Victoria’s heart leapt with a mixture of pulsing pleasure and stark terror when she felt the demanding heat of his maleness pressing between her legs, but instead of entering her, Jason circled his hips against her in a gently grinding rhythm that slowly drove her frantic with fierce, throbbing pleasure, until there was no more fear—only an exquisite, aching need to have him fill her.
His knee wedged between her legs. “Don’t be afraid,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t be afraid of me.”
Victoria slowly opened her eyes and gazed at the man above her. His face was hard and dark with passion, his shoulders and arms taut with the strain of holding back, his breathing fast and labored. Trancelike, she touched her fingertips to his sensual lips, realizing instinctively how desperately he wanted her and how much control he was exerting to stop himself from taking her. “You are so gentle,” she whispered brokenly, “so gentle . ..”
A low groan erupted from Jason’s chest and his restraint shattered. He plunged into her partway and eased out, plunging deeper the next time, and the next, until she arched her hips beneath him and he drove his full length into her incredible warmth. Sweat dampened his forehead as he fought down the tormenting demands of his own body and began to move slowly within her, watching her face. Her head tossed on the pillows as she strained toward him in trembling need, pressing her hips hard against his pulsing thighs, reaching for the bursting fulfillment he was determined to give her. He heard her low, frantic gasp and began to steadily increase the tempo of his deep, driving thrusts. “Reach for it, Tory,” he rasped out hoarsely. “I’ll give it to you. I promise.”
A shivering ecstasy pierced Victoria’s entire body, sending streaks of pleasure curling through her that came faster and faster until they erupted in an explosion that tore a scream from her throat. Jason bent his head and kissed her one last desperate time, and then he drove into her, joining her in sweet oblivion.
Afraid his weight would crush her, he moved onto his side, pulling her with him, his body still intimately joined with hers. When his labored breathing finally evened out, he kissed her forehead and smoothed her rumpled, satiny hair off her forehead. “How do you feel?” he asked softly.
Victoria’s long curly lashes fluttered up and eyes like deep blue pools of languid wonder gazed into his. “I feel like a wife,” she whispered.
He laughed huskily at that, tracing his finger along the elegant curve of her cheek, and she snuggled against him. “Jason,” she said, her voice throbbing with emotion as she raised her eyes to his. “There’s something I want to tell you.”
“What?” he asked, smiling tenderly.
Very simply, and without embarrassment, she said, “I love you.”
His smile faded.
“I do. I lov—”
He pressed his finger to her lips, silencing her, and shook his head. “No, you don’t,” he said with quiet, implacable firmness. “Nor should you. Don’t give me more than you already have, Tory.”
Victoria averted her eyes and said nothing, but his rejection hurt her more than she imagined possible. Lying in his arms, his words came back to haunt her . . . I don’t need your love. I don’t want it.
Outside in the hall, Franklin tapped on the door, intending to see if Lord Fielding desired help with the packing. When there was no answer to his knock, Franklin assumed his lordship must be elsewhere in the suite and, as was his custom, he opened the door unbidden.
He took one step into the dimly lit room and blinked, his startled gaze riveting on the couple lying in the huge four-poster, then bouncing in horror to the pile of clothes that Jason had been removing from his armoire and that were now lying in an ignominious heap upon the floor beside the bed. The diligent valet bit his lip against the overwhelming impulse to tiptoe forward and disentangle his lordship’s exquisitely tailored evening jacket from the pants legs of his buckskins. Instead, Franklin wisely backed out of the room, closing the door with a soft click.
Once out in the hall, his distress over Lord Fielding’s abused garments gave way to delayed joy at what he had just witnessed. Turning, he rushed down the hall and out onto the balcony overlooking the foyer below. “Mr. Northrup!” he whispered loudly, leaning precariously over the railing and beckoning frantically to Northrup, who was standing near the front door. “Mr. Northrup, I have news of great import! Come closer so we shan’t be overheard.. . .”
Down the hall on Franklin’s left, two alert maids rushed out of the rooms they’d been cleaning, crashed into each other, and elbowed each other aside in their urgency to hear what news Franklin had. On his right a footman suddenly materialized in the hall and began enthusiastically polishing a mirror with beeswax and lemon oil.
“It has happened!” Franklin hissed at Northrup, cleverly disguising his news in terms so vague he was certain no one could possibly understand even if they overheard.
“Are you certain?”
“Of course I am,” said Franklin, affronted.
A momentary grin cracked Northrup’s rigid features, but he recovered quickly, retreating behind his customary mask of aloof formality. “Thank you, Mr. Franklin. In that case, I shall order the coach back to the stables.”
So saying, Northrup turned and proceeded to the front door. Opening it, he walked outside into the night, where a luxurious, maroon-lacquered coach with the gold Wakefield seal emblazoned on the door was waiting, its lamps glowing brightly in the darkness. Four gleaming matched chestnuts stamped fitfully in the traces, tossing their heavy manes and rattling their harnesses in restless eagerness to be off. Unable to attract the attention of the liveried drivers sitting erectly atop the coach, Northrup walked down the terraced steps to the drive.
“His lordship,” he said to the coachman in his coolest, most authoritative voice, “will not require your services this evening. You may put the horses away.”
“He won’t be needin‘ the coach?” John coachman burst out in surprise. “But he sent me word himself an hour ago that he wanted the horses put to, and quick!” .
“His plans,” Northrup said frostily, “have changed.”
John coachman expelled a sigh of frustrated irritation and glowered at the uncommunicative butler. “I tell you, there’s been a mistake. He means to go to London—”
“Idiot! He meant to go to London. He has now retired for the night instead!”