He kissed the curve of her derriere. “But it is the things you say and the sound of your laughter that move me most.”
She closed her eyes, awash in feeling and emotion. Charlotte looked at life pragmatically, and she felt no shame for her past. The need to survive had long ago overridden her pride. But in all of her experience, she’d never had a man take such time with her, stoking her arousal, making her liquid with desire, as Hugh had done from the very beginning. The sexual act shouldn’t feel this intimate, not when the situation was so temporary. But then he slipped a finger inside her, and she lost her trepidation. He entered a little more, and she tensed, sore from his earlier amorous attentions.
Hugh hummed a coaxing sound, and then his mouth was there, his tongue moving in deep licks, just the way he kissed. He parted her with his fingers, his other hand kneading her breast, rolling her nipple.
“Please,” she whispered, circling her hips into his thrusting tongue, wanting him . . . desperately.
He straightened, and a moment later she felt the hard heat of him, pressing slowly into her, filling the empty ache she hadn’t known was there until he’d arrived. Patient and tender, he stroked her spine, soothing her, as his cock stretched swollen tissues unaccustomed to such constant use.
“Yes . . .” she sighed, when his thighs touched hers, her body stretched to the limit to accommodate him. She arched her hips upward in silent invitation, and he slipped deeper inside with a soft curse.
“This feeling,” he grunted, hunching over her and cupping her silk-covered breasts with his hands. “I cannot imagine ever having enough of this.”
He slid out slowly and then pressed forward again, starting a leisurely rhythm and maintaining it, the steady in and out inundating her with pleasure. She whimpered and began to writhe, begging him to end her torment.
“Do you truly want it to end?” he asked in a husky murmur. “I don’t.”
Her short nails left scratch marks in the rug as he slowed his pace. She didn’t want it to end—this moment, his visit, none of it. But if she didn’t orgasm soon she was afraid she would die. “Please . . .”
He thrust deep and groaned, burying his cock to the hilt and coming, burning her from the inside with hot, pulsing streams of his seed.
Charlotte came just like that, convulsing around him, his chest to her back, his hands on her breasts, his groans with her cries, until she couldn’t tell where she ended and Hugh La Coeur began.
Hugh brushed fiery red curls from Charlotte’s face before kissing the tip of her nose. “I want you to come with me when I leave.” Lifting her from the floor, he carried her to the bed.
She buried her face in his throat. “I cannot leave here.”
“Why not?” He set her atop the counterpane and then slid beside her.
She caught his hand and brought it to her heart, her eyes a soft and misty green. “Because we’re safe here, the servants and I. We have a home where we’re comfortable. It may not be ideal, but it’s reliable.”
Resting against the pillows, Hugh studied her face. “I can be reliable. I shall open an account for you, in your name. I’ve promised you a house, and I’ll provide it. Everything I give you will be yours to keep. Plenty to provide for you and the others.”
Charlotte looked away. “I like Derbyshire,” she said softly.
He stared at her, feeling as if he’d taken a physical blow. She would choose this place, this life, over him? He’d told her how he felt, revealed emotions he didn’t know how to manage, and she shunned him. In truth she didn’t trust him.
It’s reliable, she said. Unspoken was the notion that he was not.
“Jesus,” he muttered, sliding off the bed. He walked to the window and pushed aside the drapes, gazing at the winter scene outside. A few days more and he would be free to move on, free to return to the careless life he’d once enjoyed but now found sadly unfulfilling. If he expired today, what memory would he leave behind? That of a man who was unreliable and irresponsible? He didn’t want to be that man anymore.
“There are things you don’t know,” Charlotte said behind him, her voice soft and tentative.
He kept his back to her but was acutely aware of every move she made. “Are you going to tell me what they are?”
“I . . .” She paused, then sighed. “No.”
“Well, then.” Hugh released a deep breath, his disappointment painful. “I suppose that answers my question.”
“I wish I could explain.”
“Please,” he said, raising a hand. “Don’t say anything further. I asked, you replied. There’s nothing more to be said.” But part of him wished she would tell him, would confide in him, would trust him. Then again, the more he knew, the worse his ridiculous attachment could become.
No, it was best to keep her as an amusement and nothing more, regardless of how he felt at the moment.
Hugh turned from the window and retrieved his trousers. Then he collected his shirt.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
He didn’t look at her. “For a walk.”
“Where?” The sheets rustled. “I can show you around the manse.”
“I’d rather you didn’t, if you don’t mind.” He could sense her hurt from across the room, but he forced himself to ignore it, moving into the adjoining sitting room to create much-needed distance between them.
Having spent most of his stay in the bedroom, Hugh wasn’t familiar with any other wings of the house, but he didn’t imagine it would be too difficult to find the study he’d stumbled into before. Most of his focus had been on Charlotte last night, but if he remembered correctly, there was a liquor-stocked sideboard in there.
And a drink, or several, was just what he needed, to find the frame of mind that kept his emotions far removed from his bedsport.
Chapter Six
It took only a few moments after leaving Charlotte for Hugh to find the study, which was just down the hall. He also found something else. Seated at the desk, with books scattered all around, was a young girl of no more than sixteen or seventeen years of age. Pausing on the threshold, he wasn’t certain if he should enter or not. Propriety dictated the girl be chaperoned in his presence, but then he doubted anyone in this household would take offense.
Who the devil was she? She looked . . . normal. And the casual way in which she made use of the study made him think she must be a member of the household and not a servant.
The girl looked up at just that moment, and her face broke out in a delighted grin. With hair as dark as night and bright blue eyes, she was quite lovely. “Hallo, Lord Montrose,” she greeted as she rose from behind the desk and came toward him. “’Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She held out her hand.
Completely dumbfounded, Hugh moved out of sheer habit, reaching for her fingers and bowing. “A pleasure . . . ?”
She giggled. “Guinevere. My mother was a bit of a romantic. But you should call me Gwen as all my close associates do.”
Arching a brow, Hugh studied the chit further. Tall and slender, she held herself with the hallmarks of good breeding but deported herself with an informality that betrayed her lack of proper social training.
“Are you studying?” he asked, looking over her shoulder at the items on the desk.