Chapter Thirteen

A nthony was loathe to go back to Cecilia's that afternoon both out of fear that he might hurt her with his ardor, as well as puzzlement over Lord Darling's words. Love? Surely not. The strongest sensation he felt for Cecilia was still lust: burning, consuming lust. Secondary to that was the wish to protect her, prevent her from ever suffering anything more than his own attentions. Not that she would have to suffer those. She would doubtless enjoy them. But love? He didn't know what that felt like, considering the stale demonstration of matrimony his parents had given him before his mother had died of a frozen heart due to his father's mercenary coldness. But whatever love was, it had to be more than lust and protectiveness, didn't it?

For lack of anything else to do, he spent the afternoon at his gymnasium, but four hours of being pummeled and punched did nothing to lessen his need to be in Cecilia's company. She'd bared her soul to him, but there was still so much he wanted to know, see, touch. His every thought was plagued by fantasies of her. Cecilia lounging in a bathtub, tendrils of steam caressing her face and neck. Cecilia, beckoning him to her bed, clothed in nothing but stockings and red garters. Cecilia, writhing in passion beneath him as he ground his hips into her. Cecilia, crying out for release, biting down on his shoulder as he brought her to the pinnacle of sexual satisfaction. The images returned unbidden again and again as he bathed off the sweat of his exercise, as his valet dressed him, as he sat alone at dinner, wishing every mouthful could be her lightly freckled skin under his lips. He couldn't keep himself away from her a moment longer. She was sensual, she was dangerous, she was delicious. She was a completely unique being in a town full of utterly boring and predictable people. She made him feel alive when he was near her. He needed her.

When he arrived at her house, he found the front door unlocked and the house as empty as it had been the night before. "Cecilia?" he called up the darkened staircase.

A minute, two minutes of silence, passed. "Cecilia!" he called again. She did not answer.

An elderly woman in a maid's uniform poked her head out of the servants' quarters. "Can I ‘elp you?" she asked.

This must be the maid Cecilia had spoken of. "I am looking for your mistress."

"She's not at ‘ome." The old woman turned to leave.

"Where is she?" Anthony demanded.

"Ain't my business to know. Or yours I should think," the maid reproached him. "Lady Cecilia's business is her own, and she don't need no one meddlin'." With that, she turned back towards the kitchens and closed the door behind her.

So Cecilia was out. Taking care of business. Anthony knew what that meant. Cecilia was away from his sphere of protection. Taking care of Captain Brinkley. Damn that filthy snake of a man! Damn Cecilia for being so proud, for not letting him help her. He turned to leave.

The image of Cecilia lying in bed swam before his eyes again. She was crying out, not in pleasure but in pain, as Captain Brinkley pinned her down. She scratched his back and he laughed at her, his amusement dark and hollow and sadistically pleased. Tears made their way slowly down her cheeks as he thrust into her; her chest heaved against his hands, struggling for breath. Her lips formed a single, pleading word: Anthony .

Anthony's teeth clenched. The ache in his jaw brought him swiftly back to the present, but he could still hear her plaintive whisper in his ears. Anthony . He shook his head, refusing to listen. Anthony . No. Help me .

His resolved faltered. Whether she wanted his help or not, she needed him. And he needed her. Needed her to be safe, happy, free from pain. To be in his arms. He took the stairs two at a time up to her bedroom.

That's where she found him an hour later, sitting on the small chair beside her dressing table. She didn't seem surprised when she opened the door. She gave him a sad nod and turned away to remove her pelisse and bonnet. He had wanted to stand and wrap her in his arms the moment she entered, assure her that he was there to protect her and that he would never leave, but now he found himself frozen in his seat. Offering to defend her would patronize her. With her strong will and independence, he would insult her beyond reparation; she would never speak to him again. And he could not let that happen. He couldn't lose her to her own pride or his own foolishness.

"I know where you were," he said slowly, careful to keep reproach out of his tone.

She turned to him, slipping her yellow silk dress over her shoulders and down to the floor. Her lip quivered as she made a resigned sigh, but she denied nothing. Her hands were shaking, and she gripped the thin fabric of her chemise to keep them steady.

He forced himself to stay in his chair.

Through the chemise, he could make out the shadow of red curls between her legs, the bright white of a clean bandage wrapped around her thigh, the rosy pearls of her nipples showing through the cloth in the candlelight. He willed himself not to breathe, not to become aroused. She stared into his eyes, her face a veneer of statuesque indifference, and he wondered if she could sense his lust.

"I am staying with you tonight." He forced the words out one by one, digging his fingers into the arms of the chair, trying to bring his attention away from the insistent throbbing between his legs. "Do not try to chase me away, Cecilia."

She strode slowly to him, her little limp eclipsed by the languorous undulation of her chemise against her legs. She straddled him and sat on his lap, cupping his chin in her hands and forcing him to look her in the eyes. He gave a little gasp as his cock responded to the heat of her most private place against his trousers, and she responded by angling her hips into his, pressing herself further against him. Her eyes were bursting with a wild hunger, and she parted her lips slowly, her breath tickling the hairs on his forehead.

"If you are staying the night," she whispered. "Then I must inform you that I sleep in the nude." Her hands relinquished his face and unpinned his cravat, tossing it aside. Leisurely, she unbuttoned his waistcoat and jacket and pulled them off. If his arms hadn't felt like lead, he would have helped her. When he was naked to the waist, she bent and ran her lips along his collarbone, murmuring her words into his flesh. "And you will be expected to do the same."

He could take no more. He lifted her and carried her to the bed, dropping her among the cushions, then tore off his clothes. She called him to her with the seductive curve of one finger, and he knelt on the bed beside her, crushing her to his chest and kissing her. Every nerve in his body tingled at her touch as she ran her hands down his back and up his sides, finally coming to rest on his chest. She pushed him back into the pillows and straddled him again, hitching her chemise up around her waist. Arching over him, her hair falling about his face, she kissed his jaw, his neck, his chest, teasing his nipples with her tongue. He groaned and his cock hardened further, straining against her. Dear God, she was already wet. He pulled the chemise over her head—Christ, she was beautiful, his fantasies didn't compare— and ran his hands down her torso, feeling the softness of her heavy breasts (how had she ever hidden these?), tracing the grooves of the muscles in her abdomen, squeezing her firm buttocks.

"Make love to me," she moaned, her voice ragged with desperation. "Touch me. Fill me. Wash him out of me. Please. I want to be free of him."

He obeyed, lifting her hips and easing into her, driving up until the tip of his cock pushed against her womb. She sat up and arched her back, rocking her hips against him, fingers splayed for balance against his chest. He anchored his fingers in the soft flesh of her bottom, pulling her down onto him with each thrust, massaging her thighs as he savored the slick tightness of her sheath around him. Inadvertently, his fingers rubbed against the bandage on her leg, and she winced in pain.

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking –"

Silencing him with a hand over his mouth, she whispered, "Shhhh…" She guided his errant hand to the damp cleft between her legs, pressing his fingers against her bud. Instinct chased away his fear of hurting her, and he circled gently with his thumb. She whimpered and swayed her hips into his hand as she rode him. "Anthony," she begged, in the same breathless tone he'd heard her use in his fantasies. It was a request, a plea, an order to finish her. He bucked his hips against her faster, the tightness of her sex and the frantic pace hastening his own climax. The beginning tremors of her orgasm tightened the muscles of her belly and she clenched around him. He gritted his teeth, willing himself to hold out another minute, the desperate heat building low in his abdomen. Their breath came in shallow gulps. She gripped his forearms, steadying herself as her body trembled and a tense moan escaped her lips. He pulled her hips down onto him for one final thrust as he spilled inside of her. Oh G—! His teeth ground together. His jaw ached.

It was worth the wait. She was worth the twenty-nine year wait that had been his life. Had he ever actually made love to another woman? He couldn't remember. If he had, it certainly hadn't been like this.

For a moment, she stayed straddling him, eyes closed, clutching his arms so tightly that he began to lose sensation in his hands. He held perfectly still, forgetting to breathe, as he memorized every sensation of their coupling. Then Cecilia eased herself down beside him and draped her arm over his chest, resting her injured thigh on his abdomen.

He looked down, taking his first shaky post-coital breaths, and watched as a small bloom of crimson pushed through the fabric of the bandage. "I've hurt you," he whispered.

She looked up into his eyes and smiled, her cheeks and lips flushed with satisfaction. "Never." She shook her head. "From the moment we met, you have done nothing but help me." She rested her head on his shoulder and brushed a light kiss behind his ear. "You aren't half the devil they say you are, Anthony Maltravers."