‘Lovely,’ he murmured, capturing a nipple and tormenting it with his lips and teeth until she was whimpering. ‘Patience. Are you counting?’
‘Yes,’ she gasped. ‘Forty…I think.’
He smiled against her skin, the evening beard fretting against the soft swell of her breast and she moaned, a sound that turned into a gasp as he pulled at the drawstring of the loose trousers and slid his hand down, over her belly, over the soft mound of curls, parting her as he rolled sideways to give himself better access to her body.
Numbers swirled in Lina’s mind. Sixty, a hundred? She lost time and reality as one finger slid into the moist folds. She could feel she was wet with desire for him, beyond shame, her legs falling open to let him do what he wanted, whatever he wanted.
His thumb found that part his tongue had tormented in the bedchamber, the sensation bringing her hips up off the hard floor in shock. He slid one finger, two, inside her and she clenched around him as his thumb moved. Everything whirled together, his touch, his scent, the hard floor under her, the heat of his body against her and his mouth, murmuring against hers. She was falling, flying, wanting—and then breaking, breaking into a million shards of pleasure and behind her closed lids the black velvet darkness was shot through with colours.
‘You forgot to keep count,’ Quinn’s voice said, rumbling under her ear. Lina blinked and opened her eyes. He was still lying on the floor with her held against his chest, and she was naked except for the crumpled silk coat. Words, she found, were beyond her. ‘Are you all right?’ He sat up, bringing her with him until she was cradled on his lap, her head on his shoulder.
‘I am beyond all right,’ she murmured. ‘Quinn, that was…overwhelming.’
‘Good.’ He sounded content, and tender too, and the combination made her quiver with longing. ‘You see—there are some benefits to marriage with me.’
Of course, that was what this was all about. Convincing me to say yes, so his honour and conscience are satisfied.
‘There are benefits to being made love to by you,’ she said as she sat up, pushed the hair back from her eyes and tried to drag the coat closed over her exposed body. ‘How could I deny how much pleasure you just gave me? But it does not change anything. I am not going to marry you, Quinn.’
‘You will,’ he said, making it sound more like a threat than a promise. ‘You must go to bed now.’ He stood up and helped her to her feet, waiting while she pulled on the trousers and buttoned the coat, getting it completely awry. ‘Here.’ He reached out and redid the fastenings as though she were a child, his voice husky with suppressed impatience.
Or perhaps frustration. ‘Quinn,’ Lina said as he guided her unsteady steps towards the door. ‘That is the second time we have lain together and you have not… I’m sorry. Should I—?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘That would not be a good idea. We will wait until we are married.’
‘But I am not going to—’
‘Bed.’
Lina found herself on the far side of a firmly closed door. She leaned against it, trying to summon up the energy to climb the stairs to her room. Stubborn, stubborn man! Oh, but his mouth, his body, those hands. Not just his body, but the ma
n himself, his mind, his courage, his humour. All of him.
Marriage would be a disaster, she told herself as she stumbled upstairs, so much worse than living with a man for whom she felt merely liking and respect. There would be no messy emotion then, no yearning for something she could not have, no expectations, constantly disappointed. And if Quinn ever realised how she felt, then there would be the humiliation of knowing he was being kind and pitying her.
Thank goodness she had sent the servants to bed, Lina thought as she gained the sanctuary of her bedchamber. She did not even think of snuffing out the candles; what remained of the night was going to be long and wakeful.
Quinn pushed himself upright away from the door and went back to the decanters. If he could bring himself to do it, the sensible thing would be to follow Celina to her room and make her his once and for all. But the sensible thing was not the honourable thing and she had to be persuaded into doing what was in her best interests, even if that involved seduction.
A wife had not been in his plans, at least, not until the point in his life when he decided honour was satisfied and he was ready to settle down a trifle. Someone intelligent, he had thought, when he had thought about it at all. Someone who would not sulk at being left for half the year to her own devices, or expect to drag him out to balls and parties every night when he was home and working—a capable girl she would need to be, one who could make her own friends and entertainment. A good mother, for there was the title to think of and, he supposed, he was not establishing his fortune just for the sake of it.
And now, thanks to his conscience, he was faced with the prospect of marrying an obscure vicar’s daughter from somewhere in the depths of the country. A girl with dubious relatives, a scandalous past and possessing a curious blend of innocence, ignorance and shocking knowledge. A young woman who did not, apparently, want to marry him.
He could appreciate her scruples, honour her for them even, he thought, sitting down and nursing his glass on his chest while he did his best not to think about the ache in his groin and the tension in his belly. But she was supposed to tell him of her worries, listen to what he had to say and then be convinced and marry him, not answer back, dig in her heels and refuse to be swayed, even by lovemaking.
He had gone as far as he felt he could; now all he could try was a war of attrition, reminding her with touch and murmured words and intense looks what had passed between them and what was to come—if she saw sense.
If only Celina had not heard about that damn duel—it had alarmed and upset her. Doubtless she thought him not a very good prospect as a husband if she feared he would end up flat on his back in some field on the outskirts of London with a doctor, irritable at being dragged out of bed at an ungodly hour to participate in an illegal activity, prodding at his wounds. She would not believe him if he told her he was unlikely to get killed; he could quite see that a woman would prefer her fiancé to assure her he was definitely not about to do something fatal.
Quinn mentally added Marry Celina near the top of his list of things to be done and crossed off find wife from the bottom. He knocked back the brandy in his glass and stood up, suddenly not so concerned about the prospect after all: Celina was going to be a delight in bed. And she made him laugh. And she would make him comfortable. And she had guts. Yes, his conscience was not so inconvenient after all.
Chapter Eighteen
Lina met Quinn’s eyes defiantly at breakfast the next morning. She could feel she was blushing, and she knew the dark circles under her eyes would betray her lack of sleep the night before, but when he bent low to drop a kiss on her nape in passing she swivelled in her chair and hissed, ‘Do not do that and do not mention marriage again.’
She had to stay angry with him or she would simply melt into his arms. The wretched man had discovered a weakness and she could only hope he did not realise that the way she responded to him owed as much to her own feelings for him as to his undoubted expertise in making love.
‘There is no need to whisper,’ Quinn said, calmly helping himself to the buffet as though they had not lain entangled in each other’s arms on the drawing room floor only hours before. ‘I have told the staff that I prefer to eat my breakfast without a footman hovering. We can ring if we want anything.’