To Love and to Loathe (The Regency Vows #2)(86)
Furthermore, however, he dreaded the possibility of other emotions he would see on her face. He wasn’t terribly certain he could tolerate seeing relief in her eyes—she would try to hide it, he was certain, but he’d become quite skilled at reading her expressions.
At last, however, the party broke up amid much grumbling at the vowels Penvale was collecting, though anyone who sat down at a card table with Penvale knew that he risked being fleeced out of a sizable share of blunt. The minutes seemed to trickle by as Jeremy dismissed his valet and paced his bedroom, waiting for the hallway to have been silent for long enough for him to risk venturing out. The moment arrived at last, and he scarcely had to scratch at Diana’s door before she flung it open and pulled him inside.
He had given a great deal of thought to how he would tell her—he’d let her work on her portrait of him for a bit, since he wasn’t entirely certain how this conversation would go, and he didn’t wish to distract her from her art. The look of peace mingled with concentration that spread across her face while she was painting or sketching was one that he could happily look at every day for the rest of his life—and it was dangerous thoughts like that that had convinced him of the necessity of this action in the first place.
However, he thought it unwise to allow matters to proceed too far before telling her, so he planned to interrupt her painting after a while to share the news of his impending engagement. He wasn’t entirely certain what to expect when he told her, but rather hoped she’d appreciate this sacrifice on his part—she’d see that once he was engaged, they could continue their affair without any pressure of marriage or commitment. He hoped that she’d be so pleased that they could then immediately continue about their—considerably less clothed—evening’s business.
All of these thoughts, however, were wiped from his mind, because the second the door closed behind him, he found himself pressed up against it, Diana’s mouth on his own. And while plans were very well and good, he’d always liked to consider himself a man capable of flexibility—quite literally, on one memorable occasion—and he decided that he could allow this amendment to his agenda for the evening.
That was, naturally, the last intelligent thought to cross his mind for some time, so consumed did he become by the softness of her body pressed against his, the feeling of her mouth sucking on his neck. His hands ran over her curves greedily, the weight of a breast filling one hand, the roundness of her bottom occupying the other. He leaned his head back to rest against the door as she continued to move her mouth down the column of his throat, resisting only with great effort the temptation to roll his hips against hers. He felt as though there were flames licking at his skin wherever her body was touching his, and was so stiff in his trousers that he feared embarrassing himself like a schoolboy—which was, honestly, how he felt whenever his bare skin was in close proximity to hers.
Her hands slid to the waistband of his trousers, undoing the buttons and dipping inside to wrap around him. He thrust into her grip without meaning to, but before he could achieve any sort of rhythm, she undid the placket of the breeches and sank to her knees before him, licking her lips as she did so. His mouth went dry at the sight of her, hair unbound around her face, full lips slightly parted, tantalizingly close to a portion of his anatomy that would desperately like her attention. And all of a sudden, he knew he had to put a stop to it.
“Wait,” he said, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat and said again, “Wait.” His body screamed at him in protest as he leaned forward to cup her elbows and draw her to her feet. It felt wrong, somehow, to have her perform this act for him when he intended to tell her that he was going to propose to someone else. If the situation with Lady John Marksdale had taught him anything, it was that ladies preferred to receive news of this nature before any articles of clothing had been removed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, wrinkling her brow in confusion. “I’ve been wanting to try that. Violet made me read a very naughty poem about it once.”
He stared at her, resisting the urge to laugh, because of course Diana would read some sort of pornographic poetry about fellatio and, rather than being horrified, would think to herself, I can be good at that, too. Rather than laughing, however, he said, “I’m going to propose to Lady Helen.”
In his mind, when he’d attempted to plan out this moment, he’d imagined himself prefacing this information with some sort of thoughtful, intelligent introduction—he’d imagined his tone as cool, dispassionate. He’d imagined himself calmly taking a pinch of snuff afterward, as though the information was of no importance whatsoever—not that he actually took snuff, of course, but it did make for a nice mental picture. Perhaps he should take up the habit.
In actuality, however, there was nothing calm or cool about him. He blurted out the words too quickly, so they escaped his mouth in a rush and Diana cocked her head to the side as she processed them. He saw the moment the words registered, however—shock, then an icy coolness.
Well, he told himself, at least it wasn’t relief, as he’d feared.
No, the look on her face wasn’t one of relief. But it wasn’t much better, either.
“Shall I wish you happy, then?” she asked, sounding bored. Whatever response he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this. “And shall I collect my earnings now, or must I wait until the church bells are ringing? I suppose there’s always the chance something could go horribly wrong.” She paused for a moment, as something occurred to her. “Wait. You said you’re going to propose?” She looked almost as though she hated herself for asking, as though she despised herself for showing any interest at all in the matter, but Jeremy, for once, was fervently grateful for her penetrating line of questioning. Curiosity was far more comfortable to deal with than cool boredom.