalding her cheeks.

“I would also suggest you go ahead inside,” he continued in a gentler tone. “Will you be all right if I don’t escort you to the door?”

She nodded. “Yes, but what about you?”

“I’ll travel on to my club. That should take the wind out of my sails, so to speak.”

“Oh,” she murmured, downcast that he would not be going inside with her, even though she knew he was making the prudent choice. Her hand trembled faintly as she readjusted her bodice and smoothed out her skirts.

After a deep inhale, she shifted toward him on the seat. “How do I look?”

A gleam blazed in his beautiful green-gold eyes. Catching her hand in his own, he pressed a kiss onto her palm. “Stunning. But then, you always do, my dear.”

Radiant warmth clamored inside her heart.

Leaning forward, Kit rapped on the door, then lowered himself back onto the seat. Shifting slightly, he once again draped a strategically placed arm across his lap and crossed his legs.

Robert opened the door.

“Assist Miss Hammond inside, if you would, Robert. Then inform Josephs I will be driving on to Brooks Club.”

The footman bowed. “With pleasure, Lord Christopher. Miss?” he said, extending a hand to help her navigate the small metal coach steps.

March gave her a cheerful greeting as she mounted the stone staircase to the main entrance. Once she was safely across the threshold, the coach door slammed, then the vehicle rolled away down the street.

Hours later, Kit let himself into the darkened townhouse with a small key he kept for just such occasions. His footfalls rang out softly on the marble floor, the residence silent, even the servants abed at three o’clock in the morning.

He had not wanted to go to his club earlier that evening.

Not when every cell inside his body had been screaming for him to follow Eliza into the house, hustle her inside one of their bedrooms and spend the rest of the night ravishing her.

And damned if he might not have done that very thing—in spite of the servants, in spite of Adrian and Violet—if it hadn’t been for the look of naive puzzlement and shock in Eliza’s eyes when the pair of them had been on the verge of being discovered inside the coach.

The forceful reminder of her innocence had awakened his brain, along with his sense of right and wrong. So he’d set her aside, then worked to cool his lust on the ride across Town.

Despite his need for rest, he crossed into the downstairs study where he knew Adrian kept a decanter of brandy. Maybe a draught of spirits and a few minutes’ contemplation in front of the fire would ease the restlessness still brewing inside him, enough for him to fall asleep anyway.

Lighting a single candle to dispel the heavy shadows, he went to a cabinet along the far wall. Locating a glass and the promised crystal decanter of brandy, he poured himself a drink.

He’d just replaced the stopper and was downing his first swallow when a filmy glimpse of white flashed into his line of sight.

Surprise made him choke. Sputtering, he spun and locked gazes with Eliza. He coughed twice before he managed to catch a proper breath. “
Plague take it,
I wasn’t expecting anyone. Whatever are you doing up so late?”

A tiny line creased her brow. “I could not sleep and came down for some warm milk. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

He waved off her apology, then decided to brave another sip. The alcohol slid down his throat with a satisfying warmth before he set the snifter aside.

Only then did he notice the tumbler in Eliza’s hand—a glass of warm milk, no doubt. In imitation of his actions, she took a drink, then moved to place the glass carefully onto the same table as his brandy.

As she drew closer, the honeyed scent of her skin teased his nostrils, his earlier desire roaring vividly to life. Dark and tousled, her curls framed her face in seductive disarray, her nightgown and robe of fine, white lawn draping her slender curves in a way that hid far too little from his view. If he’d had a little more candlelight, he could probably have seen through the gown. And her feet were bare.

Hot blood rushed to his groin. Cursing inwardly, he scowled.

“How was your club?” she asked.

He stared for a moment at the non sequitur. “Brooks was fine. I won a hundred pounds playing faro.”

“Oh, that’s good. You’ll have to buy yourself something nice, something you’ve been wanting.”

What he wanted was her.

At his side, his hands curled into fists.

She glided a single step closer, her dove-gray eyes dark and mysterious in the low light. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, their gazes speaking for them.

Every muscle in his body grew rigid as he fought the need to drag her into his arms.

“Go to bed, Eliza,” he growled in a harsh voice. Perhaps if he sounded nasty enough, he could convince her to leave. Surely even she must realize this was no time to be playing games.

But she held her ground. “I told you, I can’t sleep. I think I need more than warm milk. Don’t you think…” she said on a near whisper, “that I need more?”

Body trembling, he held himself in check.

His restraint lasted all of ten seconds before he broke and hauled her against him. Their lips met and fused, locking together in a blistering explosion of passionate need. Kissing her greedily, he claimed her mouth in long, deep, hungry draughts that permitted no denial, and demanded nothing less than her complete capitulation. On a breathy murmur, she gave him everything he asked for and more, turning the tables so that soon he found himself as tightly ensnared in the web they were weaving as she.

Catching her buttocks under his arm, he lifted her up and fit his hips to hers. She moaned, clasping her arms around his neck to stroke his shoulders and neck, back and waist, touching him in all the places her arms and hands could reach.

Head spinning, Kit gave one last thought to setting her down and pushing her from him, as good sense warned he must do. But even as the idea formed, it slipped away, disappearing like a piece of driftwood snatched by the tide and swallowed whole.

Running his hands over her, he traced her shape, learning the blithe lines and vivacious curves of her body as if for the first time, his access enhanced now that there were no petticoats and stays to impede his exploration. Soft and warm and pliant, her femininity held a kind of divine perfection. He let himself drown, reveling in her scent and touch and taste, the sensation of her in his arms as close to heaven as a man could come.

And yet, as near as she was, she wasn’t near enough. He needed more, needed to sheath himself inside her and sate the hunger that pounded within him, strong as a beast rattling in a cage to be free.

Throwing the bonds of caution aside, he gently lowered Eliza to the thick soft woolen carpet, then followed her down, laying over her as he let his lips and touch roam at will. Kissing her wildly, he lost himself, aware only of his, and Eliza’s own, aching desire.

Abandoned to a drugging haze of sensuality, Eliza gloried in every hot, delicious thing Kit was doing to her mouth and body. Tingling from scalp to foot, she let him guide her where he would, doing what small things she knew to do to intensify his pleasure.

Sighing, she caught her lower lip between her teeth, and quivered in delight as he unfastened the small placket of buttons that ran along the front of her nightgown. She watched as he pushed back the cloth, pleased by the look in his eyes as he gazed once more upon her naked breasts. He cupped them in his hands, and then began to lavish her with caresses and kisses and the occasional perfectly placed nip that shot fire through her veins.

By rights, she ought to have experienced some sense of reticence, some feeling of shyness or shame. Instead she knew only excitement and joy, safe in the arms of the man she loved, confident beneath the power of his every caress.

Fingers trembling, she reached up to return the favor, a fever of curiosity rising inside her to see his own flesh laid bare. With only partial success, she managed to unfasten a couple buttons before he took over the task, hastily shucking off his coat and opening his waistcoat before yanking his shirttails out of his breeches.

Tunneling her arms under his shirt, she sought out his skin, marveling at the byplay of textures she discovered. Warm, velvety skin layered over hard muscle and bone. Crisp, springy hair that clung to her fingers when she threaded them into the soft curls that grew close to his chest.

Shivering at her touch, he buried his face between her breasts and sent the ache shooting hot and high. Her longing spiked even more when he shoved her nightgown to her waist and began to touch her as he had earlier in the coach.

She whimpered and moaned as he drove her to a feverish pitch, her body growing slick in ways she hadn’t realized it could, her inner flesh clinging to his fingers with a sweet suction that made her half crazy.

Curling her fingernails into her palms, the pleasure suddenly caught her, making her buck and cry out. Shuddering, she rode the crest, swamped by a cascade of sensations and emotions. She was still gathering her breath, drawing her thoughts back from the brink of oblivion, when she felt him reach between their bodies and free himself from his breeches.

Sliding a hand under one of her knees, he parted her legs, using his knee to grant him even greater access.

Leaning across her, he plunging his fingers into her hair and savaged her mouth, his kiss raw and elemental. Without breaking contact, he lowered his hands to clasp her hips and position her to accept his penetration.

He began pressing inside her, slowly at first, then with increased pressure. Tensing against the initial feeling of invasion as he thrust, she worried suddenly whether or not she would be able to take him. He was large, she knew, given what she had felt of him earlier that evening in the coach. Fear coursed through her. Was he going to fit? But Kit must believe he would, she mused, or else he wouldn’t be attempting to push himself inside her.

Forcing herself to trust him, she closed her eyes and bit her lip against the discomfort, and the mild sense of panic.

Breathing heavily, he paused, obviously sensing her need for time, and for an opportunity to adapt to his size and the sensation of their joined flesh. Murmuring tender words, he urged her to raise her legs and hook them around his narrow hips. Compliant, she obeyed, her feminine flesh opening wider to take more of him inside.

Taking advantage, he plunged again and gained another few inches, then paused to let her adjust. Reaching up, she slid her hands across his naked back beneath his shirt, finding his skin slightly damp with perspiration. Needing to hold on, she curled her fingernails in to anchor herself. He grunted in surprise, then kissed her, letting her know he didn’t mind the mild pain.

Pulling back, he thrust once more, hard and firm and to the hilt, seating himself fully.

A sharp burst of pain spread deep within her. She cried out against the hurt, but to her surprise found the ache fading almost as swiftly as it had arrived.

“All right?” he grunted, his eyes dark green flame, sparkling fiercely in the ruddy glow of the fireplace light.

Overwhelmed, she could only nod.

Cupping her face in his large palms, he brushed his lips over hers. “It won’t hurt again. I promise.”

She gazed up into his beloved face, reading the signs of both his strain as well as his restraint. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized Kit had been holding back, keeping firm control of his actions and his needs.

Trembling above her as if he could take no more, he caught her mouth in a frenzied kiss and began thrusting. In and out he plunged, taking her in long, deep, powerful strokes, his movements establishing a primal rhythm that rocked her to her center.