Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

Only with him did she feel this way, did her senses whirl, her wits melt away. Only with him did her bones turn to water while heat rose and beat under her skin.

And he knew.

She would have given a great deal to keep the knowledge from him, but even as the remaining vestige of her consciousness noted that his skills had developed considerably over the years, she was aware that behind his controlled hunger, behind the skillfully woven net of desire he cast over her, he was watchful and intent.

He’d known thirteen years ago that she had been his; as his hands slid beneath her coat and fastened about her waist, and he drew her flush against him, it was abundantly clear he knew she still was.

Her breath was long gone; arms twined about his neck, she clung to their kiss as her breasts pressed against the hard planes of his chest, as his long fingers curved about her hips and brought them flush against his thighs.

He moved against her, suggestive, seductive. The feel of his body against hers, all masculine strength, reined passion, and wickedly flagrant desire, flung open a door she’d closed, bolted, and thought rusted shut years ago.

A living ache flooded her, deeper than she recalled, more powerful, more compelling.

She’d been so young then, just sixteeen; what she’d then deemed frighteningly urgent was, she now realized, a mere cipher compared to the compulsion she was capable of feeling, of the sheer wanting that rose and raged through her now.

Oh, God! She tried to pull back, to at least catch her breath-to think.

Only to discover he’d backed her against the wall. With lips and tongue he’d captured her mouth; he pressed deeper and feasted, lured her further, swept her into deeper waters until she had to cling to him to survive. Until her very life seemed to depend on it.

Until nothing else mattered. Until there was no life beyond the circle of their arms.

She felt unbearably grateful, unbearably eager when she felt his hand between them slipping free the buttons that closed her shirt. Then he pushed the halves apart, with practiced flicks of his long fingers stripped away her chemise and set his palm to her naked breast.

Her senses swooned. Her knees buckled.

His other hand slid lower, cupping her bottom, supporting her. Absently fondling as with knowing fingers he caressed her breast, captured her nipple, gently rolled, tweaked, then soothed.

Within seconds, her senses had totally fractured, unable to fix, to focus on anything, overwhelmed by the sensations of his mouth steadily plundering hers, heated and commanding, of his hand and fingers artfully pleasuring her breasts, already swollen and aching, of his other hand subtly exploring, molding her to him, of the heady, even more potent reality of his hard, heavy, aroused body against hers, surrounding hers.

Making her feel fragile, defenseless-so achingly vulnerable.

No-not again.

She dropped her hands to his shoulders, sank her fingers in, pushed back, and pushed him away.

He acquiesced, letting her break from the kiss. Letting her put a few inches between their lips, enough for her to drag in a breath and gasp, “Charles-no.”

For five heartbeats, he said nothing, his eyes midnight pools behind his long lashes. She realized they were both breathing quickly, her breasts rising and falling; his chest swelled against them.

“Why?”

Charles watched her struggle to summon her wits, felt considerable satisfaction in watching how much effort it cost her. Almost as much as it was costing him to rein in his raging need.

She licked her lips. “We…can’t. Not again.”

“Why not?”

She blinked, and couldn’t muster a single reason. That much he could read in her wide eyes, in her blank expression.

He bent his head, not to kiss her, but to the side of hers. Extended his tongue and with the tip delicately caressed the whorl of her ear.

Felt the shiver that racked her from her head to her toes. “Penny…” He breathed all his considerable persuasiveness into the word.

Yet he wasn’t surprised when her fingers tensed again on his shoulders, and she shook her head. “No, Charles. No.”

He hestitated, but he’d told her the truth-he could no longer pretend. He wasn’t even able to attempt it with her; blatant honesty was the only currency he could offer her.

“I want you.” He let the words slide, glide over the delicate hollow of her temple.

“I know.”

She sounded shaky, slightly desperate.

“You want me, too.”

“I know that, too.” She dragged in a huge breath, and pushed at his shoulders. “But we can’t. I can’t.”

With a sigh, he eased back, accepting that tonight he’d have to let her go. That he’d be sleeping alone yet again.

Not, he vowed, for long. He’d learned what he most needed to know, about her and him and where they now stood. Learned enough to know that he’d been right; she could be his salvation, if she would-with the right persuasion, she might consent to marry him.

She still wanted him as much as he wanted her. It was enough to start with; they could build from there.

Not, however, tonight. Making no attempt to conceal his reluctance, he set her on her feet and released her.

She stepped to the side, tugging her shirt closed, through the dimness met his eyes. She briefly scanned his face, then murmured, “Good night.”

He clamped his lips shut, thrust his hands into his pockets and watched her walk away, turning down the corridor and disappearing from view. Still he remained, listening, until he heard the distant clunk of her bedchamber latch falling. Only then did he let out his disgusted snort.

Turning, he headed for his apartments and his bed.

He stood very little chance of its being a good night.

THEY NEXT MET OVER THE BREAKFAST TABLE. HE WAS already there, waiting. Penny walked in, nodded his way, smiled at Filchett, sat in the chair he held for her, then poured herself a cup of tea and helped herself to toast.

Charles watched her. He’d got precious little sleep last night. Consequently, he’d had plenty of time to think, enough for the inconsistency in her response to him to rise out of his memories and stare him in the face.

Thirteen years ago he’d thought she’d had enough of him, that after their first and only bout of lovemaking she’d finished with him, never wanted to see him, speak with him, or do anything else with him ever again. That message had reached him loud and clear, but from a distance. A distance she’d insisted on preserving and that, with their families all about, she’d had no difficulty arranging.

Because of that distance, he hadn’t realized the truth. She hadn’t stopped wanting him; she still did. She hadn’t so much been giving him his marching orders as holding him at bay until his real marching orders had taken him away.

Thirteen years ago, she’d been running. Something about their lovemaking had frightened her, but he still didn’t know what. He’d originally, reluctantly, put her adverse reaction down to the physical pain, but he’d never been sure; it hadn’t seemed much like the Penny he knew, but how could he tell when she’d refused to talk about it?

Considering the question now, there were other aspects-her independence, her pride, some unexpected sensibility-that might have contributed to make her take against him, but he knew better than to think he could follow the tortuous processes of her mind. That was the mistake he’d made thirteen years ago; he wasn’t about to make it again.

If she had any difficulty, he’d make her tell him in words incapable of misconstruction. He wouldn’t allow her to deflect him; he had no intention of taking a pert No for an answer, or accepting a dismissal, no matter how distant and haughty. This time the situation favored him; their families, the gaggle of females who, with the best of intentions, perennially managed to get in his way, weren’t there for her to use as a screen. This time, there was just him and her and what lay between them. He wasn’t going to let her-the one and only lady for him-slip through his fingers again.

With that resolution firmly made, he’d spent the small hours deciding how to proceed. How to seduce her. The first step was obvious, an absolute requirement; he couldn’t seduce her under his own roof.

Courtesy of his investigation, which investigation she was determined to immerse herself in, that requirement wouldn’t be difficult to meet.

He waited, patient, unperturbed, his gaze on her. Filchett, reading the undercurrents accurately, left in search of more coffee.

Penny buttered her toast, then reached for the jam. After last night, she’d made a firm resolution to restrict her interaction with Charles to the field of his investigation. And to keep at least a yard between them if at all humanly possible.

He’d accepted her refusal last night, but she had no wish to repeat the exercise, even less to tempt him or herself. She might not have the strength to utter the word next time; the likely consequences didn’t bear contemplating. She had absolutely no ambition to be his sometime lover, warming his bed for however long he was there, only to be alone again when he returned to London. To be forever alone once he found his bride.

Eventually, unable to continue to pretend to be unaware of his gaze, she looked up and met it. “How are we going to learn how Granville communicated with the French?”

Down the length of the table, his dark eyes held hers. “Other than by continuing to ask, perhaps being rather more specific in our questions, I’m not sure we have that many avenues to follow.”

He looked down, long fingers idly stroking his coffee cup.