“Women do so all the time.”
“I do not care. You should not. You are beautiful as you are.”
And for the first time in her life, Clara believed the words. “Thank you.”
He urged her to move closer to the door, then reached up and removed the first pins and combs, dropping them, one by one, into his top hat. The hairstyle came down much faster than it went up, and as the tension in her scalp eased, Clara let out a soft whimper. Michael’s teeth ground again and his hands moved faster. As the last ribbon slid free and her curls bounced loose around her head and shoulders, he fluffed the curls out, running his hands through them several times before entwining his fingers into the locks, tugging her closer. He focused on her, his eyes darkening. “I love your hair. Soft. Wild. Free. Like you.”
The focus of his eyes on her face stilled her, settling a calm in her spirit. As she whispered his name, his lips brushed hers, a feather touch, then he pulled her against his chest again, his arms a comforting warmth around her. She could hear the soft thumps of his heart, feel each rise and fall of his breathing. His voice rumbled deep in his chest as he murmured her name. This was a peace such as she had never known, and in that moment, Clara dearly wished it could last forever.
Although she knew it could not. She should release him. Walk away. But this place, in his arms, against his body, felt like home.
“Clara?” Her name was soft on his lips, and she leaned back enough to look up at him. He stroked her face. “May I kiss you? Truly kiss you?”
A tinge of confusion touched her mind. Had he not already done so? The last time they had met in this stable, his touch had made her heart sing, her body flush with desire. Had that not been a true kiss?
She also knew she should shake her head. Refuse him. Step back...
“Yes.”
His smile was slight, gentle. “Hold on to my waist, my darling. Hold on until you cannot. And I will catch you.”
Chapter Twelve
Saturday, 20 August 1825
The Ashton House stables
One in the morning
Michael’s world narrowedto a single pair of lips, rosy pink and perfect. A natural bow with a delicate arch in the middle, a moue begging to be kissed. Round and full... more.
He cupped Clara’s face in both his hands, his palms firm against her cheeks as his long fingers brushed her hairline. He tilted her head slightly, his lips making a feather pass over that perfect bow... once... twice. He paused a moment then pressed his mouth against hers for a few seconds before his lips parted, and he pulled on her lower lip, a slow caress he repeated over and over, each time tugging harder. He repeated this with her upper lip, and his thumbs stroked her cheeks and his fingers slid along her jaw.
When he pressed his tongue against the sweet line of her mouth, urging her to open, a tiny whimper echoed in her throat as she did, and her fingers dug into his waist. His tongue delved into her mouth as if each touch were a new and unproven sensation, and the fire that had kindled in his loins flared, sending a flash of desire up through his chest. He gave a low moan as he hardened, and his fingers pushed farther into her hair, entwining into the curls, holding her tightly, tugging on the thick strands.
He explored her mouth with slow, firm strokes, and Clara began to shiver under his touch, pressing her body harder against him. He became almost painfully rigid, and he ached for her with a longing he had not felt in years. More than his physical need, his very soul wanted to consume her.
Michael gently broke the kiss, and a quiet, mewled, “No,” escaped her.
“Patience, my love,” and one hand traced the tender line of her face, soft touches that he followed with his mouth, flicking his tongue against her jawline, slipping it down toward her ear, where he seized the lobe between his teeth and tugged.
Clara writhed, melding against him, her back arching, as his whispery kisses moved down her neck, then her shoulder, to the edge of her gown. His fingers pushed it off her shoulder, and he nuzzled the hollow beneath her collarbone. His hand cupped her breast, squeezing it as his thumb found the swelling tip of her nipple. He swirled around it as he tugged her dress away, and she sighed.
Then Michael closed his thumb and forefinger around the taut bud with a sudden pinch. Clara gasped and her knees gave way, her hands falling from his waist as his name burst from her in a hoarse cry as she clawed at his chest. With a grin, he caught her, easing her down onto the fresh hay. He lay beside her, propping on one elbow, and watched her face as he again traced the neckline of her gown with the back of his fingers. Her breath came in quick gasps, causing her breasts to push up against the fabric. Her cheeks glowed, and a light scent of lavender and roses blended with the cleaner scent of the hay. Her eyes were half-lidded as she searched his face.
“Do you wish me to stop?” he asked, one finger skidding lightly over the mounds of her breasts, pausing at the edge of the exposed nipple.
She shook her head slowly. “That was... remarkable. And scandalous.” She took in a long breath. “I have never felt—” She stopped, resting a hand against his neck.
He chuckled. “I want to make you feel like a queen.”
She stilled and continued to study him. “Michael, the duke—”
He cupped her face. “Cannot know.”
“But he would withdraw—”
“And he would do whatever he could to destroy both our families. We cannot let that happen. He cannot know as long as... not until we know...” He looked away, his heart aching against his intellect. He could not accept, not in this moment, that his Clara would go to another man.
