He stiffened. “Gloat?”
“When I got pregnant, she accused me of doing it on purpose. To, you know.”
Holy shit. “Trap me into marriage?”
“Yes.” It was one word, but it held a dictionary’s weight in hurt.
“Jesus, Thea.” Fiction and reality suddenly collided.
“She told me that I was definitely her daughter.” A sad laugh escaped. “Because she got pregnant with me on purpose.”
“She told you that?”
“I had always sort of suspected it, at least that I was not planned. My dad’s nickname for me was—” She stopped again. Gavin squeezed her gently with his arm until she started again. “He used to call me Shotgun.”
Gavin’s hand clenched the arm of the couch.
“I always thought when I was little that it was because I was kind of a little pistol as a kid. Then I learned that it had a specific meaning.”
“How old were you when you figured that out?”
“Nine.”
Gavin cracked a molar. “Thea, you have to let me call that sonuvabitch.” Or better yet, let him drive all the way to the asshole’s house and slam his fist in the man’s face.
“He’s not worth it.”
“You are.”
She studied his face again, looking for signs of deceit.
“What your mom said—is that why you avoided me after you found out you were pregnant? Because you were afraid I’d think you were trying to trap me?”
“Partly,” she said and shrugged. “And partly because I was just plain scared. I was young. We were young.”
Gavin slid his hand into her hair and cupped the back of her head. For once, he didn’t have to ask What would Lord Benedict do? to know what to say. “You getting pregnant was the best thing that ever happened to me. And not just because I can’t imagine my life without the girls, but because I can’t imagine my life without you.”
A battle played out on her face, and he knew exactly the war that was waging inside her. A pathetic desire to believe him versus the cynical realities life had taught her. Words were beautiful. Didn’t mean they could be trusted. She was scared to cross this broken bridge, because she knew what was on the other end. Uncertainty and passion and joy—the kind that goes away. The kind that hurts.
Love isn’t enough.
“Thea, if anyone trapped anyone, it was me. I trapped you.”
Thea’s lips parted again on a small breath. “What?”
“I proposed wh-when you were scared. When you were vulnerable. I should have just made sure you knew I was in it for the long haul and let you adjust to the news before I brought up marriage.”
A sarcastic eyebrow rose above her right eye. “I could have said no. I wasn’t helpless.”
“But you didn’t know what you were getting into. I knew what it would be like being married to a Major League baseball player, but you didn’t. You never had the time to get used to it, to adjust to this.”
Time stalled, and he noted every movement of her muscles. The way her jaw tightened as she swallowed. The way her eyes traced a path to his lips. The way she sucked in the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth.
And finally, thank God, finally, the way she reached out with one tentative hand and pressed it to his chest.
She raised her face to his. Her expression was every bit as raw as last night, but also different. Last night she’d been overwhelmed. Tonight, she looked at him with longing. Desire.
He dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers.
* * *
• • •
Thea leaned into him, mouth open and willing. He wrapped both arms around her and hauled her onto his lap. The rush of blood pounding in her veins drowned everything but the sound of her trembling breaths.
This was why she’d been hesitant to come out here with him. Why she’d needed space earlier in the day. This was what made him dangerous. She had no willpower in his arms, not after the beautiful things he’d just said.
Oh, why had they stopped kissing like this? When had they stopped? And why couldn’t she stop now? Every second it went on, it became harder to maintain the barriers she’d built between them, but who was she kidding? They’d been knocked into fine particles of useless dust the instant he removed that blindfold and she realized he’d taken her to buy art supplies for their date. She could barely remember why she needed the barriers in the first place when little zings of pleasure ping-ponged from one body part to the next.
“God, Thea,” he moaned, kissing a line down her jaw to her throat. She tilted her head and gave him access. His hand drifted up her waist into her shirt until his thumb brushed the underside of her breast. “Can I touch you?”
Thea shuddered with a yes. His fingers pushed aside the lace of her bra and caressed the hard tip of her nipple. She couldn’t stifle her reaction. She wrenched her lips from his and let her head fall backward with a groan. His lips found a new home on the sensitive pulse in her throat, while his fingers working magic against her swollen, aching breast. He flicked, rolled, tugged on the hard point of her nipple. All the while, his tongue plunged in and out of her mouth with an erotic rhythm.
Thea sat up and pulled off her sweatshirt. Gently, but with a sense of urgency, Gavin slipped a finger beneath each bra strap and tugged them down over her shoulders. Her breasts popped free of their binding, and she reached around to undo the clasp. There was a rush of cold and then a flash of heat as his hands covered her flesh.
She moaned and covered his hands with hers. His mouth claimed hers, his tongue plundered her mouth as his hands kneaded, his fingers twisted and flicked her hardened nipples.
Butter suddenly barked and leaped up to chase something in the yard.
Thea jumped, the interruption like a slap of common sense. She slipped off his lap and held her arm across her breasts. “Oh my God. What are we doing?”
Gavin shifted uncomfortably. “Making out.”
“We haven’t made out like that in a long time.” Thea tried to catch her breath as she pulled her sweatshirt back on.
“Maybe we should,” Gavin rasped between breaths. He rolled his head to stare down at her, and the look in his eyes was as terrifying as it was heartwarming.
“I should go to bed,” she said.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.” Thea shook her head and stood. “I—I need some time.”
Gavin stood and blocked her path. “Look at me.”
She did, but reluctantly. His eyes bore into hers, asking questions that couldn’t be conveyed in words. “If we’re going too fast for you, we can take things slower. You set the pace, Thea. I promise. I won’t push you.”
At her silence, he lowered his forehead to hers. “Talk to me, Thea. Please.”
“I’m scared, Gavin.” The words were out of her mouth before she could think about the consequences of such truth.
But he answered with a truth of his own. “So am I.”
Courting the Countess
Oh, she could get lost for days in here, Irena thought as she took in the towering shelves of the library. If only she could. Benedict had been gone ten days. Ten days without a word from him or anyone else about what was happening at Ebberfield.
And the only thing more infuriating than his inadequate explanations was her own dismay at his long absence.
Irena had taken to exploring the library at night to keep from going mad.
“Looking for something?”
With a startled gasp, Irena whirled in the dark. Across the room, Benedict lounged like a lazy cat on a small couch. He raised his hand in a casual greeting that spoke of familiarity between them. His stocking-clad feet hung over the arm, and his shoulders filled out the cushion beneath him. He’d removed his jacket and cravat, leaving the skin of his throat exposed to her gaze.
“You’re home,” she said as calmly as one could with a racing heart.
“I am,” he said, his voice low and tired.
“I didn’t hear you arrive.” And why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me?
“I did not wish to wake you.”
Irena curled her bare toes into the rug. “What are you doing in here?”
“Perhaps the same thing you are.”
“You’re looking for books about the engineering of ancient Roman chariots?”
“Thankfully, no.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Avoiding the temptation of the unlocked door separating our bedchambers.”
“No. Not the same thing at all, then.”
His hand flopped inelegantly against his chest. “You wound me, my dear.”
A smile tugged at her lips despite her best effort to maintain a well-deserved state of self-righteous indignation. “I didn’t even know you were home, Benedict.”
“And now that you do, what shall we do with our stolen time in the dark?” A teasing lilt had crept into his speech, but there was also a dark edge to his words, as if he were angry with her. But what right did he have to be angry? He was the one who had disappeared for days.
“I suggest we look for my book.”
With a graceful, fluid motion, Benedict straightened and rose from the settee. “Of course. Because what else do husbands and wives do in the dark?”
Irena ignored the jab.
Benedict slid the library ladder along the railing that circled the room until he stopped at a section that looked like the sort where someone might hide books no one wanted. Which usually meant they were the kind Irena most wanted to read. He climbed the ladder several rungs and turned with one hand outstretched.
“Candle?”
Irena handed it to him and waited patiently as he cocked his head to read the spines. After a moment, he plucked a book from the shelf. He handed back the candle and then descended the ladder. Turning, he pressed a thin book into her. “Will this do?”
She blinked in surprise at the title. “Engineering in Ancient Rome. I suppose this is exactly what I am looking for.”