“Yes.” She circled him with her arms. “Oh, yes. Do it to me—like last night.”
“Not quite like last night.” The long grass and nodding flowers might give the appearance of a soft carpet, but they would make a hard mattress for a woman in the act of love. “Come.” He lifted her over him and parted her legs to straddle his own. “Kneel up on the grass. Trust me.”
“Yes.” She kneeled astride him and braced herself with her hands on either side of his head. She looked down at him and smiled, her eyes heavy with desire.
He raised his knees and set his feet flat. He positioned her carefully, nestling himself against her opening before bracing his hands over her hips and guiding her down onto him. He watched her eyes close as she first frowned and then relaxed. Her muscles tightened about him as he held deep in her for a few moments to allow her time to adjust. She was hot and wet and exquisitely feminine. He drew a few steadying breaths. He was unaccustomed to having to impose control on himself after making his mount. It was the point at which, after long minutes of vigorous foreplay, he usually gave himself up to a frenzied climax.
Except last night. But then last night had not really been about sex at all.
Neither was this afternoon. This was not sex—not as he knew sex, anyway. This was . . . what was it? A warm, intimate, tender sharing of—of what?
He raised her a little with his hands and began to pump slowly, smoothly, in and out of her. She held still, though her inner muscles picked up his rhythm, responded inexpertly at first, and then matched it. The sensation was delicious and painful both at once. He wanted to prolong the pleasure indefinitely. He wanted to give in and explode into her right now.
Most of all, he wanted to give her all the pleasure twenty-six years of living had denied her. He wanted this to be for her. Not for himself but for Lauren. He wanted to see her totally, utterly happy.
He stroked her with smooth, deep strokes for many minutes, not attempting to hasten the ending, as he might easily have done by touching her again in that small, secret place. He could see from her closed eyes and parted lips and look of concentration that all her attention was focused in the passage that he worked, and that she was greatly enjoying the sensations. Perhaps that was all she would experience, but he would not shatter it until he could sense that she was ready.
Then she frowned again and her eyes clenched more tightly shut and she drew her lower lip between her teeth. She lost rhythm and tightened hard about him. She opened her mouth and gasped.
“Relax now,” he told her. “Relax those muscles and let yourself go.” He tightened his hands over her hips and worked her with harder, faster thrusts. “Let it all come. Trust me.”
But there was no need for instruction, no need for him to coach her to climax. She cried out and shattered about him and collapsed her weight onto him. He wrapped both arms protectively about her. She was still pulsing and trembling.
“Let it all go,” he murmured against her ear. “Let it all come.”
He had never had to concern himself with feminine orgasms. He was usually too intent upon his own.
She finally lay still and hot and damp on him. Now, finally, he was free to complete his own pleasure. He moved his hands back to her hips and braced his feet more firmly against the ground—and paused a moment, gritting his teeth.
Then he lifted her off him and turned to set her gently on the towel beside him.
“Mmmm.” The sound was a satisfied purr from deep in her throat as she rolled onto her side and curled in against him and promptly fell asleep.
Kit lay back down and breathed deeply and evenly, clenching and unclenching his hand on the side farthest from her. Several minutes of sheer agony passed before his erection began to subside. He chuckled ruefully when the worst of it was over. In her innocence she doubtless was quite unaware that she was the only one who had completed the act.
As probably he had been last night.
He might well have impregnated her last night. Only time would tell. But if she had escaped during that encounter, then she was still safe today. She would still have choices left when the house party ended. She would still be free to leave him.
He set one arm over his eyes and sought and found her hand with his other. This must not happen again. They were not really betrothed—by her choice. And Lauren Edgeworth was not the sort of woman with whom one indulged in an illicit affair.
Last night she had given to him in his need.
This afternoon he had returned the favor.
That was all. It was completed, this unexpected physical bond forged of both their needs.
Yes, it was completed.
He drew in a slow lungful of clover-fragrant air and let it out on an almost audible sigh.
Chapter 18
The following morning presented Lauren with an opportunity to talk privately with Sydnam Butler, something she had not accomplished before. He was not often visible during the day, and during the evenings he invariably sat in the drawing room window, his very posture discouraging company. She had no real wish to talk with him at all, but she had come here to help Kit be reconciled with his family. The deepest hurt of all, she had discovered two nights before, involved his younger brother.
A number of the men and boys had gone fishing with Kit, Lauren’s grandfather among them. Several of the ladies, including Gwen and Aunt Clara, had gone into the village to see the few shops and to view the Norman church. Lauren had stayed behind to wander among the flowerbeds and through the hothouses with the countess and help her make final plans for decorations for the birthday. When that task was completed she accompanied the dowager on her morning walk to the rose arbor and back.
Mr. Sydnam Butler was riding alone up the driveway, Lauren saw as they slowly climbed the steps on their return to the house. He appeared to do it very well considering the fact that he had only one arm. She felt very sorry for his disabilities, but she did not feel particularly kindly disposed to him. He had been unfair to Kit.
The dowager took the arm of her favorite footman, a stout, good-natured young man, for the climb up the stairs to her room. Lauren excused herself and went back outside. She hardly knew what she intended to do as she stood on the steps again, her eyes on the stables. Kit’s brother came walking out onto the terrace a few moments later. He limped ever so slightly, she noticed, perhaps as a result of stiffness from his ride. The limp disappeared after a few steps. He hesitated for a moment when he noticed her, and then came onward.
“Good morning, Miss Edgeworth,” he said when he was close enough. He touched the brim of his hat with his whip.
“Mr. Butler.”
She felt dislike—and guilt. But why feel guilt merely because he was maimed? She did dislike him. He had consigned Kit to a sort of permanent hell for no good reason. Yet Kit still loved him.
He smiled his crooked smile when he came to the foot of the steps and would have gone on past.
“Mr. Butler, will you walk with me?” Lauren asked.
He looked at her in evident surprise. He drew breath—to offer some excuse, she guessed. But he closed his mouth again, bowed, and turned to walk with her across the terrace and out onto the wide lawn on which the cricket match had been played the day before.
“The weather is not quite as lovely as yesterday,” he remarked.
“No, there are some clouds today.”
She almost lost her courage. But their bargain aside, she was concerned about Kit. She cared about him—she cared for him. Much too deeply for comfort. She clasped her arms behind her and drew breath.
“Mr. Butler,” she asked, “why will you not forgive him?” It did not occur to her that perhaps he would not know what she was talking about.
“Ah,” he said softly. “Is that what he has told you? Poor Kit.”