The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(43)
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. My God, he had loved this girl for as long as forever, and she was in his room and he knew what she was saying. Perhaps she didn’t realize entirely how dangerous this situation was, but he knew. He knew that when an innocent woman went into a man’s room late at night wearing nothing but a gown and wrap, she was not going to leave innocent.
“Never what?” he asked, his voice harsh.
She dipped her head and worried her hands together. “I shall most likely marry Lord Northrup.”
He hadn’t been expecting that, and whatever ardor he had been feeling, which was quite a lot, was doused, or very nearly so. “Why?”
She blinked, and he realized he’d nearly shouted at her. “Because I was engaged to marry him and my parents are very pleased that he is here, hat in hand. I was supposed to have married him and nothing really has changed. Not his affection for me nor my affection for him.”
God, something was squeezing his chest and it hurt like the very devil. “Do you love him?”
Her response was immediate and satisfying. “No, I do not. But I do like and admire him and I daresay I’m not going to have too many more chances at finding a suitable husband.” The word suitable seemed to Henderson to hang in the air, a thick, ugly word. She looked at him almost as if she were beseeching him to understand. “I want my own household and a family. I’ve wanted that for as long as I can remember.”
“With whichever titled gentleman offers such a life to you,” Henderson said, unwilling to stop the cynicism he felt.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Then why in hell are you here, with me, wearing nothing but your gown? You do realize it is wrong for you to be here, that if someone were to discover you, the consequences would be more than dire. You do try me, Alice. And I believe you know it.”
She had the good grace to blush. “Yes, I know.”
Henderson placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I believe you should go back to your own bed, Alice. Because if you insist on staying, you’ll soon be lying in mine.”
*
Alice knew what he meant; she was not a total innocent. “I…I just wanted to say good-bye,” she said in a small voice, and he dipped his head and let out a long sigh.
“No. You are not a na?ve sixteen-year-old anymore, Alice. That is not why you came to my room tonight.” Then he furrowed his brow, as uncertainty seemed to strike him. “Is it?”
“No. You’re right. I wanted… I should go.” Alice, her gaze fixed on the carpet beneath her feet, hurried to his door, giving Henderson a wide berth as she walked by him. With her hand on the doorknob, she hesitated. “I’m so sorry, Henderson. I thought one more kiss. I didn’t think past that, truly.” She started to heave the door open, but a strong, tanned hand appeared by her face, preventing her from leaving.
She stood still, waiting, feeling the heat of him behind her even though he did not touch her. That hand, splayed wide, his forearm corded with muscle, was not in the least menacing. It was thrilling. For several long moments they stood there like that, silent, and Alice thought she might moan aloud if he did not touch her. She could hear his breaths, almost sense the internal fight within him. She heard him mutter something, deep and low.
With his left hand, he moved her hair, brushing his fingertips gently across her neck, so her blond locks hung down her left side, exposing her neck to the air, to his touch. She shivered and brought in a sharp breath, not daring to say a word lest he stop. Her entire body felt as if it were shimmering on the edge of something wonderful and unknown. When he placed his lips at the crease of her neck, she couldn’t help but let out a soft sound. Nothing had prepared her for what the simple touch of a man’s mouth on the sensitive skin of her neck could do to her entire body. She sang with it.
Hesitantly, Alice brought up the hand that still clutched the doorknob and wrapped it around his wrist, pulling his arm to her so she could press her cheek against his cool flesh. She wasn’t bold enough to turn to face him, so it was the only way she knew to silently tell him, yes. A shudder wracked his body, and he drew in a breath, his mouth so close to her ear, the sound seemed unnaturally loud. Every sense was magnified, every touch was new and beautiful and overwhelming.
Henderson move his left hand to her waist, a warm presence and somehow completely familiar. He had never touched her this way, with such deliberate intent. Dragging his hand down, he explored the shape of her derrière, slipped his hand briefly, enticingly, between her legs before bringing his hand back up to rest against her stomach, just below her breasts.
“Tell me to stop,” he said harshly in her ear.
She swallowed thickly. “I don’t want you to.” So soft was her whisper, she wondered at first if he had heard her. Then, he moved his hand up to cup one breast, to drag his thumb over her excruciatingly aching nipple, and she knew he had.
“Ah, Alice, this is so wrong.” She let out a small sound of protest. “You know it is. But I can’t seem to stop myself. Do you know how much I want you?” She shook her head, unable to speak. Her skin felt heated, strange, as if it craved Henderson’s touch the way a flower craves the sunlight. It was too much, somehow, and yet not enough. His hand on her breast; she could not have imagined what that would feel like, how that touch would send spikes of pleasure between her legs, making her move her hips restlessly. He pulled her flush against him, letting out a deep sound that sent a vibration through her body. Even with her limited experience, she knew that he wanted her.