He insisted on pressing his lips to the back of her hand. She found herself wishing it were Lord Paxton who was touching her in so intimate a way.
When Mary tucked Stevie in that night, he could only barely contain his excitement over the Christmas gift he’d purchased for her that day in Lower Worthington. “And wait until you see what Lord Paxton’s bought for you!”
Her heart sank. She had nothing for his lordship for Christmas.
A few minutes later when she entered the drawing room, where a table had been set up before the fire for the two of them to play cribbage, her heartbeat fluttered. He stood when she entered and gave her the most heavy-lidded, seductive…gawk she’d ever received.
Her pulse quivered madly as she approached him.
She drew a deep breath as she sat down facing him. She played with intent and did not dare initiate a conversation for fear of dissolving into a love-struck ninny.
After just one game, he suggested they move to the sofa. He continued his nightly ritual of pouring each of them a glass of port. This time it was she who offered a toast. Clinking their glasses together, she said, “Here’s wishing one kind, thoughtful lord a wondrous Christmas since I have nothing material to give him.”
Watching her with a smoldering gaze, he tapped his glass to hers and took, for him, an uncharacteristically small sip before putting down his glass. He leaned closer and spoke in a throaty voice. “You have it in your power to give me that for which I’ve been most longing.” When it came to recognizing the signs of a man gripped by desire for a woman, she was no novice. Now she understood the sultry manner in which he’d been watching her, the huskiness in his voice, the various ways he’d found to touch her the past couple of days.
She was so exhilarated by the knowledge, it was as if a luscious flower were blooming inside her. She had never imagined a man with all his attributes—including a title—would ever be interested in her.
Would he be able to detect her internal quivering when she breathlessly whispered? “I doubt, my lord, I could refuse you anything.”
She had thought this would be the night they conversed. She had planned to praise him for helping Mr. Knight and for taking Stevie to Lower Worthington that day. She’d wanted to tell him how special this Christmas was going to be for her and Stevie, thanks to his presence.
But now she didn’t want to discuss any of those things. All she wanted was for this man to take her in his arms and to slake his manly hunger in any way that pleased him. For she was completely captivated by him, and she wanted him as acutely as he wanted her.
More than captivated, she knew with certainty she was in love with David Arlington, the Earl of Paxton. She had come to love everything about him from his dark good looks to his consideration for Stevie to his protectiveness toward her. She loved the sound of his deep voice, the pensive way he looked when playing cribbage, and most of all, she loved the way he made her feel when his strong arms closed around her.
He groaned as he drew her into his embrace and crushed his lips onto hers. When their tongues touched, she felt a spurt of liquid glistening her core.
She gloried in the feel of those hands of his pressing and kneading and caressing her. Somehow he managed to lower the bodice of her gown to expose her bare breasts. She’d always been a bit embarrassed that her breasts were too large, but not now, not when she looked down and saw how reverently her beloved cupped one as if it were a priceless chalice. His mouth closed about her nipple and as he suckled, she thought she could go mad with want.
Her head lolling back, she whimpered, numbed with the pleasure he was giving her.
Then she remembered something. A guiding principle of her life had always been that she would do nothing that she would not want to announce from the pulpit of her father’s church.
And this lustful action, not blessed by the sacrament of matrimony, did not qualify. Her cheeks grew hot with the mortification of what she was doing.
She sat up, as erect as a fireplace poker. It was then, when he straightened, she saw the enormous bulge between his legs. She was ashamed of herself for causing that, for acting like a doxy, for giving him false expectations.
She started to ask his forgiveness, but he spoke first.
“Forgive me, my dearest, dearest Mary. I should not have gotten so carried away with such a fine woman as you.” He took both her hands and pressed kisses into them. “It’s only because I’ve come to care so deeply for you.”
He cared deeply for her! He’d called her Mary! It was so intimate. And, unlike with Mr. Blatherwick, she did wish so fervently to be intimate with this man sitting so close to her, this man whom she had come to love so potently. “As I care for you. You’re every bit as fine as your father was.”
He shook his head. “Would that I were.”
“I’m embarrassed that I’ve acted like a loose woman.”
He chuckled. “No one who knows you could ever believe that.” He lowered his voice to a growl. “And it’s perfectly acceptable to be a loose woman with a man to whom one is wed.”
It was as if the air in her lungs had stilled, as if her chest had expanded tenfold. She could not believe she’d heard him correctly. A peer of the realm did not wed a penniless daughter of a country cleric. A woman of her background would be fortunate to marry a man like Benedict Blatherwick.
Trembling, she silently repeated what she thought he’d said. She was certain now she’d heard him correctly. “But I’m not wed to you, my lord.” Nor did she ever expect to be.
“I shall have to rectify that situation.”
Her eyes widened. She was afraid to speak.
Their eyes locked and neither spoke.
Chapter Eight
Just an innocent kiss beneath the mistletoe, that’s what he had planned to ask of her tonight. He’d been craving that like an opium eater craves his pipe. But as he’d sat there on the sofa so close to her, he had lost all control.
Especially when she’d said I doubt, my lord, I could refuse you anything. That was all he’d had to hear. She must need him as he needed her!
And when he tasted her lips, or listened to her quiver when he touched her, he’d lost himself to the sensuous pleasure she was giving him.
In his entire eight-and-twenty years he’d never been possessed by such longing for a woman—and not just this moment when he felt as if he could explode from throbbing need.
From that first moment he’d drawn the injured woman into his arms alongside the road, the connection between them was impossible to deny—even though at the time he had strongly wanted to deny it.
Never before had any woman had such power over him. It wasn’t just the physical connection that drew him to Mary, either. It was so much more. He had come to love everything about her. Of course she was lovely, but old Mr. Knight had succinctly described her when he’d said she was as pretty on the inside as she was on the outside. That was Mary, his Mary, in a nutshell.
He thought, too, of what she’d said about what brought her to Darnley in the first place. Divine intervention. He had the strongest feeling that same Divine intervention had brought Mary to him.
For throughout the three kingdoms no finer woman than Mary could ever be found. If he couldn’t have Mary for his wife, he would never have a wife.