There was only one proper response to such a question, and that was to refuse her, and tuck himself back into his pantaloons this instant. A gentleman didn’t permit an innocent lady to bring him to climax, but she was so sweet, her eyes so big and blue as she gazed up at him, and he wanted her so badly….
“Hold me a little tighter, love, and… yes, that’s it. Now stroke me, like this.” He laid his hand over hers, and moved her hand up his hard length, then down again.
She wrapped her fingers more firmly around him, and gave him a long, steady stroke. “Like this? Is this alright?”
Yes,” he hissed. “So good, Euphemia. So perfect.”
There was no holding back, after that. His hips were moving, jerking in time to each stroke of her hand, and God, he was so close, his spine tingling, and his lower belly going tight…
“Ah, God. Yes, sweetheart. Don’t stop, don’t?—”
He shot into her hand, his back bowing with pleasure. She gasped softly, but she stroked him through his climax, until he fell back against the bed, still shuddering from the intensity of his release.
They lay quietly afterward, her head cradled on his chest, until her breaths grew deep and even, and her heavy eyelids slid closed.
He didn’t fall asleep at once. He held her against him, stroking her dark hair and watching the glow of the moonlight peeking through the draperies caress her face.
At some point, he must have fallen asleep.
He woke the next morning to sunlight streaming through the window, and an empty bed.
Euphemia was gone.
Chapter
Sixteen
OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND, TWO DAYS LATER
The rain started just after James passed through Bletchingdon. It wasn’t a gentle, warm spring rain, but a chilling downpour that sneaked under the neckline of his coat in a relentless drizzle.
By the time he arrived at Steeple Cross, he was soaked to the skin. If that hadn’t been enough to persuade him he was being punished for making such a mess of things with Euphemia, the welcome he received when he arrived at Steeple Cross certainly was.
He was halfway up the long, winding drive when the front door opened, and four gentlemen stepped out. Not the usual sort of gentlemen, but four tall, broad-shouldered, unsmiling gentlemen, their thick arms crossed over their chests.
He knew who they were, of course.
Thetonmight delight in heaping scorn on the Templeton sisters’ heads, but even the most spiteful gossips didn’t dare breathe a word against them within hearing distance of their husbands who— if the rumors were true —could turn savage in defense of their wives.
He’d expected Cross would be here, of course. It was his estate. But Melrose, and Chatham, too? Then there wasPrestwick, who had reason enough to dislike him, even putting aside the mistakes he’d made with Euphemia.
Two days ago, he’d taken an innocent lady to his bed, only to wake the next morning to find she hadn’t only fled his bedchamber, but London itself!
Or, well… she hadn’tfled, precisely. Her family had sent for her to come to Steeple Cross to help her sister Juliet through a difficult lying-in. She’d left Fosberry House early the morning after their night together before he’d had a chance to say a word to her.
She was gone before he’d told her he loved her or made her a single promise. She’d left without a word of affection from him, not a word of reassurance regarding their future together. He should have spilled his heart to her, the night he’d held her in his arms.
Instead, he’d failed her.
So, he’d come to grovel, and it looked as if he’d have to start here.
He reined in his horse, removed his hat, and wiped the raindrops from his forehead, eyeing the four men who stood between him and the front door.
God above. He’d be lucky to get a single toe over the threshold.
But he’d come here prepared to claim the lady he loved, and if he had to get past them to get to her, then so be it.
He nudged his horse into a walk and approached the front door.
