Chapter Thirty-Two

They walked through the garden after dinner. In the gloaming, clouds rolled up from the horizon like waves foaming onto a

pale shore. The sky glowed silver, reminding Honoria of the color Oscar's eyes turned when he kissed her and his pupils spilled

darkly.

Of course, she was forced to use her memory on this because he hadn't actually kissed her in nearly a week.

"We can turn back if you're tired," Oscar said, misinterpreting her sigh of frustration.

She fixed a smile in place beneath her bandages. "All I've done is lie about. If I don't stretch my legs, I'm likely to sprout

roots."

"If you're certain."

"Oh, I'm certain."

He slid her a glance when her words came out a little testier than she'd intended. Then again, she hadn't really tried to

hide it. Since he'd been so distracted all evening, she was sure he wouldn't notice.

She blew out a breath that was instantly snatched away by the breeze. "Very well, I am tired. But not the way you mean. I'm

tired of being treated as if I'm made of glass. I'm tired of being under constant guard by the maidservants. And I'm tired

of no one believing me when I tell them I feel fine."

"Anything else?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact." She stopped walking long enough to jab her index finger in the center of his chest. "I'm tired of never collecting on those cards you leave on my tray each morning."

Those eyes darkened to match the sky as he stared at her. His nostrils flared on a breath as he took a step closer... just

as rain-bearing clouds sent down a warning rumble.

Whatever he might have done in that moment was cast aside as the first drops of rain hit, sizzling against the torches on

the lit path. "We should return to the abbey."

"The storm is miles off yet. Let's stay out just a bit longer. I feel as though I've just escaped prison and this is my first

time—"

Before she could finish, the sky opened up in a deluge.

Oscar took her hand, and they dashed to the nearest shelter. Which wasn't much of a shelter at all, but more of a ruins with

rows of empty window arches, framed in the same gray stone that formed the abbey. As they stepped inside the gaping doorway,

she looked up at the vaulted ceiling—or at least, what must have once been a ceiling. The towering buttresses were blackened,

scorched where there must have been a fire, and gave the overall appearance of the rib cage of a giant beast that had roamed

the earth eons ago.

"What is this place?" she asked, feeling the need to whisper even as the rain still followed them, making the stone beneath

her feet slippery.

"A century ago, it was the layman's chapel until a fire destroyed nearly everything flammable. Come. There seems to be shelter

beneath the apse."

He guided her toward the domed niche at the far end and up three steps until they were inside the cozy, rounded space. The

heavy downpour of rain faded to distant applause, and the air seemed to hold the faint tinge of incense.

Another growl of thunder sounded, followed by a flash of lightning that illuminated the mosaic tiles overhead. And peeking through the charred mat of smoke and age, white quartz glinted like stars, hanging above them in their own little heaven.

Smiling, she turned to Oscar only to find him frowning down at her.

"Damn. I shouldn't have taken you so far from the house. You're wet. Your bandages are—"

"A nuisance," she said, taking his hand that she still held and lifting it to her bandages. "Go on. Remove them."

"I shouldn't."

Sensing a resurgence of his recently developed overprotective nature, she did her best not to roll her eyes. "I want you to.

Besides, I might catch a chill if you don't."

In the pale lavender light, his eyes held hers with steady assurance. His movements were tentative, careful in a way that

made her heart ache.

She'd purposely avoided any such pains relating to the heart. Then again, that hadn't been difficult, because she'd never

been plagued by moths with anyone else. But with Oscar, it was as though someone had lit a candle inside her and there was

no way to blow it out.

She felt her lungs tighten, her breaths shallow and quick. And the beats of her heart were too fast and climbing higher. It

seemed that the slower he went, the faster and higher her heart climbed. She tried to swallow it down, to keep it from reaching

a terrifying pinnacle. To keep it from stumbling over the edge and out of her control.

He brushed his thumb across the lips he'd just uncovered. "I've never known anyone like you, Honoria. So bold and brave. I've

admired the woman beneath all this wrapping from the very beginning."

"Even with my mustachios?" she asked, hardly able to breathe from all the feelings strangling her.

The corner of his mouth lifted as he continued to expose her. "Especially then. But, alas, you will never be the perfect woman

without a large, hairy, mo—"

He stopped the instant he saw the mole that Thea had helped her glue to her cheek earlier.

Oscar threw back his head and laughed, the sound tipping her over that terrifying edge she refused to name.

Her heart felt so close to bursting that she was afraid she would die from it. Nervous, she started to ramble. "The doctor

was being overly cautious over a little scratch, and it annoyed me that he saw only the flaw, that he had the gall to think

that I would be so devastated by it that I'd have to shield my entire face."

"He was an idiot," Oscar said, coasting his lips over the small arching cut over her left eyebrow. A cut that almost mirrored

the thin scar that he'd received from the chandelier. "You are so much more."

Then he kissed her lips so tenderly that she felt dizzy from it.

"You're shivering," he said. He shrugged out of his coat to settle it over her shoulders and tilted up her chin so that she

would look at him. "What's the matter?"

Not wanting him to read all her cards—a lady deserved some secrets, after all—she executed a perfectly flippant shrug, drawing

his coat closer around her. "Nothing. Though, I could ask the same of you, considering you've been rather distracted all evening.

Some women might take offense."

"I've been thinking about you," he said in a serious manner that instantly riled her.

"I'm through with being coddled. There's nothing wrong with—"

"About what you would be like as lady of the manor."

Her breath caught, lodging in her throat, her pulse hammering in place with rapid tap-tap, tap-taps.

"I know what you're thinking," he continued as he tucked a curling tendril behind her ear. And she closed her eyes, leaning her cheek into his palm, glad that at least one of them knew. "You're wondering who the lord of the manor would be, the man standing by your side... sharing your bed."

She swallowed, picturing it. Picturing him.

"And I was distracted this evening because I could only imagine one man living that life with you."

He moved closer now, his nearness imploring her to open her eyes.

Honoria kept them closed, too afraid to let him see. Too afraid that he would see her falling end over end. Too afraid that

he would catch her and hold her and she would never want him to let her go.

After a minute, he spoke again, his tone nonchalant as his free hand stroked her arm in soothing passes. "But it was just

an errant thought. A thought that you would never entertain. Isn't that right?"

"I never wanted a life like that." Hating the threadiness in her voice, she dared herself to open her eyes. Dared herself

to be honest. Mostly. "But if I had—ever thought about it, that is—I might have pictured you."

This time, his breath caught.

He didn't say anything for a moment. They just stood together in the stillness that fell around them, the rain like a curtain

blotting out the rest of the world.

As she watched his chest rise and fall as he searched her gaze, she discovered that saying the words didn't scare her as much

as she'd thought they would. Because she knew she wasn't alone in this.

"And in this imaginary life," he said, "would you kiss me good-night?"

Smiling, she rose up on her toes, cupped his face in her hands and pressed her lips softly, lingeringly to his. "Like this?"

"Yes. Just like that."

"I might," she said, feeling a sense of feminine power when he blew out a long, shaky breath. So she kissed him again, slanting

her mouth beneath his.

His hand slid to her nape, and the kiss went from sweet to simmering in two heartbeats. A low sound vibrated in his throat, too quiet to be a growl, too hungry to be a mewl. It told her that he'd been needing this, too. Craving it. And yet, all these days, he'd masked this passion. The cad. Oh, but she quickly forgave him as his tongue licked into her mouth, searching and deep, making her come to life the way only he could do.

His lips trailed down her neck, his tongue skating down to the vulnerable pulse. "And would you let me kiss you here?"

She arched her neck to allow him better access. "Yes. As long as you did it just like that."

"Such a demanding lady of the manor." He smiled against her skin. His hands skimmed along her back, roving and possessive,

drawing her against his frame. "And what if I told you that you look delectable this evening? All dressed in red like a berry

ready to burst from your skin."

"I should say that you were too bold."

He chuckled, low and devious as if he heard her lack of conviction. She liked him bold, and he knew it. "If you were mine,

I'd do so many wicked things."

His lips charted a path along the edge of exposed skin above the beribboned bodice. The fabric of her gown loosened, slipping

down her shoulders as he slid the buttons free. And with one deft tug, the red silk gaped, exposing the creamy swells of her

breasts rising above her corset.

She gasped, reflexively trying to lift the fabric to cover herself, even as her heart raced with wild excitement. "What if

someone followed us?"

That devilish grin made an appearance as he lowered her hands, gently shackling her wrists with his fingers and drawing them behind her back. He held them both with one hand, while the other slowly traced the line of her corset, gooseflesh rising in its wake. "There's no one out here but us. And the lord of the manor has been waiting all night to have you to himself. He thinks you wore this dress on purpose to torment him."

Hearing the raw rasp in his voice, she thought he didn't sound like they were still playing their game of pretend, but like

a man barely holding on to control. Even so, as she squirmed beneath his touch, she noticed that she could easily escape him...

if she chose to.

For the moment, however, fleeing was the last thing on her mind as he bent his head to take her lips again. Branding her with

his kiss, his hand stole beneath her corset and chemise to cup the weight of her breast, kneading the swell. Her flesh felt

ripe and tender, her nipple taut with aching.

Then he nudged the gusseted cups lower. Bending his head, he closed his mouth over her flesh, laving the tender peak and drawing

it deeper into his mouth with a firm, wet tug.

Her pulse quickened as he suckled her, and a helpless mewl tore from her throat as he raked his teeth over the tormented tip.

She had never felt so alive, so present in her body. She felt every flick of his tongue, every scandalous kiss. And when he

repeated the torture on her other breast, she was almost certain she could shatter even if he didn't touch her anywhere else.

"Not yet," he said, lifting his head to press a quick kiss against her lips.

"But how did you—?"

He grinned. "Because your legs are quivering, the way they do right before you come apart. I'd better sit you down before

you fall."

And with that, he released her wrists and set his hands on her waist to lift her onto the flat stone altar, smooth as marble.

Stepping between her thighs, he took her mouth again in a kiss that ignited her blood, heating it, sending it throbbing in low liquid pulses where her skirts bunched between them. His hand brushed her hem, encircled her ankle, the touch sending a lick of fire up along her inner calf and thigh.

He traced the scroll embroidery of her stocking, coasting higher to her knee, to her garter ribbons and the bare flesh just

beneath the lace cuffs of her drawers.

"Are you wet for me, Honoria?" he asked against her lips as his fingers skated in leisurely patterns along her inner thigh.

"Have you thought about me touching you when you're alone in your bath?"

She couldn't catch her breath when he spoke to her in that scandalous manner. Every word elicited a wanton thrumming of the

pulse between her legs.

He clucked his tongue softly, his gaze gleaming rakishly. "That's quite a telling blush."

"And what about you?" she asked, half-reeling, half-embarrassed. "Are you going to claim that you haven't thought of me...

in that regard?"

"Having you, tasting you, is all I can think about."

Discovering the damp saturation of cambric near the opening, he made a guttural sound. His fingertips brushed the dewy curls.

And she was so sensitive that even the light touch had her neck arching back on a gasp.

" Yes ," she rasped.

All amusement fled from his countenance, replaced by unadulterated lust and the promise of intent as his kisses trailed down.

He groaned as his hungry gaze feasted on her. With his shoulders in the way, she couldn't close her legs, but an unexpected

rise of shyness compelled her to cover her sex.

But he took her hands and lifted them away. "Don't. You're absolutely perfect, like the plump petals of a flower, glistening

with dew. And I"—he drew in a deep breath, a hum of pleasure in his throat—"I am a man dying of thirst."

Before she knew what to expect, his mouth opened over her cleft. A choked cry filled the night air as his tongue flattened against her, rising in one... thorough... lick. Then he hummed again, the vibration against the sensitive bud, flicking it lightly and sending a spear of sensation spiraling through her.

"I knew you would taste like ambrosia," he murmured as if to himself, then inhaled her scent deeply, his throat issuing another

hum of approval. "I've been wanting to do this for weeks now. Tasting you, having you, is all I can think..."

His words trailed off as he opened his mouth over that private juncture again, his tongue searing along the swollen seam.

The kiss was hot and wicked, and if anyone should come upon them in this ruin shielded only by a curtain of rain, her reputation

would be destroyed. They would have to marry. But as his mouth ate softly into her flesh and his finger nudged inside her

eager sheath, she didn't care. In this moment, she was a wanton goddess with ambrosia in her veins. So she let him feast on

her.

She looked down, her bared breasts trussed up high beneath the folded cups of her corset. And lower, beyond the shelf of her

skirts, her hands threaded in his curling dark hair as her hips tilted against the carnal flicks and swirls of his tongue

and the skilled plunges of his finger.

Then two fingers pushed into the snug channel, and her head fell back on a moan. He was doing that thing again, hooking his

fingers to rub that sensitive place on the upper wall, and she couldn't stop the garbled sounds of pleasure rising from her

throat.

Lost to the moment, she lifted her hands to her breasts, pressing, kneading to ease the ache. She heard him curse, felt his

heated gaze on her.

"Don't. Stop," he commanded, his eyes fever bright, his mouth wet... from her.

That only heightened her pleasure and made her feel more alive. So she didn't stop. Instead, she fondled and caressed her

flesh. Pinching her nipples between her thumb and forefinger, she felt her body clench around his fingers.

He cursed again and greedily ate at her sex. Watching her, he suckled the ripe bud, her pleasure gathering in swirling tingles, collecting until she thought she might burst from her skin. Then he raked it with his teeth and, suddenly, her back arched on a gasp that rose to the vaulted ceiling. Chasing the rhythm of his thrusting fingers, her body convulsed on liquid spasms as his tongue replaced his fingers, darting inside, drawing out every ounce of her pleasure.

By the time he stood between her thighs, she felt drunk and boneless, grateful for his arms surrounding her.

She clung to him as she fought to catch her breath and felt the turgid length of him pressed against her.

His hand slid between them, fumbling with his fastenings. Then, for whatever reason, he stopped. Just stopped.

He lowered his forehead to hers. "We should return to the abbey."

"Now?"

"It's what a gentleman would do," he claimed, but the raw strain in his voice made it sound as if the words were being dragged

kicking and screaming over gravel.

Then she understood. Honoria didn't know whether or not she should be offended or laugh in his face.

Neither, she decided and reached for his fastenings. "We both know that you are no gentleman."

"I should at least... make an attempt to be." But his eyes were glazed as he looked from her lips to her breasts to her

parted thighs.

"Oscar, our game is not solitaire."

His lips parted as if he had a point to make, but whatever he planned to say came out on a strangled groan when her hand slid

over his hard, heated flesh.

She marveled at her discovery, wishing she had better light to study him. But since she didn't, she chose to confine her thorough

exploration to what she could feel as she maneuvered him through the opening.

"Your skin is scorching. Smooth as satin but impossibly hard and so..." Big. Much bigger than she expected, she thought as her fingers wrapped around his girth. Or attempted to, rather. She swallowed down a rise of nerves as questions of capacity and choreography sprang to mind. "I had a notion

that you would feel like a puppet."

"A what ?" he rasped as her inquisitive investigation glided higher to the velvety crown, and she felt his fingers flex on her hips.

His jaw was clenched, eyes closed tightly as if he were trying to focus on a complex equation.

"Never mind," she murmured against his mouth.

Tasting herself on his skin, she hesitated there. Then curiosity outweighed any trepidation. This was the taste of her desire,

of the pleasure he'd coaxed from her body. A primitive thrill quickened her pulse when she kissed him again, wondering what

he would taste like. What would it be like to kiss every single inch of him?

It wasn't until he groaned again that she realized she'd voiced that question aloud. And beneath her palm, she felt an intriguing

flutter travel up the length of his shaft before he eased her hand away.

"It'll surely be solitaire if you continue, and a short game at that." He stepped between her thighs. Let out a hiss when

the turgid heat of him met the slick heat of her. "We can... still go back... if you've changed your mind."

As he spoke, he slid his length down her swollen seam. A slow, decadent downward sweep, drawing her wetness up along the intimate

path to tease the bundle of nerves beneath the hood of her sex.

Her breath hitched, her body clenching on nothing as he continued to torment her.

How could he make her feel so empty, so needy, when she'd been a pile of sated mush just a moment ago? The cad really wasn't

playing fair.

Her fingers smoothed the damp locks from his forehead. "There's no going back, not for us. I want this. I want you, Oscar.

Only you."

His exhale fanned across her lips in a rush. Then he took her mouth, claiming her lips, taking what she willingly surrendered.

The kiss seemed to encompass all they shared. It wasn't only fire, passion and hunger, but need. The need to touch, to taste,

to fill and be filled. They were living, fully alive, here in this moment because sometimes that was all one had. So she gave

herself over to the kiss and to him, wanting him all the more.

His shaft nudged the entrance of her body, edging inside. She bit her bottom lip at the burning sting of flesh stretched taut.

Then he eased back on a gruff grunt. "You're so... snug..."

She was fairly certain that her dimensions were not the issue, but she kept her opinion to herself and braced for another attempt. He edged in a little more,

her body clamping tight as if to expel him.

When he withdrew again, his breath was shaky. He was being so tender, so gentle with her that she knew this was more than

just pleasure for pleasure's sake. This was more. Something greater that she didn't care to name even as her heart thudded

with the answer.

"I want... want to make this good for you. But I need to... just this once..."

All at once, he thrust deep. She sank her teeth into his shoulder to stifle her cry, her flesh rending, stretching.

He held still as if in shock, as if he were the one who'd been impaled by one of the marble columns of the Parthenon. "Honoria,

are you... Is this..."

She knew what he was asking, could hear the strangled strain in his voice. And she couldn't bear to tell him that she was

being ripped apart. That it was too much and she was too full, her body struggling to accommodate him.

So she held him tighter, nodding against his cravat. "Good. So good."

Thankfully, the man who usually read her like no other seemed too preoccupied to catch her in her lie. At least, that's what she thought until she heard him expel a low cough of amusement.

"I've no doubt that we are both clutching opposite ends of the same thread of agony. But I promise you, Signore"—he slid his

hand to her nape and his dark eyes met hers—"before I'm through, I will deliver you to ecstasy."

Clearly convinced of his own prowess, he kissed her, long and deep. She, on the other hand, still clung to a few threads of

doubt. And yet, she acknowledged that the pain had already ebbed. All that remained was the fullness, the grip of flesh surrounding

flesh, of velvet over steel.

He began to move in shallow, languid thrusts, hips undulating against hips in a way that rubbed against that one place that

sent a rush of liquid tingles down her spine, collecting low.

Her breath hitched. She felt something inside her give, yield to his patient rhythm. Felt his lips curl into a grin. Why,

that smug scoundrel!

But she could hardly be mad at him for this. Even so, she hated being bested at any game. And with them, everything was a

game where the winner took all.

He whispered, "Take me in... yes, sweet... let me have you..."

The rasp in his voice, the raw urgency made her body clench tighter around him as if to soothe him. The taut friction sent

a sizzle of sensation through her, coiling deep, pleasure building on pleasure. She wanted to make this last, to hold on to

him forever. When she tightened her inner walls around the welcome invasion again, he groaned, his rhythm breaking. It was

that sound, the desperation to hold back from reaching the summit, that sent her soaring over the edge on a helpless cry.

He held on, driving in and in and in as she quaked around him. Only then, only when the very last tremor faded, did he withdraw. His arm moved in rapid jerks, his shoulders hunched as a guttural groan tore from his throat, and she felt the shock of heat coat her inner thigh.

He staggered against her, and she held on, clinging to him, her heart beating in wild disarray as she trembled. Then tears

tumbled down her cheeks for reasons she couldn't quite explain. And she was thoroughly disgusted with herself for sniffling,

her breath stuttering.

He put his hands on her shoulders, drew back and cursed, worry knitting his brow as his lips brushed away the dampness collecting

on her lashes. "Forgive me. I was too rough. I was too—"

"It isn't pain. I mean, I expected something of that nature. But I didn't know how altered I'd feel afterward," she admitted

shyly. "Or how much I already miss having you inside of me. It's just... new, I suppose."

He slid his arms around her, and he pressed his lips to her hair, his fingers stroking her bare skin.

It was ridiculous how much Honoria loved the way he looked at her. No, not loved , she thought, her heart stumbling in panic. She enjoyed the way he looked at her. This happy contentment wasn't love, she assured herself. It was simply the joy of being alive,

of living her life to the fullest.

She pulled him closer, enveloping herself in this wonderful not love she was in.