The Earl of Davenport: Wicked Regency Romance (Wicked Earls' Club #7)(21)

Her breath caught in her throat as she realized the full truth of it. She was marrying the man she might very well love. But could he ever feel the same?

She stood up again, unable to sit still. But when she went to pace the small room, he was there, blocking her way. He took a step closer, not touching her but so close she could feel his warm breath on her cheek and the solid heat of his body just inches from hers. “You thought what, my little angel?”

It was the endearment that did it. So sweet and so tender. Maybe, just maybe, there was hope for them if she could be honest. It was a risk, but it was her life at stake. Her life, her future… and her heart.

“I thought perhaps….” She bit her lip and then tried again. “That is, I had something of an infatuation when I was young and—”

He took a step closer and she found herself trying to back away but the back of her legs hit the edge of the bed. “Go on,” he said, his voice little more than a growl.

Her own voice seemed to go up several octaves as nerves made her breathing erratic. “I thought perhaps when you came to propose this morning, that maybe….”

Oh blast. She sounded silly even to her own ears. Like a little girl with an infatuation, which was exactly what she had been.

The devil and his bastard bride.

She flinched at the memory. His eyes flickered with questions and she lost her nerve. She would only be setting herself up for more humiliation if she were to tell him the whole truth. That she’d thought—she’d hoped—that he’d felt the same emotions for her. That he’d been so swept up in his feelings that he’d been compelled to whisk her away and make her his own.

But that was ridiculous. He’d just wanted her for the scandal she brought.

Didn’t he?

Licking her lips again, she saw his gaze move down to focus on her lips.

“I realize now that it was silly,” she said. “You made your intentions clear in the carriage.”

His gaze darkened but she couldn’t read the emotions there—they were too muddled to sift through. Conflicting and dark, his eyes gave nothing away. When he reached out to her, she found that she was trembling. “You’d hoped to marry for love, my angel.”

His words were so soft and she couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement. She nodded as his hand moved to the nape of her neck. With his other hand, he brushed away a tear that had lingered on her cheek. “And now you are stuck with me, is that it?”

She shook her head quickly. “It is not that, Frederick. It’s just….” She couldn’t bring herself to tell him her deepest hopes but she could try to explain what her life had been. “I’d had a freedom before, that’s all. I’d taken that for granted, I suppose.”

He leaned in closer and her lips parted in anticipation. In hope. She wanted his kiss again, wanted to lose herself in it and forget her dashed hopes and lost dreams. She had this man—this magnificent, powerful, surprisingly tender man right in front of her. Wasn’t that what mattered?

“I cannot imagine that sort of freedom,” he said. “I’d like to say that I’m sorry for taking that away from you, but I cannot. You see, I am the selfish one here, after all. Because I know I cannot give you what you want. I cannot give you your freedom back, not now when I have you in my arms.”

Oh. Oh dear. His words struck her heart. They weren’t words of love but they held a note of desire and possessiveness and… passion.

Oh my.

Those words and the emotion behind them made her head spin with delight and terror. She wanted him to say more. To clarify what he was feeling. What he’d been thinking. But she was also terrified that he would say something to crush her and break her heart. For right now, in this moment, she wanted to believe what his voice and his gaze told her. That he was moved by emotion—maybe not love, but something close enough, perhaps.

He opened his mouth to speak but she was terrified that he would ruin it. That he would break her heart for good. So she stopped him from speaking with a kiss.

He stilled beneath her. His lips and his hands froze for one moment as her lips pressed against his. Inexperienced as she was, she felt a moment of terror that she was doing it wrong. Perhaps she was making a fool of herself.

But then he responded with a fiery passion that washed away all of the pain and all of the thoughts. His lips were hard and eager. His hands were firm and tender all at once as they moved over her. His hand on her neck slipped into her hair, holding her to him. His other arm wrapped around her waist and drew her close so she was pressed against him, the length of her body molding to his as though they were one.

She responded with eagerness if not skill. Her lips clung to his, following his lead. When his tongue probed her mouth she tried to do the same, encouraged by his groan and the way he gripped her tighter as if he would never let her go.

She couldn’t get close enough. Her touch was greedy as she tried to get her fill. She slid her hands over his hard chest, the flexed muscles of his arms, over his shoulders and neck and into his hair.

He felt delicious. Like he had been made for her, to be touched by her and to touch her as he was now, with a desperate gentleness. Like she was infinitely tender and unspeakably precious.

He might not have said the romantic words she’d wanted to hear but his touch more than made up for it. She’d never felt so adored, so cherished.