She had not just said that. Please, please, she didn’t just say that.
His face went slack with surprise. “You thought I was in love with Grace?”
“She certainly knew you better than I did,” she muttered.
“No, I wouldn’t—I mean, I didn’t, except—”
“Except what?”
“Nothing.” But he looked guilty. Of something.
“Tell me.”
“Amelia—”
“Tell me!”
And she must have looked a complete virago, ready to go for his throat, because he shot back with, “I asked her to marry me.”
“What?”
“It did not mean anything.”
“You asked someone to marry you and it did not mean anything?”
“It’s not how it sounded.”
“When did you do this?”
“Before we left for Ireland,” he admitted.
“Before we—” Her mouth dropped open in outrage. “You were still engaged to me. You can’t ask someone to marry you when you are promised to another.”
It was the most unbelievably un-Thomas action she could have ever imagined.
“Amelia—”
“No.” She shook her head. She did not want to hear his excuses. “How could you do this? You always do the right thing. Always. Even when it’s a bloody nuisance, you always—”
“I didn’t think I would be engaged to you for very much longer,” he cut in. “I just said to her that if Audley turned out to be the duke, that perhaps we ought make a go of it when it was all over and done with.”
“Make a go?” she echoed.
“I didn’t say it like that,” he muttered.
“Oh, my God.”
“Amelia…”
She blinked, trying to take it all in. “But you wouldn’t marry me,” she whispered.
“What are you talking about?”
She looked up, finally able to focus on his face. Sharply, on his eyes, and for once she did not care how blue they were. “You said you would not marry me if you lost the title. But you would marry Grace?”
“It’s not the same thing,” he said. But he looked embarrassed.
“Why? How? How is it different?”
“Because you deserved more.”
Her eyes widened. “I think you just insulted Grace.”
“Damn it,” he muttered, raking his hand through his hair. “You’re twisting my words.”
“I think you are doing a fine job of twisting them yourself.”
He took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm his temper. “Your whole life you have expected to marry a duke.”
“What does that matter?”
“What does that matter?” For a moment he looked incapable of words. “You have no idea what your life might be, stripped of your connections and your money.”
“I don’t need that,” she protested.
But he continued as if he had not heard her. “I have nothing, Amelia. I have no money, no property—”
“You have yourself.”
He gave a self-mocking snort. “I don’t even know who that is.”
“I do,” she whispered.
“You’re not being realistic.”
“You’re not being fair.”
“Amelia, you—”
“No,” she cut in angrily. “I don’t want to hear it. I can’t believe the level of your insult.”
“My insult?”
“Am I really such a hothouse flower that you don’t think I could withstand the tiniest of hardships?”
“It won’t be tiny.”
“But Grace could do it.”
His expression grew stony, and he did not reply.
“What did she say?” Amelia asked, her words almost a sneer.
“What?”
Her voice grew in volume. “What did Grace say?”
He stared at her as if he’d never seen her before.
“You asked her to marry you,” she ground out. “What did she say?”
“She refused,” he finally replied, his voice clipped.
“Did you kiss her?”
“Amelia…”
“Did you?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Did you kiss her?”
“Yes!” he exploded. “Yes, for the love of God, I kissed her, but it was nothing. Nothing! I tried, believe me I tried to feel something, but it was nothing like this.” He grabbed her then, and his lips came down on hers so fast and so hard that she did not have time to breathe. And then it didn’t matter. His hands were on her, pressing her against him—hard—and she could feel his arousal against her, and she wanted him.
She wanted this.
She tore at his clothing, wanting nothing so much as the heat of his skin against hers. His lips were on her neck, and his hand was under her skirt, moving up her leg.
She was panting with desire. His thumb was on the soft flesh of her inner thigh, pressing, stroking, and she wasn’t sure she could stand. She clutched at his shoulders for support, sighing his name, moaning it, begging him over and over again for more.
And his hand moved even higher, until it was at the crook of her leg, where it met her hip, so close…so close to…
He touched her.
She went stiff, and then she sagged against him, instinctively softening herself as he touched her. “Thomas,” she moaned, and before she knew it, he’d laid her on the ground, and he was kissing her, and he was touching her, and she had no idea what to do, had no thought at all except that she wanted this. She wanted everything he was doing and more.
His fingers continued to tickle, and then he slipped one inside of her in the most wicked caress of all. She arched beneath him, gasping at the shock and pleasure of it. He’d slipped inside so easily. Had her body been waiting for this? Preparing itself for this very moment, when he would settle himself between her thighs and touch her?
She was breathing faster, harder, and she wanted him closer. Her blood was pounding through her body, and all she could do was grab at him, clutch his back, his hair, his buttocks—anything to pull him against her, to feel the mounting pressure of his body on hers.
His mouth moved to her chest, to the flat plane of skin left exposed by her dress. She shivered as he found the neckline of her dress, his lips tracing it around…down…from her collarbone to the gentle swell of her breast. He took the fabric between his teeth and began to tug, gently at first, and then with greater vigor when it did not give. Finally, with a muffled curse, he brought his hand down and grabbed at the fabric that gathered over her shoulder, giving it a yank until it slid over her arm. Her breast slid free, and she barely had a chance to gasp before his mouth closed over the tip.
A soft shriek escaped her lips, and she did not know whether to pull back or push forward, and in the end it did not matter, because he was holding her securely in place, and judging from his growls of pleasure, she was not going anywhere. His hand—the one that had been delivering such sweet torture—had curved around her backside and was pulling her relentlessly against his desire. And his other hand—it slid along the soft, sensitive skin of her arm, stretching her up, and up, until their hands were
both over their heads.
Their fingers entwined.
I love you, she wanted to cry.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t allow herself to utter a word. He would stop if she did. She didn’t know how she knew it, or why she was so certain, but she knew it was true. If she did anything to break the spell, to bring him back to reality, he would stop. And she could not bear it if that happened.
She felt his hands move between their bodies, fumbling with the fastenings of his breeches, and then there he was. Hard and hot, pressing her, then stretching her, and she was not sure if this was going to work, and then she was no longer so certain she was going to like it, and then—
He thrust forward with a primal grunt, and she could not help it—she let out a tiny scream of pain.
He froze instantly.
As did she.
He pushed himself up so that his head drew back, and she got the impression that he was only just now seeing her. The haze of passion had been pricked, and now—oh, it was everything she’d feared…
He regretted it.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. “Oh my God.”
What had he done?
It was a bloody stupid question, and an even stupider time to ask it, as he was lying atop Amelia, buried to the hilt, and they were in a field. A field. He’d taken her virginity without even a care to her comfort. Her dress was bunched around her waist, there were leaves in her hair, and good God—he hadn’t even managed to take off his boots.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
She shook her head, but he could not tell from her expression what she meant.
He would marry her now. There could be no question. He had ruined her in the most debasing way possible. Had he even whispered her name? In the entire time he’d been making love to her—had he said her name? Had he been aware of anything besides his own unrelenting desire?
“I’m sorry,” he said again, but words could never be enough. He moved to withdraw, so that he could help her, comfort her.
“No!” she cried, grabbing his shoulders. “Please. Don’t go.”
He stared down at her, unable to believe her words. He knew that this had not been rape. She had wanted it, too. She had moaned for him, clutched his shoulders, gasping his name in her desire. But surely now she would wish to end it. To wait for something more civilized. In a bed. As a wife.
“Stay,” she whispered, touching his cheek.