Happily Bedded Bliss: The Rakes of Cavendish Square Page 22

  After bidding the housemaid good night, she climbed into bed and blew out her bedside candle, pitching the room into near blackness that was relieved by only the fire burning low in the grate.

  She wasn’t certain how much time had passed or exactly what disturbed her, but suddenly she was awake, her eyes opening again to the darkness.

  And then he was there beside her, bending near as he slid his fingers into her hair and plundered her mouth with long, drugging, openmouthed kisses. He tasted of brandy and heat and unbridled need.

  “Gabriel,” she whispered.

  But he hushed her and stripped off her nightgown, leaving her naked beneath his questing hands and hungry mouth.

  “Let me,” he murmured against her ear as his fingers found all of her most sensitive places and worked them with irresistible skill. “Just let me.”

  And she did, quivering while keening gasps issued uncontrollably from her throat. His touch fanned the flames of her desire, driving her hard and fast as he forced her body to accept his demands in ways that left her aching and enslaved.

  With no further preliminaries, he parted her legs and thrust heavily inside her, filling her completely.

  “Take me,” he commanded as he pulled back, then thrust again. “Take all of me.”

  Reaching down, he positioned her again, opening her wider, arching her hips and angling her knees higher, so that on his next thrust she did take more. Her entire body shook, his thick shaft buried so deep it seemed for a moment as if they had joined into one.

  She closed her eyes and held on, giving herself into his keeping as he rocked them both to a stunning, mind-shattering completion.

  But even as she floated, her inner muscles twitching with the pleasurable aftereffects, she realized he wasn’t through. Inside her, she felt him turn stiff again, his erection as hard as if they hadn’t just finished coupling.

  “Turn over,” he said gruffly.

  Pulling out, he rolled her onto her stomach, then gave her bottom a stinging smack with the flat of his hand. He did it again, then a third time.

  Her already satiated need sprang abruptly back to life, hunger burning like wildfire. Her breasts ached, the tips tight nubs.

  “On your knees.”

  He smacked her bottom twice more as she scrambled to obey, her skin hot and stinging where he’d struck her. Using his knees, he parted her thighs and sheathed himself to the hilt with a single powerful thrust.

  “Aaah,” she cried as her inner flesh stretched to receive him.

  Almost impossibly, he was bigger than before, thicker. He throbbed within her so that she seemed to feel him everywhere all at once.

  He started to move, swift and sure, one arm curved over her shoulder, the other underneath her stomach so that her back was pressed tightly against his chest.

  Finding her breasts, he kneaded one, then the other, rolling and pinching her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. He kissed her cheek and throat, and the length of her shoulder before nuzzling the spot at her nape. Opening his mouth, he fixed his teeth on her and bit down.

  She went over on a sharp, high-pitched cry, her dripping sheath spasming around him.

  But he was far from done.

  Driving them both at a relentless pace, he brought her to another explosive climax, his fingers working the flesh between her legs while he continued to pump heavily inside her, every stroke lodging him deeper than the last.

  She screamed as pleasure burst like a lightning storm inside her, rattling her bones and searing her blood until it all but threatened to tear her apart.

  Her brain went blank, her entire body limp and satiated.

  With her cradled securely inside his hold, he thrust once, twice, three times more, before roaring out as he claimed his own powerful release.

  Together they fell forward against the sheets.

  Minutes passed as she drifted.

  She mumbled, sleepy and satisfied, when he rolled them onto their backs and tucked her gently against his side, one of his hands moving in a slow glide up and down her arm.

  She snuggled closer and smiled, everything hazy and dreamlike. “I love you,” she murmured, her lips brushing against his chest as she spoke.

  The hand on her arm stilled briefly before resuming its lazy slide. “I know you do.” As soft as a butterfly’s wing, he kissed her forehead. “Forgive me, Esme.”

  He spoke in a whisper, his words so quiet she wondered if she’d actually heard them at all.

  But then sleep claimed her and she had no more time to think, lost in the blissful oblivion of dreams.

  Chapter 21

  Esme awakened with a smile on her face, reaching her arms over her head to indulge in a quivering, full-body stretch. Breathing deeply, she caught Gabriel’s heady masculine scent, which lay all over the sheets and pillows.

  It seemed to be imprinted on her as well.

  Her skin.

  Her hair.

  Her body.

  He’d possessed her last night, shown her heights of pleasure that still radiated in her soul.

  She sighed, happy and relieved that their estrangement was over, that he’d finally returned to their bed.

  Sliding a foot sideways, she sought him out. But all she found was empty space.

  Disappointed, she opened her eyes and sighed again. In spite of the way he’d exhausted her last night, she wouldn’t have minded indulging in another energetic bout of love play this morning.

  Maybe they could manage a little something before nuncheon, she thought as she sat up, grinning at the naughty idea.

  Lord, he’s turned me wicked.

  But she liked it, just as she liked him.

  Loved him.

  A memory suddenly came to her of saying those words.

  I love you.

  Was it a dream or had she really said that to him last night? Had she confessed the feeling that had been growing quietly within her these past few weeks like a vine twining around her heart?

  Letting her eyes slide shut, palms open in her lap, she knew she had.

  But what was it he had said back?

  I know you do, not I love you too. And there had been something more.

  Forgive me.

  Forgive him for what?

  For their recent disharmony and the cool way he’d treated her lately?

  Or for wanting her when he wasn’t in love . . . at least not yet.

  For she had to believe that he would love her someday; otherwise, she wasn’t sure she would be able to bear it.

  To be married for life to a man who did not love her and never would? It was no more than she’d expected when they had wed. But that was before she’d known his kiss and lain in his arms. Before she’d seen the man he was and found herself wanting to know more, wanting to know everything there was to understand about the complex, interesting, intelligent, beautiful, enigmatic soul who was Gabriel Landsdowne.

  Flinging back the sheets, she leapt lithely out of bed, pausing to give the tail-wagging Burr an enthusiastic rub before continuing on into the adjoining dressing room.

  After seeing to her personal needs, she washed with the water in the pitcher and brushed her teeth, then slipped into a robe and rang for the girl who was acting as her maid.

  The servant knocked, waiting until Esme called permission before shouldering her way inside, a small tea tray in her hands. “Good morning, my lady.”

  “Good morning. Oh, how lovely.” Esme came forward once the maid set the tray on the small table near the window. Taking up the blue-and-white china teapot, she poured herself a steaming cup of fragrant black breakfast tea, the liquid the color of rich walnut. After adding a dollop of milk, she took a sip.

  Delicious.

  Next she reached for a scone. Breaking off an edge, she popped it into her mouth, the flavor
bursting delightfully in her mouth.

  “Will you be wanting any particular gown today, milady?” The maid stood, hands folded patiently at her waist.

  Esme chewed another bite of scone, then waved a hand. “Any day dress will suffice. One of my warmer gowns, I think. It seems rather chilly in here.” She glanced toward the fireplace and the logs that had turned to ash in the grate overnight. “Or is the rest of the house warmer?”

  The maid’s eyes grew a bit round. “No, milady, the fires aren’t laid ’til evening this time of year.”

  Esme’s brows puckered with a tiny frown. The fires at Braebourne, especially the ones in the family quarters, were kept lit and well tended at all times of day once autumn set in and the weather began to turn cool. The house was always quite pleasant, never demanding anything more than a shawl or a light woolen dress.

  Highhaven had been maintained at a pleasant temperature as well; she’d never been cold. But admittedly, Ten Elms was a much larger estate. Perhaps Gabriel simply didn’t want the expense of heating so large a space when he was so rarely here. Then again, while they were in residence, there surely could be no great harm in lighting a few more fires for a few hours more. She would have to speak to him about the issue.

  “Definitely one of my wool day dresses, then. Maybe a blue one.” Gabriel always liked her in blue. He said it complemented her eyes.

  The girl nodded and went to lay out her dress.

  Esme finished the scone and washed it down with tea. A quick check of the mantel clock showed it was late, after ten o’clock; otherwise, she would have waited so that she could have joined Gabriel downstairs for breakfast. But she supposed, given the hour, that he had eaten already.

  Burr wagged, casting doggy eyes at the second, uneaten scone on her plate. She hesitated, since she was planning to get him his own late breakfast as soon as she was dressed.

  “Oh, what will it hurt? You’re such a good boy, you deserve a treat every once in a while.” Breaking the scone in half, she fed it to him in two bites, which he wolfed down with obvious excitement.

  “Conniver,” she said on a laugh.

  He barked and waved his tail.

  Smiling, Esme wandered into the dressing room to find her clothes neatly laid out. The maid helped her into her undergarments and a blue wool day dress; then Esme took a seat at her dressing table so the girl could brush and pin up her hair.

  “Ye’ve lovely hair, milady.”

  “Oh, thank you. Paula, is it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The girl gave her a shy smile in the mirror.

  “I appreciate you helping me on such short notice.”

  Pink rose into Paula’s cheeks. “Oh, you’re more than welcome, my lady. It’s an honor to serve you.”

  Silence fell as Paula worked, brushing and twisting Esme’s thick hair into a neat arrangement at the back of her head.

  “Pretty,” Esme pronounced, checking the finished hairstyle in the mirror.

  Paula blushed again, clearly pleased.

  “Is his lordship about?” Esme stood and turned. “I was hoping he might be along to see me by now, but perhaps he’s busy taking care of business matters.”

  The color leached out of the girl’s cheeks. “Oh! Oh, mercy, forgive me, my lady. I forgot.”

  “Forgot what?”

  “Mrs. Foy asked me to give this to you. Said it was from his lordship and not to delay.” Reaching into her apron, she withdrew a letter.

  Esme accepted the missive. “Well, you’ve remembered now. No harm done.”

  “Will there be anything else?”

  When Esme shook her head, the servant bobbed a curtsy and withdrew. As soon as she was gone, Esme broke the wax seal and opened the note.

  What she read made the color drain out of her own cheeks.

  “Left for London,” it said. “No idea when I will be back . . . Do anything you like to the house. Send the bills to me at Cavendish Square. Yours, Northcote.”

  Yours, Northcote!

  He’d made passionate love to her last night, taken her until neither of them had had the strength or breath left in their bodies to move, and he signed his letter, Northcote?

  She stood, her fingers trembling against the paper, feeling like the very epitome of a fool. Slowly, she crumpled the note inside her fist and squeezed, her nails cutting into her palm.

  Lifting her arm, she made to fling the note into the fire, only then remembering there wasn’t one burning, the grate cold and filled with ash.

  Every bit as dead and lifeless as her heart.

  • • •

  From inside the coach, Gabriel stared absently out at the passing autumn landscape, his thoughts miles away, back at Ten Elms with Esme.

  No matter how he tried, he couldn’t get the memory of her out of his mind, the satiny smoothness of her skin, the delicate sweetness of her scent, the honeyed taste of her kisses. She’d claimed him last night, every bit as much as he’d claimed her, so much so that he very nearly rapped on the ceiling and ordered the coachman to turn around and go back.

  He fisted his hand on his thigh and forced himself to resist.

  Obsession—that’s all it is, he told himself, as he had days ago in Cornwall. A surfeit of sexual intoxication coupled with an unhealthy amount of isolation.

  Once he got back to London, her hold on him would fade. A few days, a couple of weeks at most, and Esme Byron Landsdowne would cease to be the focus of his world.

  He’d been enamored of women before, although never quite to the extent he seemed to be with Esme. But just as his interest in all his previous lovers had waned, her allure would fade as well. By the time he saw her again, she would be out of his system and he could proceed with their marriage in a rational, even comfortable way.

  In the meantime, he would use their time apart to see to the business he’d told her he had been neglecting—an excuse that hadn’t all been a lie.

  Thanks to his marriage to Esme, he was no longer in debt.

  Only last week, the inheritance money due to him as a result of his tying the knot had been released by the estate attorneys. It was more than enough to pay off the mortgage on Cavendish Square and leave him with a comfortable fortune, besides. Then there was Esme’s dowry, which served as a kind of additional boon.

  At the time of their wedding, he’d half expected the duke and her brothers to find some way to withhold her dowry. As a practicing lawyer, Lawrence, in particular, could have found some clever means of squeezing him out. Instead, Clybourne had been surprisingly generous about the marriage portion, transferring a substantial sum into his accounts, no questions asked.

  Not that they’d given him all of Esme’s money. Quite the opposite, in fact, the size of her dowry staggering even by aristocratic standards. As agreed to in the settlement, the vast majority of her money was tied up in trust, to be passed directly to her in the event of divorce or his death, then on to any children they might produce.

  It was an arrangement some men would have loathed, but he was no fortune hunter, so he didn’t mind.

  Besides, if he wanted, he could invest in some much-needed improvements to the farms and tenant lands at Ten Elms and conceivably earn himself yet another tidy sum. There was money to be made in new farming methods that his uncle had never had the foresight to implement, for all his supposed brilliance in having once managed the estate. It would almost be worth spending time at Ten Elms, if only to prove himself a better custodian than his blighted uncle.

  But that would have to wait for now, be put off until he got his feelings for Esme under proper regulation.

  As for what her family would think when they learned that he’d left her behind at Ten Elms, he couldn’t say. He doubted they would be pleased, not with him and Esme married less than a month and him off to London while she stayed alone at his ancestral home in Derbyshire. />
  He scowled, guilt riding him at what they would all surely view as abandonment, Esme included. He wondered what she was thinking, now that she’d had his note.

  Probably that he was a cad and a bounder, a heartless blackguard who had shamelessly abused her innocence and destroyed her youthful trust.

  I love you.

  Her whispered words resonated in his mind, chiding him even now. A secret part of him had thrilled to hear them, wanting her softness, craving her comfort and devotion.

  But devotion changed and love went away; he, of all people, had learned that lesson only too well, both as a boy and as a man. Love was weakness and he would drive its nascent tendrils from his soul before it had a chance to dig in and take root.

  And Esme?

  She would recover. A few weeks apart and she would be glad he’d had the sense to put a stop to their lust-filled fantasy.

  Until then, he hoped she didn’t suffer too much. Actually, he rather expected that she would pack her bags and go to Braebourne, where she could vilify him to her heart’s content, surrounded by the comfort of her old home and family.

  And if she does not?

  His scowl deepened and he drummed his fingers against his thigh.

  He would not feel guilty, not much anyway. Besides, what did she really expect? She’d known he had a black heart when she’d married him. He was only acting true to form.

  Reaching for the book he’d brought with him, he opened it and began to read, determined to drive her from his mind, even if only for a short while.

  • • •

  Esme flung open her wardrobe and reached for the nearest dress, pulling it out and stuffing it into her open portmanteau. She was too angry to even call for her maid to do the packing. She would take just enough clothes and toiletries to make the journey to Braebourne, then send for the rest of her belongings after she arrived.

  Burr watched from where he lay on the dressing room floor, his head on his paws.