Chapter 23

Stacia marveled at the sheer size of him. The body beneath her palm radiated heat and power, the thudding beneath the hard slab of muscle strong and…fast.

She swallowed repeatedly, as if that would rid her of the jittery feeling that threatened to overtake her. If she had not known exactly what he would say, she had known it would be naughty.

You are in command; touch him.

Stacia obeyed and her hand moved. Something hard grazed her palm. She circled back around to feel it again.

A low, predatory rumble vibrated beneath her hand as she caressed the tiny bump again. And then again, frowning. What was—

And—her hand froze.

A nipple!

His nipple!

Why was she so stunned by that? She knew men had nipples. But the reality of feeling one was…

"Stacia." His voice was gruff and needy, and his chest lifted beneath her hand, pressing his erect nipple into her palm.

She felt dizzy. And then remembered to breathe and sucked in a noisy lungful of air.

She caressed him again, desperately hungry for that sound he had made.

This time, it was even better. He didn't rumble; he purred .

And then he took her wrist again, lifted her hand, and slid it beneath the linen onto the hot silk of bare skin.

"My lo—"

"Andrew." He moved her hand, which had gone rigid with shock, over the bare, erect nipple. He groaned. "S'good," he slurred, and then moved her palm over to its mate, which was every bit as hard.

Stacia only realized that he had released her wrist when she found herself being lifted.

She squeaked and tried to balance with the hand that had been happily stroking his chest. But he didn't let her fall. Instead, he positioned her over his hips, her knees spreading and pushing the hem of her petticoat up her calves.

"Even better," he growled, his hands seemingly everywhere all at once, until she found herself pressed against him, torso to torso, as he held her head and angled her for a deep, penetrating kiss that sent pleasure arrowing directly to her nether regions.

He released her lips, leaving her both breathless and desperate for more while he trailed kisses across her cheek and then nibbled on her ear.

A giggle slipped from between her parted lips.

He chuckled and the sound was evil. "Ticklish ears? Fascinating." He nuzzled his nose inside her ear and snuffled, the sound shockingly loud.

Stacia laughed again and tried to squirm away. Something wet slid over the edge of her ear and she shrieked and pulled back.

He laughed, his body shaking beneath hers, his hands around her waist, keeping her pressed against him.

Stacia pushed a finger in her ear and wiggled it around. "You licked me!"

"I did," he agreed, sounding pleased and unabashed, his thumbs rubbing circles over the thin skin of her ribs, the action making her squirm.

Stacia shifted her hips and ground against something hard.

He groaned. "Stacia."

"I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"

"No," he said, and then rolled both their bodies to the side. "I cheated," he said, caressing her cheek with one hand, finding strands of hair in the darkness and tucking them behind her ear.

"What do you mean?"

"My minute was up a while ago."

Stacia closed her eyes and pressed her cheek into his palm, wishing he had gone on cheating.

What was wrong with her to think such brazen thoughts? It had to be the darkness; it was far too easy to forget herself—to forget who he was—in the dark.

You want this. The darkness only gives you an excuse to act on your desire.

She felt him move and then the soft pressure of lips on the tip of her nose. "This is a dangerous game we are playing," he murmured in the darkness. "Get some sleep, sweetheart," he said, reaching over her to pull the blankets up over her.

Disappointment, as sharp as any dagger, sliced through her and she forced herself to say, "Good night, my lord," before rolling onto her other side and staring into the darkness, listening to Lord Shelton's breathing as it far too quickly turned deep and regular.

Stacia envied him; she would never sleep. This had easily been the most exciting night of her life.

And the most unbelievable.

Stacia felt inside her ear, smiling foolishly when she imagined a dampness remained from his playful, silly behavior.

Unwanted memories of all those ballrooms, when she had watched the man beside her glide about with female after female, assaulted her brain. She had always known he was an accomplished flirt. Hadn't she watched him charm every woman he had given even a moment of his time? Making them laugh as he had just done with her?

Stacia chewed her lip, her stomach boiling like a witch's cauldron. She could marry him. He was determined to do what he felt was the right thing .

It warmed her heart that he was not a heartless cad.

You wouldn't have cared if he had been as bad as he's been painted; you would still want to marry him.

That was true, but it didn't mean she wasn't pleased to be wrong about his character.

He might be innocent—or even noble—when it comes to Sarah Creighton, but what about Lady Shaftsbury?

Stacia did not know what had ensued between Shelton and the beautiful marchioness, but she would not be so quick to judge him as she had been in the past. Besides, if Lady Shaftsbury and her family had forgiven him—all except Lady Addiscombe—who was she to bear a grudge?

She believed that he was determined to marry her. Stacia suspected that beneath his light, teasing manner was a will of iron. Something told her that Andrew Derrick would not be swayed from his purpose once he had made up his mind.

The thought of being such a man's wife made her shiver with excitement, desire, and—could there even be a twinge of hope in her breast?

It is easy to be hopeful when it is only the two of you in this attic. But what happens when you leave? What happens when you find yourself in a ton ballroom with a husband who plies his irresistible charm on every other woman? Women more beautiful and seductive than you could ever be.

Stacia swallowed down the lump in her throat, or at least she tried to, but it refused to budge. Just because he insists on marriage does not mean I have to agree.

You will never be able to deny him. Don't lie to yourself.

Could she say no to him?

She did not know.

***

Stacia shifted. Or at least she tried to, but something heavy and burning hot was draped over her back and shoulder and hip. She opened her eyes, but no light came from the window that overlooked the gardens.

She blinked, confused.

And then her memory of the night before came back to her. There was no window because she was in the priest hole.

With Lord Shelton.

Lord Shelton, who was currently molded more closely to her body than any blanket had ever been.

Stacia's heart pounded so hard she could hear the actual thud, whoosh. Thud, whoosh. Thud, whoosh.

His chest rose and fell slowly and deeply, pressing hard muscle against her shoulder blades. His arm was tight around her ribcage and brushing the undersides of her uncorseted breasts.

One heavy thigh was slung over hers, the slight, but constant tension in the powerful limb keeping her tucked snugly against him.

And there was something else. Something…hard pressed against her lower back.

Her entire body tensed when she realized just what it was.

Calm down, she told herself. And quit panting like an exhausted foxhound.

Stacia had to tell herself that several times before she finally listened.

You might as well enjoy this while he is deeply asleep.

She chewed her lip, struck by the logic of the suggestion. Rather than wake him, as she should, she allowed herself a moment to just… feel.

Curiosity, truly her besetting sin, made her push her bottom toward him slightly. Surely, he could not be as long and—

He moaned softly and his arm snugged around her, like a snake squeezing its prey, pulling her even closer, until his membrum virile slotted between the cheeks of her bottom, the iron hard ridge thrusting against a part of her that nothing had ever rubbed against before.

She opened her mouth but still couldn't seem to draw in enough air.

Dear God, he was…monstrous!

Like the coward she was, Stacia slowly, painstakingly, tried to inch away, but he mumbled something and then rolled his hips, grinding his arousal against her. A low rumble of pleasure vibrated from his body to hers, and then he did it again, the hard prominence grazing her skin even through two layers of muslin and the soft doeskin of his breeches.

"My lord?" Stacia whispered, barely able to hear her voice over the pounding of her heart.

His hips fell into a lazy rhythm.

" My lord!" she yelped.

The big body behind her jolted and stiffened—all of it, this time, not just the fascinating part—and his arm briefly tightened before releasing her, as if it was a struggle to do so.

"Miss Martin." His voice was gravelly with sleep. He cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon." He lifted his arm and thigh and rolled off her.

Stacia remained on her side, turned away and clinging to the mattress as it shifted, his weight threatening to roll her body his way.

The bed shifted yet again and was followed by the soft thuds of feet hitting the floor. A moment later she was no longer in danger of rolling toward him.

The old plank flooring squeaked as he shuffled across it and—

Thwack!

"Bloody hell!"

Stacia had to bite her lip to smother a laugh. "Are you hurt, my lord?"

He merely grunted. Somebody woke up grumpy.

Deciding it was safe to look, she turned over and propped her head on her hand, squinting in the direction of the sitting area, where there were sounds of the grate being moved and coals being stirred.

All was darkness until slowly, a faint red glow spread over his crouching figure. He threw more kindling and fuel onto the fire, poked it until it blazed, and then stood. His body stood out in sharp relief against the light from the fire, the thin linen of his shirt doing nothing to conceal the magnificent chest and shoulders beneath it.

Stacia could not look away.

He reached down and took something—his watch, she supposed—off the table and lifted it close to his face before dropping his arm and heaving a sigh.

And then he casually raised his other hand and rubbed his groin.

Stacia's face heated; he was touching what had been pressed against her.

Before she had time to examine the thought, he took the black cast iron kettle off the triangle in the hearth and made his way toward the screened wash basin.

Stacia heard the sound of water splashing—what sounded like a great deal of it—and bit her lip when she realized what it was.

She rolled onto her back, mortified, lifting her hands to her hot cheeks. After a moment, she swung her feet off the bed and took the opportunity to slip her loosened stays over her chemise and pull the laces tight before donning her gown. Once she was decently covered, she made her way to the trunk that held a brush, comb, and several other toiletries.

By the time Lord Shelton emerged from behind the screen Stacia had re-plaited her hair and pinned it up, which gave her a feeling of control, no matter how illusory.

Shelton held the kettle in one hand and there was a towel draped over his shoulder. "Good morning," he said. He had not yet put on his coats and cravat, but his shirt was now tucked in. "I half-filled the basin with very hot water and there is cool water in the canister beneath the wash table, you'll find a dipper in it. Soap leaves beside the basin and fresh bath linen in the wicker basket. If you leave your wash water, I will empty it for you when you are finished."

"Empty it where?" she asked.

"There is an empty cannister for used wash water." His lips twisted. "Our captor thought of everything."

Stacia had to agree. She lifted a hand and pointed to her own jaw. "You have a bit of soap here."

He raised the corner of the towel and wiped his jaw. "Better?"

She gave an abrupt nod, her face heating at the oddly domestic exchange, and hurried past him.

When she came out from behind the screen a short time later it was to find the candles lighted and the tea pot steaming on the coffee table, bread, ham, butter, and preserves along with what looked to be a small jug of milk and a sugar bowl.

"Ah, you are just in time. How do you like your tea?"

"Black, please. Not too strong. What time is it?"

"Just after seven. Did you sleep well?" he asked, handing her a cup and saucer.

Stacia thought about his body pressed against hers, hastily shoved the memory away, and said in an admirably cool voice, "Yes, thank you. Er, you?"

"I had a delicious sleep, thank you."

Her eyes jumped to his face. He was smiling broadly, clearly aware of what she'd felt digging into her lower back and utterly unashamed of himself.

Men!

He sipped his tea, gave a happy sigh, and then hooked one muscular leg over the arm of his chair and slumped into an utterly masculine sprawl.

She swallowed at the sight of his leather-clad thigh, feeling the echoes of its weight and firmness pressed against her, almost as if her body had a memory all its own.

Again, she banished the disturbing memory. "Do you think Lady Kathryn will let us out today?"

"It is impossible to say what she will do." He rubbed the heel of his free hand over his thigh and winced slightly.

"I do not understand how she could be so wild after growing up with such a strict mother."

"I think that might be exactly why she is so wild," he said dryly. A notch appeared between his blond brows. "Although I have the feeling, from some comments the duchess has made, that Kathryn was not like this before spending time with her aunt."

Stacia thought back to what Ackers had told her—about the heated conversation between the countess and her daughter which had referenced that visit—and suspected he was right.

"So," he said, staring across at her with an unreadable look on his face. "How will we occupy ourselves today…Stacia?"