Untouched

“Listen to me. You’ve been locked away since you were fourteen. The only female you’ve seen in eleven years is Mrs. Filey.” Her voice was very steady. Damn her, he couldn’t doubt her sincerity. Even if he recognized the words as arrant nonsense.

“I don’t expect you to love me, Grace.” He left unspoken his belief that a woman like her, fine, beautiful, passionate, could never love a lout like him. He still found it hard to credit that she’d given herself to him.

“Matthew…” she began, but he spoke over her.

“I love you.” The words emerged as a challenge. “Whether you accept this or not, I love you.”

“I’m flattered.”

He fisted his hands to stop himself shaking her. “I don’t want you to be bloody flattered.”

“Well, I am.” She hastened into earnest speech before he could snap at her again. “I’m not belittling how you feel. But this is your first experience of a woman. It’s easy to mistake pleasure for love.”

She stopped as if waiting for him to agree. He kept silent. Every particle of him vehemently denied what she said. Yes, he’d discovered what intercourse was like. Yes, it had been extraordinary, breathtaking, life-changing.

But it wasn’t everything. He loved Grace whether he made love to her or not. Her every breath was precious to him. If that wasn’t love, he had no idea what else it could be.

He heard her tattered inhalation. Her unnatural self-possession frayed. “I’m not surprised you’re overwhelmed. I’m…I’m overwhelmed too. But one day, you’ll be free and you’ll meet a woman you truly love.”

“You’re wrong,” he said stubbornly, flopping onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. He ignored her rosy depiction of his future. Freedom was an impossible dream. He’d long ago accepted that. “Give me patronizing explanations until Christmas. You won’t change what I feel.”

A difficult pause extended.

“I’ve hurt you,” she finally said in a sad voice. “I’m sorry.”

“No matter. We won’t speak of this again

.” His response dripped damaged pride. He knew he behaved like a block-head but he couldn’t help himself.

Tentatively, she reached out to stroke his cheek. “I’ve spoiled our magical night. Please forgive me.”

He closed his eyes, letting her touch radiate through him. It soothed his roiling anger and unhappiness. Desire, briefly satisfied, surged in on a hot tide.

He’d promised not to mention his love again. Nothing on earth could stop him showing her what she meant to him. Eventually she’d believe in his feelings. Believe in him. He’d batter at her resistance with passion until she let him into her heart.

Grace had a shocked second to register the change in his face. Only a second. He flung the concealing sheet back and wrenched her into his arms.

“God help me,” he muttered in a tormented voice before capturing her mouth in a reckless, devouring kiss.

Clutching at his back, she strained up toward him. His loss of control didn’t frighten her. It excited. His desperation fed hers.

He wasn’t gentle. Heaven help her, she didn’t want him to be. She wanted him to invade her. His touch conveyed power and savagery. Her refusal to believe his declaration had angered him. And hurt. How she hated that she’d hurt him.

For one radiant moment, the words, I love you, Grace, had settled warm, calm, sure in her heart. She’d almost done the unforgivable and said, I love you, Matthew, in return.

Almost. Before vile truth stung her like a cobra. She couldn’t tie him to her with commitments he’d later regret.

While he wanted her, she was his.

Oh, Grace, lie to Matthew. Don’t lie to yourself. You’re his until the day you die.

He placed one hand around her throat, forcing her head up to his kiss. His anguished kisses made her shake. He tasted of desire, he tasted of passion, he tasted of need.

Almost roughly, he palmed her breast. She gasped and writhed, hooking her legs around his hips so she lay open to him. Blood pounded in her veins. She’d explode if he didn’t take her. Take her hard. She moaned into his open mouth, snatching at his shoulders to drag him closer. She nipped his earlobe and felt his sex twitch against her belly.

A thrill raced through her. Where was demure Grace Paget? This wild wanton harpy was a stranger.

He drove himself into her to the hilt. For a long, panting moment, she lay pinned under his delicious weight. With a groan, he began to pound into her irrevocably, implacably. She rose to meet him, jerking with the force of every thrust.