Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(72)

Luke laughed and toyed with the frill of lace at her throat. The nearby attendant cleared his throat and pointedly looked away from the display of intimacy. “Spend as much as you like, sweet,” Luke murmured. “You have a long way to go before you come close to costing what a mistress does.”

Tasia hoped no one had overheard him. “My lord,” she whispered reprovingly, and he grinned.

“You have no idea what your presence in my bed is worth. I advise you to take advantage of it.”

She was torn between the urge to end the improper conversation at once and the desire to prolong it. The feel of his strong arm around her waist and his breath on her skin was irresistible. She stared into his smiling eyes, uncertain of how to react to his teasing. “Why did you want me as a wife and not a mistress?” she asked.

The quality of his smile changed, and his voice was very soft. “Would you like me to take you home and show you?”

Tasia stayed silent, imprisoned by his direct stare. She wasn't aware that she had gripped his arm until her hand slipped a little, feeling the edge of leather binding beneath his shirtsleeve. Suddenly all she could think about was being in bed with him, his mouth on her skin, the sensations he could coax from her body with such ease.

Seeing the answer in her eyes, Luke turned to the store attendant, who was hovering a few feet away. “I believe our shopping is concluded for now,” he said blandly. “Lady Stokehurst has a touch of fatigue.”

Even without having had experience of other men, Tasia knew that her husband was a superb lover. The way he used his touch, his body, his kisses, could be shaded with infinite meaning. There were nights when the hours of lovemaking blended into a slow-moving dream, sensations spilling over her in an endless flow. He cuddled, kissed, soothed her until she purred with the pleasure of being possessed by him. But often Luke liked to play in bed, aggressive rough-and-tumble games that left her breathless with laughter. Tasia was amazed at the way he could provoke her. Even as a child, she had been quiet and well-behaved. Luke stripped away her inhibitions, encouraging—no, demanding—that she respond to him in a way that defied all her old ideas of propriety.

Tasia wished it were possible to need Luke only a little. She tried to keep her feelings contained, but they flourished in unruly profusion. The attention he paid her, the conversations, smiles, the ready comfort, were like an addictive drug. He asked for very little in return. Guiltily she thought that she should say that she loved him, but somehow the words wouldn't come. It seemed as if the key to her destruction lay in that unspoken sentence. She could give only so much of herself, and then she drew back in fear, for reasons she couldn't explain even to herself.

“I've never been spoiled like this before,” she told him one afternoon as they relaxed in the high-walled garden of the villa. “I'm sure it's wrong of me to let you.”

The full heat of summer was almost upon them. They reclined in the shade of towering box and bay hedges, and a graceful spreading oak. Honeysuckle and thornless climbing roses spread their perfume through the air. Tasia toyed with a single rose, drawing the blossom along the edge of Luke's jaw.

He lay with his head pillowed in her lap. Idly he propped up one knee and swung it. “I don't see that spoiling has done you any great harm.” He glanced up at her face, reaching to stroke the velvety curve of her cheek. “You're more beautiful than ever.”

Tasia smiled and bent over his head, touching her nose to his. “Because of you.”

“Is it?” His hand slid around the back of her neck, bringing her closer. They exchanged a long, savoring kiss before she replied.

“Russians have a word for the arrival of spring: ottepel. It is used to describe awakening. That's how I feel.”

“Really.” His eyes were bright with interest. “Show me what's been awakened.”

“No,” she squeaked, dropping the rose as he fondled her lustfully.

“I want to know exactly which part,” he insisted, pulling her down to the grass until she was stretched beneath him. Casually he drew his hand down her body, ignoring her giggling protests that someone might see.

During the three weeks they had spent in London, Luke had gathered a thousand images of Tasia in his mind, but none so enchanting as this moment, as she struggled to climb on top of him in a wrestling match. Luke much preferred his wife's vigorous romping to her previous wan gracefulness. Her body had lost its spare, thin appearance, and there was a new roundness to her neck and face and limbs. Her br**sts were still small, but softer and fuller. Her skirts rode up to her knees as she straddled his hips, hands braced on his shoulders for balance. She perched on him triumphantly. Luke flexed his shoulders slightly, making her aware of the sinewy power beneath her hands, reminding her that she was on top only because he allowed it.

“I want to ask you something,” she said.

“Ask away.”

“Promise me that before you refuse, you'll let me say all I want. And that you'll try to listen with an open mind.”

“Ask,” he growled, feigning impatience.

Tasia took a deep breath. “I want to write to my mother,” she said bluntly. “I need to assure her that I'm safe and happy, for my peace of mind as well as hers. I know that she worries about me. It can't be good for her health. And I think about her every day. I won't write anything that will betray my situation—no names or places mentioned. But it is absolutely necessary that I do this. You must understand how much it means to me.”