A Lady of His Own (Bastion Club 3)
Helpless to resist.
He parted her lips and sank into her mouth, into the hot lushness. Released her nape, reached farther, turned her, and lifted her onto his lap.
She pressed her hands to his shoulders, fought to keep her spine rigid. When he lifted his head, her eyes flew wide. “What about the coachman?”
“He’s on the box—he can’t see.” Closing his hands about her waist, he nipped her lower lip. “If you don’t shriek, he won’t hear.”
“Shriek? Why—”
He slid his hands up.
“Charles—”
He covered her lips. Let his thumbs cruise the fine silk of her bodice, locating and slowly circling her pebbled nipples. He let his palms cup the soft weight of her breasts, felt them swell and firm. Gloried in the tremor that shook her, that tangled her breath until she breathed through him.
After a long, thorough, painfully arousing exchange, he released her lips and drew in a huge breath. He knew exactly how far it was between Branscombe and Wallingham—not far enough.
Eyes closed, Penny shuddered between his hands, feeling his fingers hard and steely holding her so easily, confident, so certain of her. She’d told herself it would be just a kiss, something she could simply take and enjoy. She’d forgotten that with him there was more, always more.
His head was bowed beside hers; he brushed his lips to her temple. “God, how much I’ve missed you.”
There was a longing in his tone she couldn’t mistake, that resonated through her.
I’ve missed you, too. She held the words back. Yet she had missed him, so deeply she was amazed. She hadn’t realized…only now, now he was back, kissing her again, did she feel the yawning emptiness inside, recognize it, realize it had been with her for a very long time.
Thirteen years, more or less.
The carriage dipped as it passed through the gates of Wallingham. Charles sighed, lifted her and set her on the seat beside him once more.
When the carriage halted and the footman opened the door, she was wrapped in her cloak. Charles descended and handed her out.
She expected him to part from her, to go on to the stables and drive himself home. Instead, he led her up the steps. Catching her puzzled glance, he murmured, “I want to see if Nicholas is home.”
According to Norris, he was, but had already retired to his chamber.
Charles pressed her hand, stepped back and saluted her. “I’ll call on you later.”
His eyes met hers, then he turned and strode off toward the back of the house and the garden door.
She stood watching him, wondering what she was supposed to infer from that last look, then, inwardly shaking her head, she climbed the stairs and headed for her room.
Her maid, Ellie, was waiting. She climbed out of her gown, into her nightgown, then sat on the stool before her dressing table and let down her hair, brushing it while Ellie fussed, shaking out the gown and hanging it, then brushing down her cloak, finally shutting away the pearl necklace and earrings she’d worn in her jewel box.
“Good night, miss. Sleep tight.”
In the mirror, she smiled at Ellie. “Thank you, Ellie. Good night.”
She continued to brush, laying the long strands of shining pale hair over her shoulders, then she sighed, stood, and snuffed the candles in the sconces on either side of her mirror. Crossing to her bed, she extinguished the candle left burning beside it.
The moonlight streamed in through her windows, a ghostly white light painting all in muted shades.
She was tired, she decided, that was why her mind wouldn’t focus, wasn’t interested in thinking about the five strangers or whether Nicholas knew Phillipe Gerond. Slipping her robe from her shoulders, she tossed it across the foot of her high bed; drawing back the covers, she hitched up her nightgown and set one knee on the white sheet.
A faint, muted click reached her.
She looked toward the door—and saw it opening.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Frozen, she stared as Charles slipped around the door, shut it silently, then locked it.