What would happen if he eased her aching? If he woke her gently before lifting her skirt and brought her to climax?
But no, she would never allow it. After all these years, she would have said something if she held feelings for him. She welcomed him into her bed as a friend, nothing more.
“Ellie,” he whispered into her ear. Perhaps if he woke her a bit, he could slip off the bed. “Ellie, darling—”
“Henry,” she moaned again, her lips forming his name once more as she clutched his chest, pressing her core against him.Disbelief mixed with potent lust, the combination heady enough to push the air from his lungs. The urge to wake her with his head between her luscious thighs was so strong he had to fist his hands in the bedclothes to restrain himself.
Henry closed his eyes and let the images roll over him. Ellie sprawled in his bed, moaning his name, screaming it as she came in his arms. Then riding him, her heavy breasts filling his hands, then falling against him, her fiery curls covering his chest as he kissed and caressed her.
He shook his head. She was having a dream, nothing more, and his name was a product of mere proximity. In the light of day, she would never feel the same way towards him and was unlikely to even remember it.A friend, and nothing more.
Henry slid one hand under her knee and lifted it, allowing only the slightest moment to savor the silky skin of her inner thigh before gently depositing it back to his side. Holding her palm, he slid away from her and stood at the side of the bed, his painful erection tenting his trousers as he watched her. She had fallen back into a deep sleep, motionless and exquisite on the rumpled linens.
A dream, he reminded himself.
How long had he wanted this but refused to accept it? Somewhere along their journey together, whether six years ago or the past few days, the affection filling his heart whenever he saw her had evolved into full-blown lust. Perhaps something more. No, undoubtedly something more.
Henry slipped into his room and shut the door before tossing himself on the bed and fumbling with his trousers, freeing his aching erection into his hand. He gripped himself and began to stroke, his memory replaying the rocking of her hips, the press of her breasts, the sound of his name carried on a moan.
His palm had been his only solace for too long now. He could never tell Ellie he hadn’t taken a lover since he learned she was widowed over a year ago. It had nothing to do with his engagement; somehow taking any woman to his bed seemed unfaithful to Ellie, despite her not having any claim on him, nor him over her.
Ellie’s silver eyes crept into his dreams far too many times. Thoughts of her curves had fueled his release again and again, chased quickly by guilt. But Ellie, his Ellie… Was it the chase tempting him? Would he still want her once he bedded her? Was he truly that much of a bastard? When his release finally shattered over him, Henry’s voice carried Ellie’s name, moaned again and again like a prayer. When his breathing slowed and his heart rate settled, he looked down at the mess he had made and groaned in disgust.
Chapter 12
Two years and six months earlier
“HappyChristmas,oldfriend!”
Ellie winced as her father exchanged a hearty handshake with the Earl of Fensworth, their voices booming through the crowded room. Ellie’s mother had not attended; she was having one of her spells and thought she was waiting for Ellie’s grandfather—who had passed eight years prior—to return from a trip to Paris.
The spells had become more and more common. None of the “finest doctors in London” provided any explanation beyond the abnormally rapid progression of age. She spent her days trapped in her mind, periods of lucidity coming fewer and farther between. Her husband viewed her encroaching senility as an open invitation to dismiss his wife from his daily existence.
Victor had distanced himself further from his family, having refused to come home this Christmas. While Ellie resented his absence, what could her brother be expected to do from such a distance? The burden of holding her family together rested on her shoulders alone.
More than once Ellie started to share her situation with Henry, but they had never had that type of friendship, the type where they shared their fears and heartaches. Likewise, Ellie knew about Henry’s difficulties writing, but he nevertoldher, merely hinted and let her draw her own conclusions. He never mentioned her unmarried status or explored the reasons behind it. If he would not be vulnerable with her, she could only do the same; they respected the walls they had built around each other, and their friendship felt too fragile to disrupt it by digging below. They skittered across the surface of their feelings like a bird over the sea, unable to choose the perfect moment to dive in.
Ellie straightened her shoulders and forced her visage into the closest possible approximation to a pleasant visage. She couldn’t miss Lord Fensworth’s party, not after waiting a year to see Henry again. She imagined spending her life with only one man, the one who made her smile and feel as though she could relax. After two seasons with no proposal, Ellie’s chances of making a good match were running out, and her father was losing patience.
But Henry was herfriend, nothing more. She shared one evening with him each year, a night that somehow filled the void in her heart for an entire three hundred sixty-four days.
“Ellie, you made it.” She turned to see Henry emerging from the parlor, a glass of sherry in his hand. His cheeks were pink and his hair the slightest bit disheveled, as though he was already enjoying himself, possibly in the arms of a woman.
“Of course,” she replied as he brushed a quick kiss on her hand.
He glanced around quickly and, ascertaining they were alone in the foyer, bussed her cheek. “You look incredible.”
Heat flushed to every part of her body as she glowed with pleasure. She had taken extra care with her appearance, having finally found a modiste who knew how to dress her full figure. Instead of resembling a stuffed sausage, the unadorned navy silk emphasized her bust and enhanced the curve of her waist and hips. Sapphire gems dangled from her ears and throat, and her curls wrapped around pearl and diamond pins. At last, she resembled a woman, not a girl. “And you as well, although you look a bit more comfortable than I am.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have the decolletage to make that dress look as good on me.” His eyes never wavered from her face and her cheeks heated. Why bother dressing like this when he never expressed an interest? Would she forever be a hopeful fool?
Henry suddenly sobered, as though he remembered something important. “Ellie, come with me. I want you to meet someone.”
He led her into the ballroom, packed with dancing couples, an elegant buffet, and towering arrangements of hothouse begonias, holly, and ivy on every flat surface. A string orchestra was situated in the distant corner, their music drifting over the constant chatter. Henry guided her to a small clump of gentlemen who ceased their conversation as the pair approached.
“Lady Eleanor, I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Thomas Woodstock, an acquaintance of mine from town. Woodstock, this is Lady Eleanor.”
Mr. Woodstock looked at her, blinking his watery eyes a few times. He cleared the phlegm from his throat and ran a hand through his thinning brown hair before exhaling and leaning into a shallow bow. “My lady,” he said, his voice oddly high and tremulous.
