The Complete Regency Bestsellers And One Winters Collection. Rebecca WintersЧитать онлайн книгу.
it is linked so precisely to dishonour, Mrs St Harlow.’ His hand shook more than it usually did and he jammed it into his pocket away from notice.
‘These might be fine words, Lord Hawkhurst, when one has the choice of exploring different options.’ Fury crept into her reply.
‘And you think that you do not?’
‘I know it.’
‘So it is only your body that lies between survival or ruin?’
‘Indeed, my sisters might say thus were they to know of your tender.’
Unexpectedly he laughed, the sound echoing about the dark spaces of the room. ‘Your sisters? Your father? It is for them that you do this? Who is it that looks out for you, then, when you have need for some succour?’ Now all humour was gone completely.
The question had her turning away because in just those few words he had understood what she had tried so hard to hide.
No one.
She had always been alone. Fighting, trying, hobbling into each successive day with the weight of the world on her shoulders and no hope at all of being rid of any of it. Until his promise of help had thrown her with its bright and buoyant hope; a golden troth that had changed everything and now seemed gone.
She hated how expectation made a mockery of morality and when Stephen Hawkhurst held her to the spot with a quick grab of her hand she did her best to shrug him off, short nails digging into the flesh of his wrist. She did not try to be careful or gentle. All she wanted was the cold anger of force, dragging between them, punctuating the impotence and weakness that was her life so far, never in control.
And now another humiliation, more complete than ever before because even with such a simple touch she knew that she had never wanted anyone as much as she wanted Stephen Hawkhurst. Her right hand slapped hard against his arm as she tried to get away.
He bundled her close in self-defence, holding her fists and tethering her to him. The breath between them mingled, harsh and quick, the warmth of it like a sting.
‘I tend to myself.’ She would not allow the ease of tears she felt pooling in the back of her eyes. Nay, she writhed at the horror of him seeing such feminine inadequacy, though as his knee came firm between her thighs she understood exactly what she had not before.
He could take her with or without an agreement here in his house at dusk, the solid door shut tight against intrusion and not a soul cognisant of her whereabouts, save a servant who was in his employ. The chaise longue stood just behind them and his glance flicked to the possibility.
‘No one looks after you, damn it, Aurelia. Every problem your family has is laid at your doorstep for a solution and another few months of such worries will finish you off. You want to be serviced merely for the chance of your sisters’ happiness. You want to give me your body for cold hard cash and an exchange of nothing. Where in that is your satisfaction, or have you played the martyr for so very long you now enjoy the state of suffering Charles made such an art form of?’
He pushed against her, his manhood ripe, the stretch of maleness piercing shock. A dangerous man full of promise and peril. Every part of him was menacing.
‘I do not understand…’ she began and tipped her face to his, the onslaught of her words stopped by the movement. There was never a chance, she thought later in her room at home, when the memories of the evening returned to leave her sleepless and unsteady, never a chance when a woman like her could have held back the appetite of a lord renowned for getting exactly what he wanted and when he wanted it.
His mouth slid across her own, moulding her face closer with his hands so that the breath he gave her was his, teeth tugging against her lower lip. Pain had its own particular lust after all, she thought, as she pressed forwards to find the promise and the heat.
She knew her bodice was loosened, knew that with only a little effort her breasts could slip from their tether and be in his hands. and she wanted that, the forbidden avidity which was such a far cry from her work-weary and ordered world.
When would another chance like this one ever arise, the years of her youth stealing by at an ever faster rate and no end in view for any of it? Leaning forwards she let him see exactly what she had on offer and did not look away as his fingers dipped across her throat and came down beneath soft lawn.
Lord, but she was good, the taste of her like some fine wine left in a cellar for years untended and undiscovered, breasts beneath his fingers firm and high and generous. He felt the bodice lower as he tugged at it hard, and then the thin chemise fell away before the warmth of woman was upon him, her nipples rigid, budded and proud.
He was not careful as he pinched such bounty and felt her draw in breath. He was not kind as he broke away from the kiss and covered the gift with his mouth, suckling as he turned tension into compliance.
She was his to take and take, the red whorls of need drawn upon her skin where he had lingered too long, the blood beneath the surface rising heatedly at the pull of his desire. Marked and branded, the porcelain white of her lost into his mounting urgency.
His eyes drank in a beauty beyond comprehension. He felt her hand at his nape keeping him to the task, her breath ragged now and hoarse, passion filling all the cracks of doubt.
‘My God.’ His voice was shallow, rough, the sound of one who had faltered from some well-worn path and wandered into Heaven.
‘My God,’ he repeated as he drew back and she made no move at all to hide her wares, but stood there stock-still with her mismatched eyes and her silence.
He could not take her like this, not without all that she should have been accorded and everything she deserved given to her. Her pulse leapt in her throat, her glance dazed and glassy, the stamp of craving drawn in tight rosebud nipples and in the beating want between them.
‘Cover yourself.’
She did not move.
‘Cover yourself, damn it, Aurelia, before I lose my reason entirely and you understand exactly what it is that you offer so very lightly.’
He picked up her coat and draped it around her, the dark wool contrasting boldly with the colour of her hair. Like the sirens of Li Galli with their riotous curls ensnaring any man straying upon them as they danced in the deep blue sea of despair.
He had had enough, the pain of his arousal beating hard and unappeased and more than a small share of lust coursing through him. Unsated. The emptiness in him surfaced fully and he could not help his anger.
‘Your coat should conceal any damage to your gown and my man will see you home.’
He was relieved when she finally seemed to rouse from her stupor, a dash of anger comforting him. He watched as she turned and fastened the coat across the loosened day dress, tucking her hair into an untidy plait with shaking hands.
Wilson came when he rang, his face devoid of expression as he shepherded her away, her footsteps in the hallway receding into silence.
Gone. Hawk’s right hand fisted and the ache in his thigh was more painful than it had been in years. Limping to the fire, he held his palms out to the warmth and hated the way they trembled against the backdrop of flame.
She sat in the carriage, her back ramrod stiff. His smell was upon her and the depths of shame at her behaviour brought her breath to a standstill. What had she done? Her breasts throbbed under the scratchy wool of her coat, each one remembering the feel of his mouth against her fullness, taking that which she had never before offered to anyone. Closing her eyes, she leant her head back against the cushioned velour feeling…changed. Altered. No longer bound by a frigidity that had defined her.
Her tongue ran across her lips, as if she were asking him back in the darkness, wanting his need to strengthen her. There was nothing left of the girl who had gone to plead the case of her sisters. Now she was only woman.
When a tear traced its way down her cheek she did not wipe it away, but let it fall on to the skin of her hand and