“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he told her. “I used to dream about touching you when I was at war.” His eyes were glazed above her, and his other hand came to her hip, holding her open for him. She wanted to capture this moment and fold it within herself so she’d never lose it. His mouth was clumsy as it brushed hers, and they both laughed, breathless. “I used to touch myself to the thought of you,” he confessed, as though ashamed.
She closed her eyes, her own confession raw. “When I was with my husband, the only way to make it bearable was to imagine it was you instead.” Then, when he had forced his way inside her, ithad felt like less of a violation. Sometimes, though rare, she had even found her own pleasure from the thought.
His whole body shuddered, and his fingers laced through hers. “I don’t want it to end.”
There had rarely been a more erotic sight, she thought, than his bare back and buttocks in the candlelight. Art in its purest form—a fleeting moment she wished to commit to a canvas.
His hands found the space between their bodies, and although he was a novice, he was a quick learner, listening to her breathing and instructions, and adjusting his technique until she teetered on the edge. They were both there, both strung impossibly tight, both holding on as long as they could.
“Should I—” His words were choppy, and he allowed himself a wry, lopsided grin. Seriousness overcame him again far too quickly. “Should I—where should I . . .?”
Understanding his question, she shook her head. “Where you are.”
“I’m not a—” He huffed an impatient breath, barely moving inside her now. His fingers still circled, and she was so close that her thoughts were sluggish. “We should be careful,” he said.
Usually, she required her lovers to use French letters, or at the very least finish elsewhere, but her thoughts were scattered, her body pliant under his, and she could not separate what she wanted from what was sensible to have. “I won’t get with child,” she said. The closest she had ever come to the true confession: shecouldn’tget with child.
He groaned, holding her hip still as she ground against him. She could almost feel the overbearing urgency of his need, but he held himself back. “Are you certain?”
She cupped his face in her hands. “Please.”
That was all it took; he shuddered, cursing, saying her name as though it might offer him salvation. Or perhaps as thoughhe knew he was already cursed. Her heart clenched, her body dissolved into pleasure, and she lost herself in him all over again.
Chapter Twenty-One
Louisa dressed quickly, not allowing herself to tarry as she found the articles of clothing from where they had been dropped to the floor.
Henry remained in the bed, watching her with hooded eyes. It was nearly time for dinner, which they would both be expected to attend, and she had no time to waste on affection. Already, she had stayed too long.
“That’s it, then?” he asked, rolling and standing. He was not ashamed of his nakedness, she could say that for him, although there was hardly any reason for him to be. His body was magnificent, not overly bulky but finely honed. It was a body accustomed to being used, and for a moment she wondered what it must be like to have returned to England where there was nothing for him to do but hang on Society’s whim.
Her gaze returned to his face, where he was still watching her. His expression was tight, restrained, as though he, too, was wary of showing her too much.
What a pair they were.
For a moment, she ached at the thought of what they had lost.
“Louisa,” he said. His throat worked. “Don’t leave like this.”
“We will be expected for dinner soon,” she said, casting a glance at the window, where the late afternoon sun was barely peeking over the trees. “And I must transcribe the letters and return them.”
He frowned as though he wanted to say something else, but settled for, “Let me return them.”
She huffed impatiently. “How many times must I tell you? I can handle myself.”
“If he finds you in his bedchamber, how will he react? And for you to come here unseen is more of a task than it is for me.” He came closer. “Allow me to do it. What will he do to me? I doubt he has a gun on his person, and if one of us were to be shot, I had rather it was me.”
Doing her best to ignore him, she wiggled into her chemise. This was more like the arrangements she was familiar with; they shared their pleasure and then one party left. The difference was the feeling in her chest, the temptation to stay and kiss him one last time. Make love to him one last time.
Perhaps he had done so willingly, but he had broken her vows for her. And she had deprived Miss Winton of a husband dedicated to waiting for their wedding night. No matter that such a man was a rarity for any lady; she had been the one to take that away.
Her nose stung.
Yet there was no other avenue for them. She had always been determined not to marry after Bolton, and Henry . . . for all she had always been drawn to him, no matter how many times he had touched her heart, there was still the matter of the hurt lying between then.
And her barrenness.
This was for the best.
