He smiled, and slowly-with his signature languid grace-drew in his long legs and rose.
She swallowed as he crossed to the chaise. Instinct brought her to her feet as he neared.
His eyes met hers. “You look like you need to escape. We could walk in the long gallery, if you like.” His dark gaze was rich and warm. Enfolding.
“Ah…” It was herself she wanted to escape. Herself and her deadening, desolating reality. She glanced around. The others were mingling, chatting in groups. She looked back at him. “Actually, I have a headache.”
A frown came into his eyes.
She hurried on, “Just a mild one-nothing too bad. But…I think I’ll go up now.”
Summoning the smile she’d let drop, she turned to Catriona, on the chaise beside her, then let her gaze travel on to the other ladies. “I’m going to retire. I’m feeling rather jaded. A good night’s sleep will no doubt see me right.”
Catriona smiled her madonna’s smile and touched Deliah’s hand. “We’ll see you in the morning.”
Deliah nodded a smiling good night to the others, at the last inclined her head to Del-still standing by her side, eyes too shrewd for her liking fixed on her face-murmured, “Good night,” then walked from the room.
Del watched her go and wondered what was wrong. She was…upset. Discomposed, disturbed, but in a strange way, one he couldn’t explain. His immediate impulse was to follow her, to ask, learn, and put right. But…she’d seemed unusually uncertain herself. Perhaps he’d give her a little time.
Fifteen minutes, maybe.
If she’d thought her comment about getting a good night’s sleep would keep him from her bed, she would need to think again. If she truly did have a headache, she could sleep in his arms.
With an easy smile for Catriona, who returned the gesture serenely, he ambled across the room to join Gyles and Gabriel in discussing sheep.
The party broke up shortly after Deliah’s retreat. Del went to his room, paced for ten minutes-not so much thinking as imagining what might be going on in her red head-then, with a muttered curse against anyone still hovering in the corridors, he opened his door and stalked to hers.
He tapped once, then opened the door. Walking in, he saw her, still gowned and coiffed, drawing the curtains over the window through which she’d clearly been staring.
Shutting the door, he snibbed the lock, then strolled toward her. He tipped his head at the window. “What did you see?”
“Snow. It’s still blizzarding.”
She’d been waiting for him, that much was clear. Why was less so, given she’d remained fully dressed.
Halting before her, he held her gaze, was about to reach for her when she looked away.
Moved away.
“I really do have a slight headache, you know. Besides”-she waved airily-“I’m sure it’s not necessary for us to live quite so much in each other’s pockets.”
He caught the hand she’d waved before she could drift further. Used it to anchor her as he turned and came up behind her. So she couldn’t see his face, couldn’t read the confusion, the sudden, leaping need to seize and hold.
Just the suggestion-the faint hint-that she might be trying to draw back, away from him, had been enough to spark it. That rattled him; it seemed the emotional sand was shifting beneath his feet, but he knew in his heart that wasn’t truly so.
Something was going on.
In her red head, not necessarily anywhere else.
Heaven only knew what. He didn’t, but doubted she would consent to explain.
Shifting his hold, he laced his fingers with hers, felt hers grip unconsciously, without thought. He breathed in, deeply, and the perfume of her hair, of her skin, wreathed through his brain. On some elemental level, reassured.
She was here, in his hold.
Raising their linked hands, sliding them around her waist, he lowered his head, and murmured by her ear, “Contrary to general belief, sexual indulgence is almost guaranteed to relieve a headache.”
“It is?” Distraction and interest, immediate, quite definite, resonated in her voice, but then she cleared her throat and said, “But perhaps we should try abstinence for a change-just to vary our interactions. Perhaps heighten expectations for later.”
“That won’t work. At least, not for me.”
“It won’t?”
They could circle all night. He swung into the attack. “Why are you suddenly so skittish? You haven’t lost interest, have you?”
“Lost interest? Ah…”
“It was a rhetorical question.” Raising his other hand, he brushed his palm boldly across the fullness of her breast. Feeling the nipple instantly bead beneath his palm, he cupped the full swell, gently kneaded. “The answer’s transparently clear.”
Thank heaven.
She’d stiffened, trying to hold firm, but as he continued to fondle, evocatively knead, her spine softened. She leaned back against him. “Perhaps we might experiment, and see.” He rolled her nipple between finger and thumb, lightly squeezed. Spine bowing, she gasped, “About my headache, I mean. Whether it goes, or stays.”
He touched his lips to her temple. “We can experiment as much as you like.” Turning her, lowering their linked hands, he drew hers down. “Because I haven’t lost interest in you.” He molded her palm to his erection. “To having you-multiple times.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh.” Then her lids lowered, and those jade eyes grew sultry. Her tongue slipped out to moisten her lower lip. “I see…”
The absentminded murmur was filled with speculation.
“No, you feel.” Bending his head, he took her lips, her mouth, kissed her long, lingeringly, hungrily, but not rav enously. When he raised his head, her lids were down, her eyes concealed. “So what do you feel? What do I make you feel?”
She felt as if she were stepping off a cliff. Deliah raised her heavy lids enough to see his face, to note the intentness in his expression, his absolute focus on her.
How long would it last? When would it fade?
How was she going to feel when it did?
Worse, when they returned to Humberside and went their separate ways, and she heard on the grapevine that he’d married? Married some entirely eligible country miss with no scandal in her background, and a soft, sweet disposition. A lady totally unlike her.
She hadn’t thought of those questions before today-until half an hour ago. She’d tried to step back, but…he was here, in her bedroom, and she was in his arms.
And he was all she’d ever wanted.
How did he make her feel?
Chin firming, she closed her hand. “Wanton. Abandoned. You make me feel…” Desirable. “Lustful.”
His lips curved, sculpted, utterly mesmerizing. “Good. That’s how I want you to feel. Wanton, abandoned, and”-he bent his head-“helplessly lusting for me.”
Eleven
The kiss ripped her wits away, left her heated and yearning. There was nothing relaxed about the exchange, nothing languid, nothing tentative. His tongue found hers, stroked heavily, probed, dueled when she responded, then he settled to vanquish and claim.
Straightforward, blatant, direct.
Genuine, honest, and true.
A true expression of what he wanted from her. How he wanted her.
A declaration of possession, passionate and intense.
She sank her hands in his hair, gripped, clung, held him to her as her wits reeled and her senses spun.
His fingers found her laces, then her bodice sagged. His hands claimed her breasts, hard palms kneading, molding. Fingers clamping, squeezing, sent sensation searing through her.
Then he broke from the kiss and set his mouth to her flesh.
And devoured.
As she gasped and drank in each evocative caress, every provocative, possessive touch.