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What had he just experienced? It had been pleasure. Communion. Connection. It had been the end of a long, dark loneliness. Gareth could not bring himself to pull away from her. Because it had been everything.
Everything, that is, except the one thing she had asked it to be.
It hadn’t been goodbye.
Her chest rose and fell beneath his. Her heart beat steadily against his sweaty skin. He couldn’t see a damned thing through the dark night, but he could feel the heavy pulse in her throat thumping into the hollow cavern of his lungs.
A layer of London grime coated her windows, letting in only the barest hint of light from the street. He pressed his forehead to hers. Say my name again.
Instead, her muscles tensed in rejection. First her thighs grew taut underneath his own, then her stomach. The tension traveled up her shoulders. She put her hands against his chest. Infinitesimal pressure; unmistakable message. Get off me.
With a sigh, he withdrew from her body and rolled beside her. The mattress sagged as he moved, compressing under his weight. It was some kind of an uncomfortable straw tick. He could feel every hint of unevenness against his bare back. The ropes supporting them swayed with the movement.
On this small a bed, it was difficult to lie beside her without touching. Somehow, she arranged herself to manage precisely that. Gareth shut his eyes. He imagined a nimbus of heat and light surrounding her. Touching him, like a tentative kiss. When she rolled on her side, away from him, cool air washed over his bare skin.
“Well.” His voice sounded foreign, clipped and shorn of emotion. “Maybe we should have said goodbye with a handshake.”
“Where would be the fun in that?”
And just like that, she trussed him up. Because what Gareth wanted was this—this naked intimacy, from this woman. From the one woman who had seen that the isolating role of Lord Blakely was as much a facade as the colorful costume she’d once worn. He wanted her.
“Fun.” The word tasted oddly in his mouth. Fun didn’t encompass this.
“Fun,” she repeated firmly, turning slightly toward him. “That’s when people enjoy themselves. I hear it’s even possible for lords with a serious, scientific bent.”
When he didn’t say anything, she sighed. “You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy yourself just now.”
“I believe,” Gareth said quietly, “I was too busy enjoying you.”
Damning silence. He’d said too much.
If he expected to maintain any dignity in this, Gareth knew precisely what to do—stand up, find his clothing in the darkness and walk out her door. Give her the farewell she’d asked for. But while the ferocity of lust had burnt through him, something far more primitive called to him. His skin ached for hers; his arms clamored to hold her. He wanted to feel the rise and fall of her chest as she nestled against him, wanted to run his hands down her skin slick with sweat, until the moisture evaporated.
Caught between hubris and hunger, his body responded in geological time, as if he were embedded in a thick slurry of igneous debris. Cliffs could have crumbled to nothingness in the silence that followed. Instants bled into aeons.
“You needn’t feel any responsibility,” she whispered, her words uncertain. “And you need have no fear I shall kick up a fuss over you.”
“I fear only that I am too exhausted to move any further.” He let the muscles in his back slacken.
“Lord—Gareth?”
He still had no words for her. He feigned a sleepy murmur and turned, his arm sliding over her hip as if he were tossing in his sleep. She stilled beneath him, tense as a frightened cat. Then she sat up with a sigh and pulled the blanket around him. Weight distributed on the bed as she stood. The sound of splashing water followed. Minutes later, she nestled against him, her skin cool. She relaxed and gradually her breath slowed.
He was safe. She was close. Decisions would wait until morning.
With the lust burnt out of him, he realized his final words had been truer than he realized. Days of insufficient sleep and the worry of the passing night deadened his limbs. And Gareth slipped into the dark haven of sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JENNY WOKE to the raucous sounds of midmorning. The market a few squares over was in full swing, and the street outside was busy. She was warm.
Lord Blakely’s limbs were entwined with hers. He hadn’t slipped out in the middle of the night as she’d expected. He was still here. She sent up a fervent prayer that their final farewells would not prove too awkward.
Then she opened her eyes. He lay on his side, watching her with those intent, contemplative eyes. His hand lay negligently on her naked hip and his sleep-rumpled hair gave him an air of lazy self-satisfaction. How long had he been watching her?
She’d seen little of his features in the dark last night. Perhaps it had been a good thing. Even disheveled as he was, he made her heart stutter. Those eyes. She could not have dared make love to him with those eyes boring into her, stealing her anonymity.
Before she could think of a greeting, he leaned forward and captured her lips.
There was no hesitation in his kiss, nor shyness in the way he moved against her. His hands slipped behind her neck, and the light fuzz of hair on his chest brushed her bare breasts. Her mouth opened under his. His hands trailed down her shoulders, touched the sides of her body confidently. She shivered in response, her body coming to life. He kissed her neck.
Jenny wished she could be so sure. But this was the last time he would touch her. The last time she would touch him. Lord Blakely. Gareth. Whatever he could have become had her life started differently, now was all she had of him: this one last time as a lover.
There were risks.
Jenny shut her eyes and her lips and thought about them. Risks? She might become pregnant. But she had four hundred pounds in the bank, an almost unshakable bulwark against such a future. The money, if carefully shepherded, would see her through any such eventuality.
And she’d have a child. Someone to care for, to raise. A child that she would never abandon, no matter what the world thought.
Risks? She would have Gareth again.
It was for precisely those risks that she wanted him now. She might never experience this kind of intimacy again. And she wanted this heated connection quite desperately.
Jenny shut her eyes and gave herself up to sensation. His touch burned her skin. He found a breast and licked the tip. Her nipple pebbled under his touch and a hot thrill washed over her.
She wished there were some way to capture these feelings, as if they could be reduced to scented oil. Attar of lovemaking. That way, she could dole it out, spoonful by precious spoonful, in the years to come. If she could bottle this moment—the feel of his body covering hers, the sweet taste of his lips, the growing heat that threatened to devour warm comfort and replace it with fierce desire—she would never be discontent again.
He pulled away. Jenny opened her eyes. He had hefted himself up on his forearms. His eyes were narrowed. With the golden light of the sun shining on him, she could see his naked body. A fuzz of tawny hair, a shade lighter than the hair on his head, covered his chest. His muscles were lean and corded, strong. Farther down, she caught a glimpse of his erect member, nestled in a cloud of darker hair. Vision rounded out the sensations he’d imprinted on her last night.
“Jenny,” he said quietly. “Be so good as to stay with me when I kiss you.”
The sound of his voice, dark and rumbling, startled her.
“I’m here.” But she wasn’t. She was pouring this moment into that bottle.
“Then touch me back. Don’t lie there with your eyes squeezed shut. If I had wanted a quiescent china doll, I would have found some obedient lord’s daughter years ago.”
Jenny put her hands on his shoulders.
There were graver risks than the possibility of pregnancy. Risks that no amount of money could guard against. A quiescent china doll did not put her heart on the table. The way he held her, the way
he traced her limbs, made her feel as if she were precious. The most dangerous feeling of them all.
Whatever had transpired between the two of them over the last weeks, it had been powerful. At times, it had hurt. It had taken one night, starting with his heartfelt apology, and ending with heartrending lovemaking, to transmute the power of those weeks into a soft golden glow.
But whatever Jenny’s spirit felt, her mind knew precisely how foolish the idea was. Love with Lord Blakely? He would crush her heart. There was nothing for her here but abandonment.
Her fingers clenched against his shoulder blades. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Do I not?” He threaded his hands gently around her neck. “I’m asking you to make love with me.”
That word again. She opened her eyes. “Gareth,” she whispered. “Please. Don’t. This is hard enough—”
She stopped speaking as his gaze pierced her. Incredible. Last night had seemed so intimate. And yet it had been so dark that she had not been able to see anything other than flashes of light, reflecting off the surface of his skin. Now she could look into his eyes. They were golden-brown. They were not cutting or dismissive. And even though she could see the desire smolder inside them, there was something else in them that turned her belly to liquid.
And like that, the answer came to her. If this was all she could have—this brief slice of time with him—she didn’t want any regrets. Years from now, she wanted to remember that she’d stolen every scrap of pleasure she could from this moment. She wanted to fill the biggest bottle with as much of him as she could.
