Three Weeks With Lady X(47)

       
           



       

"Merely an insufficiency of soup spoons," she said. "Thank you, Fleming."

The butler bowed, giving Thorn a sharp-eyed glance. India wouldn't be surprised if he knew everything. Butlers always did.

"You needn't worry about my soup spoons," Thorn said, taking a step  closer. His jaw was set, and his eyes were saying something . . . she  wasn't quite sure what.

India was transfixed by his closeness, and it took a moment for his  comment to sink in. Of course, she didn't. He had a wife now. Or as good  as one.

"I understand," she said, head high. "I will give Lala the direction of the silversmith who created your design."

He made a growling sound. "Leave it."

"Oh. Well, I'll be joining the ladies." And she nodded toward the door to the small drawing room.

But instead of allowing her to pass, Thorn took another step toward her.  India reflexively stepped backward, only to discover that he had herded  her into a tiny room off the corridor designed to hold footmen's  livery.

Proper cabinetry had yet to be fitted, and as a temporary measure, India  had concealed the alcove with a misty gray hanging. Now the curtain  fell closed behind Thorn as he gently pushed her all the way into the  tiny room.

There was scarcely room for both of them, and light filtered dimly  through the loose linen weave. She looked up at his scowling eyes and  something broke open inside her heart, just a little bit.

She'd fallen in love with a man with cool gray eyes, the very same color  as the fabric at his shoulder. She had created the perfect setting for  him without even knowing she was doing it.

"Thorn," she said, "I must join the other ladies; they will be wondering what became of me."

"You stopped looking at me," he said, frowning at her.

"I had no reason to look at your end of the table."

He braced one arm on the wall above her head, leaning closer. "You  looked at me earlier." He sounded as if he were speaking through  clenched teeth.

It was embarrassing to find that the merest glance at his lips made her  knees feel weak. But she managed to summon up her self-respect. "You  should be spending time with Lala. Go!"

He paid no attention. "Do you know that most people find me intimidating?"

Meeting his eyes made India drag in a deep breath and begin to turn  sideways, to dart toward freedom. But his body closed in, and his mouth  came down on hers. Their kiss was deep and wet-not sweet, but scorching,  as if there was no air in the world other than what she took from  Thorn's lips.

It was silent, this desperate kiss, so insistent that she could actually  feel her lips becoming bee-stung. His hand shoved into her hair, and  the pins that had held in place a pyramid of elaborate ringlets tinkled  to the floor.

"No," she gasped. But his mouth found hers again. She hardly registered  that she had launched herself away from the wall, and she was now  plastered against him, as close as if she were trying to melt into him.

In fact, she didn't notice at first when his hands slipped under her  skirts. Not until she realized that they were cupping her bottom,  hitching her higher and backing her against the wall again. Her legs  instinctively curled around his hips as he pushed his pelvis against  her, sending flames arcing down her legs.

She said something in a shamefully weak voice. It might have been "No." But even worse, it might have been "Yes."

Whatever it was, he ignored her. His fingers slipped into the silky tuft  of hair between her legs. The moment he touched her, her lips opened in  a cry that he caught with his mouth.

His kiss and caress tumbled her into a haze: her head spun and she  couldn't see or even breathe. She clung to him, his clever, clever  fingers igniting a fever in her blood. Need rose in her like a dark  storm.

"No!" she whispered hoarsely, pulling away from his kiss. "You cannot  spend the afternoon with Lala and then come to me. You cannot seduce me  while you're betrothed to another."

He met her eyes, his face strained with desire but confused. "I am not  betrothed to anyone. I have said nothing about marriage to Lala or any  other woman."

India stared at him. It was hard to think when her body was shaking. His  fingers had stilled, but they were still there, touching her. "You're  sure you're not betrothed? Even informally?"

He shook his head. His eyes had darkened to the color of a storm over  the sea, and his fingers started that caress again, touching her in a  teasingly regular pattern that made her body oddly lax and tense all at  once.

As if she was waiting . . . waiting for something.

"I have spoken to Lala's father, but given the circumstances of my  birth, he declined to consider the matter unless I received Lady  Rainsford's approval. I never asked Lala for her hand." The words grated  from his throat, and India believed him. Whose fault was it that Lala  was dreaming about marriage to Thorn? Probably every other woman in  London was dreaming about Thorn.                       
       
           



       

The thought drifted away, because Thorn lifted her with one arm-her  weight seemingly nothing-and unbuttoned his breeches with the other,  pulling himself free. She gasped when their bodies came together again,  her thighs instinctively tightening around his hips.

"I did not spend the afternoon with Lala," he growled at her, his voice  jolting, as if he were in a runaway carriage. "I was at the rubber  factory, trying to make that damn machine work."

"Oh," India breathed as he nudged her softest, most private spot.

"May I?" he growled, his eyes holding hers. Her arms tightened around  his neck. She could no more say no to him than she could tell the sun  not to rise. She wiggled against him at the very same moment he drove  into her.

She would have screamed but his mouth covered hers again, a frantic kiss  in time with the rhythm of his rough thrusting. Wild pleasure flared in  her limbs as he kept going and going, an arm around her back to protect  her from the wall.

They were both mad, India thought dimly, not really thinking, just  feeling: the strength of his arm holding her up, the way they were  connected, and the powerful way he was pumping into her, as if she were  life.

And then . . .

And then she was coming, her head falling backward, her body jerking as  if she were falling into a well full of stars, a deep one. The stars  flew out to the very end of her fingers. It was so pleasurable that it  was almost painful. And it kept going and going.

Thorn groaned, braced himself against the wall and-

It was different. It felt different. He was deep inside her, his breath  rasping, his hips pumping. His breath was harsh and his control lost.

He was like a man starving, a man possessed. And with that thought, she  was coming again, succumbing to the rhythm of his hips . . . the rhythm  of his heart.

A moment later, India's breath was still sobbing from her chest; he  still had an arm around her bottom. But he was leaning his head against  the wall, gulping air. They stood together in silence, her body blissful  and her mind blank.

At length, reason returned, bringing abject terror with it.

"Thorn, you didn't use a sheath," India whispered. "You forgot!"

She heard a sharp inhalation, and then his response, a word she'd never  heard before. But she knew what it meant. It meant he dropped her to the  floor as fast as a child might drop a cat. Unlike a cat, she landed  wrong, lurching on one of her elegant little Italian heels, and managing  to stay upright only by grabbing his sleeve.

He didn't notice.

She knew what he was thinking. Now she would force him to marry her.  Trap him, and keep him away from sweet, dizzy Lala. She wouldn't.

"I have never lost control before," he growled.

"I'm certain everything is fine!" she said, chirping like Adelaide. "My  mother tried for years to have another child and never succeeded." She  let go of his sleeve and shook down her skirts, ignoring the fact that  her legs were throbbing.

"My father has six bastard children," he stated. "If my father had married your mother, you'd probably have seventeen brothers."

"Nonsense," she said, frowning. "May I remind you that Eleanor has borne  only one child? I am aware that you have strong feelings on this  subject, but I can reassure you that all will be well. Adelaide told me .  . . well, conception has to do with the time of the month, and rest  assured, you are not going to be a father."

He stared down at her, his mouth tight.

Humiliation was welling up inside, and if it made its way out, India would likely burst into tears.

It was one thing to have a romantic affaire, a sweet memory of a single  night's bliss. But Thorn hadn't even brought her to a bedchamber, but  had simply shoved her behind a curtain and pulled up her skirts, as if  she were no more than a night-walker.