A Spring Deception (Seasons Book 2)(41)

He was tugging the shirt over his head when she did. She caught her breath both at the sight of his bare chest and at the huge cut on his shoulder. A few inches lower …

"Stop staring, it's only another scar," he whispered.

She ignored him and crossed the room to him. There she stopped and looked down at him. She breathed in every part of this moment. The look of him, disheveled and handsome and half-naked in her chamber. The smell of his skin, the warmth of it as she placed one hand on his shoulder and gently began to wipe the wound with the other.

"You'll need stiches," she whispered, her voice breaking.

He nodded. "Stalwood will have it taken care of. I'll survive until then."

Her fingers traced the wound. "You could have been killed," she said.

He lifted his face to hers, and for the first time since she burst into the room, there was gentleness there. "Look at me." She did, meeting his eyes. He let out a long, heavy sigh. "John Dane."

She shook her head. "I-I don't understand."         

     



 

"My name. It's John Dane," he repeated.

Her lips parted and the washcloth slipped from her fingers as she stared at him. He had refused her that answer before and it had hurt her. Now he said it and she recognized it for what it was. A gift and a goodbye.

Tears stung her eyes as she leaned down and pressed her lips to his. His arms came around her, dragging her into his lap as he drove his tongue inside with desperate, heated passion.

She shifted against him as the kiss deepened and felt the proof of his desire for her pressing to her thigh. She drew back and stared down at him.

"One last time," she whispered.

He closed his eyes and let out a long, pained breath. Then he nodded. "One last time," he repeated, and began to shift her skirts.

She reached between them for the flap on his trousers and managed to work the buttons free. He stood up as she did so, setting her on her feet. He kissed her as the flap fell forward and she cupped his erection in her hand. She stroked him once, twice.

He drew back with a deep groan. "I want more time," he murmured, and she wasn't certain he was only referring to this afternoon and the time they had to make love. "But they'll be expecting our return."

She stepped away and lifted her skirts, holding them against her thighs as she met his gaze evenly. "Then don't wait."

He squeezed his eyes shut, then grabbed her by the waist. He spun her around, dragging her back against him as he walked her to the bed. He bent her at the waist, placing her hands on the edge of her high mattress. He lifted her skirts higher, pushing aside her drawers to slick his fingers over her sex.

She was wet there, ready, and he let out a low moan as he positioned himself at her entrance.

She braced for the twinge of pain she had experienced the first time, but as he slid home there was none of that. Only pleasure. She moved against him with a sigh and he cupped her breasts as he began to roll his hips against hers.

She pushed back with every thrust, closing her eyes to the sensations, memorizing them as best she could. She would never feel like this again, no matter what happened in the future. Because he would be gone and she would be empty.

He increased his thrusts and his panting breaths were desperate, almost like he could read her mind. His hands were shaking as he reached for one of hers and guided it between her legs.

"Touch yourself here," he ordered, pressing her fingers against her clitoris.

She followed the order, circling herself gently, then harder as the combination of her touch and his cock drove her to the edge. She turned her face into her arm as pleasure overtook her, whimpering against the sleeve of her gown. He followed fast behind, a few more long thrusts and then he pulled away, spending outside of her tremoring, clenching body.





Celia hadn't yet stood as John Dane smoothed the flap of his trousers back over himself and buttoned it with shaking hands. He pulled his bloody shirt over his shoulders and slung his jacket on without buttoning himself.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

That made her stand up. Her gown fell down over her hips, back into place, as she faced him, her flushed face saying more about what had just happened then anything else.

"I'm not." She moved toward him, hand outstretched. When she cupped his cheek, he couldn't help but lean into the warmth of her palm. "I'm not sorry, Aiden … John." She smiled as she corrected herself. "John suits you better."

He drew in a long breath. His entire life he had been attempting to escape the person who was John Dane. Now everything had changed.

"For the first time, it feels like it does," he admitted.

She leaned up and kissed him, her lips gentle against his. It sparked a flame in him, but he backed away. "I must leave, Celia."

She nodded, releasing him without argument. "When will he … Clairemont … die?" she asked, her voice cracking as tears filled her eyes.

Seeing them there, knowing they were for him, it cut him almost to the bone. He cleared his throat so his voice wouldn't be thick when he said, "That will be up to Stalwood. But I would say soon. A few days at most."

A sob escaped her throat and she moved on him, catching him as she lifted her lips. He grabbed her arms, dragging her close as their mouths merged. He tasted her tears, he choked on his own and he held her far too tightly as he drove his tongue against hers in defiance.

He wanted to stay. He wanted to be with her. But he couldn't. So he yanked out of her arms and backed up.

"Goodbye, Celia," he whispered.

She shook her head. "I won't say that to you."

He shut his eyes, his fists clenching at his sides as he struggled for control. For calm. For anything to help him survive this pain.         

     



 

"Goodbye," he repeated. Then he flung open her door and left her without looking back.





Chapter Twenty-Four





Two weeks later

Celia's gown was black. Perhaps it was inappropriate considering she had only been courted by the supposed Duke of Clairemont, not married nor even engaged to him. But black fit her soul as she sat in the parlor, staring blankly at the fire across the room.

The door behind her opened, and without looking to see who had entered, she sighed. "Hello, Rosalinde."

Her sister moved to sit in the chair beside her and touched her hand. "Half a dozen more cards of condolence arrived today."

"Put them with the others," Celia said. "I stopped reading them days ago."

"It must be hard to read their words of sympathy over an accident that never actually happened," Rosalinde said.

Celia turned her gaze to the ceiling. Three days after her last afternoon with John, the pretend Duke of Clairemont had suffered a tragic accident, falling down the stairs at his London estate. He had died instantly and been swiftly buried in a small, private service in the countryside that not even Celia and her family had been invited to.

And so it was over. Yet her part was still to be played. Everyone was watching to see her reaction. But grief wasn't hard to portray. She felt it keenly enough, even if it wasn't for the reason the world suspected.

"I know I should respond, but what do I say when I know the truth?" she asked.

Rosalinde nodded, offering sympathy when she could give no answers. "Tabitha and Honora also stopped by again this morning. They truly want to see you."

"I won't be able to lie to them," Celia sighed. "I'm afraid they'll see the truth in my eyes."

"I doubt that," Rosalinde reassured her. "They'll see your pain, as I see your pain. They'll put their arms around you and they'll never know the source. It might make you feel better to be around other people, rather than locking yourself in your chamber day and night."

Celia shot her sister a look. She could see Rosalinde was truly worried, but the idea that she could shake off the loss of John by simply seeing some friends was patently absurd.

"I appreciate your intention, but I can't. Not yet. In truth, I think the best thing for me would be to return to the north. I'm sure Gray is more than ready to go back to his business now that Turner-Camden has been arrested and things are complicated."

Rosalinde sighed. "He is. And I suppose that our return would not be seen as odd considering your ‘loss'."

Celia nodded. "Excellent, is it decided then?"

"May I ask you something?" Rosalinde said, instead of answering Celia.

"Of course. Anything."

"Why must you marry a man with a title?"

Celia ducked her head. She hadn't confessed to Rosalinde about her visit with their grandfather, but now she felt compelled to do so. She'd seen the damage secrets and lies could do, even when done in the name of good.

"Grandfather," she admitted, her voice cracking.

"But your bargain with him for information about our father died when you broke your engagement to Stenfax, why would-" Rosalinde cut herself off and her eyes grew wide. "Oh Celia, tell me you didn't."

Celia shrugged. "When John began to court me in the guise of Clairemont, I thought perhaps we might still obtain the information we so desire. So I snuck out and went to Grandfather."

Rosalinde's lips parted. "You did what? That was dangerous, Celia. What if he had attacked you as he did me, with no one to save you?"