Belatedly, self-preservation jolted Helen back to reality. She braced her hands against Martin’s chest. ‘My lord— Martin!’ she amended, accurately reading the comment in his eyes. ‘This is unseemly. Scandalous—and worse! If you wish to atone for your behaviour—your deceit—you can escort me back to your curricle this instant!’
She
tried to sound firm but her tone was weak and wavering, her diaphragm refusing to lend strength to her words. The smile on the dark face hovering closer and closer to hers only deepened. His arms, already about her, tightened.
‘I’ve a much better idea of how to atone for my sins.’
Martin kissed her. And kept kissing her until every vestige of resistance was overcome, overwhelmed, drowned beneath their passion.
Trapped in his embrace, Helen reluctantly admitted that it was their passion—not his alone. That was what made Martin so very hard to resist. His scandalous advances drew an equally scandalous response from her. Caught on a crest of burgeoning desire, so sweet in its novelty that she was unable to resist, Helen gave up the unequal fight, softening against him. She felt his arms tighten further, crushing her to him. Then they shifted; his hands moved over her back, moulding her yielding form to his hard frame.
Helen struggled against the insidious invitation of his kiss, a blatant temptation to lose her wits and drown in a sea of sensuous sensation, striving instead against the steadily mounting odds to retain some fragment of lucidity.
Martin raised his head to glance down at her, his eyes glowing. ‘Relax,’ he breathed. His lips brushed her forehead. ‘Don’t worry—we’ll take it very slowly.’
As his lips returned to hers, Helen wondered if he intended the deep, gravelly words as a threat or a promise. For a full minute, she considered the implications as her will sank slowly beneath the warm web of sensation evoked by Martin’s sure hands. With a mental jerk, she called her wits to order. What was she to do? The way he was progressing, slow or not, she would only have a few more minutes in which to decide.
It was patently obvious to the meanest intelligence that Martin had reverted to form and intended to compromise her beyond all possible doubt, in fact as well as reputation. Helen had not the slightest doubt that he thought thus to force her acquiescence to their marriage, to overcome her refusal to accept his suit. But she was determined to give him his dream—nothing, not even he, could shake her resolution.
However, she admitted, feeling the gentle tug of long fingers at the buttons of her gown, any thought of escape from such a masterful seducer was fantasy. What he had in mind was undeniably scandalous. To her, it was undeniably attractive. If she followed her heart, her truest impulse, she would do as he had said and relax.
Fate had dealt against her, but that did not mean she could not enjoy him, take the moment he offered—this once. This was all the chance she would ever have. Her one touch at happiness—her one chance to touch the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. She had never been there before, had never known the joy she surmised must exist, wrapped in the clouds of love. Martin’s fingers skimmed her shoulders, easing her carriage dress from her. With a little sigh, Helen drew her arms from the long sleeves, letting her dress fall to the floor along with her reservations. Glancing shyly up from beneath her lowered lashes, she lifted her arms and draped them about his neck in tacit acceptance of what was to come. Anticipation throbbing its dizzying pulse through her veins, she waited to see how he would manage her light stays.
Aware, as only one of his extensive experience could be, of the import of Helen’s tentative movement, Martin drew a deep breath and fought to shackle a desire so strong, it threatened to addle his wits—a thoroughly undesirable outcome. Juno needed to be wooed slowly, gently, seduced like the veriest virgin, skittish and shy. He applied himself to the task with devotion.
Soon, Helen’s mind was whirling, giddy with pleasure. Her past had held no clues to the passion that now engulfed her. Her introduction to wifely duties had been mundane in the extreme; her mother had told her what to expect—she had got that and nothing more. The entire procedure had been so basically boring, she had been only too glad when her husband had returned to his mistresses post haste. But, in the long lonely years since then, she had come to the conclusion that there had to be more to it than that, a positive side to the undertaking she had never experienced—for surely it was that that brought the glow to Dorothea’s pale complexion and the stars to her eyes.
She had thought she would never learn what it was. But fate had decided to hand her one chance—a consolation prize in the lottery of life. Who better to teach her of the delights of love then the man in whose strong arms she was trapped?
For he was a trap, to her senses at least. She would do well to acknowledge that, and remember it when the time for explanations arrived. He was going to be angry. Very angry. He would ask her to marry him, confidently expecting her, overwhelmed by his loving, to agree. And when she refused, he was not going to be particularly interested in her reasons. Which was just as well, for she had no idea how to make him understand and was in two minds whether it was safe to do so.
But right now two minds were two minds too many for her wits to cope with. He had stolen them, along with her stays—and she had not even noticed how he had accomplished the deed. All she knew was that she felt more enthralled, more consumed with desire than ever before in her life. Martin filled her mind, overwhelmed her senses—and took control completely.
There was nothing she could do to stem the tide of urgent need welling within and between them, engulfing them both in its heated embrace. Martin stopped and lifted her, carrying her to the daybed and laying her amid the silken covers. He hovered over her, his lips dipping to hers, his hands skilfully weaving webs of delight over her fevered flesh. Then his lips touched her eyelids, placing a kiss on each.
‘Keep your eyes shut.’
Helen sensed he was about to undress. She wanted to watch. ‘But—’
‘No buts,’ came the gravelly voice, even deeper and raspier than usual. ‘Do as I say. Just lie there and relax and everything will be wonderful.’
The gentle persuasion in his tone had its effect. Helen lay still, feeling the warmth from the fire flickering over her skin, contrasting with the shimmering touch of the silks and satin on which she lay. Her lips curved slightly at the thought of his lordship’s scandalous taste in furniture. The rustle of starched linen came to her ears. The temptation to peek from beneath her lashes grew.
Helen opened her eyes a fraction. A heavily muscled back filled her view. She watched as Martin divested himself of his clothes, staring for as long as she could until, as he joined her on the daybed, she let her lids fall before allowing them to flicker innocently upwards.
Martin smiled gently, encouragingly. His shoulders were angled over her once more, limiting her view of him. He studied her expression but could detect no hint of panic. Yet. ‘Good girl,’ he murmured, struggling to harness the passion that vibrated in his voice. He lowered his lips to hers and was relieved when her lids fluttered closed once more. In truth, he had little idea what might scare her but, if she had had a difficult time accommodating Walford, seeing him naked was not going to help.
He released her lips to give more attention to the rest of her, all the while soothing her with comforting, reassuring words. It was not his habit to waste time with talk in such situations but this case was different, unique. He kept watch for any signs of withdrawal or distress, ready to backtrack at the first hint that he was pushing her too fast.
Helen heard his words, letting them wash over her, unable to concentrate on the sentences buried beneath his sensuous rumble. She wished he would stop talking and give all his attention to fulfilling her needs. Her hands itched to explore, but, never having been visited by such a desire before, she was unsure of the etiquette involved. In the end, when, driven by her need, she tentatively spread her hands over the muscles of his back, Martin moved and caught them, trapping them in one of his and drawing them over her head.
‘Not yet, sweetheart. We don’t want to rush things.’
If she had been capable, Helen would have glared. Why not? she wanted to know. She felt as if she wanted to devour him whole and all he would say was ‘Not yet’. Her body felt overheated but all she wanted was more heat.
‘Martin—’
‘Hush.’ He silenced her with a kiss. ‘Trust me. You’ll enjoy it. This time will be different, I promise.’