Her skin was hot, rosy with embarrassment, and she buried her face against the side of his neck as if trying to hide. “Oh, Rhys, don’t,” she whispered, shoving uselessly at his hand as he began to unbutton the front of her chemise. “Somebody might see us.”
He laughed at that; he couldn’t help it. But when she demanded to know what was so amusing, he shook his head, suppressed his laughter, and did not point out that when two people were rolling around in the grass, anyone watching would know precisely what they were doing, clothes or not. To distract her from all the spinsterish embarrassment, he began kissing her again, working his way slowly downward.
She was so lovely, half dressed like this, all pink and white and plump, her bare skin peeking here and there from beneath delicious bits of lace and muslin. He lifted himself above her, bracing his weight on one arm as he used the other to pull back the edges of her chemise, exposing her breasts to his gaze.
His throat went dry at the sight. “Perfect,” he told her again, shaping her breasts with his hands, embracing them, relishing the feel of her erect nipples against his palms. He breathed in feminine warmth and scent as he toyed with her breasts, using his mouth and his fingers to tease and play. When he suckled her, working her nipple gently with his mouth and tongue, his own body felt the erotic answering pull.
She was shivering beneath him now, all embarrassment forgotten in the flush of arousal. He was not very cool himself; in fact, his whole body burned to have her. But he strove to keep his own desire in check.
He slipped his hand beneath her skirt and petticoat, gliding it upward along the plane of her thigh and across her hip to the place he wanted most to touch. When he shifted his hand and cupped her mound, her hips tilted up, pressing into that touch with gratifying eagerness. Slowly, gently, he pushed the tip of one finger past the slit of her drawers and into her tight sheath.
She was wet, deliciously ready, and he could no longer resist the need to be inside her.
“Come on top of me,” he told her, rolling onto his back, and when she complied, he pulled her skirts up to keep them out of the way and spread her legs over his hips. He then reached between their bodies and hooked one thumb in the opening of her drawers, ripping the thin lawn fabric farther apart to give himself greater access. Gently, he spread her labia with his fingers and thrust upward with his hips, entering her fully.
She sucked in a deep gasp, and he went still. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, dreading that he had.
But she shook her head from side to side so emphatically that her hair came tumbling down to tickle his face. “No. Oh, no.”
Relief flooded through him, followed at once by desperate, hungry need. She was so tight and slick, and she felt so delicious, he had to have more. He thrust up again, wanting to increase the pace, but her body moved on top of his with the awkwardness of her inexperience, and he knew he had to wait yet a little longer. He sucked in deep, steadying breaths to tamp down his own desire, holding back so he could show her how to take what she needed from him.
“Sit up and brace your weight on my shoulders,” he told her, and when she did, he grasped her hips and lifted his own, pushing up in a slow, flexing move. Then he did it again, and then again, teaching her the rhythm, accustoming her to the feel of him inside her. Each tiny thrust was a lash of pure torture that forced a groan from his lips, but the torture was worth it.
He kept his eyes open and watched her as he stroked her clitoris with his thumb and stoked the flames of her lust. He watched her as she took the lead, guiding his hand with her own without even realizing it, her body moving on top of his in a demand that set the pace for them both. He watched her, and as he did, he knew he would never see anything in his life lovelier than her face.
She was blushing, her skin awash with a tint of soft pink in the afternoon sunlight. Her forehead glistened with a fine patina of sweat. Her eyes were closed, her dark lashes like tiny fans against her cheeks. Her lips were parted, and between soft, panting cries, she kept touching them with her tongue. Her expression was one of such erotic concentration, with everything in her striving to reach climax, it made him smile. And when she came, in wave after wave, her hand over his, her body clenching around his penis in convulsions that went on and on and on, he felt a pleasure greater than any he had ever known before.
And afterward, when she lay in the crook of his arm, nuzzled her face against his neck and whispered, “I love you,” the warmth that washed over him thawed the icy chill in his soul as the gut-twisting heat of Parisian absinthe and the blistering summer sunshine of Italy had never been able to do.
“This is where we’ll live,” he said.
And as he kissed her lavender-scented hair and listened to the songbirds in the leafy English elms over their heads, Rhys de Winter thought that perhaps his own April had come at last. He dared to believe that he had finally come home.
Chapter 15
Marriage is a solemn vow. Engagements, on the other hand, are made to be broken.
—The Social Gazette, 1894
Rhys proved to be a far better liar than Prudence would ever have imagined. He discussed the condition of the farms and the work to be done there with Uncle Stephen at dinner that evening in such detail, she was almost sure he’d actually been at the farms during the afternoon, the time she’d spent with him by the lake nothing more than a dream.
A very carnal dream. Every time she thought about it, she felt her body heating with embarrassment. And excitement. And a longing for more.
He wasn’t at breakfast the following morning, and the serving girl at the Black Swan who served them bacon and eggs told them that he’d breakfasted already and would be conducting estate business all day.
“His Grace thought you might wish to shop in the High Street,” she explained, taking the lid off a warming dish of hot buttered toast, “but he went to the estate on horseback and left you the carriage, miss, on the chance you preferred to return to St. Cyres Castle instead.”
“Excellent. Thank you.” Prudence reached for a slice of toast as the servant bobbed a curtsy and departed the dining room. “I’m so glad he left me the carriage, for I do want to go back to the house today.”
“Go back to that horrid place?” Edith set down her teacup and looked at Prudence askance. “Whatever for?”
“That horrid place is to be my home, Aunt. The duke and I have decided to make St. Cyres Castle our primary residence, and there’s much to do.”
“Better to live at Winter Park,” Stephen said, helping himself to more kidneys. “Closer to London, and that house is in much better condition.”
Prudence thought of Rhys’s face the afternoon they’d had tea with his mother, and she knew they would never live at Winter Park. “We want to live at St. Cyres Castle.”
“Live at that drafty old place? But how silly.” Edith gave a tinkling little laugh. “Why, it will be months before you can even move in. Not to mention the cost of repairs!”
Prudence smiled. “Then it’s a fortunate thing I shall have such a large income, isn’t it?”
Edith made a sound of exasperation. “It is a complete waste of money.”
“Perhaps. But…” She paused over her eggs and bacon, her eyes wide as she looked at her aunt. “It is my money to waste, isn’t it?”
“Of course it’s your money,” Stephen put in, his voice hearty and soothing. “Of course it is.”
Prudence resumed eating. “Besides, I am sure Rhys will be very judicious in how the money is spent.”
“I daresay he will,” Edith snapped, “since he needs most of your income to pay his debts. And finance his gambling habit, and pay for his women—”
“That will be enough, Edith,” Stephen cut in, giving his wife a long, hard stare. “We talked about this, remember? Prudence has made her choice, and we must accept it.”
“Oh, I don’t understand you anymore, Stephen, I really don’t!” Edith cried, dropping her knife and fork into her plate with a clatter. “That Prudence has agreed to marry that man is incomprehensible enough, but that you should take his side and abandon poor Robert, who is to receive only—”
“I think I’ve had enough breakfast.” Prudence tossed aside her serviette and rose to her feet, knowing if she stayed here any longer, there would be a row, and she was in too good a mood to let Edith ruin it. “I am going back to St. Cyres Castle. Alone,” she added as her aunt started to rise.
A few seconds later she was out the door, but the arguing voices of her aunt and uncle followed her all the way down the corridor.
“He’ll leave us to starve in the hedgerows once he’s married her, Stephen! And there you sit, doing nothing about it. Oh, Prudence is blind, blind! And so are you, apparently.”
“I hardly think we’ll starve. The duke has agreed to give us twenty thousand pounds a year, a very generous sum.”
“Generous? How can you say so? Why twenty thousand is nothing to what he’ll receive. As Prudence’s husband, he’ll have it all, though he hasn’t done a thing to deserve it, the conniving fortune hunter.”
“There is nothing we can do about it, and when you oppose her, all you succeed in doing is alienating her further. Leave her be, Edith, for God’s sake. Just accept the twenty thousand and be content with that.”