An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

Indecision had held her, poised, quivering. He said nothing; his hand hadn’t moved. She had drawn in a long, deep breath—and placed her hand in his. His fingers had closed gently but firmly about hers, then he had drawn her slowly towards him.

The blanket had fallen from her grasp to lie on the floor, forgotten. He had drawn her nearer, then reached for her, pulling her gently onto his lap.

She had gone very readily, her heart soaring as she felt his heat enfold her, his thighs hard beneath hers. Then his arms had closed about her and she had raised her face for his kiss.

When they had first come together, desire had propelled them into intimacy, leaving no time for the gentler side of passion. In her dream last night they had explored that aspect fully, spending hours before the fire, wrapped in passion’s web.

Beneath the covers, Lucinda closed her eyes tight; a long delicious shiver rippled through her.

In her imagination, she could feel Harry’s hands upon her, the long fingers experienced, so knowing, his palms hard and calloused from frequent handling of the reins. He had opened the door to a wonderland of sensation—and conducted her through it, educating her senses until they had been filled with pleasure—and him.

He had stripped her gown from her in tantalising stages after his lips, artfully following the neckline, had made her long to rid herself of it. He had gently eased it down, revealing her breasts, on which he had lavished untold attention. In her mind, she felt again the touch of his hair, soft as silk on her heated skin.

How long she had lain, naked in his arms as he loved her, the dying firelight gilding her in bronze and gold, she couldn’t recall. But it had felt like hours before he had lifted her and carried her to the bed.

He had drawn down the covers and laid her on the sheets, then rekindled the candles in the candelabra and placed it on the table by the bed. She had blushed and reached for the covers.

“No. Let me look at you.”

His voice had been low, soft and deep. Deep currents, indeed, but these weren’t turbulent, dangerous, but deeper still, slow, steady and infinitely strong. They had swept aside her inhibitions, leaving her with no reservations; held in his green gaze, she had lain as he had left her and watched while he undressed.

Then he had joined her on the bed and desire had flared; this time, he had held it harnessed and showed her how to manage the reins. The power was no less strong but, this time, she had appreciated it fully, felt its quality in each long-drawn moment, in each subtle movement, each lingering caress.

The end had been just as glorious but had left a deeper sense of peace, a more shattering realisation of how strong the power that held them now was.

There had been tears in her eyes when, after it was over, she had lifted her lids and looked up into his face.

And had seen therein what she had almost given up hope of ever seeing—resignation, perhaps, but acceptance, too. It had been there in his eyes, glowing beneath his heavy lids, there in the gentler cast of his features. And there most especially in his mobile lips, no longer so hard and severe, but softer, more pliable. He had met her gaze—and hadn’t tried to hide his reaction, nor draw back from the reality.

Instead, he had lowered his head and kissed her, long, deeply, lingeringly, then lifted from her and wrapped her in his arms.

A dream—nothing more, her dream, the embodiment of all her hopes, her deepest desires, the answer to her most secret needs.

Lucinda shut her eyes tight, clinging to the deep sense of peace and contentment, even if it was only illusory.

But the day had dawned; light, streaming through the open shutters, played on her lids. Reluctantly, she lifted them—and saw the blanket, half-folded still, sitting on the floor before the hearth.

Her eyes widened. Blinking, she noted the candelabra—on the table beside the bed. Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, she started to turn over. She only got halfway onto her back before she registered the chaos of the covers. Lucinda swallowed, and turned flat on her back. She slanted a glance sideways—and let out the breath she’d been holding. The bed beside her was empty. But the pillow beside hers was deeply dented.

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As a final, incontrovertible piece of evidence, a sunbeam, bobbing in, highlighted two fine gold hairs, reposing on the white lawn of the pillowcase.

Lucinda groaned and shut her eyes.

The next instant, she sat bolt upright and flung the covers from her. Only then did she recall she was naked. Grabbing the covers back, she rummaged amid their confusion and discovered the nightgown Agatha had laid out the night before. Muttering curses, Lucinda struggled into it, then leapt from the bed.

She crossed the room with determined strides and yanked violently on the bell pull.

She was leaving. Now.

IN THE LIBRARY on the ground floor, Harry paced back and forth before the windows. He had dispatched an intrigued Melthorpe to rout out his master, wherever he might be, with a message that his presence was urgently required.

The door latch clicked; Harry swung about as Alfred entered, nattily attired in a check coat over country breeches and high boots. Harry himself was dressed for travelling in his bottle-green coat and buckskins.

“There you are!” With a smile unimpaired by having been summarily summoned from someone else’s bed, Alfred strolled forward. “Melthorpe didn’t say what the problem was, but you look in fine fettle. Dare say your night was a great deal more exciting than mine, what? Mrs Babbacombe looks set to take the title of most delectable widow of the year—particularly if she can keep you entertained, happy as a grig, all night long—”

The last word ended on a strangled note as Harry’s fist made contact with Alfred’s face.