“I would like to sculpt that,” she whispered as she looked up at him.
“What?”
“You. Your chest heaving, your hips moving. Did you know, your neck tightens with every pulse? It is like you strain against a great weight, but there is bliss in your eyes.”
He stared at her. “So poetic,” he murmured, and suddenly he wanted to see what she saw in him. Why had she picked him for her adoration? For her explorations? He wanted to see her sculpture and yet she could not do such a thing. “Swear to me you will not even sketch it. Nothing, Amber. Not even in your most private moments.”
She blew out a breath. “No one would see it but me.” Then she looked up. “I have sketched from statues before, but nothing compares to you. Alive. So strong. So…” She pressed her palm to his belly. “It was beautiful.”
He shook his head, still dazed. “No one has ever called me beautiful.” Then he touched her face. “You take my breath away.”
He kissed her then. How could he not? She had brought him not only bliss but also poetry. She made him think about love when he had dismissed the thought years ago as childish. And she made him want to give her everything, his wealth, his protection, and yes, even his love. But that wasn’t possible for a man with a title. So, he gave her what he could.
He gave her pleasure.
He kissed her until she was breathless. And he pinched her nipples through her nightrail and swept the gown up past her hips. He stroked her legs, and he pressed his mouth to her belly. And when he thought of licking between her thighs, his mouth watered with need.
But she was already whimpering with every breath. Her body was alive and not under her control. He would not risk her making noise. Not for his own sake. He deserved to be beaten to a bloody pulp for what he was doing with her. But he would not have her shamed.
He slipped his hand between her thighs as he captured her mouth with his. He caught her cries as he thrust his fingers inside her. And when he stroked her nub, her legs spread wider. How he wanted to seat himself there now. He wanted to plow into her and plant his seed. Their children would have artist’s hands and her frank wonder as they looked at the world.
He thought of that as he pumped his fingers into her. And he thought of her belly swelling as he thrust against her nub. And when she cried into his mouth, he caught her sounds and memorized the feel of her coming apart beneath him. And suddenly, he daydreamed about love and happily ever after. How wonderful would it be to do this with her every night? To wake with her in the morning as she nuzzled against him in her sleep?
He would learn to see what she did when she drew flowers or lions. And together, they could talk of things that had never entered his adult thoughts. Poetry. Beauty. Love.
She settled beneath him. He eased her nightrail down and covered her once again. He smelled her musk and memorized that, too, especially as she looked at him with dazed, happy eyes. Then she opened her mouth to say something. He couldn’t let that happen. Not if her words were the ones simmering in his mind. Words that would burn them both, because they couldn’t be taken back.
So, he kissed her hard and fast rather than hear them. And he kept kissing her until she lost whatever it was she might have said. And when he finally eased back, he dropped his forehead to hers.
“Don’t speak,” he said. “I have to leave now, and it’s best if we’re both quiet.”
She stilled, frozen for a breath, maybe two. Then she nodded. He could feel her retreat into herself as her hands slipped away.
“I have tasks tomorrow,” he said. “But the morning after, I will come early for you. We will go to Lord Morthan’s estate so you can see the jewelry and figure out the brooch’s design.”
She nodded, and he wondered if her expression was sad. He certainly felt heaviness as he returned their relationship to a business footing. He needed her to make the brooch and nothing else. He needed the jewelry that would buy him the vote he required. Then she would return to her life and he to his. Ended, except for the memories.
“I cannot marry you,” he said softly, and the words broke his heart.
“I know,” she said.
He straightened and cleaned up. His cock was heavy, and lust burned in him still. But he set himself and everything else in her chamber back to rights. He even blew out the candle before easing open her bedroom door and slipping out into the hallway. A few moments later, he was outside and walking briskly through the dark back to his home.
He couldn’t marry her, he told himself as his steps took him steadily away from her. But he could love her. And that was the saddest daydream of all.
Chapter Seventeen
Amber woke with such happiness that she knew she’d been dreaming. Well, not exactly dreaming since last night had been one of her secret dreams come true. A man had crept into her bedroom and touched her intimately. He had given her such pleasure, and she had been able to explore him in a way she’d only imagined before.
The memories had her flushing and smiling into her pillow. But even as she hugged the sheets tight to her sensitive breasts, she remembered who had been the man of her dreams. Elliott had swept into her life and pulled her from her gray cage into a world of color. Elliott, who wore black and made her feel not only wanted but also understood.
Elliott would never marry her.
Her giddy happiness drained away. Last night had been another dream come true, but today was for serious thoughts. No more fantasies, only reality. Elliott had said that he would take her to Lord Morthan’s country estate tomorrow morning. After that, she would make the brooch, and they would separate. He would have no more need to sponsor her, and she would have no chance to find a respectable husband.
If she meant to secure a future for herself outside of the Lyon’s Den, then she needed to do it today. Today.
She picked up Diana’s crumpled list of men and smoothed it out. She already knew her pick, but went through the list dispassionately anyway. One by one, she reviewed Diana’s notes and her memories. By the time the maid brought her a cup of morning chocolate, Amber had decided on her future.
Mr. Christopher Jupp would do well enough. He was kind and poetic, which matched her own artistic needs. If she could bring him up to scratch, then they would have an acceptable life together. So resolved, she planned her campaign.
Mr. Jupp showed up late for their ride in Hyde Park. He was full of apologies even as he began to talk about the poem he had begun that afternoon. It caused him to lose track of the time and was likely the reason he sported ink stains on his shirtsleeves, but he was also in good cheer. She realized as they walked to his carriage that this would likely be how he appeared throughout their life together. Tardy and with ink stains, but still sporting a smile. She could live with that, especially since she often lost track of time while working.
The carriage was his father’s and smelled of cigars, so when they disembarked at Hyde Park, she lifted her face to the sun and breathed deeply. Unfortunately, the sun was hidden behind clouds. Mr. Jupp was still talking about his poem—this time about his choices in rhyme and meter—and she listened with half an ear as she smiled at several others out for a stroll.
“I’m blathering on again,” he said with an embarrassed cough. “I do apologize.”